thatdesklamp

He’s not dark. Not like Suguru; or Shoko, or anybody else. He’s pale as ice, with white hair, untouched like mountain snow. Gorgeous.

He’s beautiful, truly beautiful, with his fine skin, silvery hair, pale and pure.

And then he looks to you. He smiles. Mountain snow melts as his lips spread, as his eyes take on their familar lines, and the blue irises succumb to dark dilation of pupils. Satoru shakes his head, then throws it back and runs a fine hand through his hair; which you stare at, transfixed, as the silver strands meld and then melt and shiver as his fingers part through them.

His hair is longer than it usually is, and it falls to his nape, and his jaw, and his high aristocratic cheekbones. He’s sculpted, Satoru, as if from a marble sculpture.

Fine and pale and untouchable. How he wants to be seen, rather than the reality. You know that, at least, to be the truth.

“You haven’t either,” he says, lightly, delicately, like a tender viper in the leaves. “Have you, Suguru?”

Satoru looks away from you, just in time to catch Suguru stiffen. Suguru’s jaw juts, and he curls his lip at Satoru, unamused.

“Just as you haven’t,” Suguru says unkindly. “Don’t try to turn this on me.”

You swallow, then force your beer in-between them as if to break the tension. Alcohol splatters from the neck of your bottle and onto the dark carpet.

“I guess we all haven’t!” you proclaim, and go as if to cheers everyone. “Right?”

Suguru shifts. Satoru looks over at you again. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.

“I have,” Shoko says, absentmindedly.

All three of you turn to her.

“What?”

“You have!”

“When?”

She shrugs. “A few months ago.”

You struggle to tuck your feet underneath you and you sit up. “No. No, way, Shoko! And you didn’t tell me?”

She shrugs again. “I don’t know, Hebi. I wasn’t sure whether you’d count it.”

“Why wouldn’t—”

“It was with a woman,” Shoko says. “Do you count it?”

Suguru withdraws his arm from Shoko’s shoulders to suffer from a coughing fit.

You glare at him, then take her hands in yours, discarding your bottle.

“Of course,” you say earnestly. “Of course we count it. Any one of us would have counted it.” You send a sharp look to the boys. “Wouldn’t we?”

Satoru shakes himself from his daze. He smiles genuinely — his beautiful face, angular and sharp and soft — and rubs his palm up Shoko’s forearm. “Course we would!” he cries. “If I was a woman, Shoko, I’d be honoured to deflower you.”

“You wouldn’t now?” Shoko asks dryly.

Suguru — recovered — smirks. “I don’t think you’re his type.”

“And what does that mean?” inquires Shoko.

“Well, it’s—“

“Suguru’s a virgin,” Satoru says loudly. “As is Hebi-Hebi here, and as am I. And so are we all! Apart from Shoko.” He slows his speech, frowning. “Oh shit. How’d you manage that, Shoko? You’re the first one.”

Shoko looks down to her lap — and then Suguru lifts up his arm and hoists it around her shoulders, tugging her back in to rest her body against his. Her lips twitch into a small smile.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I know people in the local girls’ high school.”

Suguru laughs heartily, and after a beat, so do you and Satoru.

“You’re a rake,” Suguru says with a twinge of irony.

Shoko shakes it off, but lets herself lean a little against him.

In your peripheral vision, you see Satoru move. Slightly. He leans forward to pick at the biscuits you’d picked out for tonight’s late night drinking session. Not that there’s all that much drinking — Satoru hardly does, and you tap out after one beer, and it’s only Suguru and Shoko who drink all that much, but they’re such heavyweights that you can never tell anyway.

It’s more so a chance for all of you to talk together, happily, without any excuse. You smile at Shoko, privately, and she smiles back.

And Satoru picks a small biscuit, eats it whole, and lets his arm drop around your shoulders.

Your heart flips.

His palm rests around your shoulder, and his wrist moves slightly so he’s stroking you there — on your bare skin — just where your pyjama shirt has ridden up. Your skin breaks out into goosepimples. His index finger catches on the curve of your shoulder, then traces around it. You cannot breathe.

Suguru and Shoko are still talking: it’s of no consequence to them, just as easy as his arm around her, meaningless and friendly and platonic and nothing. You are a mirror to them: man’s arm around a woman, booze and food between you. But there is something more on your side, something that makes this more.

History. Your childhood.

Satoru, your friend. Satoru, as a boy, sharing your classes. Satoru, as a boy, taking you by the hand and stealing you from your parents, going wherever you wanted, wherever you had wanted to go.

Satoru, growing older, tossing your siblings onto his back and laughing as they pulled at his hair. Satoru, two weeks ago, seventeen years old, cupping your face in his palm and telling you that you were his closest friend, and that he really could… that if you would let him, he would…

And Suguru bursting into the room and commanding Satoru’s attention, falling short when he saw the two of you, with your hands curled on Satoru’s chest and his hands on the back of your neck, and almost staggering back. Then laughing loudly, and saying that you all needed a drink, and clapping Satoru so strongly on the back he choked.

Two weeks ago. Satoru has not touched you like that since.

Until now. His arm around you. You…

Carefully, dreadfully afraid of upsetting his touch, of scaring it away, of moving him too fast and making it all go away, you lean closer to him.

Satoru takes in a breath. You can hear it—feel it—because you have placed your head against his chest, and his heart, and you feel every breath he takes. His heart has picked up. Your mouth feels dry.

It is inconspicuous. It is, after all, a mirror image of Suguru and Shoko; no more immoral, no more clandestine. Why does it feel so much more? Satoru’s jaw slides along the top of your head, until his chin slots on top, keeping you in and close. You want to close your eyes and stay here.

You are a mirror image of them. Your eyes meet with your reflection: Shoko’s eyebrows have raised. You raise yours back. She flicks her lips into a smirk, and you hesitate. Then you offer a small smile—hopeful, hesitant—and she grins.

“Right,” she says, speaking to no-one and everyone. “I’m tired. And I need fresh air.”

Satoru startles—and though he shuffles up, he doesn’t take his arm from your shoulders. It feels purposeful. Like he’s staying a claim to you. You’re imagining things, you know you are, creating delusions of what you want so badly, but tonight.. tonight you can let yourself imagine it all. Yes, Satoru stakes a claim to you. You are his, and he is yours.

This, you know—no matter how close Suguru or Shoko will come to him, no one will surpass you. You are his oldest friend, his best, his closest. He is yours.

“I—” starts Suguru, but Shoko clears her throat, and he laughs faintly and doesn’t continue. He gives Satoru a piercing, indecipherable look.

Then, with a flippant sigh, he raises himself up, and tucks his hand around Shoko’s shoulders.

“I suppose I could do with the fresh air,” he says, to the rest of you. “It’s winter after all. Don’t you find it gets dry inside, after a while?” He smirks. “I often think in times like these, that I want—”

Shoko grabs his arm. She hauls him out of the room, bodily, pulling him and making him protest and laugh and complain mildly about how she’s stronger than she looks.

