#sub jjk

Dom gn reader x Sub male character

Warnings: reader has a cock (otherwise no pronouns used), blow job (receiving), choking, deep throating, hair pulling, cum play (eating/on the face), teasing, degradation, dacryphilia, finger fucking, oral fixation, he’s a perv that loves you too much, mouth inspection

Him sucking you off under the table~ lots of oral fixation and cum play~

Word count: 4.1k

HEY GIRLIEPOP!!🥹😚

damn, it seems like you lot all love sub Choso so I really hope you like my writing just as muchhh💋.

Crumbs of you or none of you . ִ༄˖°.

"Fuck, you're—" Choso's voice hitched, fingers digging into your hips as you rolled against him, the sheets tangled between your legs. His dark eyes were hazy, pupils blown wide, lips parted around shallow breaths. You'd been at this for a while, the kind of slow, indulgent friction that made the room feel smaller, the air thicker.

You grinned, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. "I'm what?"

He swallowed hard, throat working. His usual composure—the calm, collected way he carried himself—was fraying at the edges, and you loved it. Loved pulling him apart like this.

“You’re so beautiful b-baby,” Choso mumbled. “Everything about you is just perfect, I s-swear from your gorgeous smile all the way to your pretty little feet,”

“Oh mommy, when you’re not around, it hurts me physically and I c-can feel an ache in my chest.”

Choso was overwhelmed with emotion, all his thoughts and feelings pouring out from his chest.

A confused look rested on your face but it felt nice to hear good things about yourself so you let it slide.

Suddenly, His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still for a second. His expression flickered, something uncertain passing over his face before he spoke again, voice rough but quieter now. "I think I'm in love with you."

You froze, breath catching mid-motion. His words hung between you like a live wire, sparking against your skin. For a heartbeat, the room was too quiet—just the rustle of sheets and the unsteady rhythm of his breathing beneath you.

Choso’s grip on your hips loosened, as if he was already bracing for you to pull away. His throat bobbed again, but he didn’t look down, didn’t try to take it back. The raw sincerity in his gaze made your chest ache.

You blinked at him, slow and deliberate, like he’d just confessed to secretly being chat noir. Then—you laughed. Not a cruel laugh, but the kind that bubbled up from sheer disbelief, your forehead pressing against his shoulder as your body shook with it. “Oh my god,” you wheezed, “you cannot be serious right now.”

Choso went rigid beneath you, his breath stuttering to a stop. You could feel the way his pulse jumped under your palms where they rested against his chest, rapid and uneven. When you lifted your head, his expression was carefully blank—too blank, the way he got when he was trying not to let anything show.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, tilting your head. “Choso. We’ve known each other for what, four months months? And half of that was you pretending you didn’t want to fuck me.” You tapped his nose with your free hand, grinning when he went cross-eyed trying to follow the motion. “This is just post-nut clarity hitting you weird.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not—” He stopped, exhaled hard through his nose. His hands flexed against your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

You sighed, rolling off him to flop onto your back beside him on the mattress. The silence stretched, awkward in a way it hadn’t been between you in weeks. The ceiling fan spun lazily above you, casting wobbling shadows across the walls.

Choso shifted, turning onto his side to face you. His fingers brushed your wrist—hesitant, barely there. “I meant it,” he said quietly.

You turned your head to look at him, studying the way his dark lashes cast shadows over his cheeks in the dim light. His fingers were still feather-light against your wrist, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you now. Something twisted in your chest—not quite guilt, but close. "Look," you said, voice softer than you meant it to be, "I don’t mind keeping this up. Hooking up, I mean." You gestured vaguely between the two of you, the sheets still warm where your bodies had been pressed together. "As long as you don’t say shit like that anymore."

Choso’s fingers stilled. For a second, you thought he might pull away entirely, but then his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist—just once, deliberate. "You think I’d lie about that?" His voice was low, rough at the edges. Not angry, exactly. Just—filled with emotion.

You rolled onto your side to face him properly, propping your head up on one hand. "I think you’re confusing good sex with something else," you said, aiming for light and landing somewhere closer to brittle. His expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. You sighed, reaching out to poke his chest. "Come on. You’re not the type to fall in love after four months of fucking."

He caught your wrist before you could pull back, his grip firm but not tight. "You don’t know what I am," he said quietly. There was no heat in it, just a simple, unshakable certainty that made your breath catch.

The silence stretched. Outside, a car door slammed, the sound muffled through the closed window. You could feel the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm. "Fine," you said at last, lifting your chin. "Then prove it."

His brows lifted slightly. "How?"

"Tell me something about you that isn’t sex-related." You gestured vaguely between you. "Something that would make me think you actually know me well enough to love me." You meant it as a challenge, a way to call his bluff—but Choso didn’t hesitate.

"You hate fruit boba but drink the drink tea version anyways because you like the sweetness," he said, voice even. "You tap your fingers against surfaces when you’re thinking—three taps, always. You pretend not to care about your plants but you talk to them when you think no one’s listening." His thumb traced a slow circle over your pulse point. "You’re terrible at lying."

Heat climbed your neck. You hadn’t realized he’d noticed any of that. "That’s just—observational shit. Doesn’t mean anything."

Choso exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "You stole my hoodie two weeks ago and still have it." Your eyes flicked to the memory this morning, remembering where it was hanging in your closet, unmistakably his. "You keep it because it smells like me," he added, softer now. He wasn’t entire sure of that fact but oh but how his heart yearns for it to be true.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore—just charged, like the air before a storm.

You pulled your wrist free from his grip with a sharp jerk, sitting up so abruptly the mattress dipped beneath you. "Jesus, Choso, this isn't some fucking rom-com," you snapped, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. The sheets clung to your thighs like accusations. "You don't just—drop that shit in the middle of sex and expect me to swoon."

Behind you, Choso went very still. You could feel his silence like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades. When you glanced back, his face was carefully neutral, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the sheets. Good. Let him feel stupid.

"You're acting like this is some grand revelation," you continued, voice dripping with sarcasm as you yanked your discarded shirt from the floor. "Like we're fucking soulmates because you noticed I tap my fingers three times." The fabric caught on your elbow—you wrestled with it viciously, as if it had personally wronged you. "Newsflash: that's called paying attention, not love."

Choso's exhale was slow, deliberate. "I know the difference," he said, too calm, too measured. It made your teeth ache. “I know what my heart feels for you…”

You shoved your arms through the sleeves of your shirt with more force than necessary, fabric straining at the seams. "Shut up Choso, you say you know the difference.” “Then act like it," you snapped, voice sharp enough to draw blood. "We were having fun. Why’d you have to ruin it with some—" You waved a hand vaguely, searching for the right word, "—some fucking delusional nonsense?"

