»You've spent years avoiding the boy who unnerves you, the one who looks just like your best friend. Until you can't anymore.«
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TAGS: best friend's brother, undertones of enemies to lovers but it's more like "avoiding each other to lovers" LMAO, penetrative sex, possessive breeding kink, sneaking around (platonic), sneaking around (not platonic), suna rintarou cock blocking what could have been the most amazing car sex
a/n: i need everyone to lock in please. lock in for possessive breeding kink miya osamu who's kind of a little shit. lock in please. and thank you so much to the person who commissioned this!! this was a crazy ride from start to finish LMAO
[commission honee here!]
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Miya Osamu’s eyes have always scared you.
Atsumu’s can be the same at times – cold, detached, empty of emotion. But it’s rare, that threatening quiet in his face reserved for volleyball or a moment of true anger.
But Osamu’s eyes are always like that. Always cold, always empty. Always unreadable.
It’s the very first thing you notice, on your very first day of school. The twin brothers standing together at the welcome assembly – one excited and rambling about something unheard, the other hovering passively beside him. One with eyes full of light, the other with eyes devoid of everything, both lost in a bubble entirely theirs while their parents talk to one of the teachers.
It’s those eyes – empty, not full – that find you first, on a quick pass of the room.
You look away quickly, returning your attention to your mother, who still has your little hand in hers. After a moment, you glance at him again, wondering if he’d really, truly caught you looking.
His eyes are still on you. Staring, watching. Empty.
His brother nudges him for something then, and he finally pulls his eyes away.
Your little brain holds the memory of those eyes for the rest of the morning, something about it really bugging you.
It’s entirely bad luck that you’re assigned to the same class as those twin brothers – the Miya twins, you learn. It’s even worse luck that Miya Atsumu is a boy you’ll come to adore very quickly, your personalities aligning perfectly in a way that could only be truly cosmic bad luck.
Such universally tragic luck that your best friend’s eyes are the very same that’ll haunt you in your dreams, through elementary school into middle and high school.
A friendship with Miya Atsumu means, by default, a life spent in orbit with his brother.
A boy who, on all counts, is just a quiet kid, seemingly an introvert. A boy who puts in only the necessary energy to play alongside his brother on the Inarizaki Boys’ Volleyball team, a boy whose temper could only ever be drawn out by his brother. A boy who’s harmless to everyone, including you.
But that boy is the same boy you feel watching you when you aren’t looking.
The same boy who sits on his bed while you and Atsumu do work on the floor and crack jokes. Scrolling on his phone and only contributing when directly addressed, his eyes finding the side of your face over the top of his phone.
The same boy who simply stares on the rare occasion that you find his eyes, too – accidentally bumping into him around corners or finding yourself alone with him in the Miya household for just a moment.
He never looks away first in those moments, and you begin to realize – far too many years too late – that he enjoys it, making you look away first, especially as you grow up. That the little smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips – his eyes never changing, no matter what emotion is on the rest of his face – is his way of telling you he’d won. That your inevitable break of eye contact is you admitting defeat to him, that he will always have the upper hand.
You only begin to dislike Miya Osamu in college, when you watch as he makes friends with ease. That the emptiness in his eyes is not a deterrent to the rest of the world, because he always makes sure to smile and joke and agree to hang out. That the emptiness you see is not, in fact, a lack of emotion.
That, instead, it’s your inability to read the emotion that is there. And that Miya Osamu will go out of his way to make it harder for you, that you’re the only person he’ll continue to show nothing to.
You make the reckless choice a few months into college to confront him. You find him alone, in the apartment he shares with his brother, on a day when you’d thought Atsumu would be there.
“He’s not here.” Osamu greets you with that and nothing else.
You blink in surprise, still caught off guard that it wasn’t your bright, blond friend who had answered the door.
Osamu starts to close it, but you jam your foot in his way at the last second, uncharacteristically annoyed.
“What’s your problem with me?” you ask, preparing for anything and everything. Preparing for him to tell you he finds you insufferable, that he’s tired of you always being around.
But he just looks you over, brows lifting over those empty eyes as he consider your question.
“I don’t have a problem with you,” he says plainly, offering no further explanation. You grow more upset at that.
“Then why do you always look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you dislike me.”
“I don’t dislike you, Y/n.”
It’s the first time he says your name. It catches you off guard.
“T-Then-” you stutter, the sound of your own name said in Miya Osamu’s voice bouncing around your head and making it hard to think. “Why are we not friends?”
He blinks and furrows a brow, and it’s the first time he ever shows you an emotion. “Because you don’t like me…?”
“What?” You stare up at him. “Of course I do.”
Those empty eyes fill with disbelief – it’s relieving, knowing you actually are capable of reading him sometimes.
“No, you don’t. You just stare, and stare-” He smirks. “-and stare and stare and stare and stare. I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”
“Well-” You flush angrily. “It’s really hard to have a conversation with you when this is the only look you’ve ever given me!” You point at those eyes, empty again. He lifts his brows.
“What look?”
“That one! The look of nothingness. The look that’s empty of… any-” You cough, embarrassed. “-of any looks.”
His eyes don’t change when he smiles mockingly down at you. “The look of nothingness that’s empty of any looks. Got it," he says with a solemn nod. “Very insightful.”
You properly dislike him then – standing in the stairwell of his apartment building, humiliating yourself while he makes fun of you. You nearly hate him.
You leave without another word, hearing as he chuckles to himself and closes the door.
It takes over a year to have another proper conversation with him. In that time, you’d shifted from staring in discomfort at him to glaring and looking away every time he’d make eye contact.
But the era of disliking Miya Osamu ends with a single conversation, initiated late one night during the summer before your third year.
[11:21 PM]
Miya Osamu: i dont hate you
Miya Osamu: my face is just like that
You stare down at your phone, unseeing. It’s the first time he’s ever texted you.
You: what?
Miya Osamu: the look of nothingness is just my face
Miya Osamu: i dont dislike you
You: you make other faces with other people
You: ive seen a non-nothingness look before
You: but never with me.
He calls you. You reject it on pure instinct.
Miya Osamu: you did not just reject my call
You: it was fight or flight
Miya Osamu: ???????
He calls again. You pick up that time.
“Hello…?”
“Fight or flight. Really?”
“Yes,” you say, already getting annoyed. “And it’s telling me to hang up on you at my earliest convenience.”
“Jesus, okay. Will you give me five minutes?”
“Will you make fun of me?”
“Probably.” He laughs then, because you sigh in exasperation. You’d heard that laugh before, of course, with other people. But having it directed at you is new, unfamiliar. “I’m just trying to convince you that I don’t hate you. My face really is just like that.”
“Everyone else thinks you’re some wonderful, peaceful version of Atsumu,” you argue. “All our friends think you’re the cool brother and that Atsumu’s the chaotic, crazy one.”
“I mean. That’s not exactly a lie.”
“Then how come I’ve never gotten that sense from you?” You want to scream it from the top of your lungs, but you don’t want to wake your roommate, a wonderfully crazy blonde named Tanaka Saeko.
“I don’t know, Y/n. You’ve always been weird around me.”
“Because you’re weird,” you say without thinking.
“... Thanks?”
“No, I-” You sigh. “I’m just frustrated. Why have you always been so cold to me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I haven’t been. My face is just like that.”
You roll your eyes. “But only with me.”
“Yes. And Tsumu.” When you say nothing, trying to figure out what that means, he laughs in your ear. “You think I don’t know what my face looks like to other people?”
You swallow hard. “You’ve been emoting for everyone else’s benefit?”
“Smartest thing you’ve said all night.”
You ignore it, just picking at a piece of lint on your pants while you think of what to say. “Then why didn’t you do it with me?”
“Because you were always at my fucking house, Y/n. I can’t keep it up 24/7.” He makes a fair point. “And you’d already hated me for whatever reason.”
“I didn’t hate you back then. And only a little bit nowadays.”
“Right. That’s helpful.”
“I’m just-” you start, but he cuts you off.
“Look. It was obvious that I was never the reason you were around, anyway. That’s fine – that’s usually the case. But then why would I fix my face for you? That’s tiring.”
You sit with that for a moment, a bit stunned at his admission. “What? I would have wanted to be your friend.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.” He sighs, clearly tired. “You’ve always looked at me different.”
You say nothing, knowing he’s right. You’d always avoided him, afraid of being perceived by him. “Sorry. You kinda scare me.”
“... What? Why?”
You switch topics, avoiding the question. “What did you mean, it’s ‘usually the case’ that you’re not the main reason people are around?”
“Uh-” He laughs in disbelief. “-you’ve met my brother.”
“So?”
“So… Girls don’t talk to the Miya twins for Miya Osamu,” he jokes, but you find yourself annoyed by that.
“I have so many problems with what you just said.”
“I’m not even being self-deprecating-”
“I’m not some stupid fangirl for your brother,” you cut him off. “Have you thought that of me this whole time?”
He seems genuinely taken aback when he mumbles a response after a moment. “... Sorry. But – You don’t like him?”
“No!” You purse your lips, hoping you haven’t woken Saeko. “No. I don’t. Fuck.”
“Sorry.”
“Whatever.”
There’s silence, and then he clears his throat. “You said I scare you.”
“Yeah.” You throw caution to the wind, still a bit incensed that he’d thought all these years that you were playing some kind of long game on his brother. “Your eyes scare me. They always have.”
“... I don’t exactly know what to do about that,” he says, perplexed. “I could try smiling more?”
“No, thanks. Your eyes don’t change when you smile. That would be creepy.”
“My eyes don’t- Then what the fuck were you mad about this whole time? Who cares if I don’t smile at you then?”
“I can still be mad you don’t treat me like other people!”
“You’re fucking insane, you know that?”
“Yes,” you say with ease. “I’m insane. You have serial killer eyes, and I’m insane.”
“Goodbye, Y/n.”
“Goodbye, Osamu.”
—
Not much changes after that conversation. You go back to avoiding him whenever he’s in the same room, and he goes back to saying nothing when you’re around. There’s a shared understanding that the conversation you had that night won’t happen again. That the moment of complete honesty between you – which had lasted all of four and a half minutes – won’t be happening again.
He goes back to being nothing more than your best friend’s brother.
You graduate college, and Atsumu’s recruited to Osaka to join the MSBY Black Jackals.
Osamu follows him there, and so do you.
He opens an onigiri shop, just a train stop away from the Jackals’ home gym.
You’re admitted to the university there for graduate school.
You orbit around each other, just like you always have. Planets that orbit around the sun that is Miya Atsumu, destined to never cross paths again.
There’s only one person involved who isn’t happy with the arrangement.
—
“I just don’t understand.”
“You never understand. Your cognitive abilities are low generally.”
“Insulting me will not get me to hang up. I get off on that.”
“Wow-” You make a face and sandwich your phone between your ear and shoulder while you lock your bike. “-There is no world in which I needed that information.”
Atsumu laughs loudly in your ear. “I get off on making you suffer, too.”
“Dude! Get a hobby or something. Please.” You shake your head, hauling your backpack over your shoulders and making your way to the Nutrition department. The building’s only a five-minute walk away, and you hope you can get Atsumu off the phone by then. You have a lab meeting in 20 minutes, and you need to catch your advisor beforehand.
“I don’t get why you and Samu can’t be friends. It’s so fucking awkward being in the same room with you two.”
“Tsumu, it’s not happening.”
“Well, did you fight?”
“No!” You shake your head, exasperated. “I keep telling you no. We just aren’t compatible as people.”
“But you and I are so compatible-”
“Yes, and you hate being compared to your brother.”
“I just want to be able to have him over for movie nights or somethin’.”
You sigh. “Then have him over, Atsumu! He’s your brother, and our apartment is our apartment. I don’t make rules by myself.”
“But I want you there, too!”
“I will be! I always am!” You check your watch as you walk up to the building. You’d turned the five-minute walk into a two-minute walk. “Look, I gotta go, I have a meeti-”
You’re stopped short when you glance up, sensing someone’s presence as they approach the building, too.
Miya Osamu stares back, eyes wide. He’s holding a large takeout order from his shop, clearly here to deliver to someone. He glances quickly at the plaque for the building, realizing belatedly that it says Department of Nutritional Sciences.
“Y/n? You there?”
“I gotta go,” you say, distracted, your eyes on Osamu’s. “See you at home.”
Those empty eyes fill briefly with recognition, and his gaze tracks your phone until it disappears into your pocket.
“Tsumu?” he asks, foregoing a greeting.
“Yeah.” You move toward the door awkwardly. “Delivering?”
“Yeah.” He says nothing else for a minute, following you inside. And then, as you’re waiting for the elevator, he pulls a paper from his pocket, showing you the order address. “Where’s Room 4140?”
Your heart drops momentarily, and you give him a pained smile as you step into the elevator together. “That’s my advisor’s office. I can just take it.”
He shakes his head, watching the floor numbers change. “I need him to pay me.”
“Her,” you correct.
He swallows. “Sorry.”
You ignore it. “I’ll take you there. I need to talk to her, anyway.”
The elevator dings, and you lead him down the hall. He’s silent, but you can tell he’s looking around at the posters and flyers on the walls, taking in the space you inhabit daily.
He stops walking, and you turn back, finding him outside your office door. He’s staring down at the name plate. And then he glances at you with what you think is blank curiosity.
You check your watch as you return to him. You could take an extra minute or two to drop your bag off.
You unlock the door for him, pushing into the office. Osamu follows you in, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room while you put your bag in your desk chair and extract your laptop. He turns in a slow circle, examining everything with that empty look.
The shelves on the walls, furnished with your stacks of books, large chunks of your monthly paychecks given to the titles he’s looking at now. The piles of papers on your desk – graded assignments from students and papers for your own work, marked up with green highlighter and scribbled notes. The smaller stack of books sitting on a coffee table in the corner, the ones you access daily and need within reach.
He sets the takeout down on the extra chair and reaches for a book you’ve read countless times, the annotation flags and dog-eared pages catching his eye.
You appreciate that he handles it with care.
“Y'know," he mumbles. "When you said you were going into nutrition, I really kept imaginin' cookbooks and pots on fire." He cuts you a glance. "You do, like, actual science and shit."
You shift your weight, feeling examined. "Cooking is science."
If he disagrees — and you get the feeling he does, because he grimaces and looks away — he doesn't say it.
That's a lie. He does say it.
"I see cookin' as more of an art."
You shrug. "It can be both."