And slowly, the room door closes. It’s on a latch.

The latch clicks.

The room is suddenly very quiet, and very very, full. - Satoru spits into the sink.

“And about Shoko, too!” he continues, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “D’you think it makes me a bad friend to say I’m surprised?”

“Not really. I think we were all surprised.”

“That’s what I think. But I don’t want to bring it up tomorrow and then have her get all moody at me. Suguru’ll have a one-up on us. He’ll have spoken to her about it now. Gotten the right words out and everything.”

“I can’t imagine Shoko would really want to talk about it to him,” you say, thoughtful. “Do you?”

“Dunno. Barely know what she’s thinking half the time, if I’m honest.”

You laugh softly. “That’s just her.”

“I guess. Guess it’s the same with all of us.”

“Is it?”

Satoru meets your gaze reflected in the mirror above the sink, and grins. “Sure it is.”

“Maybe.” You’re not sure what to make of that. “Well. Good for her, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Maybe that’s what Suguru’ll ask her about. Advice on how to get girls.”

“On how to devirginify himself?”

“Ha! Devirginify. One devirginifies oneself. I devirginify, you devirginify, he-she-it devirginifies…”

You nod and roll onto your side so you can see him better, tucking your knees up to your chest. You’re lying on your side on Satoru’s bed; you’d migrated there after your legs had started to feel numb from sitting for too long—talking for too long, even after Suguru and Shoko had left, what, an hour ago?—and had found it too comfortable to move.

You know you ought to move soon, since Satoru’s almost finished with his nighttime routine.

He'd showered, and behind the door of his ensuite had changed into his pyjamas, a white shirt and deep blue sweatpants. Droplets of water cling around his neck and shoulders. It turns the white of his hair lavender-grey, and darkens the top of his shirt.

It draws attention to the muscles in his shoulders: defined, and broad, and powerful. He only started working out last year, after Suguru started, in one of their competitive phases that had never quite left. You’d teased him about it, but now, watching the movement of the muscles in his back, the rise and fall and flex and sheer breadth of him, you can’t remember exactly what was funny at all.

You’ve been watching for too long. You’re being too obvious. Normally you wouldn’t let yourself look. But today…

Tension sparks in the air, like static shock. You feel it once again, sharp, when you raise your eyes from Satoru’s back to meet his gaze in the mirror. He’s looking at you, blue eyes sharp and amused behind the lenses of his glasses. And you hold his gaze; you hold it, feel the tension pick up, the hairs on your arms raise, electricity spark and fizz.

And I could… I really could…

Until he looks away, back to the sink, and busies himself with brushing his teeth.

You still watch him. You still feel it, and you wonder if he does too.

Satoru pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, spits into the sink again, then gargles some tap water and spits that, too. His glasses have gone cloudy with condensation from his shower, and he wipes them with the bottom of his shirt. It leaves a grey smudge of water in its wake, and gives you a far-too-brief glimpse of his stomach. You follow his hands as he pushes his glasses back onto his nose, finds you watching him again, and grins at you, pleased.

His glasses are rectangular, with thin black frames and a even thinner lenses. Ever since you’ve known him, which is basically your entire life, he’s worn them. His prescription has always been the same, and so moderate he could probably go without them, though he never does. You wonder why. He always protests that he hardly needs them, and that he’s “just a little shortsighted, minus-one-point-five in the left eye and minus one-two-five in the right”, and yet you can count on your hand the number of times you’ve seen him out of them.

He starts humming some jaunty song to himself—you recognise it a beat later as the Elements of the Periodic Table song he’d memorised when he was ten, and had then tried to get you to memorise, too, so you would be able to perform it as a mini-talent show for his parents.

You’d tried your best, and had gotten all the way to eighty-four, polonium, before his parents had called and informed their son far too formally that, due to unforeseen circumstances at work, they would not be home before eleven pm.

Satoru had turned despondent and sullen, until you’d taken him by the arm, sat him down, and forced him to teach you the final verses. It had worked, as you’d known it would—Satoru, even then, loved it when he felt clever, and especially loved it when you paid attention to his cleverness—and it’d resulted in you both getting the song stuck in your head for the better part of the next week.

You join in with his humming—recognising the chorus—and Satoru turns to you with a surprised, pleased smile. He sways from foot to foot, still humming, as he starts arranging his work for his library session tomorrow.

He never used to revise over the weekends. He never used to revise at all, really, just relying on his excellent brain and annoyingly perfect memory; but ever since Suguru transferred to your high school a few years ago, and Satoru was presented with an actual challenge to his top-of-the-school grade status, he’s finally been forced to work hard.

As a result of this, he’s usually very pedantic about getting enough sleep, so he can wake up early enough to make a good start in your school’s library. You check the time: it’s past midnight. And strangely, he hasn’t said anything about it tonight. You don’t know why.

But he continues to pack his bag for tomorrow morning, so it’s clear he’s still planning on studying. You can even tell he takes a degree of pleasure in it. After all, he doesn’t hate having to try as much as you’d have thought he would. In fact, he’s really taken to it.

Because then again, Satoru has never been known to do anything in half-measures. When he commits to being good at something, he will, without fail, be good at it. It’s one of the reasons you’re unimaginably, all-consumingly, hopelessly in love with him.

Satoru comes to the end of the song, and you both lapse into comfortable silence. Perhaps you’d been inventing that strong, fierce tension you’d felt previously. Curled up on his bed and content, you watch him adjust his square spectacles that’d slipped down his nose—likely due to the condensation from his shower, you think hotly—and then rifle through and select from the piles of flashcards he’s got on his desk.

Satoru’s most interested in physics, and likes to start all his revision sessions with an hour or so of it: “as a treat”. You watch him assign himself some physics work, and then poetry and literature, history, and biology. Satoru’s head drops to the side—his glasses slide down his nose again—and he adjusts them absent-mindedly before picking up another physics textbook, the content of which you’re not even covering until next year. Some light reading, you can imagine him saying, the familiar teasing edge of his voice.

“So would you?” Satoru asks, suddenly, without looking at you.

You startle. You’re jolted from your soft and meandering thoughts, right back to the present. His bedside alarm clock is the only sound you can hear, tick-tock, tick-tock, breaking up the silence into a regular, four-beat pattern.

“Would I… what?”

Satoru turns around so he’s facing you, and leans backwards against his desk. The physics textbook he’s turning over in his hands is plastic-bound, and sticks to his fingers with every nervous tap.

He shrugs, looking up at you with a confusingly nervous expression. “You know.”

Oh.

You’d thought the conversation was over, put to rest. A wry comment about Shoko, a joke at Suguru’s expense. Different, when it’s just the two of you here. Would you? You know.

Yes, you do know.

And it returns: that sparking, live-wire tension that’s been consuming every interaction between the two of you. You take in a sharp breath, and hold it.

“I guess,” you say, very slowly, “sure, I would.”

