In the beginning you would wait way too long to ask if you were gonna go get something to eat and drink, having waited literally a whole state of a drive for him to get to that part. He made it clear in the beginning that he was going to decide where you went, and every other aspect of what you would be doing while you were his job. So you assumed he would make space for breaks and stuff but.. they never came. Unless you spoke up about them, adding that you needed to visit the bathroom real quick. This made his unyielding stare onto the road break away to look at you from the corner of his eyes, before slowly pulling into the next gas station for a short break. He would silently rummage through his coat for some money and hand it to you, „Make it quick.“ You took the money and exited the car, he did so too and leaned against the door watching the gas station closely. If anyone else were to enter he would go after you as well, but this place was secluded enough to let you have five minutes alone.

He crossed his arms across his chest. You slowly started to be less scared of him and that came with more chatting than he would have liked. He only really ever enjoyed hearing someone talk if he was toying with them, seeing how they started stuttering and stammering as they felt the need to get away from him without fully knowing what it was about Anton and their conversation that put them off so much. So it was strange, that after so much time of not having to put himself in any sort of conversation without killing or leaving after the most necessary communication, there was you. Because he was tasked to look after you for an unknown amount of time. Because the things you said to him didn’t serve the simple purpose of exchanging information, nor did he intend to scare you.

And.. it was weird. Because he genuinely didn’t know what to say. It made him furrow his brows most of the time. He wasn’t accustomed to this anymore. Why did you ask him if he slept well? That was useless information, if you wanted to escape you wouldn’t subtly ask if he was tired and inattentive like this. Why did you point out the animals you drove past? Was there a reason why you talked to him about the book you were reading? Anton didn’t like not knowing what to do.

After going to the bathroom you went inside the gas station to pick up some food as you were sure there wouldn't be a break soon after this one. Anton, it took a while for him to tell you his name, was very determined to the tasks he set himself out to do. Currently it was getting you through the border by the end of the day, that would give you another head start to put off the people that were after you. You browsed the shelves looking for something he liked, you took notice of the things he.. well, didn't hate so you could pick up some food for your stern companion as well. You referred to him as such one time and he only raised his brows, glancing at you not unkindly yet confused.

You didn't spot the man a few rows behind you, watching you intently as you went to the register to pay. And when you went outside he followed swiftly, grabbing your arm and violently yanking you to the side away from the cameras towards his car.

Anton heard you scream and immediately got out of the car, spotting the man trying to kidnap you. You tried to hit the man but he grabbed your other wrist as well, violently shoving you towards the open door of his running car and pushing you in the backseat-

Anton ran over the asphalt and punched him in the face as he tried to slam the door shut on you, but you kicked your feet against it so it flung open right against that assholes back, making the man groan, loosing his balance for a moment and giving another opportunity to break his fucking jaw.

A blade was drawn and plunged right into Anton's hip, you saw his face grimace without a change to that cutting stare- you gasped and stared at the knife stabbed through his pants, but Anton slowly pulled it out with a groan and you managed to close your eyes before he killed the stranger with his own knife. You only heard the body collapse against the car, as well as the running engine. "Let's go"

When you dared to look again, you saw blood pooling through the fabric of his pants, darkening the fabric slightly above his hip. "Fuck.." he went to the car as quickly as he could and got himself into the driver's seat, you swiftly followed. You could only stare at him while he drove off, sweat forming on his forehead as he held onto the wheel with one hand, and pressed on the wound with the other.

"We need to stop, you need medical care right now" he stayed silent, his eyes scanned the road. You kept staring at him and he threw you a glance but didn't answer, his face looking more feverish by the minute.

"They will catch up to us anyways but you will bleed out before we find a spot. We need to stop somewhere now." Your words were left unanswered again, so this time you fully turned your body in the seat and grabbed his arm. "Can't you stop the fucking car?! Let me help you" That was about the first time you ever raised your voice at him or made a real demand- his eyes darted to you again yet this time he frowned as he was considering his options. He parked at a mostly empty Motel, everything went pretty fast after that.

You ran to the reception and got the keys while he fetched the first aid kit from the back trunk, when you entered the motel room he slowly got seated on the bed while you got out all the materials you needed.

Anton huffed and groaned quietly, lifting his shirt to get better access to his belt buckle. You watched him intently, panic was still the most prevalent emotion in your system right now but being right there when he lowered the hem to his pants made you flustered nonetheless. Ever since you 'traveled' together you have never seen him as vulnerable or exposed to you as he was now, and while that hardly changed anything about the range of emotions he expressed, Anton was undeniably unwell. He sighed slowly when he finally exposed the wound, holding both the slacks as well as the hem of his Boxershorts down far enough to grant access to the injury. You crouched down slowly to get a good look at what you were dealing with. The blood made it look awful, but you knew once you cleaned it it would be better to assess.

Your eyes darted up again, catching him looking at you intensely. The eye contact alone made you understand that you could start.

Cleaning the wound was the easiest step, you kneeled next to him on the bed and leaned over him. Strands of your hair fell into your face, but he could still see your concentrated face while you were at work. It was rare for him to see you so much at unease, far from the sunny attitude you usually had despite the blatant apathy and silence he provided in return.

The wound wasn't too deep, at some point he felt your hand rest on his stomach for stability. His body temperature was lower die to the blood loss, so your hand was so strikingly warm against his skin in contrast to the cold and the sensation of pain while you gave him stitches. You were shaking a bit, but still doing your best. At this point you went from crouching to kneeling in front of him as your legs grew tired and you needed to keep your focus.

"Fuck.. give me a sec." You breathed and lowered your hands, you needed a moment before you went on. The wound was closed, but you weren't all done now. But using an actual needle on him was the hardest part, and you found yourself needing a break after giving that your undivided attention for several minutes now. Your eyes closed and you let your head fall against his other leg for a moment. Anton looked down at you while he also took a moment while the wound was not being touched or handled in any way for a moment.

When you opened your eyes back up you were met with his gaze, taking you in. You felt the fabric of his pants against your cheek, and warmth spilled across your face when you realized which position you were in. Kneeling right in between his spread legs, resting your head on his thigh. All the while this realization settled in you get reciprocating his gaze, expression shifting from exhaustion to something sheepish.

Surprisingly Anton was the first to break it, eyes going upwards and then turning to the side with a relatively unchanged expression with the small exception of his jaw clenching. Your eyes in turn trailed down now, face flushing when you noticed what did change. The butterflies in your stomach now animated you enough to get back to work, retrieving all the materials to protect and bandage the wound from the first aid kit laid beside him on the bed. You stretched out from your still kneeling position to reach for it, making him lean back a bit to get out of your way.

You then continued to carefully place the compression pad and the bandages in a way that would hopefully stay in place when he moved, because unfortunately you did have to get going again way too soon.

"Okay.." you concluded, looking from the wound up to him and stood up in order to help him stand as well. He let you help him this time, putting his hand on your shoulder to balance himself while the feeling of the pain settled in once more. He immediately towered over you again now that he stood, an annoyed groan leaving him at the shift of position. Anton then made his way to the mirror on the other side, his back facing you now as he inspected the bandages on himself in the mirror. He slightly lowered his pants some more to get a look at the surrounding area- if you didn't peek into the mirror as well you wouldn't have seen the slight trail of hair leading off down. You adverted your eyes quickly, and Anton slowly put his clothes back in place. You heard his belt buckle again, and got a move on yourself to tidy up the first aid kit again. There were still some materials left you might wanna use, if not for a new injury then to change the bandages on this one.

You shouldered the bag he'd discarded on the floor when you had came in, but when he turned around he lifted it off you by the strap and put it around himself instead, handing you the jacket you threw on the bed in exchange. You figured it would be too heavy to carry for him in this state, it literally slouched down your shoulder. But he just got it off you like it weighed nothing, shooting you a glance as if to remind you to stick to the things you could actually manage.

"Are you sure you'll manage until we crossed the border?" You asked now, Anton opened the door and lifted his arm for you to strep through underneath it. "We'll see when we're there."

You pass pictures hung along the walls as you make your way down the hall, some portraying Satoru’s little family along the years, a few of your mothers, and too many of you and Satoru as children.

Satoru’s door. The ‘No boys allowed’ sign that 15 year old Satoru deemed hilarious and profoundly clever still hangs crooked on his door. The idea of a girl other than yourself and his mother ever crossing this threshold voluntarily is a stretch, considering his less than subtle lack of hygiene and messy tendencies.

You don’t knock before opening his door since he’s —more often than not— slouched over his bright monitor and keyboard with bulky headphones on full blast.

The stuffy, unventilated air of his room fans your face as you swing the door open and begin your automated message, “Your mom wants—”

You stall immediately, your bored eyes widen drastically when you catch sight of Satoru, who’s not in his usual spot at his desk.

He’s attempting to suck his own dick, to put it bluntly. The incredibly tall man is curled in on himself atop his messy Pokémon sheets like an armadillo, ass up. His deeply hued pink, lengthy dick is hanging over his own open mouth while his lanky hands push into his mid back in attempt to stretch it enough to get his tip past his lips.

He’s immediately and visibly panicked at your sudden presence. His reaction plays in less than half a second: His desperate tongue snaps back into his mouth, retreating from its endeavor at uniting with his sensitive tip. Owlish blue eyes lock on you, fast, as his brows knit together to show off utter embarrassment. You gasp sharply, surprise still stuck on your face, when he falls off of his bed and onto the floor awkwardly.

“Y-You— knock! You have to—you have to knock!” He’s shouting at you as he poorly recovers from his tumble, making sure to shove his sweatpants back up before standing up with a stumble.

His panicked, confrontational voice directed at you makes you feel defensive and just as frenzied.

“Sorry! Sor— I never knock— I never— sorry!” you defensively squawk, yanking the door shut mid yap as if giving him privacy now will do anything.

The sign on his door topples to the ground with the strength behind your swing. Your face burns dangerously hot as you scramble to pick it up and fumble it back onto the hook before racing away from his room.

You almost trip hurrying down the stairs and sink into the couch, seeking solace in a throw blanket you pull up to your nose with your knees to your chest.

“He coming?”

You almost choke. Your eyes snap away from the tv screen that feels much further away than before, over to Satoru’s mother who’s looking at you in question, casually.

“W-What?”

She cooly repeats her question, “is Toru coming down?”

“Oh— yeah, he’s— I think so,” you nod aimlessly before turning back to stare blankly at the tv. You honestly aren’t sure if he’s coming down or not, considering.

Satoru’s mother nods and returns her attention to plating dinner with your mother.

A few minutes later, you gulp as you hear muffled footsteps coming down the stairs.

You don’t dare to openly glance at him as Satoru’s mom acknowledges his arrival.

“Look who finally decided to bless us with his presence,” you hear her tease him rhetorically, followed by your mother asking Mrs. Gojo what serving utensils she wants to use.

Satoru doesn’t say anything as your moms chatter on, but you can assume based on the noise that he’s grabbing some glasses for drinks to help out.

You’re just so distracted with the movie you absolutely are watching, that you definitely don’t notice when Satoru’s heavy gaze focuses in on the side of your head. That’s what you’re pretending anyways. You don’t even have to look to feel it, but it’s brief, like he’s hoping you don’t notice his peek. It’s half of a second of observation that affirms to him that you are just going to ignore and ‘forget’ what you saw.

Dinner is filled with your mothers cackling to each other about some reality romance tv show while you avidly avoid any possible eye contact with Satoru. There’s a clear, awkward tension in the air as you sit beside him and poke at your food, but your moms aren’t perceptive enough of your dynamic to notice.

You help out after dinner, picking up plates to take to the sink and Satoru’s already making an obvious move to go back upstairs.

“No, no, no you don’t mister,” Mrs Gojo chides, making him pause and slowly turn his head to look at his mother with the lenses of his bulky glasses gleaming, blocking the sight of his eyes. “Help out and then you two can watch your little movie.”

She says it as though Satoru was just trying to skip cleaning so he can watch a movie with you sooner, when that can’t be further from the truth and you both know it. You haven’t held up that- movie after dinner- tradition since you were twelve. Satoru grumbles to himself, but inevitably starts helping.

Eventually, one thing leads to another and you’re washing dishes while Satoru dries beside you. Other than the running water, you can distantly hear your mother’s boisterous laughing and loud chatter coming from upstairs in Mrs. Gojo’s room where they drink wine and girl talk every Friday after dinner.

As you wash a plate, you notice the suds are growing less and less. You need more soap. You glance over at the bottle that’s closer to Satoru than yourself.

“Could you—”

He almost drops the bowl in his hand. “I wasn’t doing anything— ! I just— I just had a scratch on my back and— and I know what it looked like but it wasn’t anything weird or something.” Satoru interrupts you, nervously like the defense has been waiting at the tip of his tongue. His hands are shaking where they grip the drying cloth, an incessant squeak can be heard throughout his speech from drying the bowl that’s already much too dry, frantically.

You pause washing to blink up at him.

“Uh—” you clear your throat and point to the bottle, “I was gonna ask if you could hand me the soap.”

A beat of silence. His cheeks are flaming pink and his lanky torso is tight, straighter than his usual slouch.

“Oh.”

He awkwardly wraps his long fingers around the bottle and squeezes some soap onto your sponge.

You gulp at the silence and continue washing, eyeing the few dishes you have left.

“I—” you begin, eyes locked onto the sudsy dish, “I’m sorry for just—for just coming in without knocking. —Whatever you were doing.”

You continue.

“It’s just, I never knock. I just thought— I never knock and— fuck I don’t know— sorry.” You’re not trying to make an excuse but you feel the need to defend yourself after seeing what you did, like it’s your fault.

In the many years you’ve known Satoru, it was never a problem when you’d barge into his room without warning. He didn’t seem to care, until now. Clearly you lost the silent memo that privacy was necessary now.

He clears his throat and uses an awkward hand to shove his glasses up, instinctively. “I know. I accept your apology, but you don’t— you don’t really need to say sorry. I was just scratching my back anyways.”

You hum a quick, high-pitched affirmation, side eye flicking at him briefly. Right.

You finally finish up. Satoru awkwardly stands in place, watching you dry your hands as if he’s not sure when or how he should make his leave.

You glance at him and speak hesitantly, “Wanna— um, watch a movie?”

You’re almost expecting socially stunted Satoru to bluntly tell you no and leave. Instead, he nods in one harsh affirmation— like a soldier formally addressing their colonel.

“Sure. Yes. I wanna.”

You huff in amusement when he doesn’t make any move to lead in his own house.

His socked feet shuffle behind you until you’re plopping down onto the living room couch.

Satoru throws in the DVD that’s worn from your past uses without having to ask you what you want to watch as you adjust to get comfortable on the sofa.

Then, he scratches the back of his head lazily as he moves towards the light switches and turns them off so the large TV is the only source of dim light fluttering over the living room. It’s like he’s on autopilot because when you were young, you’d always beg Satoru to get up and turn the lights off as you watch your movie together so you didn’t have to.

The couch dips as he sits beside you, he likely didn’t even think twice about it because he’s not leaving too much space between you— not that you mind.

You’ve practically had this movie memorized by now, and your thoughts drift to more interesting things as it drones on.

You tilt your head towards him and part your lips, just to hesitate and brush it off. You think it was subtle enough to slide past Satoru’s perception but you’re wrong.

Satoru blinks repeatedly, his gaze flickering from you to the screen and back.

“What?”

“What?” You repeat, feigning ignorance.

“You were gonna say something,” he points out. Anyone else would get the hint and give up, but not Satoru.

You shrug, “Just thinking, I don’t know.”

He angles his body to face you a bit more, his leg bending and the couch adjusts with his weight.

“About what?”

You exhale and glance at his obvious focus that’s alternated completely from the movie, to you. Satoru has seen you go through your aggressive side part phase, the time you got grounded for a month at fifteen and ugly cried while you screamed for an hour, and the entire year you truly believed you were a vampire and would scream in agony any time the sun touched your skin. He’s seen some shit, and vise versa.

It’s not too difficult to abandon the movie and turn your body and attention towards him with intent to indulge your curiosities.

“Have—,” you glance at the opening of the living room that leads to the stairs where your mothers are and lower your voice a bit, “Have you actually done it before?”