"Not if you boil it down to just molecules and chemistry." He sets the book down carefully, despite disagreeing with its contents. "That takes the love out've it."
"I see knowledge as love. Understanding as love." You gesture weakly to the room around you. "If you yearn to understand something deeply, it can't be loveless. Definitionally."
He purses his lips but only nods. "To be loved is to be known, or whatever."
You take that as him trying to move on from the argument. You decide not to push it.
"I didn't know that you-" He waves generally at your office – at the books and stacks of papers, at the piece of your life that’s truly disconnected from him. “I mean, I knew. But. We don’t really-”
“It’s fine,” you say, gesturing toward the door. “This is kind of a separate part of my life.”
“Well-” He scoops up the takeout and waits for you while you lock the door. “-this is your life.”
“Still,” You smile awkwardly as you lead him to your advisor’s office. “I don’t expect you to know what I do.”
“...Right.”
You walk in silence to the suite of offices where your advisor’s is. You knock on her half-open door, peeking inside. “Professor?”
“Ah, Y/n! Perfect timing-”
You push into the office, smiling at her. She’s always been your favorite, bold and full of excitement about everything. At the moment, she’s standing on her tiptoes by her shelf, reaching with all her might for a book on top.
“Help me with that book, would you? An undergrad wants to borrow it.”
You put your laptop down, leaving Osamu at the door to rush to her side. She steps out of the way, and you push onto your toes for it, struggling. You have no clue why she's asking for help — you don't have much height on her, honestly.
You hear when she realizes there’s extra company.
“Oh, goodness, hello!”
“Hello, Ma’am.” Osamu assumes his business tone, pleasant and kind. “I’ve got your bulk order of 25 onigiri.”
“Perfect! Wonderful! Lovely!” Your advisor shuffles around her desk for her wallet, always a bit disorganized. “Our lab assistants will thank you graciously for keeping them fed and happy – Y/n here included!”
You flush, focusing on the book that’s just out of reach. “Yeah, thanks, Osamu,” you say in a strained voice.
“Hm? Do you know each other?”
Osamu doesn’t respond, but you feel a presence much taller than you at your back a moment later. His arm reaches past yours, able to easily reach the top shelf for the blue textbook with the bent spine.
“This one?” he asks in your ear, free hand pressed carefully to your lower back so you don’t stumble. You try not to jump at his touch, unfamiliar and shockingly warm.
“Yeah, that’s- that one-” You nod when he wraps a hand around it, looking up at him and realizing belatedly just how close he is. He realizes it, too, as he’s turning to hand you the book. His nose brushes yours, and then he’s stepping back with wide eyes, blinking rapidly.
You blink back, almost dropping the book when he releases you completely. “Uh- Thanks. Thank you.” You hand it to your advisor without meeting her eyes, because you know exactly the look that’s on her face.
She’s an incredibly nosy woman.
“You know each other quite well, I’m guessing.”
You cough, shaking your head. “We grew up together.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
You laugh at her tone, embarrassed. “Please pay the man for his services, I’m begging you.”
She just giggles to herself and hands Osamu some cash. “I look forward to ordering from Onigiri Miya for many lab lunches to come.”
Osamu’s face is even and neutral, but you think you see the slightest tinge of embarrassment in those eyes of his as he’s turning away.
—
A week later, you get a text around lunchtime.
[12:54 PM]
Tsumu: I REQUIRE YOUR PRESENCE
You glance at your phone, your fingers stilling on your keyboard as you stare at his text in confusion.
You: uh
You: present?
Tsumu: PLEASE BUY ME LUNCH
Tsumu: I DONT HAVE TIME
You roll your eyes, already saving your document and reaching for your backpack.
You know the MSBY boys are preparing for a home game that’ll make or break their sponsorship into the national circuit – Atsumu’s started leaving home earlier than usual, the front door locking sometime around 4 in the morning. It had taken his return to the apartment long after dinnertime on the first day for you to realize that training had begun, and he’s kept it up for two weeks straight.
[12:56 PM]
You: taking food requests for the next 12 seconds and then the kitchen will close
He’s responding in an instant.
Tsumu: ONIGIRI
Tsumu: MIYA STYLE
You stop outside your office, staring down at your screen. He must be joking.
You: does it have to be miya style???
Tsumu: bro i have the most VIOLENT craving for samu’s tuna mayo onigiri
You huff, shoving your phone into your bag and marching down to the bike rack outside. You make your way toward Osamu’s shop, praying the entire ride there that he’s out on deliveries. That he’s miraculously got some order to your department again, for the exact span of time you’re not there. That he’s needed across town, that you won’t need to make any kind of awkward small talk.
His car is sitting out front when you pull up to the shop.
Fuck.
He’s standing at the counter when you walk in, taking someone’s order.
Double fuck.
The door jingles behind you as he’s chatting quietly with the customer and scratching down their order, and he looks up at the notice of a new arrival.
“Of course – Can I get you anyth-”
He meets your eyes over the man’s shoulder and stops talking mid-sentence, pen hovering over his notepad.
You stare, and he stares back.
And then he blinks and lowers his eyes, finishing his sentence as he stares down at the order.
“-anything else, Sir?”
You get in the long line, fidgeting with your phone while you wait. Osamu’s eyes burn through the side of your face in moments between interacting with customers, and, by the time you join him at the counter, you’re sweating nervously.
“Hi,” you say with an awkward wave, stepping up.
He just blinks back, examining you. “Hi.”
You glance over your shoulder, disappointed to see that there’s no one waiting behind you, the lunchtime rush ending with you, apparently.
“Uh-” You train your eyes on the menu over his head, seeing with a quick flick of your gaze to him again that he’s waiting with notepad and pen and surprised disbelief coloring his empty eyes. “Can I get three tuna mayo?”
Osamu lifts his brows, understanding crossing his expression. He lowers his eyes to scribble on the order ticket. “Tsumu’s training?”
“Yeah,” you laugh nervously. He’s starting to ring you up, so you rush to scan the menu again for your own food. “And then, uh…”
You feel when his surprise becomes palpable, his eyes flying up to stare at you while you try not to burn the menu down with your anxiety.
“Is-Uh-” You scratch at your brow. “I’m not sure… Uh-”
A quick glance reveals that he’s starting to smirk, his shock fading into smug amusement while you struggle to compose yourself in his restaurant.
You clear your throat. “Any recommendations?”
That smirk widens, and his brows tent in the middle playfully. “You don’t have a favorite onigiri flavor?”
You swallow. “I like most flavors. It’s hard to choose.”
“Everyone has a favorite onigiri flavor, Y/n.”
You want to crawl in a hole and die. “I want to branch out, I guess.”
“Branch out,” he repeats with amusement, nodding as he lowers his gaze and writes on the ticket. He doesn’t tell you what he’s chosen, just ringing you up at the register and slotting the order through the window leading to the kitchen. You pay silently, and then you stand awkwardly at the counter staring up at him. He stares back, and you’re reminded of growing up with a boy who’d always refuse to look away first.
“Are you…” You break first, just like you always do. “...having a nice day?”
He purses his lips, a smile threatening to shine through just before he fixes his face back into neutrality. “Yes, Y/n. I’m having a nice day. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Thanks.”
A suffocating silence blankets the space between you.
It’s broken only by the quiet ding of the bell from the kitchen, a plate of onigiri appearing at the window. Osamu turns away to grab it, and you flee, returning to the waiting area to sit.
You sit there for ten minutes, cursing Atsumu’s very existence and scrolling through social media without really seeing anything.
Eventually, Osamu approaches you with a takeout bag, setting it carefully on the bench. Your eyes fly up at his sudden appearance, and you find yourself staring up at him yet again. He stares back blankly, those grey eyes flitting around your face before settling on your eyes.
“Uhm,” you break, reaching for the bag and standing. He’s a lot closer than you expect, your body bumping straight into his, and you stumble back, nearly tripping. He wraps a hand around your elbow, steadying you and then putting distance between you once you’re stable. Your face burns – your skin burns – so you cradle the takeout against your chest nervously. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” He says nothing else, just stepping out of your way when you make a beeline for the exit.
The jingle of the door mocks you on your way out.
You bike to the Jackals’ gym, reliving every moment of that interaction and hating how nervous you’d been. By the time Atsumu meets you outside, you’ve got half a mind to smack him over the head with the takeout containers.
“Aw, don’t be mad!” he laughs, following you to a picnic table and digging into his lunch. “Please? I’m gonna need you for the next few weeks-” He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket, pushing it into your palm. You see on first glance that it’s a lot of money. “Maybe this will help you guys become comfortable with each other.”
You stare at him, your own lunch untouched. “Just how much onigiri ‘Miya style’ are you gonna be craving?”
He doesn’t respond, just grinning through his tuna mayo rice ball. You open your lunch with a heated sigh, anticipating a lot of Miya Osamu in your future.
Inside the box is a set of three different rice balls, an assortment of flavors. You warm, remembering your fumbled admission that you don’t have a favorite, and take a bite of each one. They’re each oddly perfect in their own ways. The spam teriyaki is salty, but it’s balanced wonderfully by the soothing flavor of the rice. The salmon yaki onigiri is just perfectly crispy, the salmon melting on your tongue and the inside cool compared to the grilled exterior. And the tuna mayo… You can see why Atsumu’s favorite is tuna mayo – Miya style.
You eat quietly, shooting a glare at Atsumu any time you feel him watching you, and wonder how Osamu would react if you were to text him. You’re overwhelmed with that urge, entirely new and unfamiliar. You juggle the choice the entire time you're eating, staring down at nothing.
"Where's yer head at?" You meet his eyes, surprised by the examining look he's giving you. He tilts his head. "School stuff?"
It's either "school stuff" or "I'm busy thinking about your brother, which I do way more than you think I do".
You clear your throat. "School stuff."
He gives a sympathetic hum. "You'll figure it out. You always do."
You just smile, the two of you enjoying your lunch in silence. It's rare that he's quiet, but Atsumu has learned to leave you be when you're lost in thought.
When he's busy looking at his phone, you extract yours from your bag, typing discreetly.
[1:35 PM]
You: i can understand why atsumu and my advisor both default to onigiri miya for lunch
You flush hard and lock your phone, letting it drop into your lap while you focus on eating. You think it’s okay that you texted him, but you’ve also never been the one to initiate a conversation. Will he think it’s weird? Were you too familiar with your text? What if he gives you a dry response that you can’t work with? What if-
Your phone buzzes against your thighs. You snatch it up, hoping Atsumu hasn’t noticed your nervous energy.
Miya Osamu: you tryna butter me up?
The relief that floods you is giddy, and you know you’ll be spending a long time tonight overanalyzing that exact feeling.
You: why? is it working? can i get a discount?
Miya Osamu: depends on if you chose the correct one as your favorite
You: what is this, a test?
You: arent you supposed to promote ALL your menu items?
Miya Osamu: well obviously theyre all perfect
Miya Osamu: the question is if youve identified the most perfect of perfect
You: youre a bit odd
Miya Osamu: that discounts not lookin so hot rn
You: okay okay
You: i can see why tsumus favorite is the tuna mayo
Miya Osamu: is that your final answer?
You: uhhhhhhh
You: can i have 3 to 5 business days to think about it?
Miya Osamu: you get 10 seconds
You: what!!!
Miya Osamu: 5 seconds
You: how is that fair????
Miya Osamu: 3
Miya Osamu: 2
You: SALMON YAKI
You: FUCK
Miya Osamu: ….
You press your hand to your mouth, trying not to make it obvious that you’re grinning like an idiot.
You: well???
You: did i get it right?
Miya Osamu: come back tomorrow and find out
You: oh i see
You: youre upselling me
You: this was a scam
Miya Osamu: and youre gonna fall for it
Miya Osamu: arent you :))
–
Osamu doesn’t bother to hide his satisfied grin when you trudge through the door to his shop the next day.
“Welcome to ‘Onigiri Miya’,” he says in his best customer service voice.
“Welcome to ‘Onigiri Miya’” you mock under your breath. His smile grows just milliseconds before he evens his expression out. You march up to the counter, a scowl painted on your face. He smirks back.
“What can I get you?”
“Three tuna mayo, please,” You grumble.
“And three salmon yaki?”
You just give him another mocking noise and roll your eyes. At this point, you don’t even care if you get the discount. You just want to get in and get out with minimal damage to your reputation.
He says nothing, scratching the order down and sliding it through the window. You see, though, that when he charges you, he only charges you for Atsumu’s. Your scowl immediately lifts into a small smile.
“So, I got it right?”
You see his eyes land on your mouth, watching your smile for a moment before he takes your money and glances away.
“It was the tuna mayo.”
Your mouth drops open. “What-”
“I’m giving you the discount this time because you clearly left your dignity in your office to come all the way down here.” He’s smiling to himself as he turns to head into the kitchen, and you’re left standing alone at the counter, embarrassed.
Miya Osamu might be the most irritating man you’ve ever met.
—
You see him two days later, sitting on your couch when you walk in the door. Suna is there, too, lounging across your furniture like he lives here.
"Hey, Y/n," the lanky man greets lazily, shoveling popcorn into his mouth as he flips through channels.
You grimace down at him, if only so you don't have to greet Osamu. "Is my TV remote going to be greasy and gross when you leave later?"
He snorts. "It's greasy and gross now. Wanna feel?"
You make a noise of disgust and turn away, looking around for your roommate. "Tsumu?" you call, peeking into his room.
"Went to pick up the pizza," Osamu comments quietly, scrolling through his phone.
You stare down at him, trying to hide your surprise when his gaze flicks up to yours, empty and grey. "Oh, okay. Sounds good." You force yourself to remember that this is your apartment, not his or Suna's. You don't need to stand here awkwardly. "'Kay. I'm gonna get changed and stuff."
You turn and make your way down the hall, only shooting Suna a middle finger when he calls 'without me?'. His cackle is heard even when you close your bedroom door.
You change and wash your face in your connected bathroom, trying to figure out how to handle tonight. It's not like anything's changed between you and Osamu — occasionally texting is hardly an update in your relationship. Nothing's new between you.
He's standing inside your bedroom when you come out.
That's certainly new.
"Uh-"
He'd been looking over your conference posters, hung proudly on your walls, but he turns now, his expression blank. You stare, wondering how to ask what he wants.
He just stares back.
You break first, moving around the room and tidying up. "What's up?"
"Not much," he mumbles. "Just bein' nosy."