Choso didn’t move from the bed, but his fingers twitched against the sheets. "I didn’t plan it," he admitted, voice low. "It just... came out." The honesty in his words made your stomach twist, but you clenched your jaw against it.

"Bullshit." You grabbed your jeans from the floor, shaking them out like they’d offended you. "You don’t accidentally say I love you mid-thrust." The words tasted bitter on your tongue, too big for the dim lighting and sweat-slick sheets between you.

For a long moment, Choso was silent. Then, quieter “Please don’t end this .”

You yanked your jeans up your thighs, the denim sticking to your damp skin. "No,I’m not " you muttered, not looking at him. "Just—don't do that again." The zipper caught; you wrenched it up with more force than necessary, the metal teeth biting into your fingertips.

Choso exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like he was counting breaths. "Alright." His voice was too even, the way it got when he was holding something back. The mattress dipped as he shifted, sheets rustling. You didn’t turn around, but you could feel his gaze on your back, heavy and unrelenting.

"You’re sure," he said after a beat. Not a question. A statement. Like he already knew the answer.

You spun on your heel, shirt still rumpled from where you’d tugged it on haphazardly. "What’s there to be sure about?" You spread your arms, grinning sharp enough to cut. "We’re fuck buddies, Choso. That’s it." The words tasted like ash, but you swallowed them down. "If you can’t handle that, say so now." You didn’t even give him a chance to respond before you left - slamming the door behind you.

Choso sat on the edge of the bed, hands limp between his knees. The sheets were still warm where you’d been tangled together minutes ago, the indentation of your body slowly fading. He dragged a palm over his face, fingers catching on the dampness at the corners of his eyes. The first tear surprised him—a hot, silent betrayal down his cheek. Then another. And another. His breath hitched, shoulders bowing under the weight of something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t make a sound. Not when his chest tightened like a vice, not when his vision blurred, not even when his fingers curled into fists against his thighs, nails biting half-moons into his palms. The room smelled like you—like sweat and the cheap citrus shampoo you always used—and it was worse than the silence, worse than the hollow ache in his ribs.

He did truely love you but to him, it was better to have crumbs of you than to have none of you .

my poor baby 🧍if reader don’t want him, I’ll happily take him 😏😏

i had an idea of sub choso finding out about the smut you read and wants to please you better than the characters y/n reads about !!!! he would perform each position with the determination of being better than what you fantasize about 🙈

-💌

HEY GIRLIEPOP!!😉 Thank you so much for the recipe , now I shall cook the delicious meal🙂‍↕️!!

𝙏𝙤 𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙮 𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙮?

★mdni 18+ sub choso, mommy kink, foot worship , pathetic and eager to please Choso, erm once again all the good stuff basically…

"You left your tablet unlocked again." Choso's voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as he held the device between his fingertips like it might burn him. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, where I was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a pan that had seen better days. The late afternoon light caught the nervous flicker of his throat as he swallowed.

I turned, wiping suds off my forearm with the back of my hand. "Oh, shit—thanks." I reached for it, but he didn’t let go right away. His grip tightened just enough for me to notice. That’s when I saw his expression—not embarrassment, not annoyance, but something sharper, hotter. The kind of look that made my stomach drop in the best way.

The tablet screen was still lit—a paused scene from one of my favorite smut fics, mid-paragraph, mid-sentence, mid-act. Choso's thumb hovered over the power button, but he didn’t press it. Instead, his eyes flicked up to mine, dark and liquid with something unreadable. "I didn’t mean to," he murmured, though the way his fingers tensed around the edges of the device said otherwise.

Water dripped from my hands onto the tile. Neither of us moved.

Then, in a voice so low I almost missed it: "Do you... like this?" He tilted the screen slightly, enough for me to see the exact passage he’d stopped on—a particularly vivid description of a man pinning his lover against a wall, one hand tangled in their hair, the other—

My face burned. "It’s just fiction," I said, too quickly.

Choso exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he was counting seconds in his head. Then, without breaking eye contact, he swiped the screen—once, twice—until the passage disappeared into the ether. My pulse jumped at the loss. "It's not just fiction," he said, softer now, almost to himself. The tablet clicked onto the counter between us, abandoned. "Not if it's what you want."

The silence stretched, thick with the weight of something neither of us had named yet. I opened my mouth—to deflect, to laugh it off—but Choso was already stepping closer, his socked feet silent on the tile. He stopped just short of touching me, close enough that I could smell the faint cedar of his shampoo, close enough that the heat of him prickled against my damp skin. His fingers flexed at his sides. "Tell me," he murmured. "Do you want it like that? Hard. Fast." A pause. "Or—" His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Or do you want it slow? Until you forget your own name?"

My breath hitched. This wasn’t the Choso who blushed when I kissed him in public, who folded laundry with military precision, who hummed off-key in the shower. This was something else. Something hungry.

Before I could answer, his hand rose—not to my hair, not to my waist, but to the curve of my jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. "You don’t have to say it," he whispered. "I’ll learn. Every page. Every word." His lips ghosted over my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine. "I’ll be better."

Choso's hands trembled against my hips as he backed me toward the wall, his movements awkwardly rehearsed—like he’d memorized the steps but not the rhythm. The paperback intensity of the scene in my fic dissolved into something far more human, more him: the way his breath hitched when our thighs brushed, the hesitant press of his palm against the small of my back, as if asking permission.

"You’re supposed to be rougher," I whispered, but the words came out fond, not corrective. His fingers flexed against my waist, but instead of the possessive grip I’d read about, he traced idle circles through the fabric of my shirt, his touch feather-light.

"I know," he murmured, forehead dipping to rest against mine. His nose bumped clumsily against my cheek—endearing, not erotic. "I just—" A shaky exhale. "I don’t want to hurt you."

The confession hung between us, unbearably tender. I could feel the effort in him, the way his muscles tensed as he fought against his own instincts to be gentle. His attempt at pinning my wrists above my head lasted all of three seconds before his grip loosened, his thumbs stroking apologetically over my pulse points.

A huff of laughter against my throat. "I practiced," he admitted.

His lips stilled against my pulse point when I tugged lightly at his hair. "Practiced?" I echoed, breathless. Choso pulled back just enough for me to see the flush creeping up his neck—not embarrassment, but determination. That look again, the one that curled heat low in my stomach. His fingers flexed against my hips.