Satoru keeps your gaze—holds it, tight and unrelenting. His glasses have slid down again, cutting his blue eyes in two, but he makes no attempt to adjust them.

“Why don’t you then?” he asks.

You shift, tucking your knees even closer to your chest. With a heady stumble of your heart, you notice Satoru’s gaze dip from yours for a split-second, to your legs, and then back. You’re in comfortable clothes, an old t-shirt and shorts, but you’re suddenly aware that your legs are bare, that your shorts have ridden up, that Satoru could surely see the hem of your underwear at the top of your thighs.

Two weeks ago, to this day. You’d been standing in this room, tears cooling on your face, your phone in your hand after a bad argument with your parents.

Satoru. Holding your face in his hands, turning your gaze up to him. Touching you gently, so unimaginably gently. His blue eyes swimming with something so close and so out of reach. The electric tension between your bodies, the tension that had been building and growing more powerful, growing for weeks and months and years.

You’re my closest friend, he had said. He’d hesitated. And I could… I really could… if you would let me, I would…

He’d been interrupted—Suguru bursting through the door, nose in a textbook, about to jump into an argument about a new problem—and you had split apart. His words had lingered, though, in your mind and in the silence between you two, and in that ever-present live-wire crackling.

You’re my closest friend.

“It would have to be the right person,” you say. And with your eyes on him, you unfurl from your tight, self-contained position; your bare legs stretch out along his bed, and your back rises into an arch, and then falls back, as you ensure your gaze doesn’t break from his. You swallow. “Someone I’m close to. That I could trust.”

Satoru’s breath hitches. You both recognise that it does, and both make no attempt to address it, but also do not hide that you could have addressed it.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Someone you could trust?”

“That I’ve known for a while. I wouldn’t want to lose my virginity to some random guy, would I?”

Satoru’s Adam’s apple bobs. “No,” he says quickly, “no, I wouldn’t either. I mean. I wouldn’t think you’d want to. Or me, either.”

Your mouth quirks.

Satoru’s fingers drum an unsteady beat on the textbook. His long fingers stumble over one another. “Well,” he says with a raised voice, “I guess you could try Suguru!”

You falter. “…Suguru?”

“Yep!” Satoru looks determinedly away from you, down to the physics textbook, to which he sends a pained grimace. “Yep. Suguru. I’m sure—I’m pretty sure he’d want to.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Well. If you asked him.”

Your lip curls. “Suguru wouldn’t have sex with me.”

“He might do,” Satoru says, still too loud. “Pretty sure he has a thing for you. Didn’t you notice earlier that he, um, that he—”

“Suguru,” you say, with a touch of steel to your voice, “doesn’t want to have sex with me.”

“Don’t you want to have sex with him?” Satoru asks sharply. He’s still not looking at you. His hands have stilled on the textbook. “You know him, at least. You said it’d have to be someone you’d known a long time.”

You don’t know what you’re doing.

You’re relying completely on instinct, and you’re not used to this—but, maybe, as you try to tell yourself, maybe this is the natural progression of the way it is, with Satoru? You could have a conversation with him in your sleep.

You know him, his talking patterns, his ticks, the way his mind whirs and spins. You run on autopilot with him. He knows you enough, and you know him enough, to trust that you don’t always need to be on guard around him.

Maybe this, pushing down your nerves and hesitance, letting your instinct take you where it wants with him, is the way it’s supposed to work.

The you in the present likes that idea. With conviction, you push down the side of you that’s clamouring for you to think clearly, and think about the future—and you lean forward.

“I did say that,” you reply carefully, staring up at Satoru. Your heartbeat pounds wildly in your ears. You think: fuck it. “But I don’t want him.”

You can see when it processes in Satoru’s mind. His tongue darts out to moisten his parted lips. He swallows, and then puts the textbook down on his desk.

His fingers linger there, then slowly slide off as he steps forward, closer to you, closing the gap until he’s right next to you. He’s there above you, him standing, you lying on his bed. His shins brush against the side of the bedframe.

Satoru’s hands flex by his sides. He stares down hard at the floor.

“You don’t want him?” he asks, quietly. His voice is thick and full of emotion. He hesitates, then looks up to you.

His wide, round blue eyes. The thin, rectangular frames of his glasses. The aristocratic paleness of his features. The damp strands of hair curling around his neck.

You meet his gaze.

“I don’t want him,” you murmur.

Satoru’s pale eyelashes flutter as he blinks. He stares at you with awe, eyes round and wide, as if you are some unknown and delicate wonder.

Very carefully, Satoru lowers himself down onto the bed; he sits, just at your side, with both of his hands braced on the bed in front of you. His gaze is piercing and unforgiving and revealing, all at the same time. You sit up, and it brings your faces just inches apart form one another.

“You don’t want him,” Satoru repeats, in one careful breath. He watches you, and now you realise the reason for his nervousness, earlier; because you see it again, now.

You shake your head. No, Satoru. I don’t want him.

Slowly, so slowly you think you’re imagining it, Satoru leans closer. His head tips to the side, and his breath skates across your lips. Your noses bump.

You feel the warm plastic of his glasses frames, still sliding down too far. Satoru licks his lips. His eyes dart to yours, still unsure, still uncertain. And then something he sees in your gaze strengthens his resolve, and finally he bridges the gap, and kisses you.

Peppermint. He tastes of peppermint.

You inhale. By accident, you do it through your mouth, and it means you kiss him with far too much force, more than you had wanted to—Satoru gasps a little, and tilts his head and kisses you again, trying a different angle.

It’s hesitant, and careful, and exploratory; you coax his mouth open and brush his tongue with yours, and in response he lets out a throaty groan that sends heat rushing straight through you. You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair, and feel the cool dampness at the nape of his neck; his hair still wet from the shower. You shiver.

Gently, you tug at his hair to move him closer to you. He shifts and responds to you, and rises onto his knees. Your legs part and he crawls between them, then sits back, so you’re both sat up, chests close to each other.

He keeps kissing you, his fingers grasping tightly into the bedsheets by your side, his chest heaving with exertion. His kisses are light and careful, still uncertain and unsure, and your head spins with all of this new information. Have you ever known Satoru to be this uncertain or unsure? He is now, somehow, and you find yourself revelling in it. You’re the first person to feel Satoru like this. He’s the first, for you.

Your first.

You deepen the kiss, tugging at his shoulders now, digging your nails in, and he responds beautifully: he whines against your lips, high-pitched and wanting.

Then with a jolt he’s stopping, pulling back. His face has flushed dark red, and he runs the back of his hand over his mouth, clearly mortified.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Do that again,” you murmur, and then lean up and take his mouth with yours again.

Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, you chant in your head, because you have no idea where this confidence of yours is coming from. Panic rises up for a moment when he doesn’t respond, but then he sighs against your lips and licks into your mouth and fucking moans when he does, and holy shit, it’s good, he’s definitely not turned off.