You pause. Miya Osamu has never shown you an ounce of interest before, let alone enough interest to poke around your bedroom. "Okay? I mean-"
"You gonna keep comin' around?" he asks suddenly, his eyes trained on one of the many graphs on your posters. "T'the shop?"
You blink, staring at the back of his head. He's got the Onigiri Miya cap on, like he always does, but it's backward now, the logo staring right back at you. When he glances over his shoulder at you, you realize it's been a while since you've met his eyes outside of the shadow of his hat.
It's strange… They don't scare you as much anymore.
"I s'pose so," you mumble. "Tsumu's been sending me every day because he doesn't have time."
He grunts. "Dumbass needs to be eating healthier lunches. Onigiri every day's bad for you."
You smirk. "You tryna get rid of me, Samu?"
You say it like Atsumu does, tilted and sarcastic, but the syllables of his nickname come out different when it's you.
His head whips to the side, eyes wide as he stares at you.
You want to curl up in a ball and hide from him.
He just blinks a few times, almost dumb with surprise. Finally, he turns away. "Nah," he says weakly. "You can keep comin' round." He clears his throat. "If ya want."
You try not to notice that the tips of his ears are red.
The moment ends with the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.
"Pizza!" Atsumu calls from down the hall.
Osamu all but flees from your room, you hot on his heels.
Atsumu hasn't noticed that you're both coming from the same place, but Suna's stare is piercing and examining as he eyes Osamu and then you. When you furrow your brow at him, he just smiles and gets up, groaning about how hungry he is.
The movie night is uneventful, if you count Miya Osamu's thigh pressed against yours and his arm tossed across the back of the sofa where you sit as uneventful.
You don't even know what the damn movie's about.
—
When you enter Onigiri Miya a week later, you’re painfully nervous.
You should feel fine coming in here now, what with Atsumu sending you on an onigiri mission every afternoon at exactly the same time. You’ve gotten used to interacting in-person with Osamu at the very least on this level, the one where he stands at a counter with his notepad and pen and stares into your very soul while you stumble through Atsumu’s order.
But today, Atsumu hadn’t asked for lunch, complaining on the phone that he's got a stomachache from eating so much onigiri every day.
Somehow, though, you’re still here. There's a part of you that knows it's because he'd told you it was okay. There's a larger part that's ignoring the implications of that.
It must be a habit, you’d rationalized to yourself on the bike ride here. Habit to ride your bike across town around lunch time almost every day. Habit to stand in the impressively long line, keeping your eyes on Osamu’s face while he works the counter. Habit to turn away the moment he glances in your direction, feigning immense interest in the wall decor.
Habit to walk up to the counter with a slight tremble in your legs, your steeling breath always the last thing you do before you have to look right up at him and greet him uncomfortably.
“Hi,” you say now, your awkward wave a habit, too.
“Hi,” he echoes, his empty gaze always just the slightest bit unnerving on first impact. “Three tuna mayo and three salmon yaki?” He’s already writing it down, his eyes lowering to the notepad.
“Uh-” You gather strength from the absence of his gaze, clearing your throat. “No, just-just the salmon.”
You hear when his pen stops scratching on the ticket, and you have to take another steeling breath, because his eyes are flying up to meet yours, his sharp gaze flooding with surprise.
“What?” he asks, unblinking.
You hate that your voice shakes when you respond. “J-Just the salmon. Three salmon yaki.”
His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then a third time. He doesn’t look away when he tears the ticket from the pad and lets it fall to the counter, and he writes the new order without taking a single glance at the sheet.
Finally, he blinks and looks away, and you deflate with a sigh that’s far too loud to be coincidence. He slots the ticket through the window and turns back, ringing you up silently. As you’re paying, though, he mumbles a question, quietly curious.
“How much time do you have for lunch?”
You swallow. “It doesn’t really matter, as long as I get my work done today.”
He nods, staying silent for another minute while he gets your change. “Kinda like me, I guess.”
You grin to yourself, too busy pocketing the spare coins to notice when he tracks the small change of your mouth. “Yeah. Kinda like you.” You gesture to the waiting area and give him a tight-lipped smile, wandering over to your usual seat.
When he comes over to the bench, you stand, ready to bike your lunch back to campus and eat in your office. But he doesn’t move to hand over the bag, just clearing his throat.
“How much work have you gotten done?”
You blink, confused. “Most of it, I guess. I just have some papers left to read.”
“Oh. Okay.” He meets your eyes awkwardly and looks away. You realize what’s happening only when he makes no move to hand you the bag.
He'd said it's okay. It's okay for you to keep coming.
Maybe it's also okay for you to stay.
“Oh-” You flush. “I-” Your eyes watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard. “I have time. The papers won’t take me long.”
He scans the room while he thinks, and then he just nods, turning on his heel to head down a hallway leading to the back. You follow, looking around at the space as you go.
“Never seen the back of a restaurant before.”
You hear him breathe out a laugh, leading you to a door at the end. “Ever seen an office in a restaurant?”
“Can’t say I have.”
He shoulders the door open, and you step gingerly into the room.
It’s a medium-sized space, with a nice desk and chair situated in front of a large, spanning window. There’s a grey couch in the corner, with a darker grey rug tucked underneath. There are shelves on the walls, with binders and cookbooks and cardboard boxes. A small coffee table in front of the couch holds menu designs and papers that look legal.
“Wow,” You set your backpack carefully by the door and look around, spinning a slow circle in the middle of the room – not unlike how he’d been in your own office. “Restaurant offices are really somethin’.”
“It’s kind of a mess,” He says, ears tinged a bit pink, and sets your lunch on his desk.
“I like it. It looks like you.” You’re not entirely sure what that means – maybe it’s the grey, or maybe it’s the disorganization that looks like only he can understand it. But it looks like him.
Osamu says nothing, just moving to the coffee table and gathering the papers. You sit in the chair across his desk, trying not to take up too much space while he picks up. After a minute, he murmurs ‘I’ll be back’ and disappears back into the hallway.
You wait, eyes tracing the labels on the binders stacked next to his desk. There are budget folders, test recipe folders, and even one that says ‘Rejected Receipes – DO NOT MAKE AGAIN’. You reach for it with a smile, pulling it into your lap.
Thumbing through, you can’t help but laugh. “Peanut butter and banana onigiri?”
“Atsumu was really convinced about the validity of dessert onigiri.”
You jump, turning to find Osamu at the door, a small smile on his face.
You laugh again. "You spent ingredients on an Atsumu idea?"
He grimaces playfully and crosses the room to sit on the couch. "Never again."
"You need a better taste tester," you joke. "Someone who understand the science of onigiri."
"The science, huh?" he asks, staring right at you. "Don'tchu mean the art?"
You roll your eyes, a smile lingering. "I'd argue they're the same."
"I wouldn't," he bickers. "But maybe that's why both are valuable." And then he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "What'dya say?"
You blink and then point at yourself. "Me?" When he quirks his brows in response, you laugh. "I'm not, like, a professional taste tester just because of my degree."
"Never said nothin' about your degree, Y/n."
You swallow, because his eye contact is too strong. Always too strong. "Okay. Sure."
He stands quietly, pointing at the bag of your food. "Eat," he commands. "I'll be back."
You listen to instructions, nibbling on your salmon yaki onigiri and wondering how the hell you got here.
He comes back after ten minutes, balancing a small platter with a plate, a bowl, and a tea cup. You watch him put it on the coffee table, staring at the ingredients.
The green tea is easy to identify, and the single yaki onigiri on the plate could be anything, really, but you'd wager a guess it's salmon. The bowl of broth is harder, but you just lean toward it and sniff, recognizing the dashi scent instantly.
It's not hard to piece together what he's making.
"Ochazuke?" you ask quietly, watching as he mixes the two steaming liquids. "Isn't it usually tea or dashi, not both?"
"'s why I need a taste tester," Osamu mumbles quietly. "Wanted to try somethin' new, but I can't trust my sous chef." He shoots you a quick grin. "He's a kiss-ass."
You smile back. "Oh, poor Samu."
Yes, his reaction is still the same. No, you hadn't done it just to test that theory, you swear.
"Here," he grunts, chewing on his bottom lip. He sets the onigiri in the tea-dashi mixture and pushes the platter to you, handing you a spoon.
You lift the bowl, giving it another sniff. The tea gives it a bitter undertone, but it's not unpleasant. You break the onigiri slowly, mashing it against the bowl with the spoon and watching pieces of salmon float to the top.
Osamu watches carefully when you take a bite.
You chew slowly, tilting your head this way and that. Osamu's knee starts to bounce. You smile to yourself.
"Nervous about somethin'?"
He grimaces. "No, 'course not."
You contemplate making him wait until you eat the whole thing, but you can't help yourself once the first bite is over.
"Do you want the good or the bad first?"
He narrows his eyes. "I didn't realize you'd have 'bad's."
"Shoulda asked your sous chef if you wanted your ass kissed," you say, grinning at him. "It's not a big thing, I promise."
He sighs. "Hit me, then."
"The tea is too overpowering."
He squints. "And that's not a big thing?"
"Not if you fix the ratio," you say, shaking your head. "Either you steeped the tea too long or there's too much of it, but either issue is an easy fix. Based on the smell, it should have a little undertone of bitterness, but the taste sticks to the back of the tongue in a way that smothers the dashi." You set the bowl back on the platter. "My advice is to start with half a cup, not a full cup. And steep for thirty seconds less."
He blinks. "Those are very precise instructions, Y/n."
You blink back. "Cooking can be a science, Osamu."
Nothing more is said between you for a minute. And then he nods down at the bowl of drowned onigiri. "And the good parts?"
You smile — a real one, one that you're not sure he's ever seen.
"If you fix the ratio, Onigiri Miya will be famous."
—
You end up going to Onigiri Miya every day for lunch, even on days when Atsumu asks for something else. Even on days when he doesn't ask at all.
Even after their training ends, right up until the day of the Jackals' sponsorship game.
At some point in the days since that first lunch together, Osamu brings up the thing that neither of you had wanted to talk about: Atsumu.
"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to learn we're hanging out, y'know."
You'd swallowed and looked away, face warming. "You know how annoying he can be when he's thrilled."
It's an excuse. He takes it.
"Yeah. I'd eat my own hair before I admit Tsumu's right about somethin'."
And just like that, a secret is formed. A secret between you and Miya Osamu, where nothing had existed before.
It's dreadfully attractive, sneaking around to meet your best friend's brother.
—
It happens before either of you is ready to admit this is more than just a budding friendship. That this is more than just sneaking around for the sake of not hearing Atsumu's gloating.
It's sneaking around because there's something else to hide, something that neither of you is willing to admit or address.
But it gets addressed anyway. It goes a little something like this:
The sponsorship game comes and goes. The Jackals win. There's an afterparty at a bar, one where Atsumu gets too shit-faced and the room is too crowded for anyone to notice that you and Osamu are sitting in a corner, talking low and with your heads close together. It starts with simple jabs, jokes made at his brother's expense and then more made between you — the result of weeks spent alone in his office, the taste testing nothing but an excuse.
An excuse, one that only your eyes can admit and only after three drinks. One that only he can hear in the way your gaze drifts to his lips and back, a smile tugging at him every time you flush.
A rushed goodbye, pressed into Atsumu's chest as you tell him that you've had too much to drink and that Osamu's going to drop you off at home. A questioning look ignored, your expression innocent as you wave and pretend you can't hear his confused noise. Suna Rintarou equally ignored, even as his gaze follows you and Osamu out.
The door of the bar, slammed open by Osamu, his other hand wrapped tight around your wrist, both of your stone cold sober by now.
He drags you to his car, three steps ahead while you scramble after him. You’re not sure if you’re actually reading this right. If this is going somewhere, or if he really is just going to drive you home. But you desperately — desperately — want it to be the former. After so many years of dreading his presence, you don’t want to say goodbye to him tonight.
You get the feeling that the heated look in his eye when he glances back at you is a promise that you're not going to be disappointed.
When you finally make it to his car, tucked away under the shadow of a tree in a far corner of the parking lot, you wonder if it’s just enough coverage for you to make a move unseen, or if you need to wait.
Osamu opens the passenger-side door for you, and you stand just inside of it, staring up at him, like you always do.
He stares back. Like he always does.
It goes on like that for seconds — entire moments — and the familiarity of it is a little comforting.
And then his eyes drop to your mouth, just long enough to be perceptible.
You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it. All you find is the palm of his hand.
"Get in the car, Y/n," he mumbles, his voice gruff and full of something you can't place. "We're in the middle of the street."
You pull back quickly and open your eyes wide, your heart dropping as you wonder if you've just made an ass of yourself.
He just stares down at you, eyes on your mouth. "Get in the car, Y/n," he whispers.
You've learned that you're very good at listening to instructions.
You stare at nothing as you wait for him to close your door and make his way around to the driver's seat. You stare at nothing at all, your mind empty of everything but the realization that this night could end very well or very not well.
It's quiet in the car when he settles in. You let it linger until it hurts, and then you turn.
He’s got his gaze right on you, sharp and heated and full of emotion — an emotion you can’t place, an emotion you’ve never seen from him before.
The planets that orbit Miya Atsumu finally meeting somewhere in the middle — at full speed, with no hope of stopping.
The crash isn’t so pretty, but it sure does feel nice.
You don’t know who moves first, but his fingers are tangled in your hair and your arms are flung around his neck before you process this night isn’t going to end with you crying alone in bed.
His mouth is searing hot against yours, and you think there’s a whimpering noise that escapes your throat when you’re not paying attention. Osamu says nothing, gives no verbal indication of his thoughts or how he feels. But he does press his hand flat to your back and draw you to him, pulling you halfway across the console so he can kiss you better.
After that, it’s a quick trip over the console entirely and right into his lap.
He angles his head up and slides his fingers back into your hair, cupping the back of your neck as he pushes his mouth up against yours. You kiss him eagerly, your heart pounding in your ears and your face radiating heat. You realize that he’s not doing much better when you cup his jaw and feel his pulse racing against your fingers.
You pull away, and the intoxicating sound of Miya Osamu panting fills the car as you drop your mouth to the juncture of his neck. A breathy moan cracks in the back of his throat, followed by the quiet ‘fuck’ that falls past his lips. His hands drop to your waist, and you feel when his head falls back against the headrest.
“Fuck,” he repeats, sounding like he’s very quickly coming undone. It eggs you on, and you bite down on his throat before soothing it over with a pass of your tongue. He shudders under you, a stuttered moan echoing in the car.