"Not this," he admitted. His thumb brushed the hem of my shirt, tentative. "Something... slower." The words came out strained, like he was wrestling with them. "But I saw—" A pause. His gaze flicked to the tablet, dark and abandoned on the counter. "There was another one. Where he—" He swallowed hard. "Where he crawled for her."

The air between us shifted. My grip loosened in his hair, fingertips grazing the nape of his neck. "You want that?"

Choso's breath hitched. Not a nod, not a shake—just stillness, the kind that spoke louder than words. His eyelids fluttered shut for a heartbeat before he met my gaze again, raw and unguarded. "I just want to be good for you," he whispered.

The confession hung between us like a live wire. I could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against my hips—like he was already fighting the urge to drop to his knees right there in the kitchen. The thought sent a pulse of heat through me, but it was the look in his eyes that undid me completely: raw, vulnerable, wanting. Not just to please, but to belong.

Choso's breath was warm against my skin before his lips even touched me—close enough that I could feel the slightest tremor in his exhale, the way his chest rose and fell unevenly. His fingers curled into the fabric of my shorts, not tugging, just holding on, like he needed the anchor. Then, so slowly it made my knees weak, he sank to the floor between my legs, his palms skimming up my thighs with a reverence that felt like worship.

The first kiss was tentative—just the barest brush of his mouth against the inside of my knee, soft as a question. The second was firmer, open-mouthed and damp, his tongue flicking out to trace the sensitive skin there. I gasped, fingers tangling instinctively in his hair, and felt him shudder in response. His grip tightened on my thighs, not enough to bruise, but enough that I could feel the faint bite of his nails through the fabric.

"Choso—" I started, but the name fractured into a moan as he dragged his teeth lightly over the same spot, nipping just shy of pain before soothing it with another lick. His hands slid higher, pushing my shorts up my legs with agonizing slowness, his thumbs brushing the crease where thigh met hip. Every touch was deliberate, practiced—like he'd memorized the exact pressure I liked from some unseen script.

His lips moved higher, kissing a slow, wet path up the inside of my thigh, pausing every few inches to suck lightly at the skin. I could feel his breath hitch each time I tightened my fingers in his hair, each tiny noise I made telegraphing straight to the way his hands shook against me. When he reached the lace edge of my underwear, he paused, his forehead resting against my stomach, his breathing ragged.

He looked like he was fighting an internal battle as he forced himself to let go of me, already missing the contact. With shaking hands, he began undressing maintaining intense eye contact with me. He arched his back in hopes of looking more seductive for me, blush spreading over his cheeks. Once he was left in only his boxers, he twisted his nipples - back and forth - just like one of the men in one of the scenes in the book. It was kind of cute how he was so desperate to please me - even if it meant putting himself on display for me but it was sexy as fuck nonetheless.

The dark spot that situated in the middle of his light grey boxers began to spread. I guess he was enjoying this just as much as me. What a fucking whore.

Somehow, he must have heard the thought in my head as he let out a strangled whimper throwing his head back. “I’m such a fucking whore for you mommyy” he cried in a whiny voice. I bit my lip at sight before me. Choso, on his knees exposed and pinching his own nipples for me? I was in heaven.

Just then, a light bulb went off in my head. It was risky but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to see the extent of his submissiveness. How far he was willing to go.

Wearily, I stretched out my foot and placed it on his clothed cock. The size of it was practically pooling out of the fabric . You could see the shape of his juicy balls through the material. “Mommy..”

“Shhh baby..” I smirked “Mommy’s playing with your dick”. He moaned at those lewd words, not making any move to stop me. I used my toes to play with the dark luscious curls right above his dick - teasing.

"Please," Choso gasped, his voice cracking halfway through the word. His legs were spread just wide enough for my foot to slide between them, the arch pressing firm against the length of his cock through his sweatpants. I wiggled my toes, relishing the way his breath hitched, the way his hips jerked helplessly into the touch.

Using my hands I tugged his boxers low enough for his dick to spring out! Boinggg!! I used my foot to slap it against his stomach, taking delight in the way his face scrunched up in pleasure.

Slowly, I pulled my foot away, watching the confusion flicker across his face before it settled into something like panic. "W-wait—" Choso stammered, his voice raw, his hands hovering like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t dare. "Did I—did I do something wrong?"

I shook my head, curling my toes idly in the air between you. "No," i murmured, your voice softer now. "Just realized I want something else." I let my foot drift closer to his face, brushing the tips of my toes against his parted lips. "Suck."

Choso's breath hitched, his dark eyes widening—not in refusal, but in something closer to awe. His tongue darted out instinctively, wetting his lips before he hesitated, his gaze flicking up to mine for permission. I nodded, and with a shaky exhale, he leaned forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the pad of me foot. His lips were warm, softer than you’d expected, and when his tongue curled around my big toe, I couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down my spine.

"Good boy," I breathed, and the way his cock twitched against his thigh at the praise was almost as satisfying as the heat of his mouth. He took my toe deeper, his tongue swirling lazily, his lips sealing around you like he was savoring the taste. His lashes fluttered shut, his shoulders relaxing into the motion like this was exactly where he belonged—on his knees for you, in every way that mattered.

You had already read books where the male leads would go through any and all lengths just to please the love of their lives. You have the real life version on his knees right in front of you sucking greedily on your toes just because you had asked him too. You made a mental note to recreate any spicy scenes that even slightly turns you on knowing fully well Choso would abide to your every whim and would never disappoint.

I hope you enjoyed this savoury meal!😉😉

HEY GIRLIEPOP!!😍😍 I really liked writing this one because I understand it’s rare for minor characters to be written about.

They don’t have sex but trust me, you will love it nonetheless 😏😏

Something New ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Across you, the barista—all sharp eyeliner and effortless half-smile—was leaning too far over the counter while taking your boyfriend’s order. Her blouse dipped just enough to be deliberate. I exhaled through my nose, slow.

Ino noticed this and shivered as he saw the jealousy within my eyes. He knew what was to come .

I pressed against his back, hooking my chin over his shoulder so our reflections blurred together. "See her often?" My voice was syrup-slow as my fingers traced the waistband of his sweats. His Adam's apple bobbed in the mirror. "N-no," he stammered, but his hips twitched forward when I palmed him through the fabric.