You’re running on instinct! You know that you want to be closer to him, and you’re thinking fuck it, and so you push yourself up and clamber on top of him. You sit yourself firmly down in his lap, and swallow down the mad rush of nerves that threaten to seize your muscles up.

Satoru certainly doesn’t seem like he minds. He lets out another small, breathy whine through his teeth, and then rushes up into your space to kiss you frantically.

You sigh with pleasure at the increased fervour of his kisses, which, after a lingering moment of indecision, move from your lips and down your throat.

At first they’re unpractised, closed-lipped pecks that feel too scratchy in comparison to the wet kisses of before. But then Satoru—he must be running on instinct just like you, because you know for a fact he’s never gotten this far with a girl before—realises that he can use his tongue here too, and then he’s licking and sucking down your neck and making you throw back your head and pant.

He locates a particularly sensitive spot and zeroes in on it, sucking the skin into his mouth and catching at it with his teeth. It’s intense, so intense, but you’re almost about to ask him to go harder at it, before he leans back and chokes out a strangled sound that comes from somewhere low in the back of his throat.

“That’s a hickey,” Satoru says, awe-struck. “That’s—that’s a seriously big hickey. I just gave you a hickey.”

“You gave—you did what!”

You crane your neck ridiculously, like you’re trying to see, and you’re about to fix him with a very stern look—but then he practically pounces back on you, his lips attaching to the same sensitive spot, and all thoughts of chastisement disappear.

“That’s so hot,” he mumbles against your skin, then tilts his chin up to try to kiss you again. “Shit, shit, that’s so hot.”

You’re feeling burning-hot, all over, and you’re gripped with the feeling that if—fuck it—a hickey can feel that good, then other things certainly can.

You’re kissing Satoru. He’s just given you a hickey. You definitely want to know what having sex with Satoru feels like.

Fuck it. Sex. Let’s go.

Up until now, Satoru’s hands have been clenched in the bedsheets by your sides, unmoving. You take both of his hands from there and move them to your waist, encouragingly. He leans back and stares at you wide-eyed, like he’s asking if he’s allowed.

You raise your eyebrows and kiss him again, hard, forceful and demanding, and you feel all the muscles in his arms go lax. His hands shake a little as he holds you at the waist, then slowly move up over your shirt, and then down—but, to your growing frustration, never on anywhere you actually want!

Is he teasing you? You’re struck, suddenly, at how disconcerting it is to not be able to read Satoru the way you usually can. You don’t know what he’s thinking, what he wants from this, or from you.

You’ve been moving on instinct all of this time, and you haven’t stopped to think about what all of this means, not just from you, but from him.

Because… you’re having sex with him, aren’t you? That’s what’s happening. Yes, definitely, now you’re remembering the eagerness with which he’d licked and sucked on your skin, the way he’d whined when you’d just pulled on his hair. It’s escalating, and you’re definitely having sex.

And he knows that. Doesn’t he?

Surely he does. In fact, it’s so certain of a fact that you brush his not being aware of it away immediately.

He was the one to bring up the idea of you having sex; he was the one to bring up who you’d want it with; he was the one to kiss you on his bed, after deliberately talking about all of those things.

His uncertainty doesn’t really make sense. The Satoru that you know is confident and sure, even when he’s never done anything before, because he’s confident and sure that he’s going to be excellent at it. The Satoru that you know is narcissistic to a fault, and you’ve never known him to hesitate, or worry that he’ll do something wrong.

And yet here he is, having to be coaxed by you just to brush his hands over your ass.

And it’s not like he’s not into this—because he’s definitely into this, not just from the intensity of his kisses or the broken moans he’s making. You can very clearly tell, from the thick bulge in his sweatpants you can feel pressing up between your legs. 

Ooh, yes. You’re definitely having sex. You don’t think you could survive right now if you didn’t fuck him, right here, right now.

Satoru pulls back with a long, pleased sigh, and you seize it as the perfect moment to get this sex thing going.

His glasses are almost half-off his face, adorably crooked in a way that makes your heart ache, even more so when his hands fly up to fix them. Satoru looks up you softly, blinking several times—you’re already grasping onto the bottom of your shirt, which he doesn’t seem to notice—and then he starts to say:

“God, Hebi-Hebi, that was so—”

Before you’ve pulled your shirt right over your head and unceremoniously thrown it across the room.

Satoru’s voice dies in his throat. You’d swear his glasses steam up.

You’re very aware that your chest is heaving, and in any other situation you’d probably be embarrassed, but from the way Satoru’s staring you don’t really think he cares about it. Maybe he likes it, you think with a tentative pleasure. You bite back your smile.

“Um,” Satoru says.

You giggle. His gaze flies to your lips, and then to your eyes. You try to make your expression as open and easy to read as possible; you’re relieved a moment later when he relaxes, clearly aware that he’s not being laughed at, and even cracks a grin too.

You share the brief moment, breathing heavily and aroused and giggling about this whole—fucking ridiculous situation, with each other. Satoru leans up to kiss you, and you thread your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer, and return the kiss.

Careful not to drop you down, Satoru leans back and lowers you off his lap. You shuffle down the bed so you’re lying on your back, and he moves up your body so he’s on top of you. Your legs cage him in, the outsides of your thighs pressing against his sharp hip bones. He kisses you again, picking up the pace, and you hum your assent against his lips.

Experimentally, you push your hips up against his, and Satoru’s forgets how to kiss you as he groans loudly, shuddering. Your eyes narrow and your lips curl in surprise. You grasp him by the back of his neck and tug his lips down to yours, and roll your hips again, and again.

Satoru shakes above you, and you feel pleasure spark and begin to burn hot between your legs. You rotate your hips to try to find the best angle, and then when you grind up against him you find yourself gasping out too. Satoru whimpers—holy shit!—and presses hot kisses down your jaw, your throat.

Then when his teeth latch onto your bra strap and pull, you roll your shoulders back eagerly. Yes! Yes, now he’s getting it.

Eagerness builds up in you as Satoru pushes his hand beneath your back and the mattress and tries one-handed to pop open your bra. He doesn’t seem to be able to get a hold, and readjusts his position so he’s on his forearms, and tries with both hands.

You try to rise up to help him, but Satoru, his face still buried in your neck, bites you, in what you think is a gesture of annoyance and frustration.

Your lips twitch into another smile. Fond, this time, and a little pleased. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” he says stubbornly, “I can do it, if I can just—”

“Satoru.”

“Let me just—”

“Satoru,” you say, and all of a sudden, he stops. He pulls up from the hollow of your neck, and looks at you.

It’s like he’s waiting for you—waiting for you to say something? To tell him…

You lean up to ghost a kiss on his lips. He tries to chase your mouth, but you’re already pulling back. “No,” you say. “I’ll do it.”

Without giving yourself any more time, you undo your bra, then unhook it from your shoulders and throw it, so it lands in the same pile as your shirt.

Satoru stares, open-mouthed. One of his hands reaches up to adjust his glasses.

Slowly, he leans back in to kiss you. You notice that his mouth has gone dry, and so you lick possessively into it, and revel in the broken whine it teases from him.