“Y/n-” His fingers find the back of your head, tangling and pulling taut to lift you away. You whine at the tug of your hair, wriggling in his lap, and then his mouth is on yours. He kisses you hard, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. You hold his face and return the fervor, and he clamps down on your hips and pulls you closer, pushing your thighs apart until you’re seated right over the zipper of his jeans.
It’s only then – when you push down into his lap and pull a strained groan right out of him – that you realize that he’s hard.
Your stomach flips excitedly, and every nerve ending in your body lights up and burns under your skin.
You roll your hips experimentally, just the slightest shift of your thighs over his, and are gifted the wonderful experience of feeling Miya Osamu’s control slip. He tenses under you, one hand flying to cup the back of your head, the other holding tight to your hips and coaxing you forward again – urging you silently to keep going.
It’s embarrassingly easy to convince you.
This push of your hips down over his is just as charged as the last – more, really, because now Osamu’s eyes are open and locked tight on yours. His hand in your hair keeps your face close, your lips brushing against his with every miniscule shift of your body and your breath mingling in the marginal space between you. His eyes are hazy, distracted, but he keeps those eyes unyieldingly on you, and you find yourself trapped in his gaze, just like every moment before this.
When he rolls his hips up, the bulge of his jeans pressed under your skirt and right up against your core, the heat building in your navel spills over and fills your body with a burning, molten desperation.
“Samu,” you whine, staring right into his eyes when your hands drop to the button of his jeans and your forehead presses urgently to his. He keeps eye contact, rocking upward again and pushing on that little spot that shoves you further and further into dangerous territory. One hand falls to your bare thigh, fingers disappearing up your skirt and stopping right at the line of your panties, his thumb pushing up against your inner thigh.
He tilts his head up, using his grip on your hair to bring you close so he can kiss you. You return it needily, your lips parting with ease when you feel his tongue against your bottom lip. He pushes into your mouth, his breath heady and uneven, betraying his own desperation as you breathe each other in.
You shift your hips, his thumb slipping and pushing up against your clit. You gasp loudly, and he shivers, but it’s followed by a grin when he realizes what he’s done. He pushes that little spot again, his touch gentle but certain – you feel when his smile slips, though, because you’re rutting shyly against him, and it pulls a drunken half-moan out of him.
“Y/n,” he whispers against your mouth, a hard swallow following. You shiver in his lap, entirely willing to do anything and everything he asks of you.
“Samu,” you say, your fingers prying the button of his jeans open. “Can I…” You linger at the zipper, tugging in question.
He nods, his own touch sliding down your panties, and you know he means to push them aside. Your stomach swarms with butterflies at the realization of what you’re about to do with Miya Osamu.
You get the zipper down, and he lifts his hips, mouth pressing briefly against yours, heated and full of anticipation.
But before you can get his pants down to his thighs, there’s a slam on the front hood of his car.
You jump, biting down on a scream, and Osamu pulls you against his chest with a sharp inhale, his eyes flying over your shoulder to look through the windshield. Whatever he sees there causes him to mutter-
“Oh, fuck.”
“What the fuck are you two doing?!” There’s a voice screaming outside, one you distinctly recognize as Suna Rintarou. “Are you trying to get charged with public indecency?!”
The molten heat in your navel runs ice cold in an instant, and you can’t do a single thing except let Osamu lift you off his lap and over the console back into the passenger seat. You curl up there, your face burning with humiliation as he gets out of the car.
He joins Suna outside, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh, and you hear muffled, unintelligible conversation. Suna gestures in exasperation at Osamu’s undone jeans, and you wince when the twin quickly fixes himself, his embarrassed flush visible even from here. You hide your face in your hands, wondering who else might have seen you and how this could have gotten so out of hand so fast.
The men talk in serious, clipped tones outside for a minute before Suna is groaning and dropping his head back. You hear him laugh, but it sounds deranged, like he can’t believe he’s been caught in the middle of this. And then he turns to look you right in your eye through the windshield.
You sit up straight, nervous as he rounds the car to your window and knocks awkwardly. You fumble to open the door, and Suna crouches by your side with a sigh of exhaustion.
“You want me to drive you home?”
You blink. “Huh? I thou-” You look over at where Osamu’s starting to come meet the two of you, a wary look on his face.
Had he asked Suna to take you home? Does he not want to be alone with you again?
“Uh,” you mumble, your face burning with humiliation and the prospect of being rejected by Miya Osamu in front of a mutual friend. “Sure. I guess. If that’s what he said-”
“Oy,” Osamu interrupts, pushing two fingers roughly into the back of Suna’s head. “Can you fuck off? We’re fine.”
You look between them, confused. So… Osamu hadn’t just tried to get out of taking you home?
Suna looks back at him, scoffing. “Oh, sure, you guys are totally fine. Totally not gonna mess around when you get back to her place, right? Do you remember who her roommate is, or would you like a mirror?”
You blink.
Oh.
Osamu pushes Suna again, voice strained when he drops it an octave and warns, “Fuck. Off. Rintarou.”
You swallow, watching them share a meaningful look before Suna is shrugging noncommittally and standing to full height.
“Whatever. You go ahead and get caught – may the best twin live, I guess.”
And then he leaves, waving back at you as he fishes his keys from his pocket and heads to his own car.
You stare up at Osamu, willing him to look at you – willing, after years of begging not to be seen, for him to meet your eyes.
He doesn’t, just quietly closing the door and coming back to the driver’s seat.
You sit together in silence, watching as Suna’s car disappears into the street.
Osamu plucks the keys from the console and starts the car.
He drives in silence.
Osamu shifts beside you when he stops at a red light. "I need to know something.” When you say nothing in return, just staring at the side of his face, he sighs quietly. “Is this going to fall apart when my brother finds out?”
You blink, startled by the question. It's not entirely unexpected, but you have no idea what to do with it. "Meaning?"
“Meaning-” He’s firm about it. “-that you know how he is. How he can get when there are-”
-secrets.
You imagine how Atsumu would react – he’s territorial, possessive. Stubborn and childish and annoyingly good at holding a grudge. You can already hear it, the way he would explode if he found out–
‘When I told you to try getting along, I didn’t mean you should fucking jump into bed with him!’
Yeah. Miya Atsumu would not take this information very well.
But you find that you don't care as much as you thought you would. That even when you'd used him as an excuse — when things between you and Miya Osamu changed, not even a week ago — you hadn't really cared about Atsumu's reaction at all. Because you know he'll get over it, whatever it might be.
And there's a part of you that remembers the Miya Osamu from college, the one who'd accepted that his brother was the focus of everything. That he'd always be in Atsumu's shadow.
Maybe that's why he'd been so quick to accept your excuse. Because you were giving him a chance for the two of you to find some other orbit.
"No, Osamu," you say, a little strong. "It's not going to fall apart. Not for me."
"Even if Atsumu-"
"I don't really give a fuck what happens if Atsumu finds out." His eyes find yours, wide and surprised. You just stare back. "Do you?"
He stares for a moment.
And then you're being smacked up against the window from the force of him turning the car around.
"Wha-" You glance around, realizing you're heading away from your apartment now. "What-"
"He'll get over it," Osamu mutters, switching lanes and taking turns with an urgency that hadn't been there before. "You can just stay with me 'til he does."
You can't say that sounds like a bad idea.
—
The journey into Miya Osamu's apartment consists of stumbling over your feet and fumbling to rip his t-shirt off. You don't get much time to look around, all of your attention on the way he's guiding you to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours.
"Nice place," you joke. "Great decor."
"Shut up," he scoffs, scooping you off your feet and pinning you to the wall by his bedroom door. His mouth is unbearably hot, tongue searing against yours and teeth tugging down on your bottom lip after every pant. "Can I admit something?" he asks after you plant your hands on his chest and put distance between you so you can breathe.
"Hm?" Your head is spinning. "What is it?"
"I never thought-" He swallows hard, still holding you in place with his hips. "I never guessed that this would-we would-"
You laugh breathily, curling your fingers into his hair. "I thought I was gonna have to avoid you for the rest of my life."
He presses his body against yours, flattening you to the wall. "Yeah? Still plan on doin' that?"
You only have time to roll your eyes before he's pushing his mouth against yours again. "Already tryna get rid of me?" you ask between kisses, your breath shaky.
He just laughs through his nose, carrying you into his room. After dropping you on the bed and climbing over you, he answers your question. "Nah." He shakes his head. "You're mine now. Turns out I actually like havin' you around all the time."
You don't need to tell him how that statement affects you. How it affects you to learn that all these years of circling each other — lingering in his periphery, always in orbit — hadn't been the annoyance you'd thought it was. That he prefers you just like that, maybe even a little closer.
You don't need to tell him that. He can see it clear as day, because you're dragging him down to you and whimpering against his lips.
The distance between this moment and the moment he's pressing his tip against your entrance feels like everything and also nothing at all in the grand scheme of you and Miya Osamu.
As it turns out, when he'd uttered the words 'you're mine', there had been an undertone you'd missed.
You find it the moment he pushes into you. His head drops back, a noise leaving his mouth that cuts somewhere betweel a growl and a sigh.
"Fuck," he groans. You're too busy trying to pull the breath from your lungs to respond in kind. "Fuck," he whispers again, to himself this time, and stares down at the spot where he's starting to rail into you. "All mine — you're all mine."
Nerves flip in your stomach, and you whine low — the way he's looking at you, the way he's worshipping you is enough to set your skin on fire. "Samu-"
"Yeah, baby?" he mutters, driving his hips into yours and using his grip on your waist to slam you down on his cock at the same time. "Feel good?" When you nod fervently, he laughs, the sound a little unhinged. "Feel good to be stretched out like that, baby? Stretched out by me?"
"Samu," you groan, your back arching and your hands clawing at his arms. "Please, Samu-"
"What? What is it, huh?" he coos. "Want me to show you that you're mine?" You clench around him hard, and he moans in response. "Yeah, you're mine. You want to feel it, though, don't you?"
"Yeah," you pant. "Wanna feel."
"Wanna feel it when I make you mine?" His voice starts to shake and his breathing grows harsh. "Gonna fill you up — fill you up 'til you're leakin'." He presses his palm against your stomach, right under your navel, and bites out something that you think might be more for him than for you.
"Fill you up 'til it takes." You gasp, clenching hard, and he moans low. "Yeah," he pants. "Gonna make you mine."
The pulse of his cock deep inside you, the tip kissing right up against your cervix, is accompanied by the warmth of him coming. You feel it spill, feel it coat your walls and then push around his cock until it's spilling past your entrance. He must feel it happen, too, because he's moaning and grinding you down harder on his cock.
The realization that this is driving him insane is enough for you to clench down hard, your walls fluttering around him in time with your heartbeat as you come.
"That's it," he whispers, panting hard and collapsing down over you. His mouth finds yours, and you let him kiss you while you come down from your high. "That's my girl."
You don't bother cleaning up, too busy basking in the glow that comes with Osamu staring down at the mess he's made and then looking at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.
You fall asleep without meaning to, which, on one hand, is great for you, because you wake up in Osamu's arms and feel the peace that comes with him rolling over on top of you and showering you with affection.
On the other hand, you didn't go home last night. To your roommate. Who is now at his brother's door, banging on it with both fists.
"I swear to god, Samu, if she's in that bed, I'm committing a crime!"
eight times out of ten, when osamu looks at you, he sees the strong, beautiful woman who he spent years working up the courage to propose to.
he sees his right hand, his best friend, his better half.
other times, when osamu looks at you, he can't help but see the way your tongue swirls around the tip of his cock, eyes batting up at him innocently as if his cum isn't tempted to spill down your throat. he can practically feel the tingle in his thighs as your sinful hands caress them, trying to coax them into being relaxed, only to quiver in your grip. he feels the vibrations of your throat as you moan teasingly around him. your fingers searched out his sac, rolling his balls and using the tips of your nails to tease them into tightening- he shudders and sighs shakily at the memory.
the other times he lets his brain flicker out of focus, he can see the way he threw you on top of the kitchen table after you'd been an absolute menace after an important event, touching up on him and whispering in his ear about how you'd take him right here if you could; the second you'd crossed the threshold and into the kitchen for wine, he'd wasted no time in shredding the dress he spent entirely too much on to bits, hands dragging you complacent body to the edge and fucking you to the point of the most delicious agony smearing your makeup. your gummy walls sinched around him torturously, your nails biting into his skin with a vengeance.
but those other eight times remind him you're not just a doll for him to fuck and demolish, not just a common whore who gives him the most soul wracking blowjobs that have him on his hands and knees to worship.
you're his wife.
and as he stares at his beloved wife, it's not his fault that at first glance, he nearly salivates over the mere memory of your sweet, sticky cunt.
intimacy, aftercare, skinship, crying. Kiyoomi is in love. mdni
•☽────✧˖°˖ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ˖°˖✧────☾•
after all is said and done, when you start to feel a chill down from back from the drying sweat, and the combined slick between your legs, Sakusa shows you he loves you.
as you sit snug on his lap while he lays back against the headboard of your shared bed, one hand rubbing softly up and down your arm and the other massaging your scalp. it pours into you slowly and fills you up until you feel like you might pop. so much care you’re not sure what to do with it. seeping in through your pores like the heat from early morning sun.
“my love-“ he whispers above where your head is tucked into the crook of his neck, along with a flurry of praises you don’t quite catch. you’re sleepy after the push and pull, after he’s laid you out and poured himself into you. now plugged up nicely lest anything seeps out, not wanting you to forget what he’s willing to give you. everything, all of him. he wants you to take and take and take-
his hands move to cup your face and he looks at you. “so beautiful…” he breathes and kisses the corner of your mouth. your tears glisten as they fall from your pretty downcast eyes, they too, are kissed away. you let out a whine with the last of the energy you can muster, because it’s all so overwhelming, his attention that is always directed at you. it’s whole and undeniable. devotion that’s only meant for you.
he shows you every day. in the way he picks up your favorite pastry on Saturday mornings on his way home from a jog. the way he can tell when your energy is low at events and makes an excuse, that implicates only himself, to leave early. the way your favorite candle is always lit and your favorite meal is being prepared when he manages to get home before you. wanting to give you a place to relax and let go after a long day.
safety, warmth, home.
everything you’ve given him in turn.