Ino’s breath hitched when my fingers dipped below his belt, his hips twitching forward into my touch before he could stop himself. His reflection in the mirror was a study in contradictions—the flush creeping up his neck, the way his teeth dug into his lower lip like he was trying to hold back a noise, the quiet, helpless way his body arched into your hands even as he muttered, “We shouldn’t—someone could—”

I nipped at his earlobe, relishing the full-body shudder it pulled from him. “They won’t,” I said, palming him through his jeans just to hear the way his breath stuttered. “Unless you want them to.” His head shook frantically, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he forced them open again, locked onto yours in the mirror. Good. You wanted him to watch.

The button of his jeans gave way with a quiet pop, the zipper hissing as you dragged it down. Ino’s fingers scrabbled at the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening, but he didn’t try to stop you—he never did, not really, not when it was you. The first touch of your hand against bare skin drew a choked-out sound from him, his hips jerking forward like he couldn’t help it. You smirked against the side of his neck. “That girl,” you murmured, stroking him slow, teasing, “You think she could make you feel like this?”

You tightened your grip just enough to make him whimper, the sound muffled against the back of his own hand as he bit down on his knuckles. "Didn't what?" you murmured, watching his reflection—the way his eyelashes fluttered, the sweat beading at his temples, the desperate little twitch of his hips as your thumb circled the head of his cock. "Didn't notice how she kept touching herself every time you laughed? Didn't see the way she leaned in?" You dragged your free hand up his chest, pinching his nipple through his shirt just to hear the punched-out gasp it tore from him. "Or did you just not care?"

Ino shook his head, his breath coming in shallow bursts. "I—I didn't—" He broke off with a moan when you twisted your wrist just so, his knees buckling slightly before he caught himself. The mirror fogged where his forehead pressed against it, his breath leaving damp streaks on the glass. "Please," he managed, the word ragged at the edges, "please, I—"

You slowed your strokes, dragging your palm down his length with deliberate, maddening lightness. "You what?" you teased, nipping at the tendon in his neck. "Tell me."

His reflection was a mess—lips swollen from biting them, hair sticking to his forehead, pupils blown so wide his irises were nearly gone. "I only want you," he choked out, hips stuttering forward into your touch. "Only ever you."

The mirror was streaked where Ino’s forehead had pressed against it, his breath fogging the glass in uneven patches. You dragged your free hand up his spine, feeling the tremors under his skin as your fingers curled into the damp fabric of his shirt. "Say it again," you murmured, lips grazing the shell of his ear, and watched his reflection shudder—the way his throat worked around a swallow, the way his eyelashes fluttered when your thumb swiped over the head of his cock.

"I—" Ino's voice cracked, hips jerking helplessly into your grip. "I only want you," he repeated, softer this time, wrecked. The admission hung between you, fragile as the condensation on the mirror. You tightened your hand just enough to make him whimper, his knees knocking against the sink cabinet as he tried to keep himself upright.

The moment his confession left his lips, you tightened your grip on his cock and stroked him with a ferocious pace—no more teasing, no mercy, just the slick drag of your hand working him toward the edge. Ino’s reflection in the mirror was a masterpiece of desperation: lips parted around ragged breaths, eyelids fluttering like he couldn’t decide whether to watch or shut it all out, his entire body trembling under your touch. You clicked your tongue and grabbed the back of his neck, forcing his head up so he couldn’t look away from himself. "Look at you," you murmured, your voice low and honeyed with cruelty. "Pathetic."

His breath hitched, his hips stuttering forward into your grip as if he couldn’t help it. The flush on his cheeks deepened, spreading down his throat like spilled wine, and you watched with satisfaction as his pupils dilated further, his lips forming a silent plea. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against the sink, knuckles white with the effort of holding himself up. You squeezed the base of his cock just enough to make him whine, a high, broken sound that echoed off the tiled walls. "This is what you are," you continued, dragging your thumb over the head of him, smearing the wetness there. "Mine. Look at yourself."

Ino’s reflection was a mess—his hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, his lips swollen from biting them, his eyes glassy with surrender. He whimpered when you twisted your wrist just so, his body bowing forward before he caught himself, his forehead pressing against the fogged mirror again. You yanked him back by the hair, forcing him to meet his own gaze. "Say it," you demanded, your breath hot against his ear.

"I—I’m yours," he choked out, the words barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing. His hips jerked erratically, his cock twitching in your hand as he teetered on the edge. You slowed your strokes just enough to keep him there, teetering, his entire body taut like a wire about to snap.

"You didn’t even notice her, did you?" you mused, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear. "All that effort she put in, touching her wrist, leaning in—and you were just nodding along like a dumb puppy." You tightened your grip, dragging your thumb over the sensitive spot just beneath the head, and Ino’s knees buckled. "She could’ve stripped naked in front of you and you still wouldn’t have looked away from your drink."

You cut him off with a sharp twist of your hand, wrenching a cry from him that echoed off the walls. "You didn’t what?" you taunted, watching his reflection crumble. "Didn’t think? Didn’t care?" His cock throbbed in your grip, precome beading at the tip and smearing across your fingers. You slowed your strokes again, just enough to make him whimper. "Or did you just know better?"

Ino’s throat worked as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing under your lips. "Knew better," he gasped, his hips twitching forward into your touch. "Knew—knew I—"

The sound of your palm connecting with his cheek was sharp—not enough to hurt, just enough to snap his head to the side, his breath catching audibly. Ino’s reflection blinked at you, lips parted, a faint pink bloom spreading across his skin where you’d struck him. You dragged your thumb over the spot, feeling the heat under his skin, and watched his pupils dilate further. "Look at you," you murmured, almost fondly, before your hand slid down his body, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his inner thigh. He jerked at the touch, his muscles tensing, but you held him there, kneading the spot just long enough to make him whimper before you delivered a swift, stinging slap.

Ino’s gasp was ragged, his hips bucking forward into nothing, his cock twitching against your other hand still wrapped around him. You clicked your tongue, watching the way his thighs trembled, the way his breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. "So eager," you teased, tightening your grip just enough to make him whine. "You’d take anything, wouldn’t you?" His nod was frantic, his throat working around another whimper, and you smirked before delivering another slap—this time to the flushed head of his cock, the sound obscenely loud in the tiled room.

Ino’s entire body convulsed, his knees giving out completely as a strangled cry tore from his throat. His cock pulsed violently in your hand, streaks of white splattering across the sink and mirror before his hips stuttered to a stop, his breath coming in ragged, hiccuping gasps. You stared at the mess, your own breath catching in your throat—you hadn’t expected that. Not like this.

You learn something new about him that day ..