“Done.. what?” He blinks at you, confused.

“You know,” you murmur shyly, whispering the next part, “sucked your own dick.”

Satoru eyes widen and he freezes. “I- I don’t— I don’t—what are you— I’d never—”

You shove his oddly sturdy shoulder and your cheeks warm. “Come on, Satoru. I saw you.”

His hands protectively slap over his flustered face, glasses and all like it’s his last defensive measure. He’s murmuring to himself, but it comes out as muffled noises. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was calling you stupid defensively.

“Hey.” You poke his hand but he doesn’t budge.

You huff, slightly amused, and after a beat of stillness, you gently pry two of his fingers away until it uncovers an eye.

“Look, I’m not judging you, okay?” you explain, and then shrug, “I’m just curious. It’s not like I’ll tell anyone.”

His adams apple bobs. He slowly places his long hands into his lap.

“Curious— um— about what, exactly?” His white lashes flutter as his eyes travel from his fidgeting hands to your face.

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes flick to the side, thinking briefly.

“Have you ever succeeded?” You question eagerly and in a hushed tone.

“Like— it looked like,” you clear your throat, “you couldn’t reach.”

He glances over his shoulder at the entryway to the stairs to confirm you’re alone before pushing his glasses up.

“You won’t tell anyone?”

You shake your head and pull his hand up to force his long pinky to curl around yours. He can already tell you’re trying to pinky swear the way you used to when you were kids, with kisses.

“Swear,” you say definitively before twisting your interlocked hands until his fist is in front of you. You press your soft lips against it. He stops breathing.

Satoru’s in shock until you gesture dramatically for him to hurry, snapping him out of it enough to awkwardly press his puckered lips to your hand.

You smile into his fist at the sight of your locked-in promise, noses close to brushing, and pull your hand away.

You adjust in your seat enthusiastically, scooting closer to him until your knees are brushing his as you both sit with criss crossed legs.

“Now spill.”

He nods with a swallow, scratching the side of his head.

“It reaches,” he confirms with pink tinting his cheeks, “not all the way, but— enough.”

You inhale deeply while blinking, amusement and intrigue sitting on your chest as you process.

“Like your— uh— tip goes in?”

His eyes flick to the left briefly. “Just about.”

“Woah,” you exhale, “you’re flexable.”

He shrugs, “I think it’s because I’m so— long?”

Your brows raise and your eyes can’t help but trail languidly down to his lap.

He immediately shakes his head. “No, no, no I meant my body— my back, my stomach. Not my penis.”

“Oh.” You press your lips together to poorly hide your amusement and his face drops into a deeper red.

“We’re missing the movie—”

“So you suck on the tip or lick it?” You interrupt him curiously as if he didn’t even say anything.

“Uh— sucking hurts my neck so only for half a second,” he rubs the back of his neck, “so— so mostly licking.”

“Does it actually feel good?” You’re analyzing his every facial expression, intrigue hiding a splash of arousal. Every question feels more extensive than the last, and his heart is thrashing.

Satoru abruptly drops his face into the head rest cushion beside him and groans into it. His system is going into overdrive.

You huff a laugh. You’re not used to seeing him in this position, genuinely embarrassed having been caught in such a vulnerable state. Satoru is usually mean before he’s ever embarrassed or shy.

“I’m waiting,” you prod in a sing song voice and he slightly whines before sitting back up— slouching— but still.

“Do I have to answer that?” Despite his glasses, you can tell his gaze is down and off to the side.

“Absolutely.” You nod definitively with a proud tight- lipped smile, as if what you say, goes. Suddenly, he feels like his younger self being bossed around by you everywhere you two went.

“I don’t want to,” he mutters stubbornly under his breath.

“Come on,” you whine annoyingly, pushing even closer to him until your knees are slightly overlapping his shins, “I wanna know. It’s just me.”

“Yeah, it’s just you. And you’re a girl.”

You squint at him and lean back a bit. “What does that mean?”

“That this feels— wrong— weird—I don’t want to be talking to you about this,” he mumbles with a hint of irritation.

“Just because I don’t have a dick, doesn’t mean—”

He shakes his head, immediately and cuts you off with an authoritative ‘nuh uh,’ and you let out an amused scoff.

“What?” You urge him to explain, curiously. “Come on, why is it any different with me?”

“Because you’re hot. Seriously?” He grumbles and rolls his eyes at you. “And you saw me trying to suck on my own penis and your face when you walked in—” he ends the sentence with a groan, face falling right into his hands.

Honestly, you already thought he was a little weird before you caught him self sucking, but you’d never admit that and potentially hurt the smelly, awkward boy for no reason. You certainly didn’t know he cared what you thought of him, considering he’s usually unapologetically himself. Apparently, he does care what his childhood friend thinks.

“We all do weird things sometimes, that doesn’t make you weird.”

He shakes his head, face still shoved into his hands. “Not you.”

You huff through your nose, “I didn’t know you had so many opinions about me, Satoru.”

“I don’t. It’s a logical analysis from a scientific perspective. I have eyes.” His tone is more nasally than normal due to his face in his palms.

“You don’t know what I do when I’m alone. Me being weird or not is irrelevant,” you say looking down at his fluffy head that’s a bit greasy, “I get horny too.”

In a split second, his head shoot’s up desperately, almost knocking the back of it into your face on the way.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Satoru sit up so straight in his life. You’re forced to look up at him now, reminding you of how tall he really is. His glasses were left behind when he jolted up, and you can suddenly see the full intensity of his wide crystal blue eyes piercing into you with full focus.

You slightly adjust in your seat, borderline uncomfortable under that sharp gaze that’s roaming your entire persona as if he’s a computer collecting every piece of data in your soul at a high speed. Those eyes used to scare you straight out of bed with a scream when you were small and having little sleepovers with him— they still give you chills.

“You do?”

You cower a bit, not expecting such a reaction to what you thought was an obvious fact. “Um— yeah? Of course I do,” you murmur, brows furrowing.

He swallows and slides a pillow into his lap, gripping it.

You glance down at it. You blink at it. You glance back up at him.

“Did that make you hard..?” you slowly ask, voicing the obvious in hesitancy.

“A little.”

“Okay,” you pause, “why?”

He pushes up his glasses. “Because I thought about your vagina being wet. And then I started speculating about what your vagina looks like. And then how it tastes, because online—”

“Satoru,” you quickly interrupt him, flustered, pushing a palm to his lips, “shut up.”

He blinks and nods, making you take your hand off of his lips hesitantly. He reaches under the pillow and, you assume, adjusts his boner.

“Okay,” you change the subject, shaking your head of the imaginary vision of his hardening cock, “We’re getting off track. Don’t avoid the question.”

He rubs an eye, like it’s sore from having been using his glasses for so long before they fell off.

“It feels good enough,” he mumbles, spine already returning to his natural slouch, “but I have to kinda— like— focus.”

“On what?”

“On anything but the fact that I’m sucking dick, what do you think?”

You accidentally let a snort pass, and he sighs deeply to himself.

“Sorry sorry,” you shake your head, holding back a laugh.

“Are you done yet?” He murmurs in a whiny tone, eager to stop answering questions.

“Has it ever made you cum? And do you like— bust in your mouth? Or all over your face?”

Satoru suddenly bursts into a coughing fit, choking on his own spit and your brows furrow in concern.

“You okay?”

He nods as he coughs, brushing off your concern as you rub his back soothingly and briefly. He gasps for air as the fit calms.

“I’m fine,” he massages his throat and glances back at the opening to the stairs, “why do you want to know that?”

“I’m curious.” You shrug, although you’re ignoring the subtle throb in your clit.

“Curious about my cum.” He says it like it’s more of a statement than a question.

“What? No,” you defend yourself quickly, “No, I mean— kinda but— No, stop it. Don’t twist my words.”

Now, he snickers, wiping his nose against his sleeve.

“Shut up,” you shake your head with a small smile, pushing his shoulder. “Answer, freak.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, “It’s not like I mean to cum on my face. It just happens.”

You can’t help but drop your jaw in astonishment, unable to ignore the tingle in your lower abdomen.

He whines, “stop,” as he grabs your jaw with warm, shaky fingers and manually closes your mouth.

You gulp, subconsciously grabbing a few of his fingers from your face and pulling them down to your lap to hold onto like you need it to ground you. You’re not holding his hand, you’re more so awkwardly grabbing parts of it. Satoru glances at the connection, but you don’t seem to notice that you’re even holding it because you’re so focused on his words.

“So you’ve,” you blink rapidly, “tasted your own cum?”

He chews off a chunk of his inner lip and grumbles under his breath, “Yeah, I wish I didn’t— tastes nasty.”

“Like what?”

“You know wha—” Satoru almost slipped and confessed that you’ve tasted his cum before. On that fucking strawberry donut. You tilt your head at him, wondering why he stopped talking.

He clears his throat. “Skip.”

You blink. “Skip?”

He nods, definitively. “Skip.”

You squint at him for a beat, he doesn’t budge. You move on.

“Okay, How many times have you done it?”

He exhales in thought and shrugs. He holds up two fingers.

“Why did you do it in the first place? Like what was going through your mind?”

“Uh— That my hand doesn’t feel that good anymore.” He scratches his chest with the hand you’re not keeping prisoner in your lap.

You hum a short confirmation, huffing at his reasoning, and adjust his hand so it’s palm up. You silently ponder as you begin to trace his skin absently, the lines and ridges. Goosebumps race up his veiny, pale arm.

“You know, when a guy gets tired of their hand,” you smile in amusement, “I don’t think their first thought is their own mouth.”

He shakes his head. “Every guy has done it or tried to do it at least once,” he defends, “and if they say they haven’t, they’re lying.”

You giggle and he can’t help but breathe a little laugh with you.

“Still, why not just ask a girl out from class or something?” You continue to trace down his long fingers.

He snorts loudly and wipes his nose against his sleeve again. “Yeah, right.”

You glance up at him with furrowed brows, “Huh? I’m serious. Why not?”

He sniffs and shrugs, “I dunno. Whenever I’m around, they just..” he trails off.

You blink. “They just what?”

He looks down at your fingers trialing his palm. “Go away from wherever I am.” He doesn’t seem bothered, just stating facts.

You hum, tongue prodding your teeth in thought for a beat. You imagine it has something to do with his smell, his unkempt appearance, and honest-to-a-fault demeanor— he’s unapproachable. Even you’re guilty of this too, and you know it.

He continues in the face of your silence. “I’m not stupid, okay? I can tell girls don’t like me, I just— I don’t know why.”

An opportunity arises.

“Maybe,” you place his hand back down and coincidentally into your lap. He tries not to react to the fact that his palm happened to land on top of your clothed, warm inner thigh, “Maybe, I could help you with that— I mean, if you want.”

He blinks at you. “Help me with— help me with girls?”

You shrug. “Yeah, why not. Girls.”

He’s silent for once with his eyes trained down to your lap, and you tilt your head at his hesitancy.

“If you’re so desperate that you literally shove your own dick in your throat then what do u have to lose, huh?” You’re teasing him, clearly getting off on this new advancement in your ‘friendship.’ His face jolts into the human embodiment of an exclamation point.

He explodes, “It doesn’t even reach my throat, stupid— I don’t shove anything down my throat. I knew I shouldn’t have told you!”

You can’t hold back the laughter that bursts out of you before he even finishes speaking. You clasp your hand over your mouth but it continues to spill out. Satoru refuses to take his hand off of your inner thigh, even despite the embarrassing topic of conversation, because game is game, but he does use the other to cover his one of his hot ears because he just knows they’re probably the deepest shade of red.

“How exactly are you going to help me?”

Just as Satoru grumbles the question, both of your fathers waltz in. “Hey kids.”

Satoru jumps in place like he’s been caught, ripping his hand away from your thigh so dramatically that it makes each of your father’s brows quirk. You hadn’t even heard them open the front door.

You hide an amused smile at Satoru’s reaction and rise to your feet.

“You ready to go?” Your father asks, and you nod as Satoru’s father ruffles his son’s hair briefly in greetings. Though you just live next door, you still like to walk back with your dad.

As your father walks over to the front door, knowing your mother will likely stay longer, Satoru’s father walks upstairs to greet his wife. You bend down to whisper into Satoru’s ear.

“I’ll come over next Friday when my classes end.” You flick his forehead with a teasing grin and he rubs the injury with a grimace as you walk away. “Bye!” you shout just before his front door slams shut behind you.

Friday. 3:05 pm.

You let yourself into the Gojo front door with the key copy you received years ago.

Mrs. Gojo chirps, “Oh hi honey! Toru and the others are upstairs,” as you pass her to get to the stairs.

You pause at the bottom of the stairs and blink at her. “Others?”

She hums and nods her head with a smile before continuing to sort through her documents at the kitchen table.

You curiously climb the stairs and the closer you get to Satoru’s door, the sounds under it grow louder. Definitely more voices than just Satoru’s, as well as the loud music of a video game playing.

You stop yourself before you just barge in, again, and choose to knock instead.

Satoru’s voice answers your knock. “We don’t need anymore snacks, mom! We have chips and—”

You push open the door and the sight of you, instead of his mother, makes him shut his mouth.

Satoru and two other fellow college boys sit on the carpeted floor, facing his flatscreen hanging on the wall, playing some kind of mortal kombat style game with their sides to you. Bags of chips, drinks, video game cd cases, and controllers litter the floor around them.

Satoru is the only one looking at you while the other boys mash their controllers with focus on the game as their characters fight against one another.

Satoru pushes his glasses up instinctively as he says your name, even though they’re already pressing deeply against his face. “What are you doing here?”

Your name in Satoru’s mouth makes the boys turn their heads to look at you. Their jaws drop at the sight of a girl.

You give the- blunt as ever- Satoru a look and sigh. “I told you last Friday that I’d be coming over next Friday. It’s next Friday.”

“Oh yeah,” he scratches the back of his head. “Okay, come in then.”

You step inside before closing the door behind you.

“You gonna introduce me or what?” you ask as you drop your bag onto the floor and sit. They’re in a half circle; Satoru faces you while the other two are half turned towards you and half on the tv.

“Yeah— okay,” he says awkwardly. He gestures at the long, jet black haired one sporting a very uncoordinated, greasy bun on his head. “This is Suguru.”

Suguru peeks at you while continuing to expertly mash buttons on the controller. “Hi,” he says in a tone that seems naturally soft.

Satoru gestures at the blonde one with a long side part covering half of his face next. “That’s Kento.”

Kento looks at you and stops playing to raise his hand briefly in greetings.

You give them a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”

They both seem a bit geeky, exactly the type you expected Satoru to be friends with. They probably met playing an online game or something. There’s a very specific musky smell in this room.

“So,” Suguru begins teasingly as he concentrates on the game, “she your girlfriend, Gojo?”

Kento scoffs lowly at the idea.

“Nope,” Satoru says freely, throwing a chip into his mouth to rudely chew while he speaks, “she’s lived next door since we were like two and our moms are friends.”

“Have you guys kissed?” Suguru easily questions before taking a sip of his soda while his other hand continues to operate his controller.

“No way in hell,” Kento answers the question meant for Satoru in a matter of fact way, “Gojo kissing a girl like that is ridiculous.” Kento glances at you briefly.

Your brows raise and you huff to yourself. You almost expected them to be shy and quiet but they’re talking about you like you’re not right in front of them. You can tell they don’t have bad intentions, they’re just a bit socially unorthodox.

“Actually,” you butt in casually, reaching over to snatch a chip from the bag in front of Satoru, “we kissed when we were six.”

Suguru and Kento ‘oo’ simultaneously without taking focus from their game, slightly monotoned and unfazed.

“Hey, you’re a girl,” Suguru murmurs, “What's it like being able to see boobs any time you want? Does it ever get old?”

The chip making its way into Satoru’s mouth delays and falls to the floor as his eyes lock on you.

“You can’t just ask a girl about her boobs five seconds after meeting her.” Kento’s tone is judgmental but you can tell he’s just as curious if you’ll answer as the others are, just better at hiding it.

You take a deep breath. “It’s okay. Umm— the boring answer is I’m pretty used to them, they’re just part of my body. But, I won’t deny that half the time I pass a mirror in my house I lift my shirt and look at them. I think every girl does.”