Satoru doesn’t seem to be trying—whether he can, you don’t know—to hide them anymore.

Good, a newly-burgeoning, animal side of you whispers. You don’t want him to hide it. You don’t want him to hide anything.

As he kisses you, the same hand that had readjusted his glasses falls down, to find the curve of your shoulder, and then, shaking, further down. He spreads his fingers across the side of your breast, and inhales sharply through his nose. Almost by accident, his middle finger slides across your peaked nipple, and you moan.

Satoru freezes. He rises up onto his forearms again to stare down at you. He swallows.

“Was that—” He cringes, then tries again: “Does that feel okay?”

“Yes,” you say, and you’re suddenly aware of how wrecked your own voice is.

You’d been paying so much attention to Satoru, to his responses and his sounds, that you’d completely forgotten about being self-conscious about yourself.

You clear your throat, but when you speak again, it hasn’t helped. “Yes, Satoru,” you say, “it feels good. Can you… I want... do that again?”

Unspeaking, he nods so fast his hair falls completely into his eyes, and he has to huff at it to blow it away. He surges down to kiss you again, and this time it’s exactly what you want: his lips are crushing, desperate, and he presses all of his body hard against yours.

You’re overwhelmed by sensation, by the rush of it all, and then his fingers grasping at your breasts, making your back arch and blood rush.

He tugs at your nipple, pulling at it between his thumb and forefinger, and you didn’t even realise that you could like that but, holy shit, you’re realising that you do.

You’ve been more vocal than you’d realised being, and it’s only when Satoru’s lips jump from your lips to your neck to—oh god—your breasts, that you’re left to moan and pant into the open air. You flush hot with embarrassment and bite down on your lip in an attempt to stile your sounds, but as soon as you do, Satoru whines and pulls back.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice so broken it sounds almost like he’s begging. “Don’t hide it. Please, I want to hear you. Please?”

You could not answer, even if your life depended on it. Holy shit. His pale skin is burning, with heat and with his blush. Satoru’s eyes are night dark, his pupils blown. There’s only a thin ring of blue around them.

He looks high. He looks turned on. He is: he’s turned on, almost painfully turned on, and it’s because of you.

Wordlessly, you nod. That too seems to do something for him because he groans unabashedly, and then leans back down to take your nipple into his mouth.

You gasp, and fist your hands in his hair. Satoru sucks, then releases you with a slick pop and works his tongue over your other breast. He keeps switching between each, off-rhythm and without any clear reason, and the unpredictability has you pushing your hips up against his and almost crying out.

Then you gasp again, because droplets of cold water are falling from his hair against your breasts, and the sudden contrast of temperature is almost too much for you.

You thread your fingers through his hair and let one hand dip further below, beneath the neckline of his shirt, and Satoru hums in pleasure.

Suddenly desperate to feel his skin against yours, you pull at his shirt, trying to convey that you want it off this fucking second. Satoru, thank god, clearly understands, because he pries himself away from your breasts to tug his shirt over his head, disregarding it without second thought before he returns to your chest, like he’s anchored to you.

You want to run your hands over him. You want to feel his skin underneath your hands. You can’t—fucking—reach him from this angle, and you huff with frustration and pull at his hair again to try to send another wordless signal.

This, apparently, doesn’t come across as clearly, because Satoru just gasps and buries his face in your chest, like he’s holding himself together—like he likes that, and so you do it again, harder, and Satoru moans, really fucking moans, and you’re so wet you can’t fucking cope.

“Kiss me,” you gasp more than say, and before can even get the second word out his lips are on yours.

Yes, yes, yes. You map his back with your hands, stroke up and down those strong muscles you were staring at earlier, then switch the angle and feel down his stomach. Fuck! His abs clench under your touch, and you marvel at him, all of a sudden.

He’s so beautiful, unimaginably beautiful—and you’ve got him. Here. Moaning above you, wanting to kiss you, wanting to touch you.

Once again, you push down the sensible, future-focused side of yourself. You don’t want to examine what all of this means for your friendship.

Because you’re planning on fucking Satoru right now, and you don’t want anything—however reasonable or clever the thought may be—to get in your way.

You break apart from his searing kiss to pant against his lips, but then take him by the side of his face and make sure he’s looking at you.

“You know you can take my shorts off,” you say, “right?”

“I…” Satoru’s lips move without making a sound. “I… I can?”

“Yeah. Yeah!”

Satoru mouths, okay, okay, okay, okay, all in quick succession, as he reaches down to push your pyjama shorts down off your legs. They get stuck around your knees, but you kick them off impatiently, and Satoru licks his lips and stares at the tops of your thighs, and your underwear, black and frill-less and unsexy as it is.

He just sort of nods, and then goes back down to kiss you, his free hand skating up your ribcage. You extricate a hand from around his back and press it against his chest, holding him back.

Satoru freezes, eyes wide. “Wait, are you—”

“And my underwear, too,” you insist.

Satoru blanches. “…Shit!” he squeaks. “Um.”

You moisten your lips, and, like on instinct, he rushes down to kiss you.

It’s short-lived, because then all of a sudden he’s pulling back again, and his free hand is running through his hair and pushing his crooked glasses further up his nose.

“I mean,” he attempts again, cringing and clearing his throat, “I mean. Can I? Really?”

You shift, a little confused. “Well,” you say, “we’re fucking, aren’t we?”

Satoru’s face goes utterly slack.

Then he’s alive again, all of a sudden, nodding at double, triple speed. He chants off: “Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah—” and he’s scrabbling at your underwear, so keen he scrapes at your thighs and you wince, and then he’s wincing too and saying: “Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry—”

He sits up onto his knees again to take your underwear off at a better angle, and you take in a breath at the sight of him.

Satoru looks absolutely wrecked in all the best ways. Your gaze skates down his body, revelling in how you can see him properly, the pink splotches that have risen up to the surface of his alabaster skin, staining him something beautiful.

His hands keep shaking, and he doesn’t seem to be having much luck catching a grip on your underwear because of it, but for a moment you don’t give a shit.

It’s too good to be able to stare at him unabashedly like this, to see his glasses almost falling off his nose, his hair messed-up from your fingers running through it, the flush rising up to the surface over the skin of his face, neck, and chest, and… oh, shit.

Your mouth dries as you try to remember what Satoru had brought into his bathroom, when he had showered, and then changed. His towel, his shirt, sweatpants. Had he brought boxers with him, to change in to? Had he? Is he wearing any right now?

You buck your hips to help him peel your underwear off, and finally he succeeds, drawing the fabric quickly down your legs and casting it aside. Satoru audibly gulps, and his fingers dig in knuckle-white to your thighs, but you can’t even feel it. You’re staring at the outline of his dick in his navy sweatpants. You want him naked, like, yesterday.

Reaching forward to the hem of his sweatpants, you tug urgently. Satoru’s already leaning forward to kiss you again, and you get distracted for about a second with the new way he’s already learnt to lick into your mouth, but then your brain fizzes back into action and you let out a whine of frustration.