HEY GIRLIEPOP!! 😋 I like the way you think already! Let’s dive into it 🏊🏊🏊🏊🏊

With You and Only You⋆.ೃ࿔*:

★ mdni 18+

sub choso, mommy kink, pillow humping, virginity loss, innocent choso, all the good stuff basically 🥱

Choso had always been the kind of person who apologized for existing. The first time we met, he stammered through an introduction while staring at his shoes, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of his oversized sweater. It was endearing, the way he seemed to fold into himself whenever someone looked at him too long—like he was trying to take up less space, to be quieter and smaller somehow.

We were studying in the library when he first brought it up. His voice was so soft I almost missed it over the hum of the air conditioner. "I don't... I don't understand why this keeps happening," he admitted, cheeks flushed as he gestured vaguely at himself. His knees were pressed tightly together, his whole body tense.

I closed my textbook slowly, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed. "Keep happening how?" I asked, though I already knew. The way his breath hitched when our fingers brushed, the way his gaze flickered down whenever I leaned too close—I'd noticed all of it.

Choso's fingers dug into his thighs, his knuckles whitening against the fabric of his pants. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again—each attempt a silent battle against his own embarrassment. "It's like..." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Like my skin gets too tight. And my stomach—" He pressed a hand over his abdomen, his breath shallow. "It flips. Every time you look at me."

I tilted my head, letting my gaze travel down his body in a slow, deliberate sweep. His reaction was immediate—a sharp inhale, the slightest shift of his hips against the library chair. "Where else?" I asked, softer now.

His eyes darted to the empty study carrel beside us before whispering, "My—my chest gets hot. And lower..." His voice trailed off, his face burning crimson as he bit his lip. The confession hung between us, thick with unspoken want.

Choso's fingers twitched against his thighs, his breath coming in shallow bursts as if he'd just sprinted up three flights of stairs. The library's fluorescent lights caught the sheen of sweat at his hairline, and when he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed like a buoy in rough water. His lips parted—another aborted attempt—before he pressed them together so hard they went pale.

"Lower," I repeated, letting the word curl between us. The paperback in my hands suddenly felt irrelevant. I let it drop to the table with a soft thud that made him flinch. His knees were still clamped together, but I could see the subtle shift—the way his thighs tensed, the small arch of his back against the chair.

"It's—" Choso's voice cracked again. He cleared his throat, but the sound was weak, half-strangled. His gaze darted to the ceiling, the shelves, anywhere but me. "When you... when you sit close like this, I can't—" His hands flexed, gripping the fabric of his pants now, knuckles straining against the dark material. A damp spot bloomed near his zipper, small but unmistakable.

I smirked, watching the way his pulse jumped in his throat as I leaned closer—close enough that our knees brushed under the table. "You know what that means, don't you?" My voice dropped to a whisper, threading through the hum of the library’s air conditioning. His breath hitched. "It happens when you really love your partner. When you’re turned on”

Choso made a sound like a kicked puppy—high and strangled—and his entire body jerked like I’d pressed a live wire to his skin. His fingers scrabbled against his thighs, nails biting into the fabric. "I—I don’t—" he stammered, his voice fraying at the edges. His hips twitched involuntarily, pressing harder into the chair, and the damp spot darkened another shade.

"Look at you," I murmured, tilting my head. The fluorescent lights caught the sweat beading along his hairline. "You’re leaking just from me talking to you." His blush spread down his neck, staining his skin the same feverish red as the library’s overdue notices.

I reached out slowly—giving him every chance to bolt—and brushed my thumb over his bottom lip. His mouth fell open with a shuddering exhale, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "You want me to help you, don’t you?" I asked, watching his pupils swallow the warm brown of his irises.

Choso whimpered, a broken little noise that skittered down my spine. His hands fluttered helplessly before settling on my wrist, his grip loose, trembling. Not pushing me away—just holding on, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he didn’t. "Please," he whispered, so quiet I felt it more than heard it.

The walk to my apartment was a blur of Choso’s trembling fingers and the way he kept stumbling into me, his legs unsteady as a newborn deer’s. Every brush of his shoulder against mine sent a fresh shiver through him, his breath hitching in that quiet, desperate way that made my stomach clench. He didn’t speak—just clung to the sleeve of my jacket like it was the only thing tethering him to earth, his knuckles pale against the fabric.

By the time I got him through the door, his knees were buckling. I barely caught him before he crumpled, his weight warm and pliant against my chest. "Easy," I murmured into his hair, the scent of library dust and his nervous sweat filling my lungs. His entire body shuddered when I hooked a finger under his chin, tilting his face up to mine. His lips were parted, his eyes glazed—like he’d already forgotten how to form words.

The bedroom was dim, the curtains half-drawn, and when I nudged him toward the bed, he went willingly, his back hitting the mattress with a soft gasp. He looked up at me with something like awe, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t dare. The damp spot on his pants had spread, the fabric clinging obscenely to the shape of him, and when I dragged my gaze back up to his face, his throat worked around a silent plea.

"Take these off," I said, tapping his waistband. His hands flew to his belt, fumbling so badly the metal clasp clattered against the floor. He whimpered when I didn’t help, his hips jerking as he shoved his pants down past his knees. The sight of him—spread out on my sheets, his thighs trembling, his cock straining against the thin fabric of his boxers—sent a sharp bolt of heat straight to my gut.

"I want you to do something for me, Cho," I murmured, tracing a slow circle over his hipbone where his sweater had ridden up. His skin was fever-hot beneath my fingertips, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

"Anything," he gasped, the word cracking halfway through. His hands hovered uselessly above the mattress, fingers flexnow twitching—like he wanted to touch but didn't know where to begin. The flush staining his neck had crept down to his chest, painting his skin in splotchy, uneven patches.

I dragged my nail lightly down the center of his stomach, watching the muscles there jump. "Hump the pillow," I said, nodding toward the one beside his head. "Slow at first. Let me see how desperate you are." Choso made a wounded noise, his thighs pressing together instinctively before he forced them apart with a visible shudder. His hands shook as he reached for the pillow, his fingers sinking into the fabric like he was afraid it might dissolve. When he dragged it between his legs, the first experimental roll of his hips pulled a broken whimper from his throat—high and reedy, the sound of someone unraveling at the seams.

"Look at you," I murmured, circling the bed. His cock strained against his boxers, the wet spot at the tip nearly translucent where it clung to the fabric. His hips stuttered at that, his breath coming faster, shallower. The pillow muffled the slick sound of his movements, but the way his back arched off the mattress—the desperate little thrusts he couldn't seem to stop—told me everything.