Sakusa would place his heart into your waiting hands if you only asked. and he doesn’t let you hide away, always coaxing you to face him head on. to accept that you are worthy and capable. that it’s a gift to let him be the one you accept into your loving arms.
his thumbs brush at the tops of your cheeks, the moonlight seeps in through the curtains, the stars glisten in the sky.
“my dear-“ this time, he presses into your lips as you finally open your eyes to see the way he looks at you. it’s what they call enchantment.
“- i love you.”
you’ve got him utterly bewitched.
•☽────✧˖°˖ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ˖°˖✧────☾•
a/n
having some breakfast soup with a side of yearning. i believe his love is very tender and intimate. as a crybaby that’s v important to me. this was inspired by this gorgeous art (nsfw twit) omi is nothing if not loving and soft on his partner and i won’t hear anything to the contrary.
do you have any spare iwa tots…beefy iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer is on my mind rn
platonic until it's not with best friend!iwaizumi.
in which you're out with seijoh 4 one night, and oikawa's squirming as iwaizumi squeezes and kneads at his shoulder, working out some knot he's been bitching about all week.
"do your goddamn stretches," iwaizumi grumbles once he's done.
oikawa sighs in relief.
and you're not sure what possesses you to say what comes out of your mouth next (the half-empty drink in front of you, probably). but when you offer him a jokingly flirtatious grin and ask if he knows any massages for sore tits, you swear he turns red.
it's a joke till you're hanging alone with iwaizumi at your place a few days later, and he sees the way you wince in discomfort as you accidentally knock an arm into your boob.
"what's wrong?" he asks, brows furrowed in concern.
you give him a flat look, arms crossed over your sore chest. "i told you, they hurt."
iwaizumi scrubs a hand down his face.
"come here."
maybe it's platonic at the start, the way his hands cup your breasts through your tank top. the methodical movements as he begins to massage them.
"have you tried this?"
it's platonic until you let out an involuntary gasp.
"it doesn't feel the same when i do it myself."
until it's impossible to hide your hard nipples through your thin bra.
"does this feel good?"
until iwaizumi doesn't protest when you take off your shirt.
it's platonic—till iwaizumi's fingertips snag at the edges of your bra cups. till you inhale slowly as he slides them underneath.
"don't stop—"
until your bra falls to the floor, and iwaizumi's left cupping your bare tits.
"jesus christ."
(until a hushed grown escapes iwaizumi's mouth when you cup the back of his head as he leans in, lips closing over your nipple.)
Miya Osamu came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.
content/warnings ❆ fem!reader, timeskip (some high school flashbacks), onigiri miya, friends to lovers, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, reader experiences loneliness + inner conflict (unspecified), love confessions
notes ❆ osamuu TT the feels when a character study makes you more attached to the character… i had so much fun writing this! c: written as a gift for @misttiique for @sodaneko's lovely secret santa fic exchange! i hope you enjoy and happy holidays!! <3
Snow was always your favorite part of winter, and witnessing it in Tokyo is a rather peculiar sight. Beautiful, but peculiar.
It doesn’t happen often, with only a sparse layer sprinkling the asphalt; powdered sugar that is to be melted away by the next morning’s winter sun. Fleeting—a rare glimpse that reminds you of the snowfalls back in Hyogo, back home.
Such rareness that it catches you off guard, looking around the city with twinkling curiosity. The first snowfall of the season. You hold a hand out, a flutter of ice landing in the center of your palm. It soaks into your skin like sugar finally meeting water, leaving a cooling dampness.
Perhaps you were the only one who didn’t bother checking the weather report today; it was always your bad habit. Within seconds, umbrellas rise, and it makes you feel smaller than you should—makes you huddle in on yourself, seeking a warmth that couldn’t be given even with a million layers on.
Throngs of people skirt around your still frame, wordlessly, as if you are but another speck of ice to avoid.
Snow catches onto the crown of your head, and with it, a sense of deja vu as a shadow crosses over from behind. A tall shadow. A familiar presence—one that makes you long for comfort and the taste of rice.
And like all those years ago—when you were standing outside the gates of Inarizaki High, hours after school had ended—you turn around. It’s the same scene: a held breath, a skip of a heartbeat, a rising hope as you look up and meet gray eyes.
The entirety of him swarms you, his cologne filling your senses. Savory, warm, welcoming. There’s a certain pull that tugs you to him, one that makes you instinctively step closer. Closer than necessary underneath the umbrella he holds that shrouds you both.
He always did protect you without meaning to be a shield, always found you in times you needed it the most.
You want to berate the butterflies erupting in your stomach when he smiles—a lazy, almost-there grin, a side of his lip that curls up. Funny, how the sight can hold you together but pull you apart at the same time, unraveling emotions you try to bury deep in your heart.
But then comes his voice, with a certain calmness to it, a certain directness to it. A low chime that makes you remember why.
Snow was always your favorite part of winter—
“You didn’t bring an umbrella or somethin’? Or do ya just like standin’ in the snow?”
—and it was all because of Miya Osamu.
You remember it vividly, the day you saw snow on a humid summer day.
A year had passed after you graduated from university, a year since you decided to stay in the big bustling city of Tokyo. Perhaps it was to find yourself, or maybe it was your stubbornness, but the taste of new beginnings never felt so stale.
It was hard; Tokyo made it harder. That day, the summer heat clung to your skin, heavy and thick, suffocating you in its embrace.
Insufferably hot, stifling. Your tongue craved for something cold, something refreshing. It made you raise your gaze, the hush of the crowd growing like emerging from a pool of water. You squinted at the beaming sun, the voices of tourists and locals flooding your ears. More tourists, less locals.
Shop after shop passed you, steps faltering when you near a grand opening sign.
That was when you saw it. It was to your left; you remember that clearly. A small little sign with an onigiri graphic plastered on it. A simple one: white, circular, fluffy.
Like snow. Besides the strip of seaweed down the middle.
A split-second memory flashed in your mind then. One from back in Hyogo, of small gloved hands forming snowballs, only to be hurled a second later; bittersweet laughter ringing in the air. It caused the corners of your lips to tick up just slightly, eyes darting to the window of the quaint shop.
Onigiri Miya, you read on the glass, in fresh calligraphy characters. The shop was new. You would know since you passed by this street every day, and if the grand opening sign was any indicator.
Miya…
At the time, you eyed the character a little closer, with a slow tilt of your head. And it was in that precise moment someone shuffled behind the glass, behind the character. Your vision blurred, then focused, then met oddly familiar gray ones, widened to match your own.
Your heart stuttered, more than you’d like to admit, realization mingling with shock hitting you. Still in shock as the familiar man behind the glass curtly raised his hand, beckoning you to come in, almost as if he was expecting you all this time.
You wondered if he noticed how you hesitated. To this day, you’re still not really sure why you did.
As you walked through the clear glass doors of Onigiri Miya, it came like a snowstorm. A flurry of nostalgic memories: crossing the gates of Inarizaki High, volleyballs slamming onto gym floors, shoved bento boxes.
In particular: clinging onto the back of a burgundy track jacket, looking up in fascination at freshly dyed gray hair, the natural shade of his undercut peeking below.
The rush of the shop’s air conditioning felt nice. Refreshing, as the summer heat rolled off of you in waves. A small smile lifted across your face when you pointed to the characters plastered on the glass, now backwards from where you’re standing.
“Onigiri… Miya?” you read without looking, without breaking eye contact.
There was a stretch of silence as your finger trailed from the window to the man in front of you.
“Miya Osamu?”
At the name drop, he—Osamu smiled, one that lingered more with his eyes than his mouth. His initial impassiveness starkly resembled his demeanor back in high school, only more mature now. More grown, with the weight of a couple of years settling nicely on his features.
“That would be me,” he says frankly, in a voice that was slightly deeper than his younger self, still tinged with a straightforward tone that was just so him.
An older him, you reminded yourself. Because now, the burgundy track jacket was replaced with a black shirt, with his own restaurant logo on it. And his hair was no longer dyed gray, the natural color that used to peek under now overtaking his entire head.
Frustrating, how the only thing that didn’t change was how handsome he was.
“Finally branched out here into Tokyo,” he followed up, still holding your gaze with wet stone eyes. “Didn’t expect to see ya this soon though.”
This soon?
“You knew I was in Tokyo?” you blurted out.
Osamu only blinked.
“Why wouldn’t I know that?”
Then you blinked, taken aback.
Seconds passed until he sighed, rounding the tables. Your neck craned as he drew closer, standing in front of you.
He’s taller now, too.
Osamu perched one hand on his hip, the other swiftly coming up to your face. You reel back when he pokes your forehead.
It’s immediate: your grunt of disapproval, the glare thrown his way, the lazy grin appearing on his face. A scene like old times, of two teenagers who bickered on the empty grounds of their high school, hours after everyone had left.
You pouted at him, feigning annoyance to hide your oncoming nostalgia. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around then?”
Osamu frowns. “Look at what Tokyo did to ya. Yer accent’s slippin’.”
“Well, I haven’t been home in a while—”
He cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.” His frown didn’t let up, and his eyes searched yours, unnervingly so. You looked away before it unsettled you further.
Osamu hummed at your silence before stepping back. “Stop by. Don’t just see me around.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the slight dip in your eyebrows, how your lip wavered for a second at his words.
It’s been a year since you graduated from university, a year of being swallowed by the big bustling city of Tokyo, looming loneliness and all. You remember it vividly because on that day, an odd warmth in the form of snow thawed your insides.
On that humid summer day, the snowstorm that was Miya Osamu blew back in.
A new beginning that tasted a little less stale, and a lot more like rice and vinegar.
Two weeks later, you found yourself at Onigiri Miya again.
Osamu’s voice sounded from the kitchen, muffled. “Tokyo’s been treating ya alright?”
You hummed, crossing your legs from where you sat on a barstool. It faced the kitchen directly, the lower half of his body seen from underneath the noren. “It’s been alright. Just taking it day by day.”
“Ya don’t seem to like it,” he deadpanned.
Indifferent, you shrugged your shoulders. “It’s got a certain charm to it. Easy to get lost here, though. I’d imagine it’s like that with most major cities.”
“Hm. Really?”
Osamu emerged from the split of the noren, his head pushing aside the fabric. You raised your eyebrows in surprise as he placed a plate in front of you, before straightening his back. A pop of a bone cracked in the air, and he shot you an annoyed look when you chuckled.
Ignoring it, your eyes darted back down, biting back a smile.
Two onigiris. One umeboshi. One tuna.
Mumbling a soft thanks, you scooted forward in your seat. And with shy but excited hands, you grabbed one, lighting up when the familiar taste filled your mouth. A ratio of ingredients that he mastered throughout the years, and you were the first guinea pig.
It wasn’t much different from back then. Slight adjustments, if anything.
With the rice grains carried memories, of Osamu appearing outside of your classroom, right before lunch started. Of him steering you away from the cafeteria, only to shove a bento box in your hands. Of him being pulled away by his twin, flashing you a look of irritation before pointing at his phone.
I’ll text you later, his eyes always seemed to say. And he would, in fact, text later. He always did.
The acidity of the vinegar carried memories as well. Pungent, sour, flashbacks of teenage high schoolers messing with you. Half of the time, you ignored them. The other half, a certain Miya was there. You wouldn’t go as far as to say he intentionally protected you. But he always showed up, a six-foot shield that walked you to and from classes.
You didn’t know when it started. The day after you two met, he walked beside you once. Then twice. Then all the time. His presence made your heart beat a little faster, but it was never that type of relationship—it couldn’t be.
Osamu just showed up one day and never left. Not until you fled to Tokyo.
Embarrassment crept up as the sudden urge to cry welled inside you. A sting in your nose, an odd burning of homesickness, and the gravity of all those lost years came forth.
You pushed it down hard, going for another bite instead.
“Yer taste never changed, y’know. Same old stuff ya used to eat back in the day.”
You mumbled through a full mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Osamu braced his hands against the counter, leaning forward, eye level to you. Your eyes remained on your hands holding the onigiri.
“Taste good?” he asked. Curtly, but with a softened edge.
The sound settled deep behind your ribs, tugging—warming. By now, he for sure had to know you were avoiding his gaze, but he didn’t say anything.
Osamu waited. Calm, collected, patient. Back then, people would’ve described him differently. Perhaps laidback, blunt, or even irritable.
But you knew him like this, and it crushed you in more ways than one that this hasn’t changed either.
After swallowing your bite, you murmured. “Yeah.”
Your throat felt tight, almost dry, and you knew it wasn’t from the rice. Despite that, your hands grabbed the other onigiri, pausing before it was lifted to your mouth—
“Tastes good.”
From then on, Onigiri Miya became a part of your weekly routine, a pit stop after work. You told yourself it was because the onigiris were good—tastier than other shops. Raging reviews of its grand opening and the long lines of customers would say so as well.
The man behind the counter had nothing to do with it. Most definitely not.
Though you had to give it to him. All those times he absentmindedly talked about new recipes, or when he looked at you during practice and mouthed I’m hungry, it meant something. It led to something.
It’s clear to anyone: Osamu’s changed, you’ve changed. But somehow, he still felt like home. A grounding force in this too-big city. A friend; nothing more, nothing less.
He probably felt the same as well, longing for remnants of Hyogo. Perhaps this was an unspoken agreement to him, a connection to hold onto until he settled into his life here.
A poke to your forehead brought you out of your thoughts.
“Still with me? You been spacin’ out for the past twenty minutes.”
You pouted, rubbing the spot he nudged, still feeling the lingering press of his finger. “Why do you keep doing that? It hurts.”
Osamu raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Does it? Sorry.”
Grumbling, you finished the onigiri, wiping your fingers on a napkin he passed you. Your skin brushed against his for a split second, and you tried to ignore the tingling sensation blooming from the contact.
“You never said sorry back then,” you pointed out. Not as a jab, but as a fact.
He was quick to respond. “Yeah, well, that’s when we were kids.”
You didn’t say anything, letting the soft hum of the shop take over.
Customers milled about, chatting over rice balls and the latest gossip. It was white noise to you at this point, as you perched on your undesignated designated barstool, watching Osamu wipe down counters.
“Hey.”
At your voice, his monotonous movements paused. “Hey.”
“Remember back then, when Atsumu dropped the carton of milk on my head, from the second floor?”
Osamu pursed his lips, a wince on his face. He looked down again, continuing his motions, the worn rag swiping rice grains onto the floor. “Yeah, I do. That idiot always fucked around too much.”