Satoru’s lips are skirting down your throat, and his trembling fingers are hovering just to the side of your pussy—he slides one finger down your opening, feels no resistance at all, and his whole body shakes.

“Fuck,” he says, voice trembling. “Fuck, you’re wet—”

“I know,” you say, impatient. “Will you just—”

“What?” Satoru apparently only now realises you’ve been trying to get his dick out. “Oh, yeah, okay.”

He huffs out a laugh and pushes his sweatpants off with one hand. He has to do this kind of awkward wriggle to get out of them which—probably any other day you’d find that funny, but now it’s just a minor, minor thought in the back of your head because his dick’s out and hard and you want him inside you right now.

You swallow. Your mouth has gone very dry. “You’re big,” you say, dumbly.

“I…” Satoru trails off. “Yeah.”

You look up to him, wanting to see his expression, and for the first time see that familiar sly, cocky glint in his eyes. Your heart skips.

Satoru smirks. “Yeah, I am.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me?”

“What the hell.”

Satoru grins even broader, and you find yourself returning it. A giddy pleasure sweeps through you, mingling with the hot, heady pulsing between your thighs.

“Satoru,” you say, suddenly. “I want you to fuck me.”

Immediately, the cocky attitude evaporates. “Oh. Yeah, yeah. I was. Um. Planning on it.”

“Do you have… you know?”

“Do I have…?”

“You know!”

“Do I have… what? Like, do I have an STI?” He grimaces. “You know I’m a virgin. How do you expect me to—”

“Not an STI, you absolute idiot,” you say, both exasperated and amused and much too horny for this conversation. “I meant a condom. Or. You know, multiple.”

“Oh!” Satoru brightens. “Yeah, of course I do. I’ve got loads!”

Satoru jumps up and, naked, throws open his desk drawer and starts rifling through it. He finds the small box of condoms hidden beneath the new stack of physics flashcards he’d made for a recent test.

What a nerd, you think, deliriously; he’d scored top in your whole year.

He pulls one out from the already-open box and tears off a new strip, and is just about to climb back on top of you when he sees your face.

“What?” he asks, breathless.

You raise your eyebrows. “You’ve opened the box already?”

“I opened…? Oh!” Satoru, somehow, manages to flush even darker. “Um, yeah. When I first got them.”

“You’re definitely a virgin, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Satoru cringes. He hesitates. “I just… wanted to make sure they fit.”

Your lips quirk. “You’re so lame, Satoru—"

Satoru cuts you off by kissing you, and you’re ridiculously happy for him to do so. There’s some more frantic rearranging where Satoru tries to touch your breasts with the hand holding the condom wrapper, which does not feel as good as his fingers had, and so he has to lean back onto his knees all over again to put the condom on with both hands, before he forgets again.

The position—him on his knees, arms crossed over his body—draws attention to his arms, his chest, and his dick. You approve.

You let yourself stare openly, heartbeat rabbiting, as he rolls the plastic onto himself. Despite your teasing, you’re secretly quite glad he’s practised. You’d have no idea what to do.

Satoru tosses the now-open wrapper over his shoulder, and before you can protest about hygiene, he’s surging down to kiss you. You open for him happily, spreading your legs around his waist and tightening around him.

“Ah—!” you hear him gasp out, when the tip of his dick brushes once against your cunt. The sound of him is like an aphrodisiac, and all of a sudden you need to hear more of it—need more of him.  

And. It’s Satoru. Your Satoru.

So yeah, fuck it, alright. You will.

You dig your nails into the back of his head and pull him towards you with force. Immediately, Satoru fucking whimpers, any of that cocky attitude evaporating. Your pussy aches with the sound of it, of him, and you feel him scrabble to hold on to any part of you, your breasts, your waist, your ass, your thighs which are already parting around him.

“I—” Satoru tries to say, but you push face up by his jaw to expose his throat and try to replicate what he was doing to you earlier, and clearly it works because he makes a choked-off noise and completely loses track of what he was going to say.

You skim your teeth across his neck. “Yes?”

“I—I wanted—” Satoru pants, eyes squeezed shut, voice shaking. “I—”

You laugh breathily, and the hot air skirts across his skin.

Satoru groans. “I can’t—”

“Weren’t you saying something?” you hear yourself teasing, and you have no idea where it’s coming from, but neither you or Satoru seem to mind at all. The thought makes your head spin.

Satoru buries his head in your neck, not even kissing you, just seemingly trying to catch his breath. It gives you a beautiful view of his shoulders, and the muscles of his back, and if you crane your head even the curve of his spine and his bare ass. Whoa! That’s Satoru’s ass.

A heartbeat later, Satoru rises up on his forearms to stare down at you, hair falling over the frames of his glasses and half-obscuring his eyes.

His lips part, then close.

He blinks and blinks again, and his silvery eyelashes flutter. An desire rises within you, to run your fingertips over them.

“Can I?” Satoru asks.

His eyes are wide, and blue, and beautiful.

“I want you to,” you say.

Satoru smiles, and you can see his nerves, and the excitement, and the anticipation, all of it you see in yourself and reflected back to you, in him.

With one arm braced by your head, Satoru reaches down, aligns himself.

He breathes in, as if to keep himself steady, and then finally, finally, thrusts into you.

“Oh!” you gasp, inadvertently, at the sheer strangeness of the feeling. It’s a burn, but not really painful, more of a stretch, as your body learns to take him in.

You force yourself to take in a breath, and then ease one out. After a few more, the burn begins to lessen. You realise that you’ve closed your eyes—you open them, eager to see Satoru.

Satoru’s forehead has been pressed against yours; his face is so close, and his eyes are squeezed shut too. He’s muttering something fast and indecipherable under his breath.

You reach up, thread your arms around his back. “…Satoru?”

“Mm!” With what appears to be immense effort, Satoru pries his eyes open. His pupils are blown. When he speaks, his voice is weak and shaky: “I—Fuck—Do—”

“Are you okay?” you ask, a little breathless.

“Yes! Yes, I’m—are you?” Suddenly—still inside you—Satoru rises his torso up, so he can look at you more clearly. “Sorry, sorry, I—are you okay? Does it—um, hurt?”

You try to think, whether it does, but the burn has faded now. It’s still unusual, and you’re kind of waiting for when it feels like you’re going to come, but hurt? “No,” you say, “not really.”

“Not really!” Satoru cries, horror-struck. “You mean, it does hurt!”

“No,” you say, and bizzarely, you find yourself laughing. “No, it’s okay. Seriously.”

“But—”

“I’m wet enough that it doesn’t anymore.”

Satoru flushes. “Oh. Okay.”

You shrug a little. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Wait, so if you’re—can I—um—?”

“Keep going? Yes, Satoru, move.”