I crouched beside the bed, my fingers skimming the inside of his knee. His entire body jerked, his thighs falling open wider in silent invitation. "You've never done this before, have you?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. The way his hips stuttered—uncoordinated, frantic—was answer enough. "Never even touched yourself properly?"

Choso's head thumped back against the mattress, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "N-no," he admitted, his voice frayed at the edges. His next thrust was harder, less controlled, his cock dragging against the pillow with a choked-off moan. "I—I couldn't—*fuck*—"

I let my nails scrape lightly down his inner thigh, watching the way his muscles twitched under his feverish skin. "Take these off," I murmured, tugging at the waistband of his boxers. His hands flew to obey, but they were trembling too badly—his fingers catching on the fabric, his hips lifting clumsily to help. The moment his cock sprang free, his entire body froze, his breath catching in his throat like he hadn't expected it to feel this overwhelming.

The sight of him—spread out like a fucking feast, his long and thick cock flushed and leaking against his stomach, his thighs shaking with the effort of holding still—sent a jolt of heat straight through me. The sight of the veins alone was enough to make me drip. I wrapped my hand around him without preamble, my grip just shy of too tight, and the noise he made was beyond filthy, a broken, sobbing thing that reverberated in the hollow of my ribs.

His hips jerked up into my fist immediately, his cock pulsing against my palm as he fucked up into my grip with all the clumsy desperation of someone who'd spent years dreaming about this exact moment. "Oh—oh—" His voice cracked, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets, his knees drawing up instinctively as if he wanted to curl into himself—or maybe just into me.

I twisted my wrist on the next stroke, thumb swiping over the slick head of him, and Choso's back arched clean off the mattress with a strangled cry. His thighs trembled violently, his toes curling against the sheets as his cock twitched in my hand—already so close, so fucking Close—just from a few rough strokes. "Look at you," I murmured, dragging my nails lightly down the length of him just to watch his stomach muscles clench. "You're gonna come just like this, aren't you?” 

The sound he made was halfway between a sob and a moan, his hips stuttering erratically as he chased the friction of my palm. His cock was dripping, wetness smearing across his stomach with every frantic thrust, his breath coming in ragged, punched-out gasps. "P-please," he choked out, his fingers twisting in the sheets—begging, even though he didn't know what for.

leaned down, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and felt his entire body shudder beneath me. "You want me to fuck you?" I whispered, tightening my grip just enough to make his breath hitch. "Want me to ruin you for anyone else?" His nod was frantic, his hips bucking helplessly into my hand—yes, yes, yes-his cock straining against my fingers like he was trying to will me inside him already.

Choso's breath hitched when I straddled his hips, my knees bracketing his trembling thighs. His hands hovered uncertainly over my waist—too afraid to touch, too desperate to pull away. “You're shaking," I murmured, pressing my palms flat against his chest. His heartbeat hammered against my fingers, erratic as a trapped bird's.

I guided him inside me slowly, watching his face fracture—lips parting around a soundless cry, eyelids fluttering like he was trying not to faint. His cock twitched against my thigh, already slick with precome, and when I sank down onto him, the noise he made was raw—halfway between prayer and profanity. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise, his hips jerking upward instinctively before he forced them still with a shuddering gasp.

"Fuck—" Choso's voice cracked, his throat working around syllables that wouldn't form. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, his muscles taut beneath my hands. I rolled my hips experimentally, and his entire body locked up—his toes curling against the sheets, his cock pulsing inside me like he was already fighting not to come.

The stretch burned in the best way, his inexperience making every twitch, every shallow thrust feel new. I braced my hands on his chest and lifted myself almost all the way off before dropping back down—hard—and Choso fucking broke. His back arched off the mattress, his thighs tensing beneath me as he sobbed my name, his fingers scrambling for purchase on my skin.

"Look at you," I murmured, rocking against him in slow, deliberate rolls. His eyelashes stuck together with sweat, his lips slick where he'd bitten them. "Taking me so well—like you were made for it." His hips stuttered upward at that, his cock dragging against my walls in a way that made us both groan. His hands slid up my sides, trembling—reverent—like he was afraid I'd vanish if he held on too tight.

The rhythm changed without warning—harder, faster—and Choso's breath hitched with every snap of my hips. His moans came in short, punched-out bursts, his fingers flexing against my waist like he couldn't decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. His thighs trembled violently beneath me, his cock twitching inside me with every rough downward thrust.

"I—I can't—" His voice was wrecked, his nails biting into my skin as his hips jerked upward erratically. His orgasm hit him like a freight train—his entire body seizing, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he came with a choked-off wail. His thighs clamped around mine instinctively, his back bowing off the mattress as pleasure ripped through him in visible waves.

Choso's voice shattered into something high and breathless, his hips twitching weakly as he gasped, "M-mommy—" before his face crumpled with mortification. His hands flew to cover his mouth, eyes widening as if he could somehow shove the word back in. But the damage was done—the syllable lingered between us, sticky with shame and something darker, sweeter.

I paused mid-thrust, watching the way his throat worked around silent apologies. His thighs trembled against mine, his cock still pulsing inside me as aftershocks rolled through him. "Say that again," I murmured, dragging my nails down his chest just to feel him shiver. His breath hitched, his hips jerking up instinctively despite his oversensitivity.

"I—I didn't mean—" Choso stammered, his voice frayed at the edges. His fingers clutched at my hips, his knuckles whitening as another shudder wracked his body. His cock twitched valiantly inside me, still half-hard despite his orgasm—like his body couldn't bear the thought of pulling away.

I leaned down, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and felt his entire body tense beneath me. "Say it," I whispered, biting lightly at his earlobe. His hips bucked upward with a broken whimper, his cock sliding deeper as his thighs trembled. "mommy."

The word punched out of him like a sob—raw and unfiltered—his back arching off the mattress as if the syllable alone could unravel him. His hands flew to cover his mouth again, his eyes wide and glassy with disbelief, but I caught his wrists easily, pinning them above his head. "Again," I demanded, rolling my hips in slow, deliberate circles.

Choso's breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, his lips parting around a silent plea. His cock twitched inside me, still slick with his own release, and when I clenched around him experimentally, his hips jerked upward with a choked-off moan. "Mommy" he gasped, the word cracking halfway through as his thighs tensed beneath me.