“Really? You flash yourself?” Satoru questions, flabbergasted at this information. The other boys completely desert their controllers and tilt their bodies to face you with criss crossed legs and a matching ring of Cheeto-type dust around their mouths.

You shrug.

“What’s it like seeing a dick all the time?” you counter and pop a chip into your mouth.

“Gross, probably.” Suguru says, making you chuckle.

All of their eyes comically trail down to your chest at the same time— as if you can’t literally see them do it.

“You’re so lucky,” Satoru murmurs.

“Do you—” Kento clears his throat, “nevermind.”

Suguru’s mouth opens and closes, like he’s hesitating to say something.

You sigh. “Get it over with. Come on.”

Satoru blinks up at you, finally breaking his eye contact with your tits. “What?”

“Ask your questions, it’s fine. Hurry up.”

Their eyes light up like dominos.

“We can’t just—” Kento begins, as the voice of reason, but is cut off by Suguru who doesn’t give a fuck.

“Do your nipples get hard when you’re horny?” Suguru asks eagerly, not wasting a moment.

“They usually just react to cold temperatures, but sometimes when I get a tingle or something, they get hard, sure.”

Satoru’s mouth hangs open, mouth-breathing. Kento gulps and Suguru breathes out a ‘sick.’

“Does— um— does it feel good when they get sucked on?” Kento timidly asks, a pink tint to his cheeks. He keeps his head tilted down a bit, a shy habit, but he’s still staring at your chest with the eye that’s not covered by his bang.

You can’t help but slightly grin in amusement. “Depends on the girl and her sensitivity. But yeah, I’d say it does. It’s kind of comforting.”

You wouldn’t be surprised if they were to drool. There are obvious tents in each of their pants.

You’re playing the ‘bored, pretty girl casually answering horny, ridiculous questions like an angel’ part well but your abdomen tingles seeing Satoru use a long, veiny hand to pull at the uncomfortably tight fabric over his hard cock to adjust.

“Do you ever,” the skin between Satoru’s brows slightly pinch and his eyes flick up at you while his friends ogle your breasts, “play with them?”

“Jesus,” you snicker with amusement and tease, “you guys are so horny.”

“Yeah, do you pinch your nipples or flick them?” Suguru adds on to Satoru’s inquiry, as if he didn’t even hear your remark.

“Is it possible to suck on your own nipples?” Kento’s question follows Suguru’s quickly. Their eyes are practically swirling and you swear you can see their heads spinning.

It doesn’t end there. They don’t even wait for an answer between slurred questions. You’ve had to have already missed more than ten of them. You can’t help but tune it out eventually, lidded eyes blinking at the ceiling as they ask every diabolical thing you could think of back to back without leaving room for a reply.

You sigh.

In one fell swoop, you yank your shirt up to your collarbones, successfully shutting them up.

Their eyes turn into large, bulging hearts that boing like a spring and their tongues roll out onto the floor while steam comes from the top of their heads.

Things like, ‘holy shit,’ ‘oh fuck,’ and even, ‘holy bazingas,” bounce through the air as your bare tits glow within their perspective.

“No more questions,” you decide, making all of them nod eagerly. They’d probably agree to anything you say right now.

“Woah. They’re so— they’re so beautiful,” Satoru whines, glasses wildly crooked on his face as they all subconsciously start crawling towards you.

“I think I’m dying,” Kento breathes before slurping a bit of drool that threatened to escape his lips. “Is this heaven?”

“My mouth is so empty,” Suguru groans, licking and smacking his lips.

Thankfully, they stop crawling when they’re close enough to get a better look but not so close that you can feel their breath on your skin. It’s not hard to conclude that this is the first time they’re seeing tits in real life.

Your lips press together as you hold back a laugh, but when your eyes meet Satoru’s face, your expression falters. He looks wrecked, pinched brows, cheeks and ears a deep red, messy glasses, wet swollen lips, and glazed eyes— he looks sexy. You’re apparently finding out many interesting things about yourself, ever since you saw him in armadillo mode.

“Okay, shows over.” You lower your shirt, and their heads comically tilt lower and lower until the material is covering your entire torso once again and the sides of their faces are smooshed on the floor.

Just then, a knock at Satoru’s door comes, followed by his mother asking if you guys want more snacks.

She opens the door and the two boys hop up to their feet, scrambling.

“I— I gotta go home,” Kento says frantically before grabbing his bag and placing it over his crotch. “It was really nice to meet you. Thank you— um— for— yeah. Okay bye,” he stutters to you on his way out.

“Oh yeah, me too. My mom is expecting me for dinner.” Suguru nods quickly and scrambles to follow Kento out, pulling the hem of his baggy shirt down until it covers his boner. “Thanks— you’re cool— yeah thank you,” he says to you on his way.

Satoru’s mom looks a bit confused with a plate of apples in hand as she let them pass her to leave. “Okay, bye boys! Be safe driving home!” she shouts after them.

The front door slams behind them and she turns to you. “You want some apples, honey?”

“Oh, sure. Thanks, Mrs. Gojo,” you say politely and she smiles as she places the plate down on Satoru’s desk.

She brushes her hands together and rests them onto her hips as she stands in the doorway. “I have to say, it’s so nice to see you two together again. Just shout if you need me.”

“Okay, thanks.” Satoru has always been polite to his mother.

“Of course.” She smiles at her son before leaving, shutting the door behind herself.

You take a beat to look around his room as Satoru fixes his crooked glasses with a balled up blanket in his lap he must have grabbed when his friends were leaving. Action figures, comics, video games, the usual. It looks eerily similar to when you used to hangout with him everyday after school when you were younger.

You glance at him, you can’t see his eyes clearly from this angle due to a gleam on his lenses.

“Are you thinking about how badly you want me to go so you can put your dick in your mouth again?”

“Wow, that was fast,” he says bluntly and flicks something in the carpet absentmindedly, “I thought for sure it’d take a full sixty seconds before you made the first penis joke.”

“Was debating between that and a Where’s Waldo one. Sorry, I’ll be quicker next time.”

“Oh thank god,” he sarcastically says.

You obnoxiously lay back on his carpet, eyeing the ceiling as if there’s something interesting up there.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he sniffles loudly, telling the whole room that he has mucus. You sit up just as quickly as you laid down.

“Yeah, well,” you sigh deeply and lean back on your palms, “couldn’t abandon a friend in need, could I?”

He deadpans at you. “And.. why am I in need again?”

“Wahh— I’m horny and girls hate me,” you mock his deep, blunt tone as you bring your fists to your eyes to dramatically act like you’re crying, “I have to fuck my own face to cum because my hand sucks— wahh.”

Satoru is not amused. “So, you came here to flash my friends and bully me.”

“Woah woah, just giving you a little recap, Satoru, don’t get your Pokémon panties in a twist.” You point at him dramatically with a squint in your eye, “and hello? I flashed you too, you’re very welcome.”

He pushes up his glasses. “I see your point. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can agree that what you did was very generous. Carry on.”

“Oh, good.” Your sarcasm is laced with amusement. “Anyways, back to what I was saying.”

You lean over and pop another chip into your mouth.

“I’ll let you fuck me.”

For a second, all that can be heard is the muffled munch of the snack in your mouth and the background music from the abandoned video game.

“What?” Satoru enunciates each letter in the word drastically. “What— What did you just say?”

“Oh sorry, when two people love each other very much—”

“Shut up,” Satoru interrupts your obvious teasing by throwing one of his plushies at you.

You catch it with a laugh and hold it in your lap like you’d asked him for it in the first place.

“Are you being serious?” He questions you hesitantly, aware of how poorly he is at speaking with and understanding women.

“Mhm,” you affirm, casually with a nod.

His brows furrow and he almost looks around his own room for cameras like he must be getting punked right now.

Slowly he asks, “Why?”

You chew on your lower lip as you hum in thought, eyes trailing the ceiling, briefly.

You land on, “I want to help you.”

He looks at you with skeptical, squinted eyes.

You sigh.

“Look,” you regard him genuinely, “all jokes aside, when I saw you doing what you were doing, and then when you were telling me why you do it in the first place, I just felt like, I don’t know, I wanted to help you.”

“So, I’m a charity case?” He questions insinuatingly, making you sigh in slight frustration with yourself for not expressing your feelings correctly.

“No. It’s more like—” you chew on your lip as you gather your thoughts, “I wanna be useful to you. Remember when we were younger and my ice cream fell on the floor because that annoying kid kept pinching me and you gave me yours? And then when I asked you why, you said that you have to take care of the people you love?”

Satoru’s eyes bulge and his lips part. “You’re in love with me?”

You deadpan at him. “Really? Thats what you got from that?”

“You literally just said you love me and that’s why you want to let me have intercourse with you,” he passionately defends his conclusion, like he’s trying to show you logic.

“Oh my god you’re gonna make me say it,” you sigh to yourself, “Fine. Of course I love you Satoru, I’ve loved you since I was like five. I’m not confessing my love for you, okay? It’s like a childhood friend love, like—”

Satoru interrupts you quickly with a long pointed, accusing finger. “Don’t you dare say family after you just said you want me to put my penis in you.”

You rub your eyes briefly in frustration with your pointer finger and thumb. “My point is, I care about you and I don’t want you to suffer with a hard dick. I have your solution between my legs, so, here.”

“No,” Satoru immediately denies, “Intercourse is a two person activity where both parties have a desire for it. I don’t want you to just give me your vagina to use like a fricken fleshlight because you feel bad for me.” —No matter how much he might want to.

Your brows raise and your speak slowly. “You’re worried that I don’t want it?”

“Obviously?” He looks at you like you’re stupid.

“Satoru, there’s a reason I’m not just offering you a handjob,” you huff and shake your head, amused that he’s worried about you, “I want it.”

“You do?” He asks you like you’re crazy and not even aware of what you’re saying, loudly and enunciated dramatically.

“I do,” You confirm, definitively.

“Like, you’re attracted to me?”

You squint at his overall appearance for a beat and then crawl up to him until your nose is brushing his sweaty neck, making him jerk back hesitantly, but ultimately allowing you to get way too close.

“What are you—”

You take a big sniff of his skin and he shuts his mouth with an alarmed expression. You take a few more inhales of different patches of skin on his neck and then sit back down, criss crossing your legs in front of him with your knees overlapping his shins like last Friday.

“Yeah,” you nod absolutely, as if you’re speaking to yourself, eagerly, “I definitely want you inside of me.” What you aren’t saying is that his musky smell, the one you usually avoid getting a whiff of, is now triggering a primal response within your reproductive system.

“Holy shit,” he breathes under his breath, chills racing down his spine. “You want me inside of you.”

“Are you attracted to me, Satoru?” You repeat his question back at him, a little smile and tilt to your head.

“Um,” he picks up your hand, “do you want to feel it?”

He tosses the blanket in his lap to the side, exposing his hard on.

“Your dick?”

“My attraction for you,” he corrects.

You nod.

He lays your palm flat on his warm, beating chest, making your brows raise in surprise.

His heart is thumping at a steady pace, a little fast, but it’s to be expected with you so close to him.

“This is,” you blink, “your heart.”

He nods. His heart picks up pace and you can feel the rise and fall of his breath.

“The blood that it’s circulating,” he uses a large hand to guide yours on a slow journey down his hard chest, “is reacting to the ventral tegmental area of my brain.”

Your eyes are locked onto his hand on top of yours, silently gasping when it reaches his tent. You don’t miss the deep ridges of yummy abs on the way down either.

“And it sends that blood,” he lets out a barely noticeable grunt, ‘guh,’ under his breath when your hand caresses his bulge, “here.”

My attraction for you starts within my heart.

You can’t help but let out a sharp breath, an airy, amused scoff, despite the little tingle in your own heart. “Oh, wow, you’re good. I underestimated you, you little geek.”

He doesn’t answer you, just gives you proud twitch at the corner of his lips. He’s breathing heavy, hazy eyes already lidded in pleasure, simply due to your warm hand on his clothed cock.

“You’re so hard,” you breathe as you gently squeeze around the stiff base, making him grip the carpet beside him, “You already thinking about how it’ll feel to be inside me?”

He groans, tossing his head back. “Of course I am. Can we do it now?” He looks at you with impatience and then down at your lap, “Are you lubricated?”

You grin at him, “Am I lubricated?”

“Yeah, it’s a word in the dictionary, stupid.” His grumble is a little too breathy to be cruel. The insult makes you nostalgic, it was practically your assigned nickname when you were kids.

“Maybe you should try Urban Dictionary,” you tease, hand still resting casually on his bulge like its normal, “because wet is what us regular earthlings use.”

“Okay,” he speaks bluntly, “Are you wet?”

You shrug. “I might be.”

He squints at you. “What do you mean might? You have to be properly prepared before we can do this.”

“You know what? Yeah, you’re right. And now that you mention it,” you say like a performance, “I know exactly what will ‘properly prepare’ me.”

“Okay,” he says expectantly and slightly suspicious, “What?”

Satoru almost throws a fit when you take your hand away from his cock and lean back on your hands.

“I want you to self suck again and I want to watch.”

You must have learned that phrase online in the time you’ve been apart since last Friday, but that’s not why his face scrunches up in judgmental confusion.

“What? No fucking way,” he immediately denies passionately, “Are you serious?”

“I barely got to see it before,” you whine, leaning towards him with your hands up in prayer and an exaggerated pout on your face, “Please?”

“That’s what’s gonna make you wet?” He’s in disbelief.

You shrug, dropping your hands. “Something about it is hot. Don’t judge, self sucker.”

Is this what girls are into?

“You think putting my own penis in my mouth is hot?” he asks you judgmentally, overly enunciating as to get his point across, “Why??”

You sigh, glancing up at the ceiling in thought.

“I don’t know. Something about the desperation you have to feel to do something like that,” you bite your lip and flick your gaze down at his bulging tent, “Like you’d do anything to feel the pleasure of a blowjob.”

Oh. Okay, no. It’s just you that’s this weird.

“I don’t even know what to say right n—” he cuts his own astonished remark off, “You’re a freak, you know that? Like you’re weird.”

You huff and shove his shoulder. “You’re the dick sucker.”

“Getting off on watching it is worse,” he shakes his head at you, but he’s unable to hold back a flicker of a smile.

“Oh c’mon,” you tilt your head at him, “seeing you feel good makes me horny, doesn’t that do anything to you?”

He knows you know the answer to that, if his cock jumping at your words says anything.

“Then why can’t it be in your mouth and not mine?” He grumbles, trying to avoid your powerful stare— the one where you make your eyes all big and gleamy; you’ve been manipulating him with that look since you were young.

You light up seeing his resistance breaking down by the second, your words coming out quicker now.

“You don’t have to do it for a long time, I just wanna see you actually lick the tip,” you gush, as if begging at a fast pace will make him more likely to agree.

He rubs his nose against his sleeve and glances at the closed door with a sigh. “Okay.”

“Yes,” you say to yourself in victory as you thrust your elbow downward with your hand in a fist. Satoru deadpans.

You stare at him expectantly with a smiling bite to your lower lip.

Satoru sniffs and nudges your knee that’s on top of his leg. “You have to back up a little.”

“Oh,” you chirp, scooting back a tad so that your knees aren’t touching.

Satoru’s awkwardly maneuvers his lanky body to lie on his back, and you’re facing his side. You stop him.

“Wait, you have to actually walk me through how you’re doing this.”

He turns his head to blink at you. “You’re such a freak. How do I know you’re not just messing with me and I’m doing this for nothing? I’m not—”

You sigh, sharply, and with determination, you lean down and shove your face onto his.

Your lips connect abruptly, and Satoru gasps as his hands twitch, mid air. A peck. Your lips stick together as they part, making a ‘chu’ sound before you begin to lay multiple dense pecks onto his. He’s fighting to return the kisses with panicked hums, not understanding why you’re doing it but too enthralled to care.

You finish it off with one long, pressurized kiss, even shaking your head back and forth a few times to really imprint the feeling onto his nerves before pulling away just enough.

“You kissed me,” Satoru breathes, clearly trying to process what just happened. He doesn’t get far though, because you start laying wet, open mouthed kisses onto his jaw and down to his neck where you start suckling on it. Satoru’s making all kinds of hisses and gasps. His desperate hips jerk into the air instinctively in one harsh movement.