You chuckled. “He did. But you were worried for me back then, weren’t you? You kept looking over to me when Kita was lecturing him. Even gave me your jacket.”
He scoffed, a ghost of a smile on his face. “You were drenched. Like a soggy cat.”
“Also bruised,” you mumbled. “It was a full carton.”
Osamu glanced up, gray eyes almost shining. “Why’re ya bringin’ that up now? Trip down memory lane?”
An answer didn’t come out right away. For a moment, even you were surprised at the memory resurfacing, confused that it was voiced out loud. Shocked when honesty left your lips in the next second, spoken and unable to be taken back.
Then again, he always managed to draw it out of you—honesty, straightforwardness.
“It’s nice having a friend here in Tokyo. It’s like I have a piece of home with me.”
You clamped your mouth shut as the last syllable rolled off your tongue, busying yourself by wiping down your area. The napkin was crumpled into your palm, picking up two grains of rice before sweeping at nothing. Still, you continued your unnecessary swiping.
At his silence, your cheeks warmed, eyes unable to meet his scorching gaze.
You’re expecting a jab, a scoff. Or maybe he’d dismiss the comment, say something generic, and move on. You didn’t know what would be worse.
After what felt like hours, Osamu finally spoke, above your bated breath.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says. Curt, low, and astonishingly soft. “Y’know, I was worried for a sec, not seein’ ya all these years. Yer a shit texter.”
Another stretch of silence settles in, barely noticed underneath the rattling of your heart. You couldn’t decipher the atmosphere. Was it awkwardness? Fondness? Tension? It left you confused: biting your lip, fidgeting with your fingers.
Then comes,
“Tokyo ain’t too bad with you around.”
Osamu’s back was turned then, focusing on wiping down another counter. Good thing, for he would’ve seen how your mouth dropped into an O, paired with the absolute shock on your face.
Heat rose in your body, a joyous crawl that wormed its way up to your head. And when it was on the cusp of bursting, you laughed out loud. A genuine, relieving laugh that lightened loads off of your limbs, off your heart.
You saw him look over his shoulder, surprise etched onto his face before he turned away again. But you caught the small grin at the edge of his cheeks, and it made your smile all the wider.
“Look at us, being friends again,” you said through giggles.
It was a joke laced with truth. A joke because the whole situation seemed too serious for what it was. Truth, because you knew about the burned bridges behind you, and in the back of your mind, you were scared.
Osamu’s right. You were a shit texter. All for a new beginning that wasn’t as kind and easy-going as you thought it’d be. A little too naive and wishfully hopeful when you left Hyogo behind.
“Yer an idiot. When did we ever stop bein’ friends?”
You looked at him with a bitter smile.
With the rag forgotten behind him, Osamu walked up to you, leaned over the counter, and proceeded to poke you square in the forehead. His eyes were steady on yours as you glared at him, a complaint on the tip of your tongue—
“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ of us in the city, but we were thinkin’ of you. Still do.”
He sighed, clearly exasperated, busying himself with the register.
Sudden guilt pooled in your stomach. You wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out.
While speechless, he grumbled. Perhaps he didn’t mean for you to catch it, but it rang clear in your ears, made your heart stutter a beat too fast.
Because in a directness that reminded you of old days, in an openly gentleness that you’re learning in the new ones, he murmurs:
“I know I never stopped.”
The gray skies of December hover above as you cross the empty school grounds. You’re exhausted, and the last one to leave your club as usual. Shoving your hands deep into your coat pockets, you pick up your pace as you see Inarizaki High’s gates from a distance.
It’s cold, bitingly so, your breath dissipating into the air as puffs of fog.
With the season always comes this sense of loneliness—gloomy, stagnant. Dreariness weighed on you, each step heavier as the end of the year drew near. Though you anticipate this feeling would extend beyond that, it somehow always does.
Perhaps a change of scenery would be nice. A new city after graduation. A new direction.
You pass the threshold from where steel meets concrete, brick pillars on each side of you. And a quick glance to your left is when you see it.
A flutter of snow, with the plaque that says Inarizaki High School as its background.
Your eyes widen, a gasp leaving your lips. Childlike, your hands break free from the warmth they’ve generated in your pockets, palms out and facing the sky.
One flutter became two. Two became more. And suddenly, it was all around you, flurries of snow rapidly covering the ground. The first snowfall of the season.
How pretty, you think to yourself.
Pretty, but cold.
Swinging your bookbag forward, you rifle through it, looking for the small collapsible umbrella you keep during these months. You dig through notebooks and pencils, frowning when you don’t feel the particular nylon anywhere.
You keep digging, peering into the bag. Snow starts collecting on the top of your head, melting coolly into your scalp.
A shiver passes through your limbs, frown turning into a scowl when the realization hits: no umbrella, and a very cold walk home.
Then suddenly, a shadow crosses from behind, your head whipping up to see an umbrella shrouding you. Your eyebrows wrinkle in confusion, hands slowly slipping out of its ravage in the bookbag.
You turn, eyes trailing the canopy to the metal spikes, then to the pole, until it lands on eyes a gray darker than the skies above you. A face you’ve seen in the hallways, and plastered on posters all throughout the school.
You know him, you think.
Second Year Miya Osamu. Twin of Miya Atsumu. Rising stars of Inarizaki High’s volleyball team.
He looks down at you impassively, staring with calm eyes of riverbed wetstones. Steady, solid, a certain hardness to them. You stare back, blinking once before tilting your head to the side.
“Miya-kun…?”
“Ya didn’t bring an umbrella or somethin’?” he says, a little clipped. “The weather report said it’ll snow today.”
“I don’t check the weather report.”
“I can tell.”
It catches you off guard, the way he speaks. A little too blunt, a little too comfortable to a stranger. You two weren’t friends, and he couldn’t have possibly known who you were; you only knew him because of the volleyball team.
You jolt slightly when he steps closer, unable to help the heat rising to your cheeks when his chest almost brushes against your face. Heart almost leaping out of your own when he calls out your name.
“Where do you live?”
“What?” you hurriedly ask, more confused. “Why?”
He blinks, before declaring, “I’ll walk you home.”
You look at him incredulously. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s gettin’ dark,” he simply states. Then repeats, “I’ll walk ya.”
He actually starts walking, only looking back when he notices you haven’t moved, frozen to your spot.
Miya Osamu calls out to you. “Come on—
It was odd. You stared at him. A boy whom you’ve never talked to before, a boy like Miya Osamu, offering to walk you home. It made your heart pound: the way he looked at you unexpectedly warm, the small grin creeping up on his lips.
“—or do ya just like standin’ in the snow?”
In a season of loneliness, of gloominess and brittle smiles, he came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.
Looking back, you’ve never really paid the snow much mind before. But it was probably in that year.
That year, when snow became your favorite part of winter.
Osamu was always handsome. You knew this, everyone knew this, especially back in the day. Underclassmen—girls, boys, everyone—would wait outside of his classroom in between breaks, linger near the gym during practices. It was especially prevalent during games, them adorning t-shirts and paper fans with his face plastered on them.
Oh, how they wished they could see him now.
Older, matured, seasoned. Not a boy, but a man. It was hard not to linger on the way his torso filled out his shirt now, stretching the fabric more than it could handle. Or the way his muscles rippled underneath his arm sleeves, highlighting rather than hiding. And his hair looked nice natural, a little too nice.
His face was the most unfair part: weighty, angled with years, pretty in a rugged way.
The perfect picture of a heartbreaker, really.
“So you got plans next weekend?”
“Yeah. My coworkers invited me out and I said yes. It’ll be fun, I think.”
Osamu hummed from where he was setting up the Christmas tree. It was small, settled in the corner of his shop, with only lights entwined in the branches. An open box lay next to it, garland spilling from over the edges.
Before you knew it, half a year passed and winter eventually rolled around. It became routine for you to stay after business closed for the night. That day was no different.
Just the two of you alone, with soft Christmas music playing in the background.
“What made you finally change your mind? They’ve been askin’ ya for months.”
You tilted your head, mumbling with your chin perched in your hand, elbow resting on the table. “Just thought that maybe it’ll be fun. Trying new things, surrounding myself with new people.”
Remarkably, you’ve been in a cheery mood these days. More willing. More content. Happier.
It felt nice.
Osamu barely glances at you, rummaging through ornaments. “That so?”
“Mhm.”
Out of curiosity, your head swiveled to look out the window. At this time, people still milled about, either for a stroll or just leaving work. Lights hung from sparse trees and on nearly every balcony, illuminating the streets with a particular holiday glow.
Fogs left mouths as they talked, its residuals lingering in the air.
“I hope it snows this year.”
“Ya always liked the snow, didn’t ya?”
You nodded despite not knowing if he saw, still lost in your thoughts.
“Did you know?” you found yourself absentmindedly saying. “That some people believe if you see the first snowfall with someone you like, it’ll lead to a long and lasting relationship.”
Osamu was quiet for a moment, fiddling in his little corner.
Then: “Do you believe in it?”
You paused before shrugging. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just like the snow in general, I guess.”
Just as you turned your head, you feel his body from behind, his chest brushing against your shoulder. You froze as he leaned over, grabbing the empty plate in front of you. And even as he quickly stepped back, remnants of his cologne and the smell of fresh rice still lingered in your senses.
Heat crawled up the back of your neck. Prickling. Rising. Only stopping when he says,
“I’m goin’ back home soon for the holidays. You coming back too?”
Your response was immediate, giving him a courteous, but sad smile. “No. Not this time.”
Osamu frowns. “Why? Everyone’s dyin’ to see ya.”
A phrase that was familiar on your tongue rolled out. “Maybe next year.”
The clink of a plate hitting the sink echoed in the shop. “So you’ll be here alone?”
“S’not anything new. It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about me.”
Osamu looked at you from the counter, not saying anything. Just stared. Long and hard. What you would give to know what was running through his mind at that moment.
It was a bit unnerving, much too tense for your liking.
You looked away, opting to get up from your seat and head towards the unfinished Christmas tree. Peering in the boxes, you chuckled, bending down to rummage through the items.
Lifting an onigiri ornament, you smiled at him. “Really?”
Osamu sighed before smiling, making his way towards you. His hand came up to hold your own, bringing the plastic rice ball close to his face. You ignored the way his touch set fire to your skin, and the hard pound to your heart.
“Felt right to buy it,” he stated, seemingly amused. Then, with more push, “Put it on.”
“Me?” you asked.
Osamu nodded.
Giddy, you turned towards the tree, searching—combing for a good spot. When you finally settled the loop into one of the pine needles, you looked back at him with a wide smile.
“Good?”
Osamu’s eyes darted to the ornament, then back to you. A beat too long before saying, “Yeah. Pretty.”
Help me decorate the shop, he said to you then, nudging the box toward you. And what was once an atmosphere that bordered on discomfort, turned into the warmth of string lights and soft white garland. Everywhere. Along with more onigiri ornaments (it was a bulk pack), and shy laughter chiming with Christmas bells.
This was good. This was fun, easy.
For you couldn’t fully bring yourself to say more. To cross this delicate line of friends that should only embody good times. Not dreary, gloomy ones. This should be good. This should be enough.
Anything more would just feel like a rock tied to his foot, thrown deep into the murky waters of a desolate lake.
Osamu left around a week before Christmas, not that you were counting the days.
You hung out with your coworkers, and it was fun. More fun than you’d like to admit. But you couldn’t ignore the lingering emptiness in your chest, a sensation that carved out your insides, leaving just the shell behind.
You had thought that maybe this was the start you needed—trying new things, surrounding yourself with new people. That maybe this would turn the pit in your stomach upside down, filling the ache that had festered.
But it was still there. It wasn’t loneliness, per se. Not like how you felt before summer. You couldn’t quite decipher it.
No, not until the days passed by, when suddenly, the hollowness came full force when you walked by Onigiri Miya for the sixth time without going in. And rather than seeing a certain Miya behind the glass, you were greeted with the sight of his other workers.
They noticed your presence, eyes brightening in recognition as they waved at you. You waved back, with a weak smile and a sunken chest.
At this time, you would’ve been inside. Perhaps sitting at the counter, or looking over Osamu’s shoulder while he was washing rice. You knew you were just getting in the way when you were in the kitchen—his domain, but he never chased you out. Never.
Maybe you missed him, if only a little bit.
Just as the thought entered your mind, your phone rang in your pocket, buzzing with fervor. You slipped it out of your pocket, back straightening when you read the name.
Osamu
The relief that flooded you was akin to being dumped with a bucket of water. It drenched you in its entirety, shivering at the realization. At the almost-painful, selfish realization that the emptiness you’ve been feeling wasn’t, in fact, the loneliness you were so familiar with after all.
Because this feeling was so different. Everything was so different. Not unlike that silly little crush you had on him all those years ago.
It soared your heart only to yank it back down. Down to a middleground for birds who wouldn’t dare to fly too high.
You did miss Osamu.
Rather, the more conflicting part:
You like Osamu.
“You didn’t bring an umbrella or somethin’? Or do ya just like standin’ in the snow?”
Only a week has passed since you saw him. One week. Seven days. Just seven days. But the sight of him in front of you, close enough where you can smell his cologne and see the way his jaw tenses the slightest, unravels you.
Your voice comes out as a whisper. A hope if you listen clearly enough.
“I thought you went back home for the holidays. What are you doing here?”
Osamu shrugs, leaning his head forward. You gulp at his face just inches from yours, opening and closing clammy palms.
When did they get so sweaty?
“I wanted to come back.”
“But why? Wouldn’t it be better to be back home?”
Your words come out breathily—in disbelief. You just can’t seem to wrap your head around it.
Osamu is quiet, but not unattentive. Caring. Compassionate. Bright, in his own special way. He captures the hearts of those around him effortlessly and carries them with kindness.
He deserves to be back home, in this season of loneliness. In this season of bright holidays surrounded by warmth, by those who can uplift him in ways that matter.
So why is he here?
You don’t know how your expression translates to him, nor what prompts him to frown at you, almost exasperated.
“Quit lookin’ at me as if I would rather be anywhere than here. I came because there’s somethin’ I wanted to do.”
You retort back, voice harsher than you intended. “And what could that possibly be?”
Osamu raises his finger, ready to poke your forehead. Your eyes dart to it, unflinching, before he pauses just inches from your skin.
You wait for the oncoming nudge as his eyebrows furrow, hand hovering in the space between you two.
Then, he sighs. A long, borderline tired, sigh. One that makes you bite your lip, another accusing question on the tip of your tongue—
—as he plops his forehead against yours.