Slowly, obediently, Satoru pulls back, and thrusts shallowly into you. “Oh—oh shit—”

He drops his head down to your shoulder, seemingly unable to keep himself up any longer. The frame of his glasses dig into your skin, and his breath is hot and loud in your ear, and both sensations send waves of pleasure rippling through your body.

Pleasurable, too, is the hot, curling feeling that begins to tighten in your core. Satoru pushes into you again, and the feeling intensifies.

Chasing it, you dig your fingernails into his shoulder blades to pull him closer. When you cant your hips up to meet his thrust, both you and him audibly gasp in your matched pleasure.

“Fuck,” Satoru moans, “oh, fuck, oh, fuck.”

A coil within you is tightening, the heat from before building, growing hotter. Satoru’s thrusts pick up speed, until you’re gasping out, loud, holding tight onto him.

And then all at once his thrusts turn jerky, suddenly lose their rhythm, and he moans out your name in a choked-off whimper, and then stops.

He pants into your ear, breath coming heavy and fast, and you stare up at the ceiling feeling slightly confused.

“Shit,” Satoru pants, still not moving. He’s got his whole weight on top of you, and he’s still inside you but he’s not moving, and you’re still so wet it hurts. “Hebi, Hebi-Hebi, shit.”

“Oh,” you say stupidly, when you realise. Satoru just came.

Oh. You squeeze your arm out from under him to push your hair from your face.

That was… fast.

You are, you suppose, mostly flattered. It was still you, that made him come so quickly. And it’s his first time after all, just like it’s yours. It’s all very normal and reasonable, when you think about it. You just… hadn’t expected it to be over so soon.

You are, you suppose, mostly flattered.

But you are, also, if you’re allowed to admit it, maybe a little disappointed.

You clear your throat.

“Well,” you say, in an effort to lighten the still-heavy post-coital tension. “At least Suguru’s on his own, now.”

Satoru groans as he pushes himself up onto his forearms again. He looks just as confused as you just were. “…What?”

You try to keep your expression pleasant. “I mean, he’s the only virgin left! Of the four of us.”

“I… what?” Satoru grimaces in utter bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what virginity is,” you say with a valiant attempt at dry sarcasm, “don’t you, Satoru?”

“Yes,” he says carefully. “But why are you bringing that up… now?”

You blink. “We just had sex. So, we’re not virgins anymore.”

For someone who’s so clever, Satoru is struggling quite a bit with the concept. It is, you think, quite obvious.

“Had,” Satoru repeats, slowly. His eyebrows bunch together. “Wait. Are we stopping?”

“…Huh?”

“Are we finished?” Satoru asks, with a confusion that is blindingly and incredibly earnest. “Are we… done, now?”

You blink again. “Are we not?”

“Did… you want to be?”

“I…” You trail off.

Satoru reads your answer on your face.

His eyes scan yours, and you feel bared open, completely and utterly.

And then, understanding you, the tension in his expression falls away. He smiles.

“I didn’t think we were stopping. And—I don’t want to stop,” he says, almost shyly, “if you don’t. I mean. I haven’t made you come yet.”

“Oh!” You bite your lip hard; because all of a sudden a huge, ridiculous smile has threatened to escape. Holy shit.

Of course that’d be the way he thinks.

After all. Satoru has never been known to do anything in half-measures. When he commits to being good at something, he will, without fail, be good at it.

It’s one of the reasons you’re unimaginably, all-consumingly, hopelessly in love with him.

“Alright then,” you say weakly, and Satoru beams.

He swoops down to kiss you, but before he does he swoops backwards, swears, and reaches down to roll the condom off himself. He goes as if to chuck it aside, as blithely as he did with the wrapper, but you fix him with a stern look and he falters.

Swearing again, he half-launches himself out of the bed to reach his bin, which he deposits the condom into before immediately pouncing back on you.

You shriek, laughing, and he kisses you, again, in frantic little bursts. He kisses your lips, your cheek, your nose, your jaw, and then jerks down to your neck, seeking out the sensitive spot he’d discovered earlier.

When he hears your breath hitch, he sighs happily, and sucks the skin in-between his teeth.

He’s always been a fast learner—top in your school, you think—and shit, it all pays off now. His hand rises up and cups your breast in his hand, runs a thumb over your nipple then pinches it between his fingers, drags his tongue down your throat when you tip back your head and moan.

And it’s only when his mouth moves down your chest, to your ribs and then stomach, where he lingers and licks and watches how your breasts move when you gasp and pant, and then further down, to the sensitive skin over your hipbones, that you actually realise what he wants.

“Can I?” Satoru mumbles again, and you inhale as his breath skirts across your skin. Satoru presses his lips against the dip of your stomach, and sucks when it rises, matching it to your breath in a way that is somehow, somehow really fucking hot.

“Yes,” you gasp, reaching down on instinct to thread your fingers through his hair. “Satoru, I—”

“You’ll have to tell me,” he murmurs, voice heavy, “what to do. What you want me to do.”

You look down at him, and almost come from the sight. His fucking glasses—somehow still on his nose, half-steamed up and balanced crookedly, a centimetre from falling off.

His chin pressing into your stomach, Satoru looks up at you the same intense way he looks at a fresh data set from the lab, or a new and complex book chapter: eager, for the challenge and for the outcome where he succeeds.

“I…” For all your talk earlier, you cannot find the words any more. “I don’t know if…”

Satoru’s eyelashes flutter as he looks up to you. You shudder.

“Please?” he asks, quietly.

You breathe in, all at once. Your mouth has gone very dry. Your whole body feels flushed and icy, all at the same time; you feel heat where Satoru touches you, and now it’s the tops of your thighs, your stomach, and then, heart wrenchingly, the palm of your hand, as he reaches up to entwine your fingers with his.

“Please,” Satoru repeats, with a tenderness you know so deeply to be his, and yet are allowed to see so rarely from him. “Hebi, please tell me what to do. Please.”

Holy shit. Your first thought. Holy shit.

Your second thought. How is it that… that after knowing him almost your entire life, you have never seen this side of him? Which, clearly, is just as significant as all of the other sides of him, all the facets of his personality? How is it that this is the most hesitant, nervous, unsure, shy, that he has ever been? Bashful, you think. Eager, keen to please.

Then, in a rush of momentary familiarity, your Satoru returns.

He dips his head down between your legs and his tongue finds the inside of your thigh.

Holy shit.

“After all. I am, quite famously,” Satoru murmurs against your burning-hot skin, as he looks up with a wicked glint in his eyes, “a particularly exceptional student.”

Holy shit.

And yet somehow, it’s this brief return that gives you the rush of confidence you’d been missing—because you know Satoru, more now than ever, and he knows you, and he’s your Satoru, yours, and he’s just said please.

You curl your fingers in his hair and fist them, hard. Satoru gasps out, mouth falling open, his lips just minutely curling into a smile.

“Eat me out,” you say. “That’s what I want.”

Satoru’s grin widens. “Yeah,” he breathes, “yes, yes, yes.”