You slide your lips off after one final self indulgent lick to his protruding Adam’s apple and he’s exhaling audibly in euphoria.

“It’s not for nothing. Please show me how you do it,” you beg him in a soft tone, brows pinched. You nudge your nose into his like a cat yearning to bond, and he just melts.

He nods and lets out a shaky ‘okay’ as you lean back to watch with an excited smile.

He gently takes his glasses off and folds them, eyes blinking and squinting to adjust briefly.

“Why are you taking your glasses off?”

He glances at you as he places them aside. “I don’t want to get them dirty,” he explains and clears his throat.

You lick your lips and nod, enjoying the topic of conversation too much.

“It’s kinda hard to,” he grunts as he kicks off of the ground with one leg to push both over his head, “do this part.”

You’re sort of astonished at how he’s able to put such a long body into this position.

“Uh— I’m gonna take my penis out now,” he glances at you awkwardly but you just nod encouragingly.

He pulls his sweatpants down enough to let his cock hang out and keep his balls and ass within the confines of the material. He places his focus on the act itself so he doesn’t psyche himself out of this ridiculous situation. His true eyes are on the prize, he’d do anything to fuck your pussy.

Seeing his cock this close up is a whole nother experience compared to the panic of barging into his room and happening upon it. It’s a light pink color, and it’s quite lengthy as it bobs over his face. It gets thicker towards the middle and up to the tip, sort of flared— as if it’s begging to be encased inside something. It feels as though it’s already anticipating his warm mouth.

“Just— just a lick, right?” He asks you, face a deeper pink than his dick is.

You hum an eager confirmation and he sighs to himself in slight preparation.

He uses two hands to nudge at his back and his tip slowly reaches down to brush his lips.

He drops his jaw and hesitates to let his tongue out. But ultimately, he slowly slides it out and you can see the muscles in his tongue twitch as he gives the top side of his tip a nice, wet lap— incidentally collecting a small dribble of pre.

“Did that feel good?” You quickly question, biting your lower lip with observant eyes.

He swallows. “A little. Can I stop now?”

“Does sucking feel better?” You ask instead, and he releases the pressure he’s pushing into his back just a bit so he can answer you more comfortably.

“I guess, but not really, I can tell it’s my own mouth.”

“I have an idea,” you scooch in closer, “try sucking.”

Despite this being kind of lame compared to the idea of you stimulating him instead or the promise of sex, it’s clearly entertaining you so he pushes into his straining spine again until his desperate tip greets his mouth again. Satoru has stuck his dick inside of crazier things in weirder situations just to get off, this is nothing.

He opens his mouth wide enough to allow his cock inside and sucks his lips closed around half of the tip. His white lashes softly flutter shut at the dull tingle growing through his dick.

His eyes shoot right back open when he feels a long, warm, wet sensation run across his mid shaft. You start licking at his reactive cock like an eager kitten, making that dull tingle erupt into much more as bitter pre oozes into his mouth in reaction. His wide eyes roll in pleasure once he realizes you aren’t stopping and he uses his tongue to suck a little better at his cock head, unable to resist the need for more stimulation.

When your tongue starts wetly tracing the edge of his tip where it enters his mouth, even licking at his lips a little, he can feel his balls tighten up. He thinks he can handle it, hold back his orgasm, but then you latch onto the side of his upper dick and suckle.

He doesn’t want to cum in his own mouth so he eases the tension his hands are putting on his back to let the tip slide out but not enough to pull his legs back and lay flat because he doesn’t want to lose the pleasure your mouth is giving him. “Wait— hng!— I’m gonna cum!”

You hum happily and, faster than he can blink, your warm mouth is enveloping his entire throbbing tip. His abs clench and his eyebrows shoot up with tension, moaning loudly with parted lips as you slide your tongue all around his sensitive skin. He’s never felt anything like this, it’s not even comparable.

You’re coaxing his cum to build and build, and Satoru swears with a burst of excitement within his chest that he’s finally going to ejaculate inside of a woman’s mouth. That is, until you suddenly let his cock go with a pop and the next thing he knows, cum is shooting all over his face. His cock spasms and pleasure bursts all the way into his toes, he’s overwhelmed by it for a long blissful moment.

Pure bliss until he comes down enough to realize that warm splooge is streaking down his cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin. He slowly maneuvers himself to lay flat and blinks at the ceiling for a beat. He’s about to sit up and do the whole irritated-at-you thing, but then your thighs are suddenly on either side of his hips with only your shirt and panties on, sweatpants no where to be found, only soft bare legs. He gasps.

“That was so fucking hot,” you groan as you quickly shove your panties to the side and ease down enough to rest your warm, wet labia against the bottom of his soft, twitching dick.

He hisses in sensitivity, hands shooting to grip your thighs to cope as he tilt his head up to look at you. You’re a little blurry without his glasses but he can still see how flustered you look.

“Think you can get hard again?” You ask, out of breath as you begin to slowly grind your pussy against him with eager hands on his chest.

He groans in overstimulation, “Oh god— wha—? I don’t know— oh fuuuck.” His fingers tighten around the flesh of your flexing thighs.

“I have cum all over my face,” he groans, refusing to make you get off of him because he’d rather die, but still complaining about it.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly and lean down and begin to lick the cum off of his face casually, making him slightly grimace.

“Just grab a shirt,” he basically slurs when your licking abruptly stops and you pull back enough to look him in the face.

Your hands are on either side of his head now, hips unfortunately stopping all movement, and you’re suddenly blinking at him like you’re realizing something.

“Oh my god,” you slowly express, a disbelieving smile on your lips, “you came all over that fucking donut! I knew you were acting weird, you sick freak.”

His eyes widen and he doesn’t even know what to say, you clearly recognize the taste enough to place it, so he just blurts, “What are you talking about?”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” You still question him with furrowed brows, not buying his feigned ignorance, “Your mom was right there!”

“I don’t— but, you said it tasted good! And you only took one bite.”

You huff and shake your head. And then you lean down to lick a long lap up his cheek, gathering a bit of very bitter cum on your taste buds. You swallow it and press your lips to his ear, “You’re lucky I’m throbbing because otherwise, there’s no way I’d fuck you knowing that, you pervert.”

Whether that’s a lie or not, doesn’t matter, all Satoru can hear is the subtle squelch of your pussy lips rubbing against his hardening cock as you begin to grind again.

His toes curl and twitch. He breathes, “You made me cum— agh!— on my face, we’re— we’re even.”

You huff and sit back up while your hips work. “Fine. We’re even.”

He brings a shaky hand over to his discarded glasses and throws them back on before yanking the hem of your shirt up enough to see your pussy.

“Ohhh my goodness gracious,” his voice shakes but he’s very sturdy in his words, astounded by the sight of pretty pussy in real life— especially those folds against his own penis, the folds connected to his beautiful childhood friend.

He can’t help but eagerly buck his hips once, making you gasp at the direct hit to your clit and grip onto his shirt over his chest.

“You’ve never had sex before, right? You’re a virgin?” You breathe out, humping increasing in speed.

His mouth hangs open. “Never. Mhm, yeah, virgin.” He nods quickly.

You lean in and your lips brush his as you speak. “I’m gonna be your first, baby?” you egg him on.

He whines into your mouth. “I always— I always suspected you would.”

“What?” You breathe in amusement, pressing a kiss to his jawline, “Why?”

“Because,” he moans beautifully as you suck on his earlobe, “You’re the only girl that talks to me.”

You lean back and jut your bottom lip out into a dramatic pout. “Aww, so it’s not because you’ve been in love with me since we were kids? You’re breaking my heart.”

“No,” he hisses when his tip almost gets caught on your entrance that seems to be attempting to suck him in every time it passes by, “I’ve definitely been in love with you since we were kids.”

Your hips stutter to a painful stop and you blink at him, playful expression slightly faltering. You can barely tell when Satoru is joking, the ease and blunt manner of the way he speaks doesn’t help.

“Wait, are you being serious?”

He sits up to lean back on his elbows and nods. “I thought you knew that.”

“How could I know that?” you ask him like he’s an idiot, “The most you say to me in a week is that I have something in my teeth.”

He sniffles his runny nose obnoxiously, like always. “Because you do. And, you don’t talk to me either,” he says factually and defends himself.

“That’s—,” you exhale sharply, reaching down to grip his base, ignoring his little ‘guh!’ as you raise your hips a bit, “because we got older and— I don’t know— grew apart.”

You rub his head against your opening and his eyes lock onto the movement like it’s glowing gold. Drool dribbles out of the corner of his lips. “Holy shit. It’s finally— ngh!— happening. You’re finally going to have sex— oh my god— it’s so soft. It’s so slimy, woah.” He’s talking to himself like a little weirdo, but you don’t mind, it’s actually creating more slick to join the rest.

You bite your lip and slowly push down against his head until it pops in with a painful little stretch.

You hiss out a strained, “Fuck,” and Satoru pushes through his overwhelming desire to just moan and whine and succumb to his own pleasure like a limp fish to ask you, “Are you okay? Does— hahh— does it hurt?”

You nod with a shaky exhale, eyes closed in concentration. “A little, your tip is— mm— almost as big as your head is.”

You’re clearly not in enough pain to ignore an opportunity to tease him, it seems. You take a deep breath and attempt to calm your muscles.

But then, your head snaps down to make sense of the sudden stimulation against your clit to see Satoru’s long lanky fingers rubbing it sloppily. “Oh— mm!” Your abdomen and thighs clench as you grip his shirt harshly, breathing choppy.

“Does that help? Your clitoris should ease the pain,” Satoru bluntly expresses with clear concern, focus flicking from your clit to your expression, “I read it.”

You whine and grab onto his wrist connected to the lanky fingers moving in a ‘dj’ motion against your ultra sensitive skin. “Try— hah— little circles.”

He immediately complies with upmost focus, fingertips and knuckles rotating. “Like that?”

You moan and your cunt answers his question for you, squeezing his tip nicely. Before he knows it, you’re dropping all the way down till he feels your plushy cervix kissing his slit. It feels like you just punched him in the gut with how abrupt the feeling of being enveloped whole is.

“Oh god, holy shit! You’re so wet and tight and,” he’s wailing like an animal in the jaws of a predator and he’s physically unable to stop himself from gripping the carpet harshly to ground himself, “it’s bumpy inside, the perfect— perfect balance between—ngh— stimulation and plushy, soft, gooey— ahh it’s like clouds.”

“Yeah? Keep going Toru.” You’re clearly trying to mock his ramble but your tone is anything but a tease as you sit still, cockwarming him with reactive walls.

He’s lucky that he busted recently because he wouldn’t have been able to last this long otherwise, movement or not. But you’re fighting your own battle too. You’re so full, there’s a pang of radiating pain pinching your cervix that refuses to stretch to make room for Satoru’s lengthy cock and you’re trying your hardest to hold on until your body adjusts the way it’s meant to.

“Fuck!” You blurt after a long moment of trying to push down the feeling overwhelm, “I don’t think I can do it. It’s— It’s too much. It hurts.” You’re speaking in a completely genuine way for once, not even a small teasing comment about why his dick has to be so long; he can tell you’re actually scared.

Satoru immediately sits up and grabs onto your waist, eyes flicking over your expression quickly. “It hurts?” he repeats softly, clearly concerned and attempting to console you, “Okay, breathe. You’re okay, I’m here, I’m with you, I’ve got you. Your body can stretch, it’s made to stretch for this.”

You take a deep breath and nod as he speaks, brows pinched as you attempt to hold your focus on his coos and not the invading, pulsing flesh within you.

“I can feel you twitching,” you whine, head thrown back briefly, “stop it.”

“I can’t control it,” Satoru defends, using his thumbs to gently rub circles into your waist, over your shirt.

“It’s your dick,” you whimper, dropping to rest your forehead onto his shoulder, “Tell it to stop hurting me.”

He hums, entertaining your words and the next thing you know, a lanky hand is snaking under your shirt to lay flat and warm on your lower tummy.

“Stop hurting her,” Satoru scolds his mounted penis, “Or I swear I’m gonna take you out of this amazing, warm little pussy and you’ll go right back into your boxers. You hear me?”

Your pussy involuntarily convulses around him, hearing him indulge your little sillies in such an oddly sexy way. You both breathe out a groan at the delicious feeling.

You lift your head, breathing heavily with lidded, hazy eyes. “That helped,” you mumble as you shove your lips onto his eagerly, nudging his head back slightly at the force and making him hum.

He locks his lightly dry lips onto your soft ones as immediate as possible, not allowing the risk of missing out on your sweet pecks like before when he could barely keep up.

But this isn’t a peck, you’re tilting your head, side to side as your lips smooch, keeping them interlocked between ‘chu’s.’

Your eyes peek open because, your intuition was right, his intensely blue irises are staring at you through his lenses. You unlatch as you push his shoulder, lightly, not keen on accidentally making his hips jolt. “Why are your eyes open? Close them while we kiss,” you scold, feeling a light heat rise within your cheeks.

He licks his lips to taste you instinctively. “What’s wrong with that? I want to look at you, you’re pretty.”

You roll your eyes half heartedly and slide your hands onto his shoulders to hold. “Open your mouth.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond because you’re shoving your wet tongue into his mouth, making him moan directly into yours. His hands tremble around your waist as they tighten their grip, using all of his will power to not listen to instinct and rut up into you.

“Wait wait—” he says between licks and you know he’s scared to accidentally hurt you.

You shake your head and hum a denial. “It’s okay, you won’t,” you breathe before latching back on.

He tastes like lingering traces of sugary soda and a hint of tic-tacs, but mostly like natural saliva. His tongue is sloppy and a bit odd in how it meets yours, but it’s his and you can’t help but desire for more of it as it lathers and lathes yours.

“Okay,” you pull back impatiently, “Let’s fuck.”

“Fuck— fuck,” Satoru grunts frantically, face clenching, “don’t say that, I’m gonna ejaculate too quick.”

“No, you won’t,” you soothe him, almost like you’re speaking it into existence, ignoring the instinct to make fun of his word choice.

He whines, but then gathers his determination and nods. “Okay, okay— mhm— should I move?”

You shake your head. “No, me first.”

You softly raise your hips, using your knees on either side of his body for grounding, until half of him is glistening and exposed. His mouth hangs open and his eyes have glazed over where they lock onto your connection.

You take a deep breath and drop all of your weight down until he’s sliding right back into his little nook within you. “Nngh..!” he moans on impact, brows pinching aggressively into a defensive pout. “Was that okay? Are you okay? Did it hurt? Because I think you stretched a little more—”

You cut him off by rubbing your nose into his with closed eyes, humming in affection as you squeeze his shoulders lightly. “I’m okay,” you dismiss, resting your forehead on his, “How does it feel? Good?”

“You,” he pauses to shakily breathe out deeply and slowly as his hands start massaging your waist in primal instinct, “You feel like heaven. I love you.”

You huff and lean away with an amused look. “Tell me when you’re about to cum,” you warn him suddenly, and you don’t leave any room for him to answer because your hips begin to ride. His thick head is immediately slamming against all of the sensitive parts inside you, nudging your g-spot deliberately with each embrace.

“Oh shiiiit,” his voice undulates with the pace of your thrusts, and his glasses are already lying crooked on his face due to the recoil his body is taking. “Oh my god— nngh! oh!”

“Yeah?” you breathe out with pinched brows, “Does my pussy feel better than— mmh!— your mouth, Satoru?”

His eyes are threatening to roll continuously, but he’s trying so hard to keep them straight and on your blissed out face. “Your pussy is— oh fuck— so much better. I want to live inside of you— please keep going.”

“I’m not stopping, I’m not stopping.” You’re cooing at him, sloppily, and as if you’re desperate for more, you transition to start bouncing. The impact of the change in positioning and the force of gravity aiding in your movement makes Satoru absolutely keen. His toes curl and his abdomen clenches painfully. The squelch of your connection is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard and felt.

“Oh no, oh no,” Satoru grits pleadingly and his surprisingly strong hold on your waist subconsciously tightens to the point that it’s tough to continue to bounce through it at the velocity you are. “I’m gonna cum— I’m gonna cum— I can’t hold it.”