What was always his finger, is now his head. What was always his arm extending out to you, is now his body, close. Eyes the color of winter skies and wetstones peer at you. Steady, calm, unwavering.
You can feel his breath against your face, the fog tickling your cheeks.
Your heart, beating harshly against your ribcage.
“I wanted to take you out on a date,” he says. Direct as ever, but tender. Soft.
It wrangles your stomach into knots, another rush of heat pulsing up your neck.
Snow falls to the ground, people walk aimlessly, around this small bubble he created under his umbrella. A world of just the two of you.
“How about it?” he asks you. “Right now?
You purse your lips, forehead burning underneath his weight, nerves firing every which way inside your body.
And you nod.
“Osamu!”
Your yelp can probably be heard from across the entire ice rink, but you didn’t have the time to be embarrassed. Rather, you couldn’t afford to focus on anything other than not falling and cracking your head open.
Who knew? That ice skating was going to lead you to an early grave.
Osamu laughs from beside you, hands in his pockets as he glides around smoothly. A stark contrast to your flailing body, churning up piles of ice from where your blades refuse to go anywhere but forward.
“S’not funny,” you grumble, hands staggering miserably to try to keep your balance.
“Nah.” He grins. “It’s cute.”
And that’s what nearly sends you to the icy ground again.
Osamu grips your arm that shoots out, attempting to steady you.
But the blades attached to your skates tilt—rock side to side. Your arms fly up in the air before your body propels itself forward, straight into Osamu’s chest. He catches you with a grunt, arms tightening around your frame as your cheeks flare.
“Sorry,” you mumble, scrambling to get out of his embrace, head tingling. Either from embarrassment or for your cheesy landing, you don’t know.
Osamu’s hands trail down your sleeves, and before you can fully pull away, he holds your hands. Tight.
And wordlessly, he skates backwards, gently tugging you along.
His hands are warm.
“There ya go,” he says after a couple of minutes. “You got it.”
Biting your lip, you nod, unable to meet his gaze, opting to focus on the ice underneath you.
“Hey,” he calls out. “Look at me.”
Shyly, your head lifts, and you hope to the stars that he doesn’t see the blush obliterating your cheeks. If he does, he doesn’t mention it.
“Yer body goes in the direction it's lookin’ at. So keep yer eyes on me.”
You nod, again. You keep your eyes on him, reluctantly.
You think that if you keep looking at him, you’ll like him even more.
Osamu doesn’t really give you a choice.
The two of you do laps around the rink. And at some point, you graduated from two hands to one, with him tugging you along behind his back. It seemed more like a loss than a win.
There were many sounds: thunderous laughter, the scraping of blades against ice, vendors hollering about hot chocolate and taiyaki. But it all slipped into one ear and out the other.
At first, you thought you couldn’t focus on anything other than not falling and cracking your head open on the ice. Now, there was another issue. One so glaringly prominent and in the form of Miya Osamu.
It is both astonishing and devastating: the way you can’t take your eyes off of him. Even when you both came off the rink, and the ground turned from ice back to concrete, you just couldn’t.
You couldn’t bear to.
You didn’t want to.
Osamu finishes the last of his hot chocolate just as you throw your cup in the trash, remnants of sugar still dancing on your tongue. He cranes his neck back as he swallows, and your eyes can’t help but follow the motion, the way his Adam's apple bobs.
You like Osamu, and the thought pinches your heart.
The better half of your high school years were spent with him, and the short time he’s been in Tokyo easily bests the past five years you’ve been living here. Comfort and belonging always came with him, and you never had to ask for it.
He probably took you on this “date” because he knew you would be spending the holidays alone.
He just always gives and gives.
You like him. And it’s absurd. Absolutely ludicrous.
How scary it is. To like someone who’s become a pillar in your life. The line between selfishness and longing has never felt so thin. You couldn’t be greedy, not with him. Other factors led you to leave Hyogo, to leave “home”. And something you’ve always regretted was leaving him.
He was home, and it took you this long to realize it.
And what are you to do about it?
The drop of a cup landing in the trash makes you swivel your head, eyes meeting his in an instant.
“Let’s go?” he asks.
“Okay.”
The streets are lively today, filled with Christmas spirit and reindeer-shaped joy. Maybe it was the holiday season, but Osamu shone. With a presence that outweighs every brightly lit tree, every glitter-covered present. He was the star in his own night sky.
In your sky.
“—who will it be next, I wonder? Oh look! Another couple, folks! Right under the mistletoe!”
You jolt as cheering erupts from all around you. Claps, shouts, whistles. Confusion overtakes you in an instant, with strangers circling you and Osamu.
Your head moves from side to side, a sea of faces blurring with the noise. Then you whip towards Osamu as if he would have an answer; his face tilts to the sky, and your head follows his line of vision, eyes widening.
Right above the two of you hangs a bundle of leaves, clusters of white berries peeking in between. A red ribbon ties off the stems with a bow, the entire bouquet fastened to an arch.
A mistletoe.
Immediately, a bewildered scoff leaves your lips, because who in the world does this? Ambushing strangers with something as tacky and embarrassing as this? It’s laughable, you think. A scene that no doubt, Osamu would also find just as silly and ridiculous.
He would. He should.
Then why is he looking at you without saying anything?
Your eyebrows dipped, trying to decipher the puzzle pieces of his expression.
Not expectant, nor in disgust. Just…waiting, patient-like. Looking down at you with both hands in his pockets, unmoving. As if he had asked you a question and was waiting for an answer. As if the random people around you were white noise in his focus.
While you felt nothing short of uncertainty. Alarmed. Panic slowly filling the recesses of your mind.
Why is he just standing there?
Would he kiss you?
You don’t allow yourself to question it, breaking away from Osamu’s gaze in nervousness. Chants of “kiss, kiss, kiss!” ring in your ears, and it makes you want to bury yourself six feet under.
That is, until you hear Osamu’s voice break through the crowd.
“Please stop. We’re just friends, and this is makin’ us uncomfortable.”
We’re just friends.
Hollers turn into whispering, and perhaps smiles turn into looks of pity. But you’re less inclined to note the change of expressions, and more concentrated on holding yourself together. Your limbs felt itchy, aching—begging to run right this second.
How embarrassing.
Someone apologizes, you assume the host of whatever stupid game this is. Though all is lost on you as you feel Osamu’s hand slip into yours, and you’re promptly tugged from where you’re frozen on the sidewalk.
Your heart rate climbs with each step you take, the feeling of wanting to jump out of your skin festering wildly. You truly don’t know what’s worse: the mistletoe, his reaction, we’re just friends—
or the fact that disappointment stabs you blaringly in the gut.
It’s dumb. This whole date was nothing short of that damn middleground you’re stuck flying in. Everything is just stupid, stupid, stupid—
“Are you okay?”
Without noticing, Osamu stops, and the sound of his voice makes you jerk your hand out of his. The cold that bites your skin is immediate, and you don’t notice his hand still hovering in the air, frozen-still from where you yanked back.
You look around. You’re in a park, alone, snow dusting over the playground where kids usually run around.
It reminds you of how childish you’re being.
“Y-yeah. I’m okay. That was just… sudden. Y’know?”
Osamu sighs, but you don’t look at what expression he’s donning right now. You can’t bring yourself to. Perhaps he’s confused. Or irritated. Maybe a little bit of both.
“Sorry,” he says. “Ya didn’t seem comfortable. Just thought it’d be best to leave.”
“Thanks for that. You’re right. It was kinda weird.”
You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. It only half works.
Still not looking at him, you point in the direction of the street. “Wanna head out? Snow’s comin’ down a little hard.”
At the cue, a flutter of snow drifts past your face. You swipe it away.
Osamu doesn’t move an inch from his spot, his voice echoing from behind. “Ya don’t seem alright.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“Do you wanna talk about it—”
You cut him off. “There’s nothin’ to talk about. I just think it’s time to go home.”
Osamu pulls on your arm. You don’t budge. “Somethin’s wrong.”
“Nothin’s wrong–”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
A rush of emotions flares in your body, shivers running up your spine when your head whips towards him, tears rimming your waterline.
Osamu’s eyes widen in surprise, mouth clamping shut. You don’t even want to know the look on your face right now. All you know is that you feel frustrated. At yourself. At him. At everything.
An odd, heartbreaking devastation, taking on the form of unjustified anger.
“I’m lookin’ at ya right now. So, what? Ready to go home?”
His lips purse at your outburst. He seems perplexed, confused. Maybe a hint of frustration from the way his eyebrows dip inwards.
Great.
“What’s gotten into ya?” he asks, clearly exasperated. “I thought today was goin’ well. What happened?”
You huff out a breath. “I don’t know. Friends don’t usually take each other on dates. Maybe we should stick to that.”
His grip tightens on your arm. Not painful, but firm. Unyielding. For a moment, both of you stare at each other, fire in your eyes. His jaw is tense, as if he were biting back words, and you want to hear them as much as you want to shut them out.
Osamu sighs. “Is this about me sayin’ that we’re just friends?”
“Well, you weren’t wrong.”
“You’re angry,” he states.
“I’m not angry.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Am not.”
He clicks his tongue. “I said we were friends because you seemed ready to bolt. Didn’t want to scare ya off. Would you have wanted me to confess that I liked you then and there?”
You immediately scoff. “Like lyin’ would be any better.”
“I wouldn’t be lyin’.”
“I don’t need your pity. I know you came back just ‘cause I was here, alone.”
Osamu opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He frowns, breathes out a haggard breath that blows in your face. Then faces the sky, and back down to you with hardened eyes.
You meet him with the same edge.
“Are ya really this dense?” is what comes out. Pointed. Almost agitated.
It stops you in your tracks, hands clenching rigidly, eyebrows wrinkling in disbelief. “What—?”
“I don’t pity you. I never did. I like you, and I always have.”
Osamu releases your arms, not before pulling to face you directly. Your body soundlessly complies, following his direction. His eyes are still hardened. But you notice now it’s not with anger or exasperation, but with honesty. A desperation so unlike him that it causes a longing ache to numb your being.
Shock wrecks your system as you try to process his words. It feels unreal. Almost fragile. And you can’t seem to wrap your head around the possibility that Miya Osamu would like you.
He’s always been confident—sure of himself. Someone who’s ambitious and commits to it. Someone who isn’t afraid to chase after what he wants.
You’re scared—utterly terrified. Because in the far back of your mind, you know he deserves more. He deserves better.
He should be without someone who’s as strong as him, who knows their path and can support him in the right ways.
He deserves someone like him. Someone who shines.
Someone, not like you.
“No.”
Osamu flinches, taken aback. “No…?”
“You can’t like me,” you choke out. “I’m not… I’m not you. I’m not kind. Or giving. I’m just—”
He cuts you off. “What are you talkin’ about?”
Words unspoken die on the tip of your tongue, and your eyes waver. He tries to search them, tries to decipher them. But you know he can’t read minds, nor do you expect him to.
You let out a ragged breath, voice shaky.
And your heart cracks the tiniest bit, spilling in between the edges.
“I left Hyogo. I ran away. I thought I would know what to do here, in Tokyo. But I’m still lost. And you deserve someone who’s sure of themselves. Someone who can give you the kindness you deserve.”
Osamu’s quiet, taking in your words. And the silence unnerves you, it always does.
You never want him to feel obligated—
“You’re you, and that’ll always be enough for me. I like you for you, not for what you think you should be.”
Your breath hitches. Your lips quiver.
Osamu is always direct with his words. Always straightforward. Always honest. If there’s one thing you can count on him for, it is always honesty.
It wrecks you, in more ways than one. With him, it’s easy. Too easy. And it terrifies you.
You like him. You like Osamu. You want to trust his words, but the devil on your shoulder just keeps insisting—
“You never have to earn anyone’s love. Especially not mine.”
At the drop, a soft sob unwillingly escapes you, your head falling forward onto his chest. He catches you, because he always does. Brings you flush to his frame, and rubs a soothing palm down your back. Hands that always warm.
You clutch his sweater with both palms, pressing your face into him. Finally seeking—taking his care that you’ve tried to deny yourself for so long.
It felt too relieving. Too forgiving.
You can’t find the words to speak, for you’re scared you won’t ever stop.
Instead, you cling to him, hard. Hugging—molding yourself to him as close as you possibly can. And you hope with all your heart that he feels it:
I like you, too. I want to be with you. Am I allowed to love you?
You think he does, for his embrace only tightens further. Locked into your frame like two puzzle pieces shaved to fit together.
You feel his voice before he speaks. A gentle rumble through his chest that lulls you.
“Y’know. Yer kinder than you think. And I’m more selfish than you take me for. After all, I came back for one reason and one reason only.”
Your voice comes out small. Almost fearful. A little too hopeful. “And what’s that?”
Osamu pulls back. Not entirely, but just enough so that he can look you straight in the eyes: steady, calm, unwavering. Paired with a voice just the same, he says:
“I came here to make you mine.”
And that’s when you feel your emotions burst from their delicate bubble. A soundless whisper from a desolate lake, having waited to be popped.
Miya Osamu came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.
After your tears met the winter-chilled air, and you crumpled into his embrace, he asked you:
Will you be mine?
And you nodded.
You melted into him like snow in the sun. Like sugar finally meeting water. Helplessly. Desperately.
Flurries of ice fluttered around you both then, a picture-esque sight that looked as enchanting as it felt. His voice cut through the powder to you, a sound you would never get tired of.
Did ya check the weather report today?
You muttered back lowly. No. I didn’t. You know I don’t.
He chuckled, and the vibrations clung to your heart, settling in your bones.
Yeah. Obviously.
You questioned him why—curious, and he looked at you with a twinkle in his eye.
Wanted to see ya like this. And it felt right to come today.
What do you mean? What’s today?
Osamu paused then. Gazing at you with eyes that enrapture, with a presence that forever comforts. With slow movements and without letting you go, he brought your hand up, kissing your knuckles softly.
And he says fondly:
It’s the first snowfall of the season.
On the other side of the snow…
Osamu recognized her. He didn’t typically memorize names, mostly faces, but he knew hers. Someone he saw fleetingly in the hallways, and occasionally at games. Though, it didn’t seem like she had a lot of fun at those.
He remembered her name because he heard a classmate call it out once. Twice. Then three times. All three times, she didn’t look up. All three times, someone else—him, caught the attention as if he owned the name and not her. As if the name was meant to be heard by his ears instead, and no one else.