You have to slacken your grip on his hair to let him get closer to you, but you keep hold of him, if just to keep yourself grounded. He leans his cheek against your thigh, staring wide eyed at your pussy, and you watch him watch you with a thick, coiling anticipation.

One of his hands has been stroking up and down the top of your thigh, and Satoru moves it briefly away from you to push his glasses up his nose. He meets your gaze again, grinning.

“This angle is much easier,” he says, almost conversationally. “Everything’s just right in front of me. For example—”

And he pushes his face into your cunt, wraps his lips around your clit and sucks.

“Ah!” you gasp, clenching your fingers in his hair. Satoru moans, but you’re tugging at him, trying to move him away. He does, reluctantly, but before he can ask anything you say: “Slower—to start with—”

Satoru nods wordlessly and leans forwards again, this time much more cautious. His tongue darts out and he licks once—then he tilts his head up to observe your reaction. The sight of him, paying such close attention to you, has the wildest touch of humour to it. Without meaning to, you breathe out a laugh.

Satoru’s eyes narrow.

He leans back closer and rolls his tongue on your clit, long and hard, and all humour dies from you at once.

Your back arches and you moan, and Satoru takes that as the good fucking sign it was and does it again and again and again.

“Fuck,” you pant, and grind your cunt down against his face. “Yes, yes, fuck. There, Satoru, lower, a little lower…”

In his enthusiasm, his tongue had slipped too far upwards— Satoru lets out a choked whine and does what he’s told, focusing in hard onto your clit and not letting up.

“Yes,” you moan, in praise, “yes, Satoru, right there. Fuck, I—harder, now, can you go harder—shit, yes—yes, Satoru, that feels so good—”

Your hips jerk but his hand flies up to pin your down. You can hear the strained, panting little noises you’re making, hear them mingling with Satoru’s frantic moans, the slick sound of his tongue on your cunt.

Heat is building, quicker than you’ve felt it before. Satoru’s wet tongue works you open and you’re falling apart beneath him, beneath his keen attention and focused efforts and him, him.

Your eyes have squeezed shut but you force them open; you need to look down at him, need to see him as he does this. His face is buried between your legs, his hair tufted and messed-up from your fingers running through it.

You want to hear him, and so you tug on his hair again, and the rhythm of his tongue against you slips as he whimpers. Your head tips back and you close your eyes again and let yourself feel it.

That white-hot coil inside you tightens, tighter and tighter, so close, so close to snapping. Satoru’s tongue works you harder and harder until your whole body is quivering, and you’re holding onto him as tight as you can, and incoherent words of encouragement and praise are falling out of control from your lips, just to make him keep going, keep doing this, because, fuck, yes, you need it, you need him so badly.

And then Satoru—a fast learner, best in your school, will do anything for extra credit—pushes one of his fingers inside you and works it in and out and then curls it, and the sudden additional stimulation is too much, too good.

You cry out as the coil tightens and tightens and snaps as you come, finally, on Satoru’s tongue.

Until he strokes you, inside and out, through your orgasm until the aftershocks start to die down and your muscles unclench, and his tongue is still working at your now painfully sensitive clit. You realise, suddenly, that he doesn’t know you’ve come.

“Satoru,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and choked-out. He doesn’t seem to hear you—you clear your throat, have to hook your fingers around his shoulders to push weakly at him. “Satoru, stop, I finished. I came.”

This jolts him out of it. Satoru withdraws from between your legs, running a hand over the back of his mouth and blinking up at you.

He takes in a breath. “I made you come.”

You smile. “Yeah.”

“I made you come.” Satoru crawls up your body and grasps you in his arms, grinning wildly. “Whoa! I made you come!”

“You did,” you say, and, feeling suddenly bashful, slowly wrap your arms around him, too.

He rolls over so he’s on your back and you flush with heat at the change in position. He leans up and kisses you, open-mouthed, and you shiver pleasurably at the realisation that you can taste yourself on his tongue. It’s much less gross than you once thought it would be. In fact, it’s kind of hot.

Satoru’s hands reach up to cup your face, and he looks up to you, smiling. “I made you come,” he repeats. “Did I really? I actually did?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yeah, I know, but—” Satoru stares up at you with shimmering, shining eyes. He breathes out a soft laugh. “Was it okay?”

“I—of course it was.”

Satoru groans. “More than that. Please. Was it good? Did it feel good? Did I do okay? Tell me, Hebi-Hebi, tell me I did good, because—that was so hot, holy shit, that was the best thing ever, that was amazing—you’re amazing, I can’t believe it, you’re so beautiful, you’re so incredible, I love—”

Satoru makes a strangled noise as he cuts himself off.

A quiet sort of quiet falls over you, the room filled with nothing but your mingled breathing.

Your lips part. “You love…”

“I loved that,” Satoru finishes, quickly. He clears his throat. “Um. A lot.”

“Oh,” you say. You bite down on your lip. Then, because in this moment he could have said anything, and maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, you smile shyly. “Me too.”

Satoru grins. “Yeah.”

“Mm-hmm.”

And he tilts his chin up to kiss you again, and you’re thinking, fuck, this is a mess of a situation you’ve gotten yourselves in. Because you can’t have sex with your best friend and… expect nothing to come of it. And, truthfully, you don’t want that to happen.

Satoru rolls on top of you and you kiss languidly, lazily.

You’re not expecting something grand, all of a sudden. And Satoru’s not always been the best person for thinking things through before doing them.

But he’s not cruel, either. And he cares about you more than anyone else. And you love him. And maybe…

It’s something for tomorrow. With a stirring of interest, you feel Satoru’s hard length pressing against your thigh. He’s not drawn attention to it, but when you innocently push your thigh up against him, he stutters in a breath.

You draw back. You both stare at each other.

“You know,” Satoru says, lightly, “we don’t have any lessons tomorrow.”

“Do we not?” you ask. Similarly lightly. “Huh.”

“No. It’s Saturday tomorrow. D’you remember?”

“Ah, yes. Saturday.”

“Saturday. So.”

“…So?”

“So. Technically you don’t have to be back in your dorm until… ten o’clock tomorrow?” Satoru sends you a sly, cheeky smile. “If you wanted to stay a bit longer, that is.”

You raise your eyebrows, faux-suspicious, and he chuckles breathily. Because yes, you’ll have to reconsider everything, what this all means for your friendship. You’ll have to reconsider everything tomorrow.

And perhaps you’ll conclude that it was a little shortsighted of you, jumping into all of this without thinking or talking about it at all.

But there’s a quiet, pleased thought that just won’t let you go: Satoru had kissed you first. Satoru kissed you. Satoru is your first.

“Well,” you say, archly, a smile playing about your lips. “Maybe I will. Do you think you’ll be able to last longer than three seconds?”

Satoru blushes furiously. “I don’t—I mean, normally I can—"

With a sigh, you shrug, and then wind your arms around him to pull him close. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

“I—yeah?” Satoru grins. “Practise makes perfect, do you think?”

“I see some merit in that.”