“Are you sure? Right now?” You question him through moans with hope that he’ll be able to hold it.

“I’m sure! Fuck! Don’t get off, just stop moving.” He’s biting his lower lip so hard that he could very well bite it clean off.

You stop at the next bounce, whining like you’ve been stabbed once you settle. His cock whimpers within you too, like it’s threatening to bust at any moment, begging to make this amazing place inside you it’s new home, decorated with little Toru’s DNA and a welcome mat. His dick doesn’t have to know English for Satoru to know that it won’t be accepting anything less than your pussy from now on; he can say goodbye to the makeshift pocket pussy made out of a Pringles can, gloves, and tissues already dusting in his cabinet.

“What’s wrong? Are you gonna cum?” you question, you were already preparing to hop off and jerk him onto your face or into your mouth.

He gulps between deep breaths, trying to catch it and calm down. He massages your hips and waist and ribs, up and down, affectionately. “I don’t wanna cum until you do,” he explains with a gleam of a heart within his eyes. “How do I do that?”

You smile and exhale deeply at his question. “I don’t think I can cum unless you do something to my clit.”

It’s obvious to the both of you that he won’t be able to maintain that if you start bouncing again.

“Oh!” You grab onto him reactively when he suddenly flips you over onto your back with his large hand protecting the back of your skull and the other wrapped around your back.

You let out a gasping moan at the new angle the second your back hits the carpet when his cock wetly sinks all the way back into you. Gravity. “Oh,” you whimper at how deep he is, socked feet and thighs twitching mid air beside his ribs.

His breath fans your face, hands on either side of your head. He’s holding himself together, brows drawn in. “I’m gonna make you orgasm,” he pledges to you like a knight on his knees, eyes digging their way into yours.

“You are?” Your response shakes out airily as he falls down to rest on his forearms beside your head, face inches from yours and white hair leaning down with gravity. His boxers are showing over the expanse of his covered ass and his sweatpants are halfway down as he lies in between your bloomed legs.

He nods with determination as he shoves his glasses up, but they fall back to the lower part of his bridge just as fast. “Can I start humping?” His intention within that geeky phrasing is so pure that your heart can’t help but flutter into little butterflies.

You lift your head at a snails pace, eyes refusing to stray from his pink lips until you connect in a soft, caress of a kiss. “Go ahead,” you smile into his mouth.

Yearning for the life between your thighs, forced to pull the distance just to regain closeness again, his hips gradually pull back until he’s almost completely gone, and then he’s thrusting back inside, experimentally.

Your lips part with the drive of it in perfect synchronicity, sharing the experience of deriving pleasure from one another with a shiver.

He repeats it, this time brisker, and his eyes roll. “Oh that’s so good,” he expresses, and getting lost in the sauce, his isolated thrusts turn into a sloppy, inexperienced pace of its own, your legs brunting the force with every collision. You’re sucking him in with every draw back and milking him when he’s fully seated.

His soggy cock sadly slips out when his focus flickers and his desperate hips lose direction; pleasure like this is blinding for an eager virgin. He takes the opportunity to breathe and recenter, slouching down to press his forehead to your collarbones as his bobbing cock jumps and pulses in yearning over your sloppy pussy.

You rub the back of his head soothingly while the other kneads his alarmingly muscular back.

He exhales against your skin. “‘M still gonna make you cum,” he mumbles and you hum with a warm smile, eyeing the ceiling as you soothe him. “Just need a second.”

“Take a second,” you hum and lazily rub the inside of your calf against his side. “But I’m so empty,” you whisper against the top of his head like you’re casting a sultry spell, “and so ‘lubricated.’ It would be such a shame if your cock didn’t fill that space inside of my gooey—”

“Jesus fuuck,” he moans and shivers, whining at your words that seem to be just fucking right. He picks his head up to level with yours again, “Okay, okay. I’m good. I’m ready.”

He reaches down without looking, grasping his shaft to lead it back into you. He pokes your lower hole and you squeak, “Wrong hole! Higher— higher, Satoru.”

“Oh,” he breathes a huff into your face, a geeky smile on his lips.

He pokes your clit. “Too high. You need some help, Satoru?” You’re teasing him, but you’d still gladly do it for him if he needed you to.

He shakes his head and you nudge his glasses up for him before they potentially fall all the way off. “I got it, I got it.” He sticks his tongue out of the corner of his lips in concentration as he takes his hand off of his cock to search for your pussy, blindly.

Your abdomen clenches inward in a jolting fashion when he lays his long fingers over the entirety of your pussy. “Just need to see where..” he trails off with focus, eyes locked on nothing in particular over your head.

His bony fingers start pawing, groping, and spreading your folds, probing them like he’s trying to memorize the anatomy. Your hips and abdomen muscles are jerking with his rough touch, letting out a few whines as you writhe. “What are you doing?”

“There it is,” he breathes, ignoring your gasp as his fingers poke at the clenching entrance to your insides, “See, baby? Got it.”

He hurriedly shoves his dick into you to the hilt, while he still remembers where it’s at, with a deep, loud, throaty exhale of relief you’d only hear from a forty year old man. Your hands snap to grip his back, nails pushing into the cloth as your spine arches into him. “Satoru— nngh!” you groan in shock at the sudden impaling of your guts.

“Yeahh,” he sighs, nudging your face to the side with his to nose at your neck, “My name, keep saying that.”

Your jaw drops as he brutally begins to thrust deeper than before, like he’s stabbing you with every hit, he sucks and licks at the side of your neck unsteadily. He reaches between your bodies and finds your beating clit while you squeak on every thrust like you’re a sharp-teethed dog’s stuffed squeaky toy.

You can literally feel the tendons in his forearm undulate against your tummy as he swipes electricity through your clit and into your legs, down to your curling toes. Now that he’s destroying you, it’s clear that previously, inexperienced Satoru was striving to grasp an understanding of holding a steady pace before he could attempt at multitasking his focus onto your clit as well.

He pulls back from your neck to search your expression with upmost curiosity. He can see the clear change in your every expression at the new advancement. “Ohh, oh— that feels good, huh?” He’s almost taunting you and cooing at you simultaneously.

You nod eagerly as your arms scramble to wrap under his arms to hold onto his sweaty shoulder blades from behind for balance; since he’s so tall, you have to reach a bit. The gymnastics your mind would have to go through to tease him back is shut off and being bypassed completely as he manipulates an orgasm to appear within the distance.

“Little magic button,” Satoru huffs as drool seeps out of the corner of your parted lips, moaning like you’re being hurt.

“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, nodding again like it’s your job, “don’t change pace. Don’t stop— please.” He hisses when your nails start clawing down his back muscles, but he couldn’t care less about pain right now, there’s a wicked, domintating look of euphoria on his face.

“Cum, please, cum— I need you to cum. I’m not stopping,” he confirms into your ear before slobbering all over it. He’s been holding back the need to burst within you for too long already but he’d sooner pull out and continue to rub at you in hope of maintaining the build of your peak and then diving back in when his high dissipates than cum before you.

“Oh my god, it’s happening!” You cum with a shuddering, pathetic whine that turns into a silent cry, overwhelmed by the burst of white love and the piercing of his teeth into your soft neck.

He’s in bliss knowing he’s finally pushing you over the edge, but the feeling of your cunt squeezing in convulsions he’s only read online about happening when a woman experiences an orgasm and her body instinctively goes through the primal motions of milking the penis within of all the sperm it can offer, he falls over the edge. He wouldn’t have been able to cut off his high even if he yanked himself out this very second.

His hips slam one last jack hammer as deep into your cunt as as he can penetrate before he holds still in your guts, making you, ‘guh!’ like you’ve been stabbed.

“Thank you! I’m sorry— fuuck! Thank you!”

He can’t help but abandon your clit as he falls of the cliff, though you don’t even need it anymore. That first spurt of cum travels through his convulsing cock and shoots into your cervix, bullseye. His leg muscles shake as he repeats those slurs of gratitude and apologies into the skin of your cheek with slobbery, drooling lips.

You can feel the violent pulses of his cock, indicating he’s spurting cum into your tummy, but all you can do is hold onto him in a deep embrace as you catch your breath, coming to the conclusion of your orgasm.

You’re spent. He groans as his lips smear down your cheek, over your jaw and then down to tuck his face into your neck, leaving a trail of drool in their wake. Suddenly, his extremely tense body turns to heavy deadweight and drops fully on top of you. He’s now a starfish, arms and legs flailed out while his softening cock is still snug inside your continually massaging, convulsing walls. He’s sweating and you can smell his specific musk more potently, though most of you is instinctively comforted and weirdly domestically affected by it.

“Satoru,” you whine and writhe underneath him, air knocked out of you due to the 300 pound fish on top of you, “you’re heavy.”

Satoru blurts a tired noise, making you groan and squeeze your legs together around his hips.

He noses at your neck and starts kitten licking it, making your insides squeeze and twist around his sensitive cock. His ass clenches. “Oh! Oh! Tight!” he hisses as if he’s touched a hot surface but refuses to pull out.

“It’s your— ngh— fault,” you mewl, hitting his back weakly. “Don’t lick me like that!”

He lethargically pulls his face out of your neck to smirk at you. “I made you cum so hard.” Proud. Cocky. Borderline sexy— and then he ruins it by sniffling with obvious mucus.

You squint at him accusingly. “And you came inside me.”

He huffs nervously and shoves his glasses up. “Yeah.. I’m sorry.”

You sigh. “You know I can’t take plan b, right?”

He blinks at you and his face pales a bit. “W-What? Why? I can buy it— ”

“Because it’s really bad for your body,” you flick his forehead, “I told you to tell me when you were going to cum for a reason, stupid.”

“Fuck.” He drops his forehead down onto the carpet beside yours. His, already half hard, cock twitches against your walls.

A long pause. You’re almost suspecting that he’s turned on by the idea of impregnating you.

He lifts his head, brows pinched. “We’re having a baby?”

“No, Satoru.” You sigh and rub the top of his head comfortingly, “I’m not ovulating so hopefully it just.. doesn’t stick.”

He immediately shakes his head as if that just won’t do. “No, it’s gonna stick. Gojo sperm always makes it home on the first try.”

You blink and your face screws up as you attempt to process his words. “What are you talking about? How could you possibly know that?”

“My dad told me when I hit puberty,” he adjusts his body so he can lean on his forearms and you both emit a soft sound at the incidental movement down below, “Grandpa told him the same thing. He was a first try baby, my dad was too, and so was I. All boys too.”

He grabs onto the sides of your head in a caress, then sniffles causally and smiles down at you like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you— more accurately, inside of you.

“Satoru,” you say his name like it should trigger some kind of common sense in this scenario, “We are not having a child while we’re still in college and live with our parents.”

“Your intentions don’t change the very real science of my sperm traveling within your uterus, right now.. You know that, right?”

You grab onto his biceps and glare at him while his dick is still plugging your cunt that’s filled to the brim with Gojo sperm. “I’m not joking. I am not getting pregnant Satoru— I mean fuck! We just had sex for the very first time ever.”

He leans down and smooshes his arrogant lips to yours, ignoring your fists hitting his arms stubbornly. His tone lowers to a whisper as he speaks against your lips.

“Does that mean we’re gonna have sex again?”

“Oh my god, I need to get out of here,” you start squirming and shoving at his chest futilely, “I can’t believe I let you put your dick in me.”

“Okay, okay. Look, it’s useless to worry about hypotheticals,” Satoru calms you logically and gives you a serious look. “Okay? We’re okay. You’re okay.”

You exhale and nod, minutely, hands stilling against his chest.

He leans in close your lips, breath mingling. “Your insides feel so fucking good. I wanna stay in here forever.” He slides his tongue against the seam of your lips before kissing them like it’s natural.

“Yeah?” you hum into it with hands sliding down to his chest and bumpy abs and then up again. Satoru is weirdly muscular and eerily strong, a sleeper build if you will. You hadn’t realized due to the continuous long sleeves and pants covering him— he also usually wears the same clothes everyday since he barely does laundry unless his mother does it.

You squeak when you feel his cock begin to stretch your insides out as it hardens. “You’re already hard again??”

“I told you,” he muffles into your mouth, refusing to part ways enough to speak coherently, “Gojo anatomy is just different.”

He leans down and starts licking your neck like an affectionate cat, again. “I’m never gonna be able to look your dad in the eyes again.” You cringe at the idea of Satoru’s father being a good cum shot.

“Hey,” he nips at your neck with sharp teeth, making you hiss, “you’re not allowed to think about anyone’s penis but mine right now.”

“Why do you say it like that?” You giggle as his nibbles tickle your skin and you mock his tone dramatically, making it extra nasally, “Penis.”

“That is it’s proper title.” He pulls away to eye you with judgement, like you’re the stupid one.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you say cock once.” You snicker at him, grinning in amusement as you eye his expression. “Say it.”

“Cock.”

You blink.

You giggle.

You mock him, quietly. “Cock.”

“Oh yeah? Okay, how about this,” he hums and his voice drops into a warm, sultry embrace, “I’m gonna fuck my cock into your fucking heavenly cunt. What’s one more load, hmm?”

The tingles that spark in your abdomen suddenly erupt into an explosion and you let out a shuddering gasp when Satoru suddenly starts grinding thoroughly into you again with a fully erect ‘cock.’

Maybe walking in on your childhood friend sucking his own dick was meant to be <3

his reputation was built off of hot, messy nights and really shitty decisions. the kind where he’d stumble out of one girl’s dorm room at 2.a.m only to crash a sorority mixer at 3.

the kind where he’d hook up with someone’s best friend on friday, then text that same girl’s roommate on saturday. he didn’t discriminate either. freshmen, seniors, sorority girls, athletes, even a teaching assistant once, if the rumors were true.

he had a type, sure, but it was less about looks and more about who was available and willing to let him flash that cocky grin in their direction.

and when he wasn’t fucking half the campus population? he was talking shit, running his mouth. satoru lived to mind fuck anyone who crossed his path.

he’d clap back at professors mid-lecture, throw casual digging insults at his teammates during practice, or lean out of the frat house windows yelling down at passersby just to get a rise out of them. he thrived on being the insufferable asshole everyone loved to hate.

gojo wasn't one to settle, he was loud, fast paced, and too full of himself to really slow down and appreciate anything.

so it was no surprise that when he strutted into your social studies lecture, ten minutes late with sunglasses on and a protein shake in hand, no one batted an eye. it was just gojo being gojo.

you, though, you were new to the spectacle.

you had slipped into the back row that day, notebook neatly open, pen poised in your hand. you weren’t the kind of person who drew attention. you came to class, you took notes, you went home. simple. your world was quiet, orderly, filled with the kind of softness that most people overlooked.

gojo didn’t notice you at first. why would he? he was too busy propping his feet up on the desk in front of him, whispering some crude joke to the guy next to him, grinning when the professor sighed like she wanted to strangle him.

but then, halfway through the lecture, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

you.

and he swore to god, he almost choked on his spit.

you were leaning prettily over your notebook, hair falling in your face as you scribbled cliff notes like the lecture actually mattered. your pen tapped lightly against the page when you paused to think. and then, you looked up. only for a second. but your eyes lifted toward the projector screen, the light catching your face just right.

and gojo’s brain short-circuited.

what the fuck.

how had he never seen you before? he knew everyone, or at least knew of them. but you? you looked like you belonged in another world entirely. drop dead gorgeous, so soft, too perfect, too out of place in a boring lecture hall where he usually dozed off.

you weren’t looking at him. you didn’t laugh when he cracked a piss funny joke under his breath. you didn’t whisper to the girl next to you about whatever scandal he got himself into recently. you didn’t even glance his way.

that was new.

for the first time in maybe forever, gojo felt... thrown off.

he kept sneaking glances the rest of the lecture, his sunglasses sliding down his nose so he could actually see you better. every time you tucked your hair behind your ear or chewed on your pen cap, his chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

he leaned over to whisper something to nanami who sat next to him, "nanamin, that girl... oh my god, she is the prettiest person i've ever fucking seen, what the fuck?"

nanami glanced up at who he was talking about and was clearly a little taken aback as well, but agreed promptly nonetheless.

you weren’t loud, you weren’t dressed to turn heads, you weren’t doing anything at all to stand out. and yet, he couldn’t make himself stop staring even if he tried.

the second class ended, you packed up quickly and slipped out before he could catch you. but that didn’t matter.

because now he was head over heels obsessed with a girl he didn't even know the name of.

later that night, while the frat house was pulsing with music and sweaty bodies crushed together on the dance floor, gojo sat sprawled across the couch with a beer in hand.

girls passed by, some throwing him flirty smiles, one even trying to perch herself in his lap. normally, that would have been the highlight of his night. but instead, his mind kept circling back to the image of you in that back row seat.

who the hell were you? some perfect slice of heaven he couldn't stop dreaming about.

by midnight, he was leaning over to sukuna, half-drunk and half-crazed, muttering, “bro, i saw the prettiest girl in lecture today. like, actually insane. i think i’m in love with her.”

sukuna laughed in his face, obviously. told him he was full of shit.

but gojo wasn’t joking.

and for once, it wasn’t about a conquest. it wasn’t about proving he could get you or wrecking another heart. it was just… you. the way you looked so unbothered by him, so wrapped up in your own little world, so untouchably kind without even saying a word.

gojo was absolutely star struck.

and for the first time in his ridiculous life, he finally took a deeper look at himself and saw a problem with his overall personality.

he wanted more than just a night with you. he wanted you to actually see him for what he was. which, to anyone's standard, wasn't anything worth wanting. he figured if he just stuck by you long enough, made a good first impression, the rumours wouldn't catch up to you, and he could rebuild his own image in your eyes.