I rewarded him with a sharp thrust that had his toes curling against the sheets, his fingers twisting in the fabric above his head. "Good boy," I murmured, watching the way his eyelashes fluttered at the praise—like he'd been starving for it. His cock twitched inside me, still impossibly hard despite his release, and the realization sent a jolt of heat straight through me. He was ruined and fucking mine. He was already trembling beneath me with every shallow breath, but his body still arched up into mine like he couldn't get enough.

I leaned down, my lips brushing his ear, and felt his entire body shudder. "You're not done yet, are you?" My voice was low, rough with something feral creeping up my throat. His breath hitched, his hips jerking upward in silent agreement, and something in me snapped.

My hands clamped down on his wrists, pinning him harder as my hips rolled against his in sharp, punishing strokes. His moans turned ragged, his back bowing off the mattress with every thrust, his thighs trembling where they bracketed mine. "Fuck—fuck—" His voice cracked, his cock pulsing inside me like he was already close again, his body strung tight as a wire.

I didn't let up—couldn't. The sight of him unraveling beneath me, his lips parted around broken pleas, his skin flushed and slick with sweat—it lit something primal in my chest. My teeth found the curve of his shoulder, biting down hard enough to make him yelp, and the sound sent a bolt of heat straight to my gut. His hips jerked upward erratically, his cock dragging against my walls in a way that had us both gasping.

Tears welled up in Choso's eyes—not the slow, silent kind, but the kind that spilled over all at once, streaking down his temples and into his hairline. His breath hitched around a sob, his throat working desperately as if he could swallow the sound back down. But it was too late; the first whimper escaped, high and reedy, and his entire body went rigid beneath me with shame.

"Look at you," I murmured, dragging my thumb through the wetness on his cheek. His eyelashes fluttered at the contact, his hips twitching weakly beneath me like his body couldn't decide whether to arch into the touch or curl away from it. "Crying like a fucking baby" The words dripped with mock pity, and his breath stuttered—wounded. His fingers twisted in the sheets above his head, his knuckles bleached white with the effort of holding on.

I leaned down, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and felt the shudder that wracked him at the proximity. "You like this, don't you?" I whispered, biting lightly at his earlobe. His hips jerked upward with a broken noise, his cock twitching inside me—still hard, still fucking desperate. Being treated like some pathetic little thing?"

Choso's sob cracked open then, raw and unfiltered, his chest heaving with the force of it. His thighs trembled violently beneath me, his toes curling against the sheets as another tear slipped free. "Y-yes," he gasped, the admission tearing out of him like it hurt. His hands flexed helplessly above his head, his fingers grasping at nothing—like he wanted to cover his face but didn't dare disobey.

"You're filthy" I murmured, dragging my thumb through the dampness on his cheek before pressing it against his parted lips. His tongue darted out instinctively, lapping at the salt on my skin, and the whimper that escaped him was pathetic. His eyelashes fluttered, wet and clumped together, as his hips jerked upward in a feeble attempt to keep me close. "Crying like this—just because I called you pathetic? What does that make you, huh?" 

Choso's breath stuttered, his fingers flexing helplessly above his head where I'd pinned them. "Y-yours," he gasped, the word mangled around a sob. His cock pulsed inside me, still impossibly hard despite his earlier release, and the realization made my grip tighten on his wrists.

"Mine," I repeated, rolling my hips in a slow, deliberate circle that had his thighs trembling violently beneath me. His breath caught in his throat, his lips parting around a silent plea as his tears streaked down his temples. "Look at you—dripping from both ends." I leaned down, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and felt the full-body shudder that wracked him at the proximity. "You love being my little mess, don't you?"

The tears spilled over faster now, streaking down Choso’s flushed cheeks like rainwater on glass. His breath hitched wetly between sobs, his chest rising and falling in uneven jerks as his hips twitched weakly beneath me. I tightened my grip on his wrists, pressing him deeper into the mattress, and watched his eyelashes flutter—like a trapped moth batting against a lamp.

"Pathetic," I murmured, dragging my thumb through the dampness on his cheek before smearing it across his parted lips. His tongue darted out instinctively, lapping at the salt, and the whimper that escaped him was so broken , it sent a jolt of heat straight to my pussy.

My fingers grazed his ribs, skating upward until my thumbs brushed the stiff peaks of his nipples. Choso gasped, his back arching off the mattress, his cock twitching inside me as if the sensation traveled straight to his groin. "Who do these belong to?" I murmured, pinching lightly. His breath hitched, his thighs tensing beneath me, but he didn't answer—just bit his lip hard enough to blanch the skin.

I twisted sharply, watching his face contort. "Who?" The word cracked through the room like a whip.

Choso's throat worked around a silent plea before the word tumbled out—soft, trembling, barely audible: "Mommy"

The slap rang out before he'd even finished the syllable. His head snapped to the side, his cheek blooming red under my palm. A broken noise spilled from his lips, half-sob, half-moan, his cock pulsing inside me as if the pain had lit up every nerve. "Again," I demanded, tightening around him just to feel him shudder. "Louder."

The second slap landed harder—his cheek stinging hot under my palm, his gasp breaking into a wet, shuddering moan. His cock twitched inside me like I'd sent an electric current straight through him, and his hips jerked upward instinctively, his thighs trembling beneath me. "mommy," he choked out, louder this time—raw and wrecked—his voice splintering around the edges. His fingers scrabbled at the sheets, his nails catching in the fabric as if he needed something to hold on to.

I twisted his nipple again, watching the way his breath hitched—high and reedy—his chest rising in shallow, uneven jerks. His skin was fever-hot beneath my fingers, his body arching into the touch like he couldn't decide whether to chase the pain or shy away from it. I started sucking on one nipple and with a small bite, he’s back came completely off the bed. His cock released spurts of cum like a fountain - It was such a beautiful sight to see. I looked at his juicy thick thighs and more ideas popped into my head but I decided to stop at this point. I mean it is his first time after all? 

The moment I slid off him, Choso made a wounded noise—like the loss of contact physically hurt—his hands twitching toward me before curling into fists against his chest. His breath hitched wetly, his chest rising and falling in uneven jerks as tears streaked fresh paths down his flushed cheeks. I leaned down before he could spiral, my lips brushing the salt-damp skin beneath his eye, and felt his entire body shudder beneath me.

"I'm sorry," I murmured against his temple, kissing the sting from his slapped cheek. His breath caught, his fingers unclenching slowly—hesitant—like he wasn't sure he deserved the tenderness. "Did I hurt you too much?" My thumb traced the apple of his cheek, smearing tear tracks he'd been too overwhelmed to wipe away himself.