~

the next time he knew he would see you, he didn’t waste a second.

gojo showed up to lecture early, which was unheard of. that day he was already in the room when you walked in, slouched casually in the back row like he hadn’t been waiting there for fifteen minutes just to see you again.

you slid into the same seat, pulling out your notebook like always. and before you could even click your pen, there he was, leaning one long arm across the desk between you.

“hey, pretty girl.” he drawled, voice lazy but eyes sharp on your face. “i’m satoru.”

you blinked at him, surprised he’d even spoken to you. “hi.”

“hi?” his grin widened. “that’s it? no ‘oh my god, you’re the satoru gojo?'” as soon as it left his mouth he internally strangled himself.

'yikes... i'm embarrassing.'

you raised an eyebrow, a little confused. "is that... not a normal reaction?”

he laughed, loud enough to draw looks from a few rows ahead. you turned back to your notebook, a slight blush of embarrassment brushing your cheeks as you fiddled with your pen.

he felt his throat close up at a lack of words to say to you, like you'd struck him so hard with your allure he couldn't bark out an insensitive comment if he tried. and just like that, he knew he was screwed.

because you weren’t impressed. not in the way everyone else was. you weren’t leaning toward him, batting your lashes, asking for his number before he even offered it. you were polite, a little cautious, maybe even amused, but not smitten.

gojo lived for attention. but yours? yours he had to earn. and for the first time, he wanted to.

after that, he stuck to you like glue.

if you were in class, he was next to you, pretending to take notes while actually doodling dumb cartoons in the margins and sliding them your way.

if you lingered in the hallway after lecture, he was suddenly at your side, cracking jokes and asking what you were doing later, and if he could tag along.

if you went to the library, somehow he was there too, sprawling across from you and loudly declaring he was there to “study” while actually distracting you until you gave in and laughed.

he followed you like a lost puppy, and everyone noticed.

the girls he used to text at 1.a.m stopped hearing from him. his name faded from gossip about who hooked up with who last weekend. even his frat brothers were suspicious, watching as the guy who used to thrive on chaos suddenly spent his time orbiting one person.

“you’re whipped,” choso muttered one night, exhaling smoke as he leaned back on the couch. the party raged around them, bass shaking the walls, but gojo wasn’t on the dance floor. he was sprawled beside choso, drink untouched, talking about you.

“not whipped,” gojo argued, though his grin betrayed him. “just… invested.”

“bro, you haven’t gotten laid in like a month.”

“so? i don’t need to. she’s different.”

“different,” choso echoed flatly, passing him the joint.

gojo didn’t even smoke it. just twirled it between his fingers, staring into the crowd like he could manifest you appearing there even though he knew you’d never set foot in a place like this.

because that was the thing, he learned quickly you weren’t a party girl. you’d wrinkle your nose when he invited you to a rager, politely decline with a smile that never felt judgmental, just firm. you told him you preferred nights in, maybe a movie or book before bed.

at first, it drove him insane. he wanted you here, pressed into his side on the couch while the music pulsed and the drinks flowed.

he wanted to show you off, parade you through the crowd like proof he’d actually caught something precious. but he also didn’t want to push you.

so instead, he stayed sober at parties, sinking into the couch with choso or nanami and rambling about you.

how your laugh had slipped out in class that day when he whispered something dumb under his breath.

how your handwriting was neat enough to frame.

how you always brought an extra granola bar and offered it to him without thinking, like kindness was your default setting.

“i wish she liked this shit,” he admitted one night, watching the door like maybe you’d magically walk through it. “like, imagine her sitting here with us. i’d never leave the couch.”

“you already never leave the couch,” choso pointed out.

“yeah, but if she was here, it’d be romantic.”

nanami groaned. “you’re insufferable.”

but none of them had ever seen gojo like this. he wasn’t chasing anyone else, wasn’t flashing his usual cocky smirk at every girl who crossed his path.

his phone, once a graveyard of unanswered texts from hookups, was now filled with half-written drafts to you. memes he wanted to send, dumb thoughts he thought might make you laugh, questions about class he didn’t actually need answers to.

and you, well, you thought he was just being friendly.

when he plopped down next to you in the cafeteria, stealing fries off your tray and launching into some dramatic story about how his friend yuji nearly set the kitchen on fire, you laughed and rolled your eyes. when he followed you to the bookstore, carrying your bag without asking and tossing commentary at every shelf you paused at, you shook your head but didn’t push him away.

"ooo, romance huh? spicy." he teased, ruffling your hair from his much taller stature.

you'd just smile in response and elbow him in the ribs before moving onto the next shelf.

when he texted you at 1.a.m with a picture of his half-finished essay and a caption like “this is actually so fucking bad. please help me?” you sent back a sleepy laughing emoji and told him you'd help him tommorow after class.

to you, he was becoming a friend. an annoying, persistent, weirdly charming friend, but a friend all the same.

to him, though, you were everything. he'd carefully made sure not to let any sort of mean comment slip, no display of rude and selfish gojo around you, that's for sure. he'd rather cut his hand off then be anything but kind to you.

two months slipped by like that. two months of him ignoring every girl who still tried to flirt with him, brushing them off with a distracted smile. two months of him waiting outside your classes just to walk you home. two months of him sitting at frat parties with choso, whining about how badly he wanted you to see him the way he saw you.

every day he grew more certain. every night he grew more restless.

because this wasn’t a fling. not anymore.

he wanted you. not for a night, not for a quick win, but for real.

and gojo satoru, the campus asshole, the frat boy slut, the guy who never before cared about someone quite as much as you, was willing to wait as long as it took for you to realize it. he was in love with you.

~

by the time the second month bled into the third, everyone around him was sick of hearing your name.

“bro, you literally said her name four times in the last five minutes,” itadori groaned, dropping his controller when gojo steamrolled him in mario kart for the fifth time straight. “i get it, she has cute handwriting. shut up.”

“you don’t understand,” gojo fired back, grinning like an idiot. “it’s not just cute, it’s like… aesthetically pleasing. symmetrical. satisfying.”

megumi sighed from the other end of the couch. “you sound insane.”

“i’m in love,” gojo corrected, then flopped backwards so his head hung off the couch, hair brushing the floor. “and none of you support me. fake friends.”

he was unbearable. everyone knew it. his frat brothers started taking bets on when he’d crack and either confess to you or combust from sheer pining. even sukuna, who usually wanted nothing to do with other people’s lives, snapped one night when gojo showed up at his door for the fifth time in a week, ranting about how you’d smiled at him in class.

“jesus christ,” sukuna growled, tossing a pillow at his face. “just ask her out already before i sew your mouth shut.”

but asking you out wasn’t that simple.

gojo had never been nervous about that kind of thing before. usually, if he wanted someone, he got them. he didn’t even have to try. one smile, one joke, and girls were climbing into his lap at parties. rejection wasn’t in his vocabulary.

but you weren’t like them.

you were careful. he noticed it in the way you took your time answering him sometimes, like you were weighing his words for hidden meaning. in the way you tilted your head when he told a story, like you were trying to figure out what was true and what was exaggeration. in the way you politely ignored the flirty comments he sometimes let slip, as if you didn’t want to encourage him.

you didn’t trust him. not fully. and why would you?

his reputation clung to him like smoke. you’d probably heard the stories, everyone had. how he slept around, how he treated people like toys, how he broke hearts without blinking. and maybe you thought you’d just be another notch in his bedpost if you gave him a chance.

the thing was, you weren’t wrong. if this had been a year ago, maybe even a few months ago, that would’ve been exactly what he wanted. but now? now he wanted something real. something terrifying for him.

he wanted you.

so for weeks, he stalled. he walked you to your cute little apartment every single day without fail, made you laugh until you covered your mouth to hide your smile, never let you carry anything, bought you coffee. he turned down girls left right and center, letting their numbers rot unread in his phone. yet he lingered on your texts, typing and deleting responses just to make sure they came out right.

but still, the words “will you go out with me” stuck like cement in his throat.

until one friday afternoon.

the two of you had stayed late in the library, your notes spread across the table while he pretended to study but really just doodled little caricatures of you on his paper. the sun dipped low through the windows, painting everything gold. you pushed your books into your bag and stretched, your sweater slipping just enough to reveal your collarbone, and gojo nearly lost his mind.

he had to do it. he couldn’t drag this out anymore.

“hey,” he blurted, voice sharper than he meant. you glanced at him, eyebrows raised, and he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly uncharacteristically awkward. “so, uh… i’ve been thinking.”

“hmm, that's dangerous,” you teased, zipping up your bag.

“ha ha. real funny. no, seriously.” he leaned forward, trying to mask how fast his heart was beating. “i really like you, y/n.”

you froze. your hands stilled on your bag, and your eyes flicked up to his. cautious. guarded.

“satoru…”

“no, wait, don’t give me that voice,” he rushed, holding up a hand. “the one that’s like ‘you’re full of shit, satoru.’ i’m not. i really really mean it.”

you sighed, and for a moment, he thought you might laugh in his face. “you have a pretty bad reputation with girls, you know.”

“yeah... i know.” his grin faltered, replaced by something rawer. “but, y/n, i swear, you're not like those stupid flings, okay? genuinely i really like you.”

you pause again, searching his eyes for any hint of deceit. "i dunno toru..."

“look... i know i was abit of, well... a whore. but please believe me. ever since i met you, y/n... i've stopped all of that shit.”

he leaned closer, voice low, almost pleading. “i haven’t touched anyone else since i met you. i don’t even look at anyone else. i think about you when i wake up, when i go to bed, every dumb second in between. i’m not good at this whole… sincerity thing, but i’m trying, because you’re worth it.”

your lips parted, surprise flickering across your face.

“please,” he added, softer now. “just one date. if i’m still the asshole everyone thinks i am, you can walk away. but give me the chance to prove i’m not.”

silence stretched between you. his palms were sweaty against the table, heart hammering so hard he swore you could hear it.

finally, you exhaled. “okay, satoru.”

his head snapped up. “wait- really?"

“yes you big dummy,” you joked, standing and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

gojo shot to his feet so fast his chair screeched against the floor. “you won’t regret this. i swear, you won’t. best date of your life, promise.”

you shook your head, but there was the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at your lips.

and just like that, he was soaring.

he walked you home that evening practically buzzing out of his skin. every step felt too small for how big the moment was. he wanted to shout it off rooftops, text everyone in his contacts, run a victory lap around campus.

instead, he saved it until he got back to the frat house.

the second he walked in, he threw his arms up like he’d just won a championship. “boys!” he bellowed, voice carrying over the tv. “she said yes!”

heads turned. groans and cheers erupted in equal measure. itadori nearly spit out his drink, megumi buried his face in his hands, and choso just muttered, “thank god” under his breath.

but gojo wasn’t done.

he bounded up the stairs two at a time and slammed open sukuna’s door. “she said yes!”

sukuna scowled from his desk, mid-study. “get out.”

“no, listen, she actually said yes! first date, it’s happening, i’m a taken man now, kiss bachelor gojo goodbye!”

a pillow hit him square in the face. “i don’t care.”

“you care a little,” gojo sang, ducking out before sukuna could throw something heavier.

then he bolted to the kitchen, where nanami was quietly making tea. he skidded in, nearly crashing into the counter, and declared, “nanamin, she said yes.”

nanami didn’t even look up. “please stop yelling.”

“you don’t get it,” gojo insisted, grabbing him by the shoulders. “this is life-changing. history in the making. i’m officially off the market.”

“congratulations,” nanami deadpanned, prying his hands off. “now leave me alone.”

but nothing could dull his grin. not the groans, not the insults, not the pillows thrown at his face. because for the first time in his ridiculous, chaotic life, satoru gojo had something real to hold onto.

and it was you.

~

the night of your first date, gojo treated it like he was gearing up for war.

not the usual frat boy “spray on half a can of cologne and call it a day” kind of prep. no, he actually cared this time. he spent a full hour in front of the mirror, changing shirts three times, arguing with himself about whether a button-up was too try-hard or if a hoodie was too lazy. nanami, who had the misfortune of walking past his room, stopped dead in the doorway and just stared.

“what are you doing,” nanami asked flatly.

“bro, i have a date, obviously."

“never seen you this stressed about getting ready for a dumb date.”

“no, you don’t get it. it’s the date. first date with y/n.”

nanami sighed so hard it sounded painful. “oh yeah. god help that poor girl.”

but underneath the jokes and chaos, gojo’s chest was tight with nerves. his hands actually shook when he tied his sneakers. when had that ever happened before? he’d walked into hookups without a single thought, breezed through flings like they were nothing. but you weren’t a fling. you were the one person he couldn’t afford to screw this up with.

he showed up right on time, knocking on your door with his heart hammering against his ribs. when you opened it, dressed prettily and glowing in a way that made him lose his breath, he forgot every dumb speech he’d rehearsed in the mirror.

“you look…” he swallowed, his usual smooth confidence tripping over itself. “holy shit. you look amazing.”

you flushed, ducking your head. “thanks, toru. you too.”

he grinned, wide and unrestrained, and offered his arm like he was escorting you to a ball instead of just dinner.

the date wasn’t extravagant. gojo debated booking some over-the-top spot, something flashy to prove he was serious. but then he remembered what you’d told him, you liked cozy, simple things. so he picked a quiet ramen place off campus, one with dim lights and big portions, where you could actually talk.

and talk you did.

at first, you were slightly guarded despite talking to him everyday for the past three months, shoulders tense, answers a tad clipped. but gojo didn’t push. he asked about your home life, your favorite everything, whether you liked digimon?

he told you dumb stories about his frat, exaggerated his way through a tale about sukuna accidentally breaking a chair with one punch, and laughed at his own jokes just to see if it would make you laugh too.

slowly, you relaxed. your smiles came easier, your laughter softer but genuine. and every time you looked at him, really looked, he felt like he was being seen in a way no one else had ever bothered to. not as campus legend, not as the asshole frat boy, just as satoru.

by the time dinner ended, you weren’t thinking about his reputation anymore. you were thinking about how he held the door for you, how he listened when you spoke, how he didn’t make a single flirty comment that felt like a game.

you were thinking maybe, just maybe, he meant it.

afterwards, he walked you home. the night air was cool, the campus quiet except for distant laughter and the hum of streetlamps. he shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to reach for yours.

“so,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “be honest. was that the worst date of your life, or just bottom three?”

you laughed, shaking your head. “yeah, it was good.”

“good?” he gasped, feigning offense. “just good? i poured my heart and soul into that top tier date.”

“finee. it was really good, satoru.”

his grin softened, and he hummed sweetly. “better.”

you stopped outside your apartment, turning to face him. for a moment, neither of you spoke. the world felt smaller, quieter, the air between you charged.

“thanks for tonight, it was really fun... i really enjoyed it, toru,” you said.

“no no, thanks for saying yes.” his voice dropped, sincerity seeping through. “seriously. i know you didn’t have to. i know what people say about me. but… i’m glad you gave me a chance.”

you hesitated, then smiled. “me too.”

gojo’s heart soared. "so... how about a second date?" he asked with a shy blush, fiddling with his fingers behind his back.

you smiled softly, and let your eyes fall to the floor before responding with a bashful laugh. "of course, i'd love that."

he wanted to kiss you, wanted it so bad his chest ached with it. but he didn’t push. instead, he stepped back with a lopsided grin. "thank god. i'll make the second one even better, y/n, promise."

for once in his life he wasn't following someone inside after a date to get what he wanted, he was taking things slow, at your pace.

“sleep well, sweetheart.”

you disappeared inside, and the second the door shut behind you, he nearly exploded.

he jogged back to the frat house like he had rockets strapped to his shoes, grinning so hard his face hurt. the second he burst through the front door, he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“she had fun! she actually had fun! i didn’t blow it!”

the guys groaned from the living room.

“we get it!” itadori yelled.

but gojo was unstoppable. he sprinted upstairs to sukuna’s room, threw the door open without knocking, and declared, “she likes me!”

“get the fuck out,” sukuna growled.

“she likes me,” gojo repeated, ignoring the death glare. “i told you i wasn’t full of shit!”

“if you don’t leave in five seconds, you won’t live to see a second date.”

gojo ducked out, laughing like a madman, and bolted straight to the kitchen. nanami was, once again, making tea.

“nanamin!” gojo sang, sliding across the tile like a kid. “she laughed at my jokes. she smiled with me. she actually said she had fun.”

“you’re very loud,” nanami muttered, not looking up.

“i’m very in love,” gojo shot back, leaning against the counter with a dreamy sigh.

nanami rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

for the rest of the night, gojo couldn’t stop. he told anyone who would listen, hell, even people who didn’t want to, that he’d taken you out, that it went well, that you’d agreed to a second date. he paced the halls at 2.a.m, still riding the high, muttering to himself about what he’d plan next time.

and for once, the frat didn’t tease him too hard. because they all saw it.

the way he lit up at the mention of you. the way his grin softened when he said your name. the way the infamous campus asshole had gone three whole months without a single hookup, without a single scandal, because he only wanted one girl.

satoru gojo, the untouchable, the heartbreaker, the menace, was finally caught.

and the truth was, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

"hmm... maybe a cat cafe next."

awe i love writing frat gojo 🤗

happy kinktober guys, i might push some work out but i need some ideas for the kinks you wanna see!

m.list 💞

The dream always begins the same.

You're switching between attendees, twirling into suited men's arms, only to be handed off to elegantly dressed women, the length of their sparkly gowns catching on glassy heels. The opulent ballroom, with its vaulted fresco ceilings and marbled floors, sparkles beneath the light of diamond chandeliers dangling above your tilted head.

Without fail, you trip into a large man's chest, his gloved hand clasping your waist right before you fall. You only see half of his dazzling smile before the world transforms, a thousand stars bursting in your vision as he dips you down, holding you closely, carefully as though your skin were made of precious jewels. It is through the gentleness of a faceless man's fingers that you realize you haven't once, throughout the entire night, cracked a grin.

Cue the indicative signs: an explosive warmth blossoming in your chest, a blinding smile stretching across your lips, and suddenly, with debilitating intensity, a feeling like you are, for once, truly free.

You never get a chance to fully discern your feelings, not before the floor trembles, the dancers dissolving into darkness. The shadows circle around your ankles, gnarled faces clawing their way up your calves—terror coils underneath your ribs, pulling you apart from the inside out.

Hopelessly, desperately, you search for the man's solace, fingers tugging at the sleeves around his shoulders, and somehow, in the chaos of your actions, you find yourself settling the pad of your thumb just under his jawline. He doesn't pull away, God, you wish he did—the shadows don't give you enough time to process the consequences of your actions before they go for his throat instead.

They snare him by the jugular, wrenching him out of your grasp, slamming his back into the wall hard enough to make him crumple. The darkness blankets his limp figure, falling over his shattered spine.

Anguish tears through your chest, ripping out of your throat in the form of a guttural scream. You try to chase him—you always do, you never learn—you don't get two steps forward before the cherub fresco drips off the ceiling, reverting back to its original form.

Blood.

Angels weep crimson tears; deep red rivulets that crystallize into claws over fractured ceilings. You should have known your freedom was ill-fated from the beginning—thick, heavy blood slithers down your throat, coating the pads of your fingertips with the manifestation of a curse.

You never feel it. The sickening crack of your heart tearing from your ribs, struck straight through a fresco's crimson claw. They assure that the next time you look at the man, it will be your last.

So you remain, paralyzed in clouds of umbra, until you gather enough strength to lift your neck. Until your eyes find his crumpled body, overturned and limp.

Who is he? You're left to wonder. Why can I never see his face?

You never find the rest of the man's face. 

It is far too covered in your blood.

“Aim for the jaw!” A voice calls out from outside the ring, though it’s echoed in the dark, empty room.

A fist flies past your face. You dodge it, swiveling on a heel and kicking your opponent straight in the jaw.

He stumbles, slamming against the ground with a sickening crack, blood trickling from his lips. Yeah, he was definitely down for the count.

You hang off the ring ropes, a single brow lifted. “You done?”

He narrows his eyes, red painting his scowl. “What the fuck do you think?”

You let out a chuckle, tossing him a towel, which only deepens both your laugh and his scowl when it smacks him straight in the face. He spits into the fabric. “You didn’t have to kick me that hard.”

“You’re right, I didn’t—” you slip from the boxing ring before squirting some water in your mouth. You wipe off the excess, a shit-eating grin on your lips when you wink, “—But where’s the fun in that?”

He rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch up—just slightly.

You’ve worked with him for three days short of two months, and in this time, you’ve gathered more than enough information on him. He’s practically harmless, figuring he’s a simple drug runner, and as a testament to his loyalty under your father, offered to aid in your training. He’s twenty-five, no kids or wife, with a strong jaw and cropped black hair. He has surprisingly strong punches, and his name is Alejandro Gomez, though he doesn’t know you’ve figured that out.

It’s a gift to know somebody's name. It’s a sign of trust, of loyalty, an unsaid promise that, if things go south, I won’t snitch.

Names are also a means for leverage.

You still don’t know your father's real name.

You’re in the middle of going over your performance with your instructor, Ji-yoo, when suddenly someone taps you on the shoulder and whispers something into your ear. “You’re needed in the study.”

Diego, you’ve grown familiar with his voice. He’s been your father’s bodyguard for years. He straightens, folding his hands behind his back and settling them atop his thick utility belt, his gaze set forward. You look up, brows furrowed. He gives you a small, clueless shrug.

“Right,” you mutter, annoyed, gathering your belongings and bidding your tutor a final goodbye. Diego doesn’t ever know anything; he simply does what he’s told. He opens the door for you and escorts you all the way to your father’s study.

“Come in,” A voice commands, following the rap of the bodyguards' knuckles. The sun breaks through a large skylight above him, casting a youthful glow across his otherwise opaque expression, hands folded atop his desk. He didn’t seem agitated, and you’ve been following orders, so you’re drawing a blank for what this meeting could be about. Diego pulls the double doors shut, taking his post outside.

It wasn’t often that he met with you, and you understood why; he’s a busy man, business and whatnot. Sure, he didn’t always have time for things like family dinners. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. He did, contrary to popular belief. He protected you, providing you with as many tutors and Jiu Jitsu instructors as you needed. It was hard—hours and hours of constant training, but if that’s what it took to survive a world this dangerous, this cruel, then you were lucky to have a father like him watching over you. 

“You needed me?”

“Sit down, Mija,” He doesn’t betray anything in his calm, leveled tone, extending a hand out to the velvet chair in front of him. You obey. Mija—a Spanish term of endearment meaning “my daughter”—reveals both his thick accent and Mexican heritage. He’s been calling you that for as long as you can remember.

“I’m not going to be here forever, you know.” That catches you off guard, “And one day, you’re going to need to take over my empire.”

You squirm, whispering, “I know.”

“You’ve proven yourself more than capable over these past few years.” His lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, but you notice it. It’s such a rare sight, it makes pride firework in your chest. “I’m proud of you.”

A smile threatens to split your face in two, but you bite it back, opting for a curt nod. “I appreciate it.

He doesn’t respond; instead, he places a single hand on your shoulder. The air shifts, something catching behind his eyes, a bit hesitant, but still deliberate when he finally says, “You deserve a more significant role, I’ve seen everything you can do, everything you’ve achieved.” This time it’s impossible to keep the grin off your cheeks, that is, until he finishes, “That’s why I’ve decided to send you to Korea.”

All good, fuzzy feelings screech to a deafening halt.

“Korea?” Suddenly, it feels like somebody's tossed you into the ice-cold Atlantic, duct-taped and wriggling.

A pause, and then he’s retracting his hand, giving a quick, dismissive wave. “We’ve run into some issues in Seoul. A loose end, if you will. It’s nothing we can’t handle, of course, but it’s never a loss to be cautious. It’s going to be an easy fix, I’m sure.”

“A fix? What am I fixing?” That makes him laugh, dark and humorless.

“You won’t be fixing anything. You will be finding the loose end, whoever that may be, and well, I’ll deal with all the rest.” There’s something sinister with the way he says that, a tone that sits in the pit of your gut like rotten milk. You know exactly what he does to loose ends.

“I need eyes on the inside, somebody smart, loyal, somebody I can trust. That somebody is you, Mija. It’s always been you.” It’s the first time since you’ve seen him that you aren’t looking into his eyes, chewing on your bottom lip. You shouldn’t be this unsure. It was all wrong; he is right. You were loyal. You deserved this role.

Then, why were you hesitating?

Something in your expression must betray your inner conflict because he’s cocking his head and purring, “What, do you not think you can handle it?”

You stay silent.

He sighs, giving a curt, disappointed shake of his head. “I thought you were ready, but if you don’t think you can handle it—”

“No!” You blurt out before those pesky thoughts can stop you. “No, you’re right. I’m ready, I can handle it.”

He nods, something flickering in his eyes. “I’ve already arranged everything. It won’t be a safe mission, but with Felix, you will be.”

Felix? He doesn’t give you enough time to wonder. He leans forward, pressing the sleek intercom button, “Diego, let Felix in.”

The double doors part, and a large black boot plants itself on the ground. A second later, the single most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life glides into the room, and your lips part.

He’s not the biggest man you’ve seen, but he makes up for that with muscle, packed underneath that tight, black uniform. He appears young, with delicate, pink lips and golden hair that falls just above his shoulders, slicked back with a few strands hanging over his forehead. A swarm of butterflies erupts in your stomach, much to your demise.

It doesn’t click quite yet, the role Felix plays, because all you can imagine is how nice it’s going to be sleeping next to him. And then, “Y/N, meet Felix—your new bodyguard.”

The butterflies die, burn, and drop into the pit of your stomach in a messy, blood-stained soup. You stiffen, out of all the recent revelations, this one makes you feel like you were going to die.

“Hello,” he says, respectfully bowing his head in greeting. He startles you with his deep voice, warm and accented. ”It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He smiles, soft and disarming in its kindness, for a second, you’re more terrified than anything, not of him, but for him. As quickly as it came, you stuff it deep inside of you, replacing it with a cold indifference. “You really think this is necessary? I mean, I haven’t had one of those since…” You can’t bear to say it, the mere memory makes a thick lump form in your throat.

He sighs, extending an arm out and grabbing a bottle of whiskey from his shelf, a cherry, and a cup. His lips form a hard line, voice lowering. “If you don’t make the same mistakes, you don’t have anything to worry about.” He lifts a sharp, polished blade from his pocket, gaze never wavering as he slices into the fruit. It bleeds into the crystal glass, red liquid staining his tanned fingers. “This time will be different. Correct?”

Slowly, the juice drips across the blade until it reaches the hilt. You swallow, breath slowing to a stop. He’s right—

You won’t make the same mistake again.

You meet his gaze, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”

He seems pleased by that answer.

“You will be briefed on the plane,” your father says, tipping the liquid into his mouth. “For now, rest. I will send you a car tomorrow morning at eight. Felix, make sure she is ready by then.”

“You will be briefed on the plane,” your father says, reaching behind him and grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He pours it into a crystal glass, tipping it into his mouth. “For now, rest. I will send you a car tomorrow morning at ten. Felix, make sure she is ready by then.”

Felix gives him a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

You’re scooting back before a cold, wet blade lands against your jaw. It smells like whiskey and blood. His voice drops to a whisper, shifting until it’s only you and him in the room.

“We’re family, Mija.” He tilts your chin up, and for a second, it feels like you’re looking at yourself. “There’s not a love stronger than that, and right now your family needs you. You wouldn’t wanna mess that up, would you?”

The mere idea makes goosebumps prickle up your arms. “No, of course not.”

He smiles, and for once, it actually reaches his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

Felix doesn’t dare look at you as you walk through the doors, sealing your fate.

You are so fucked.

“You’re not sleeping on the bed,” is the first thing you say when you walk into your bedroom, swiveling around.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” For whatever reason, you expected him to pick some kind of fight, comment on your pettiness, send you an eye-roll—something. But no, he’s utterly indifferent, leaning against the edge of your dresser and pulling off his velcroed gloves with a satisfying rip. Frustration bites underneath your eyelids.

You could really use a drink right now.

At that, you shoo him away from your dresser—also a secret mini bar—earning you a confused side-eye, before moving out of the way. You pull open a drawer, coming face-to-face with rows of glistening alcohol bottles. Felix sends you a mildly horrified look. “Are you of legal age to be drinking—”

“Are you of legal age to be working?” You smile, popping the lid off a whiskey bottle and drowning two shots’ worth of liquor down your throat.

“Hilarious.” He deadpans.

A cocky tilt of your head. “Most people think so.”

Silence.

With a small sigh, you collapse onto the bed, thick sheets ruffling underneath you as you take this valuable time and observe your new bodyguard. His gaze clouds as you take another sip of whiskey, a small divot forming in his forehead as momentarily, his movements stutter. He doesn’t seem to be a terrible person, per se. But that didn’t matter; the tension still clamped around your ribs all the same.

After a few more minutes of mindless studying, the alcohol finally hits your system, muscles loosening and anxiety floating up from your lopsided grin. This is the part you loved the most about being drunk, getting tipsy.

Felix must have noticed your drunken smile because no sooner do you express joy is he extending out a hand and crushing it. “I think that’s enough.”

“The blankets are in the hall closet. You can have this—” you ignore him, turning around to snatch a pillow from your bed and catapult it at his face. He catches it with a tick in his jaw and a single raised brow. That is a lot hotter than you are willing to admit. With a flustered cough, you continue. “Make your bed wherever, I don’t really care. I’m going to bed.” You punctuate your sentence with a final swig, but Felix gently wraps his fingers around your jaw, lifting your chin before the lips can touch the rim.

“I think that’s enough.” He repeats in that wicked deep voice of his, a flicker of warning in his gaze. Your heart does an elaborate salsa dance all the way to your throat. Oh, you were far too drunk for this.

You shakily hand the bottle to him.

With that, he smiles, dropping your face and locking up the bottle before turning back to you, innocently asking, “Where’d you say the blankets were, again?”

Your heart still hasn’t finished its lessons in salsa when you breathe, “In the closet.”

He nods before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. You fall back against your mattress with a heavy, heavy breath. Was this what it was going to be like for the rest of your time together? Him demanding things from you in that sick, twisted voice of his. It’s unfair! He sounds like panties dropping! You literally can’t do this. Nope. Nada. Not happening. If he was going to order you around like you weren’t a full grown adult then he could at least be considerate and not sound like a bad (good) porno!! All that anxiety and pent-up energy comes out in the form of a frustrated cry, turning into your pillow and pummeling your fists into it like the mature adult you were.

Felix comes back in mid-throw, which, with your super-amazing reflexes, you still immediately, clearing your throat and taking said pillow in your hands to pretend to fluff it out.

He stops mid-step, letting out an amused laugh before tossing his blankets onto the ground. “Do I wanna know?”