Choso's throat worked around a silent answer, his eyelashes fluttering as my lips grazed the bridge of his nose. When I kissed the corner of his mouth—still swollen from biting—a broken sound escaped him, his hips lifting weakly off the mattress like he was chasing contact even now.

"You took me so well," I whispered, dragging my lips along his jaw. His breath stuttered, his hands flexing open and closed at his sides like he wanted to touch but didn't dare. "Such a good boy for me, Cho." The praise landed like a physical touch—his back arching slightly, a fresh tear slipping free as his cock twitched against his stomach.

HEY GIRLIEPOP!!🥹🥹 congrats and thank you for being my first ever request!!👏👏👏👏

Hopefully, you’re pleased with what I wrote 💋.

When Jealousy Prevails ⊹₊⟡⋆

18+ handjob, whimpering, begging, kind of mean reader?? , Overstimulation

The library was quiet except for the occasional rustle of pages and the soft tap of fingers on laptop keys. In the corner by the window, Satoru hunched over his physics textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. His glasses slid down his nose for the third time that hour, and he pushed them back up with an absentminded flick of his finger. He was the kind of guy who disappeared into the background—hoodie pulled up, headphones on, lost in equations or fantasy novels or whatever world he’d decided to live in that day.

Across the room, a burst of laughter cut through the silence. Satoru’s head jerked up instinctively, eyes scanning until they landed on you, surrounded by a group of guys from the soccer team. You were grinning at something one of them had said, leaning slightly into their orbit like a planet caught in gravity. Satoru’s stomach twisted. He knew that laugh—the one you reserved for when you were genuinely amused, not just being polite.

His pencil snapped between his fingers. The sound was sharp, almost violent in the hushed space, and a girl at the next table shot him a glare. Satoru mumbled an apology, face heating as he fumbled to gather the broken pieces. He didn’t even remember gripping it that hard. His eyes flicked back to you just in time to see one of the guys—Broad Shoulders, Satoru had mentally dubbed him—brush a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Satoru’s throat went dry.

The next twenty minutes were torture. He tried to focus on his textbook, but the numbers blurred into nonsense. Every time he glanced over, the scene was worse: Broad Shoulders leaning closer, another guy nudging your shoulder playfully, you laughing again, brighter this time. Satoru’s chest ached. He wasn’t possessive—really, he wasn’t—but the thought of you slipping away, of becoming someone else’s orbit, made his ribs feel like they were collapsing inward.

When the library doors finally swung shut behind the group, Satoru exhaled shakily. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. You lingered for a second, scanning the room, and when your eyes met his, you smiled. Not the polite one. The real one. The one that made his pulse stutter. You waved him over, and satoru hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of his fraying hoodie and the broken pencil still clutched in his fist.

Satoru’s feet moved before his brain could talk him out of it, weaving between tables with the unsteady grace of someone trying too hard to seem casual. He could feel the weight of your gaze on him—warm, amused, the way it always was—and it made the back of his neck prickle. When he reached you, he shoved his hands into his pockets, the broken pencil pieces digging into his palm. "Hey," he mumbled, staring at a spot just over your shoulder where a poster about library fines hung crookedly.

"You okay?" Your voice was soft, fingertips brushing his wrist where it peeked out from his hoodie sleeve. The contact sent a jolt through him, and satoru finally met your eyes. There was no pity there, just that quiet knowing that always made him feel both exposed and safe at the same time. "You looked like you were about to murder that textbook."

He swallowed. "Just—uh. Hard problem." A lie, obviously, but the words tangled in his throat before he could confess the truth: that watching you laugh with those guys had felt like swallowing glass. That he’d imagined, for a stupid, panicked second, what it would be like if you stopped noticing him altogether.

"You're lying," you said suddenly, fingers tightening around his wrist. The amusement in your eyes had vanished, replaced by something sharper. Satoru blinked, thrown by the shift—your voice wasn't angry, but it wasn't playful anymore either. "You've been staring at me for twenty minutes like I kicked your dog. What's actually wrong?"

The directness punched the air from his lungs. He opened his mouth, then closed it, fingers twitching against the broken pencil pieces in his pocket. "I wasn't—it's nothing," he tried, but you cut him off with a scoff, dragging him by the sleeve toward the library's emergency exit. The door swung open to a narrow stairwell, half-lit by flickering fluorescents, the kind of place where overdue books went to die.

"You think I don't notice?" You shoved him gently against the concrete wall, close enough that he could see the faint freckles dusting your nose. "Every time someone talks to me, you get this look—like you're trying to set them on fire with your brain."

Satoru's face burned. "I don't—"

"Bullshit." The word cracked through the stairwell like a whip, sharp enough that Satoru flinched. You didn’t raise your voice often—not like this, not at him—but the way his shoulders hunched inward, the way his gaze skittered away like a spooked animal, set something hot and jagged twisting in your chest. "You’ve been doing this for weeks. Every time someone so much as breathes in my direction, you shut down. What the hell is going on?"

Satoru’s fingers twitched against his thighs, his nails leaving crescent moons in the fabric of his jeans. "I’m not—" His voice frayed at the edges, too thin, too defensive. "It’s not like that."

Then what is it like?" You stepped closer, close enough that the toe of your sneaker bumped his, close enough that he couldn’t look anywhere but at you. The fluorescent light above flickered, casting shadows under his eyes that made him look hollowed out. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you don’t trust me."

That did it. His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. "That’s not—" His breath hitched, raw and unguarded. "I trust you. It’s not you, it’s—" He gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the empty air between you, like the words were physically stuck in his throat. "Them."

The word "them" hung between you like a grenade with the pin halfway pulled. You could see the exact moment Satoru realized what he'd said—his eyes went wide, lips parting like he wanted to reel the accusation back in, but it was too late. Your grip on his sleeve tightened. "Them?" you repeated, voice low. "You mean the guys who were talking to me? Like normal human beings?"

Satoru flinched, but you didn't let go. The stairwell felt suddenly smaller, the flickering light throwing jagged shadows across his face. "I didn't mean—"

"You did” your laugh was sharp, humorless. "Jesus, Satoru. You're acting like I'm—what? Flirting with them? Leading them on?" His silence was answer enough. The heat in your chest flared white-hot. "Are you serious right now?"

The silence stretched like a blade between you—cold, deliberate. Satoru had texted you three times since the library incident, each message more hesitant than the last. You left them unanswered, thumb hovering over the keyboard before locking your phone with a quiet click. Let him stew. Let him twist. The thought should’ve satisfied you, but it just made your stomach knot tighter.