Your cheeks flush dark red. “Do you wanna sleep in the hallway?”

He lifts his hands in a playful, placating stance before continuing to set up his makeshift bed. When he’s finished, you’ve already settled in, covers thrown over your shoulders. Bedsheets rustle as he turns, politely tapping your mattress. With an annoyed huff, you mutter, “What?”

It takes him a beat to respond. Though when he does, his soft, kind voice disarms you. “Goodnight.”

You don’t have it in you to respond.

The dream always begins the same.

It always ends the same, too.

Blood.

You awaken with a shout, jerking off your sweat-soaked mattress to grasp at your intact T-shirt. It’s only then, when you take a deep breath with your full, working lungs, that your heart takes the hint.

You’re alive.

The dull sound of a body shifting makes your nerves fire all over again, spine stiffening as you swivel around on your mattress in search of the sound. Blonde.

Felix.

He’s sleeping, lashes splayed across pale cheeks in such a way that he almost appears ethereal. Delicate. Mortal.

That’s when you’re hit with cold, sharp reality—a feeling that coils around you and pierces that sensitive spot inside your chest, forever bruised by your own consequences.

You can’t be here right now.

It hasn’t been more than four hours, so naturally, you’re still drunk. Vision swaying as you swing your legs off the bed and tiptoe out of the room, peeking back to find a still, hopefully sleeping, Felix.

Thankfully, the more you awaken, the more bubbly you feel, slipping back into the carefree, tipsy version of yourself. The house is silent and dark, hallways solely illuminated by dim, gilded lamps. They provide drops of light, sneaking further and further down the large, spiral staircase.

You have a single foot on the stairs when suddenly, a deep, raspy voice appears from thin air, startling you straight out of your skin. “Late night snack?”

You let out a high-pitched yelp, swiveling around to throat punch the intruder. Though you weren’t going far because the quick movement is enough to make you dizzy. Warm hands clasp over your shoulders, steadying you before you nosedive down the stairs.

That’s when you see him—those bright, innocent eyes and golden hair that seems to glow in the moonlight. For a second, you’re under a spell. He’s like really pretty.

Then you remember who he is.

“Your dad doesn’t like it when you’re out past 10.” He glances at his watch. “It’s 1:44 a.m.”

Good feelings gone.

“Are you just everywhere?” You grumble, fighting the slur that tangles on your tongue.

“Please, come back to bed. You’re going to be tired in the morning.” Felix says, restrained frustration stretching his voice thin.

Should you listen to him? Yeah, probably. Were you going to? Hell no.

So, like the mature adult you are, you stomp down the hallway in your fuzzy, pink, Hello-Kitty slippers.

Felix doesn’t bother trying to stop you, his sharp eyes trailing you as you continue this petulant temper tantrum. “Where are you going?”

Emotion wells up in your throat when you notice the exhaustion rasping his voice. For a split second, your movements stutter. This is ridiculous, you were fully aware of that, but you’re too stubborn to quit now. If he’s going to accompany you for the next…forever, he’s going to get the whole Y/N L/N package. Maybe, then it’ll all click.

He doesn’t belong here.

You’re stumbling nowhere, you can’t run away from him anyway, figuratively and literally. The turn you took leads to a dead end. You still walk anyway. “Not to Korea with you, that’s for sure!”

“Oh, what is your problem??” He retorts through gritted teeth, his exasperation only growing when you turn around and stick your tongue out. He sucks on his teeth, his own tongue pressed into his cheek. “Y’know what—”

It takes him three strides to catch up with you, two hands clasping over your hips, and a single movement for the carpet to be on the ceiling. You cry out, his shoulder digging into your stomach as he wraps his forearm around the backs of your knees. He can’t be serious. How dare he, manhandling you like this! You were ready to go full Jiu Jitsu on his ass, that is until something much more enticing catches your attention. His actual ass.

The realization dawns on you with a hiccup.

“Y’know I can’t be too mad at’cha, man, I do have an excellent view from down here.” The liquor must have rushed to your head because you feel a dire need to make Felix aware of his fabulous buttocks. Drunken giggles bubble up from your lips as you take in his ass in all its plump, round goodness. “Hey Felix, has anybody ever told you, you have a great butt?” You land a firm smack against it.

His back grows rigid, muscles rippling under your touch before he awkwardly clears his throat and pushes the bedroom door open.

“Okay, down you go.” His voice is tight, matching his movements as he cradles the back of your head and lays you on the mattress.

You expect him to respond with an irritated glare and a snide comment, but he doesn’t say anything; in fact, he doesn’t look at you at all. The darkness shadows his face, but when he steps into the moonlight, you see it. The red creeping across his cheeks.

You can’t stop the laughter that bursts from your throat. It’s not actually that funny, but right now, with how drunk you are—it’s the funniest shit you’ve ever witnessed. Felix’s face is painted in horror.

He’s blushing harder now, cherry creeping up his neck and staining the tips of his ears. “What? What’s so funny?!”

You’re writhing on the sheets, clutching your stomach as you gasp for breath. “Y-Your face is soooo red!”

Your comment does nothing to help his embarrassment.

His expression does nothing to help your laughter.

“Go to bed.” He demands, begrudgingly ducking into the makeshift ground-bed and throwing the covers over his face.

“I am going to have so much fun with you.” You giggle, tapping the crown of his covered head.

“Goodnight.” He huffs, defeated and muffled underneath the sheets. He hasn’t even been here a day and he’s already done with you.

You let out one final snicker before drifting back to sleep.

Santiago Reyes.

He’s the string that unraveled it all.

Who pulled it? That’s what’s important here.

You still haven’t figured it out.

Now, you’re down twelve hours on a private jet, six coffees, three grueling conversations with Felix—one of those being when he woke you up late, on purpose. That little prick. You’re still not over that. Two hangover-proof Tylonals, and one impending conversation with Minho.

Which brings you here, drowning in the sound of a ringing phone, impatiently waiting for him to answer.

Minho is your father's assistant…kind of. He’s pretty much a built in archivist, hacker, account, therapist, handyman and soon-to-be drinking buddy. If he would actually take up your offer. But alas, he likes the prospect of rotting away in a basement better than taking shots with you.

He’s probably got the right idea, but still. Ouch.

The phone picks up.

You let an audible, revealed sigh. “Oh, just the man—”

Minho blurts, “Yes, sir, she’s on the line.” before you can finish, a panicked tilt in his voice. Which is his way of saying “please, for the love of everything holy, don’t get me fired.”

“Y/N, are you there?” Your brows touch your hairline when you hear your father's voice filt through the speaker. You’ve spoken more to your father in the past 36 hours than you have in the past 36 days. Most conversations were translated through Minho, not with Minho. So, in conclusion, this is a trip.

“Yes…I’m here?”

“Good. Have you looked through the files yet?” He’s wasting no time, you see.

It takes a solid ten seconds to slam back down to earth, tongue dry and heavy as you blurt, “Oh, yeah! Yeah, I’ve looked through them! Um, gotten to all of them…specifically the Santiago file. That one has caught most of my interest.”

Minho speaks up, talking like the walking Wikipedia page he is: “Santiago Reyes, age 34 was the first to go missing, he disappeared June 14th 2020. He was last seen fleeing your hotel in California—Thanatos Tower. He both lived and operated there, often holding extravagant business parties there. The hotel was raided by the FBI 8 hours later.”

That catches you by surprise. The file never said anything about FBI. “The FBI raided one of our hotels? How did that happen?”

Your father's wrath is ill contained when he mutters, “That’s a good question. Thankfully, they didn’t find anything important. If they did we would’ve been rotting in prison years ago.”

Felix perks up, lifting his nose from his book and not-so-subtly eavesdrops.

“If everything started in LA, why are you sending me to Korea?” You ask softly, mindlessly flipping through the files again.

“Are you sure you read the files yet?” Your father scoffs, diminishingly.

Thankfully, he can’t see you because the way your cheeks turn bright red is downright pathetic. “Yeah, of course I did…I was just confused…sorry.”

Minho, being the God-send he is, quickly interjects. “Santiago is important, yes. But, most, or well, I should say, all, the other members were busted in Korea. Hence you being sent to Korea and not LA. I don’t believe these two cases are connected.”

“It wasn’t in his file, but I’m going to assume Santiago got busted as well.”

There’s silence on the other end. It stretches suspiciously long.

“Santiago is MIA.” Minho finally breaks the silence.

Felix makes a face. You glare at him. His eyes go wide, and he ducks back behind his book.

“Santiago is MIA? His home was raided by the FBI, but we don’t know where he is?”

More silence.

“Well…we have a theory...” Minho states awkwardly.

“Minho has a theory.” Your father interrupts.

“I think he’s dead.” Minho corrects, clearly trying to control his temper.

“I think he’s in prison. A secure facility, and due to the nature of his crimes and ties to the Mafia, his records are confidential. The other seventeen missing people were found in prison.” A clink is heard on the other end. Your father was definitely making himself a drink.

Wait. Eighteen.

You stack the manila folders up, counting and recounting before hesitantly saying, “I only have seven folders here.”

Felix, sitting across from you, tosses you a folder that magically fell into his lap. “Eight.” He whispers, looking guilty as hell.

You send him a deadly glare. “Eight.”

“Minho was only able to recover eight files before the KNPA found his leak; thankfully, he was able to erase his tracks before they could trace him.”

“So, we’re missing like half of the files?” You sigh, defeated and annoyed.

Minho grunts from the other end. “It’s better than nothing.”

“The rest, they’re just guessing games? How do you even know that—”

“Mija.” Your father's assertive tone seals your lips shut and forces you back on track.

“Here, it says: video evidence.” They can’t see you, but you still point at the file with your pen anyway. “What video evidence?”

“See, this is where it starts to get messy—” Minho starts.

“Like it wasn’t already messy.” You mutter under your breath. Felix breathes out a quiet laugh.

“All eighteen people are currently being held with video evidence. Though it never actually says what kind of video that is.”

“There’s nothing useful in these files. It’s just a whole bunch of basic information and vague terms.” You mutter frustrated, slamming the folders back onto the table. “We’re chasing a damn ghost.”

“That’s where I want you to start.” Your father speaks up, “Look into the evidence, see what they have against us. Once we know what they’ve got, we’ll know who gave it to them. I’ll be in touch.” Only you can hear the silent goodbye. “Minho, finish this off.” The line drops.

You both let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

It’s easy to talk to Minho, but around your father, it’s like doing ballet around broken glass.

You don’t waste any time, bidding your goodbyes and hanging up the call. Your plan was to open your computer and spend the next two hours digging into the evidence before landing. But you didn’t even get to your private server before the sound of Felix’s raspy voice interrupts you mid-click. He sinks into the seat beside you, now holding a mug of fresh coffee. “Y’know, I never caught your name.”

His statement sends ice-cold annoyance rushing through your body. Your shoulders stiffen. “Good.”

He stills mid-sip of his coffee, and you can already imagine the divit forming in his brow. “You don’t…want me to know your name?”

“You don’t need to know it.” You mutter bitterly, hoping he’ll finally take the hint, but no, of course he doesn’t.

His eyes burn into the side of your head. “What do you want me to call you then?”

Your voice is flat. “I’d rather you don’t talk to me at all.”

There’s a pause. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he lets out a loud, exasperated snort, setting his cup into the holder and leaning back. His thighs spread apart, wide.

“Alright, princess.” The word slides off his tongue so easily, his voice dipping sinfully deep. Your brain quite literally buffers. Your fingers slip on the keyboard, and the computer flashes before darkening.

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. No. He is not going to do this to you. And you are not going to get flustered because some guy in a suit and a sexy voice calls you a pet name. You hate it. Actually, it’s demeaning, mocking, if anything. You do not like him calling you that.

It takes you a solid ten seconds to convince yourself of that fact.

“Don’t call me that.” You bite and pray he doesn’t hear the wobble in your voice.

His lips twitch. “Then tell me your name.”

You squint at him and really think about it.

Theoretically, you could tell him your name. He probably already knows it, anyway. But this is Felix we’re talking about. The same man who woke you up an hour late and robbed you of your morning scone.

“No.” You say, stubbornly.

“Then, it’s settled, princess.” He smirks lazily. Your bodyguard is going to need a bodyguard if he doesn’t shut up in the next two seconds. Of course, he continues. “I overheard your conversation—”

“You mean eavesdropped?” You smile.

He chuckles, shaking his head at your pettiness. “Yeah, something like that.”

You let out a snort yourself, refreshing your computer screen. It buzzes and flashes white. You switch to the embedded private browser that Minho installed.

“You need working theories. Do you have any?” Felix finishes, scooting closer to you.

You stiffen.

The answer is no. You have no working theories.

Felix must sense your hesitation because he scoots closer, voice softening. “I can help, y’know…”

“I don’t need your help.” You snap a little too harshly.

Felix nods, scooting back to give you more space. “You’re right. You don’t need my help,” He pauses, and his voice lowers into something warmer, more patient. “But I want to help you. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes.”

Being the daughter of a Mafia boss came with its own set of challenges, but there’s one that’s been tattooed into you since birth. The unabiding ideology that, simply because you are a woman, you’re expected to fail. People talked down to you, not directly. And never to your face.

But you noticed it in the subtext, reading between the lines just like your father taught you. They weren’t trying to help you.

They were trying to do what they thought you couldn’t.

And, just like they expect you to fail. You expect him to be just like all the others. It’s unfair. You realize that now.

He speaks with so much earnestness that something inside you softens. Guilt gnaws at your stomach as you bite your bottom lip.

He’s right. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes.

“Fine.” You sigh, sliding him the stack of files. His lips curve, and his eyes crinkle into little crescent moons.

He eagerly snatches the files. “You won’t regret it, I swear!”

“I better not.”

“What’s a ‘Discord?”

Felix peeks up from the home he’s made of mugshots and manila folders across from you. “Discord?”

You nod, cursor hovering over said link. It’s been a little over an hour now, and within that time—you haven’t actually found anything useful out—but you did discover an interesting website called Tumblr and now Discord. The power of the internet.

Felix’s brow crinkles, and he waddles out of the delicate paper trail he’s made to lean over your shoulder, eyes flicking across your computer before pulling away. “Oh yeah, Discord. It’s like a website for talking or whatever. A lot of gamers use it.”

Your brows shoot up. “Would avid podcast listeners use it?”

You’ve been grasping at straws at this point. You jumped from a few useless news articles covering the case—which pretty much just included information you already had—to some more personal blogs and external resources before finally discovering something minutely useful. A user under the name @spencerreidsslut (valid) wrote something about a Case Files episode covering the case. Which brings you here, talking to Felix and pondering clicking this suspicious link.

He cocks his head and clicks his tongue. “Theoretically, I guess they could. I don’t really know, though. I’ve only ever used it for gaming.”

You almost brush past it, but then it hits you.

You jerk your neck up. “You gamhjue?”

Felix’s eyes widen before he awkwardly clears his throat, a bashful blush flooding his cheeks. “Um, yeah…I do…”

You snicker, tapping the link. “Why am I not surprised?”

His blush deepens, and he shoots you an annoyed look. “Oh, be quiet.”

You were going to retort, but then the page loads. Lines of colorful messages pop up, most of them were small talk among friends and conversation about other episodes, until you reach around the time Ki-yoo, the first missing person, was arrested.

You scroll some more through people berateing Ki-yoo, some questionable jokes before something catches your eye.

You stop reading right there.

“Hey, Felix, I think I found something.” Wordlessly, he walks over to you, leaning over your shoulder once more. His eyes widen.

Without thinking, you click the link.

It feels like a lifetime of loading and shared panicked breaths as you imagine the amount of trouble you’d be in for allowing somebody to hack your computer before the screen fills with red.

A single pulsing triangle. You’ve been taken to Twitter. There’s nothing on the page. No comments. No likes. No retweets. Only a video.

Felix presses play for you, and nobody could have prepared you for the scene that unfolds before you.

Your blood freezes in your veins.

Ki-yoos in front of a camera. He scoots into a chair, hair looking sweat-caked and disheveled. He parts his lips, and your spine turns to stone because Ki-yoo didn’t get busted.

He turned himself in.

OMFG GUYS I DID IT!!! like 9 months later ive finally finished it...