The fourth calling was when she finally looked up. He noticed it instantly: glazed eyes that melted once it focused on someone else. Something else, other than the empty spot in front of her. He looked and looked, but could not, for the life of him, figure out what made that spot so damn interesting.
Osamu simply liked the sound of it at first—her name.
Then he kept hearing it. Kept seeing her. They say once you notice something once, you suddenly see it everywhere. He supposes that’s what happened.
Far away but never out of reach; never had a reason to reach. That is, until it snowed that one day, late into the evening after practice. Atsumu had left him earlier: claimed something dumb about meeting someone, threw him the umbrella, then ran off with red cheeks and the giddiest smile on his face.
She was alone, outside Inarizaki High’s gates, holding her hands out innocently as snow fell around her. He wondered if she noticed her hair getting damp from the ice. Or how her eyes, despite seeing snow, melted at the sight of it, a certain twinkle he never saw until that day.
Osamu blinked from where he stood, from far down the sidewalk. It was only by chance that he glanced back, but he’s glad he did.
Far away but never out of reach.
And finally, he found his reason.
That same reason leads him to today, watching the same girl—you, reach out for the snow like all those years ago. Umbrella-less, not even a hood to cover your head; typical.
Though this time, his heart races as he approaches you. Hands shivering, but not from the cold. Eyes blinking fast, but not from the wind. A deep yearning that’s been there for who knows how long, lurches at him then. And it really is a wonder how you haven’t noticed that simply seeing you—thinking of you—aches his entire being. Makes him clutch his chest for his dear fucking life.
Some people believe if you see the first snowfall with someone you like, it’ll lead to a long and lasting relationship.
He didn’t need the snow, really. It was a romantic notion, but not necessary.
For this time, he’ll make it count. This time, he won’t let you hold your pains bare to the world, alone, with hardly any protection and only wishful thinking. He’ll hold your hands, your palms that reach out to the sky, and let you know what he couldn’t say all those years ago.
I like you. I want to be with you. Please, let me love you.
I wish to be your first snowfall, every day, for as long as you’ll allow me to.
this is my first time writing for osamu, and also writing dialogue with a kansai accent LOL i hope it flows smoothly!! and near the end, reader’s kansai accent does come out a tiny bit when she was flustered/angry ^^ osamu loverboy agenda!!
clingy bf!toji refuses to let you shower in peace ! ꒰꧞ ˃ 𛱊 ˂ ꒱ྀི
repost !!
“rinse me off, not eat me out!”
“toji,” you warn, voice already breathy, “this is supposed to be a quick shower—”
“‘m bein’ quick,” he mutters, shamelessly rutting his face between your thighs, large hands splayed across your ass, spreading you open to lick another slow stripe up your slit. “you’re the one takin’ forever.”
your head tips back, a whimper slipping out before you can swallow it. “because i’m trying to get clean…”
“i’m helpin’, baby.” he grins into your cunt. “ain’t my fault this pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet.”
his tongue presses in again, wet and deliberate, the kind of hungry that makes your knees buckle. and he feels it— laughs softly when your thighs close around his head but he just forces them back apart, groaning under his breath like he’s the one being touched.
“toji—!”
“what? you’re the one who got in the shower lookin’ all fuckin’ good,” he grunts, nuzzling his nose against your ass, licking you open with long, obscene strokes. “told you not to ignore me this mornin’.”
you would roll your eyes if they weren’t already rolling to the back of your head. “you woke me up with your dick poking my back..”
“exactly, and you didn’t do shit about it.” he kisses the inside of your thigh, just to be dramatic. “kinda rude if you ask me.”
your hand flies back to thread through his wet hair and he groans again, tongue fucking into you while his hips rock forward, cock leaking and pressed tight against the tile, smearing mess across the floor with every slow rut.
“t-toji, fuck, gonna fall—”
“i got you,” he pants, arms wrapped around your thighs now, keeping you upright. “just keep moanin’ like that f’me.”
you try to glare over your shoulder, chest heaving. “you said we were late.”
he smirks. “you said that. i don’t give a fuck.”
you start to say something— probably some weak protest— but he flattens his tongue against your clit and shakes his head like a damn dog, and all the words die in your throat. your legs tremble, hand slapping against the wall for balance, moaning his name in broken syllables as he drinks you down.
“fuck, toji- oh my god—”
“that’s it,” he growls, voice deep and hot and filthy, letting spit drip from his mouth just to smear it into your pussy with his face. “cum on my tongue, baby. gimme all of it.”
you do. knees locking, stomach tightening, fingers gripping wet hair as his name spills from your lips between gasps, and he moans right along with you, breathing hard while his cock jerks with every sound you make.
and when you finally slump against the wall, dazed and shaking, he stands and kisses the back of your neck, rubbing your hips sweetly, stupidly pleased with himself.
𝜗𝜚 you thought toji didn’t want you, but the only reason your husband slept on the couch was to stop himself from giving in . . .
( mdni. cw: arranged marriage!au, hurt/comfort, age gap, size kink, praise kink, oral (f. rec), fingering, creampie )
you didn’t choose him.
and truthfully, neither did he.
your families had known each other for decades— tangled up in promises, contracts, and unpaid debts. it was never about love, or even choice. everything had already been decided long before you were old enough to understand what it meant. you weren’t even given time to mourn the death of your autonomy. no arguments, no bargaining. only your father’s voice, stern and tired, eyes dull with the weight of duty, saying, “he’ll protect you. you’ll be taken care of.”
those were the final words that sealed your fate.
and just like that, you became mrs. fushiguro.
the wedding passed in a haze of stiff silk and tense silence. you wore white, he wore black. no one smiled. at least, not in any way that felt genuine. even the photographer didn’t bother faking it. you recited your vows without ever meeting his eyes— the rings felt heavier than they should’ve. there was no kiss. just the sound of distant applause and the quiet, sinking feeling that nothing about this was truly yours.
toji was a quiet man.
stoic, broad, and nearly impossible to read. he didn’t waste time on small talk, rarely showed emotion. it seemed as though your overall presence didn’t faze him in the slightest, as if he’d already adapted to the idea of living with a stranger. he wasn’t the kind to leave messes or linger in shared spaces. everything about him was precise, detached. not out of cruelty, but habit, like he’d spent his whole life perfecting the art of keeping people out.
you’d heard rumors about him growing up. how he used to be the type of man who never stayed in one place for too long, who didn’t give his name to the women he fucked and never spent the night. toji’s never been a one-woman kind of guy. settling down wasn’t in his vocabulary. and definitely not with someone as young and out-of-place as you.
he was older. rougher. the kind of man who’d seen too much and felt too little. you were the opposite— softer around the edges, not naïve, but still idealistic enough to believe marriage might eventually mean something.
but the truth was, you were strangers playing house.
and he made no effort to pretend otherwise.
he never yelled or raised his voice, but he also never smiled. didn’t ask about your day or crack single joke. the most he ever said to you was the occasional, “you eat yet?” or “lock the doors when i’m out.”
he wasn’t cruel. but he wasn’t kind either. he was just… distant.
and every night, without fail, he took a pillow from your bed and laid it on the couch. like it was some unspoken rule neither of you had agreed to, but followed all the same.
you told yourself it didn’t bother you.
it’s better this way, you thought. less awkward. more space. at least he wasn’t forcing anything on you. at least he wasn’t trying to play pretend.
but it still left a strange hollow in your chest, watching him retreat down the hallway like some unwelcome guest, his broad back disappearing into the dark. it was your house, your marriage, but it didn’t feel like either belonged to you.
you could hear him sometimes through the thin walls— the creak of leather, the shift of his weight on the couch, the low sighs he tried to keep quiet. you’d often wonder, did he ever sleep soundly? did he ever think about coming back to bed? or was this just as unbearable for him as it was for you?
you didn’t know what he saw when he looked at you. just a kid, maybe. just another favor he owed. a girl too young for him. a wife he didn’t ask for.
and yet… there were glimpses. brief ones.
he’d linger in the kitchen after grabbing a drink, eyes flicking to you like he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. his gaze would catch on you when you bend over to grab something. there’d be times where his fingers would brush yours when passing a mug across the table, only to quickly pull away and act like the contact burned him.
but none of it meant anything. not really.
he still felt a million miles away, always avoided your eyes, and spent his nights on the couch.
and every time you lay in bed alone, facing the empty space where your husband should have been… you wondered how long it would be before either of you finally broke the silence.
+
months passed.
coexistence— bland, neutral, suffocating— was the best words you could find for it. two strangers living under the same roof. two shadows moving through the same space.
you learned his footsteps before his voice. heavy boots against the tile, always coming home late, reeking of steel and smoke. the scent of blood sometimes lingered longer than it should’ve. cuts along his knuckles, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a cigarette tucked behind his ear he never once lit indoors.
he never offered answers. and you never asked questions.
your conversations always felt transactional— brief and stripped of anything personal. he moved like a man who’d locked his entire life behind closed doors, speaking only when necessary, silence curling in the spaces between
but sometimes, he surprised you.
like when your cough wouldn’t go away, and he left a steaming cup of tea on your nightstand. no note. just honey, lemon, and a quiet gesture you pretended not to notice. or the time your car wouldn’t start, and by morning it was fixed, keys hung on the hook with a single post-it note: ‘battery’s old. don’t leave the lights on.’ or when you dozed off on the couch and woke up in bed, tucked in gently—your socks gone, your blanket neatly arranged over your shoulders, the air warm from the space heater you hadn’t turned on yourself.
little things. fleeting and wordless. barely there, but enough to leave a mark.
enough to make you wonder.
does he care? or is this just guilt? pity? obligation?
you caught him watching you sometimes, too. not lecherous. not overt. just… lingering. like he couldn’t figure you out. like he was trying to memorize you without getting caught. his eyes would trail over your face like he didn’t quite believe you were real.
but he never touched you.
never kissed you.
never allowed himself get too close.
and maybe it was better that way. maybe it hurt less to imagine he didn’t want you than to accept the possibility that he did, and was just too afraid to act on it.
until one night, everything changed.
it was starting to rain. the steady patter against the window, soothing enough to lull you to sleep with a book on your chest and the bedside lamp still glowing, thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. you curled beneath the blankets alone, as always, half-asleep before the storm even settled.
you didn’t hear him come in.
but you felt it— the sudden shift in the air, the creak of the floorboards, the dip of the mattress under his weight. his warm breath near the nape of your neck.
your heart kicked in your chest.
“…toji?” you whispered, uncertain, afraid to turn around.
a pause stretched long.
“…can’t sleep,” he murmured, voice rough, like it scraped against something inside him just to speak.
your pulse quickened. “you… wanna stay here tonight?”
he hesitated. the air thickened, heavy with tension.
when he finally responded, his voice was low. remorseful.
“should’ve been sleepin’ here from the start.”
you didn’t know what to say. but when you shifted, he took it as an invitation— easing into the sheets behind you, his massive arm hesitating before wrapping around your waist.
his touch was delicate. almost reverent.
you held your breath as his fingers brushed your stomach. then your ribs. then lower.
“you sure?” he whispered, lips grazing your ear.
you didn’t need time to think before you breathed out a barely audible, “yes.”
a pause. then a low groan, rumbling in his chest.
“good,” he growled, voice thick with restraint finally snapping. “been holdin’ back for too fuckin’ long.”
and then he finally kissed you.
it was messy. desperate. months of pent-up frustration crashing all at once. his mouth was warm, his lips greedy, tongue sweeping against yours like he needed to taste every piece of you. every part he’d denied himself.
you whimpered, hands fisting in his hair, and he groaned against your mouth— deep and guttural, as if it physically hurt to hold back.
“fuck, baby… taste so sweet,” he murmured, breath warm on your lips. his hands roamed, rough palms caressing your hips, your thighs, your stomach.
he pulled back just long enough to sit up and yank your nightshirt over your head in one swift motion, tossing it to the floor. you lay bare beneath him, chest rising and falling, lips parted in anticipation— the look in his eyes darkened, heat blooming behind his lashes. his gaze dropped to your underwear, and a crooked smirk curved his mouth.
“always sleepin’ in those little fuckin’ panties,” he muttered, laced with amusement and need. “you do it to tease me?”
“n-no, i—” your throat tightened as he hooked his fingers into the waistband, dragging them down your thighs with excruciating slowness, knuckles brushing your skin.
“you do now,” he said, eyes never leaving you. “so pretty… ‘s all mine, yeah?”
you nodded quickly, heart thudding in your chest. “yours.”
he leaned down, kissed your collarbone, your chest, your waist— leaving no place of you untouched. his stubble scraped your skin, rough enough to make your thighs twitch, your breath hitch. you shivered as he moved lower, lips brushing along your inner thighs until he was nestled between them
“spread those legs, sweet girl,” he rasped. “lemme taste what i’ve been missin’.”
you obeyed instantly, trembling.
and then he was on you.
your cry cracked the silence, body jolting as his tongue met your folds— slow, deliberate, filthy. he devoured you like he was starving, tongue flat and thorough, savoring every bit of you with obscene groans vibrating against your pussy.
“fuck… so wet for me already,” he breathed between licks, voice muffled and wrecked. “this pretty lil’ cunt’s been waitin’, huh?”
“t-toji— ah!”
he moaned in response, sucking your clit into his mouth while two fingers pushed inside— curling just right, filling you so perfectly it made your toes curl. you were already so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t give you a second to catch your breath.
he kept going, relentless, mouth and hands working in tandem until your thighs shook around his head and your fingers tugged his hair, your orgasm ripping through you in thick waves as you cried out his name.
only when you fell back against the pillows, panting and soaked, did he finally stop.
he sat back on his knees, eyes half-lidded, licking his lips like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop of you. he made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it with one hand while the other gently stroked your thigh, soothing you. his cock was thick, flushed, the tip glistening. heavy in his palm as he stroked himself slow, watching the way your chest rose and fell.
“gonna fuck you slow,” he promised, “but i ain’t gonna be gentle.”
you whimpered. “want you… please, toji.”
he leaned in and kissed you again— deep and messy, still tasting like you— before guiding himself to your entrance and pressing in, steady and thick, easing deeper until your walls stretched to take all of him.
“fuck,” he hissed, jaw clenched. “grippin’ me like a fuckin’ vice…”
he stayed still at first, letting you adjust to his size, forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning across your lips. then he rolled his hips, slow and deep, dragging every ridge of him along your walls. you were already gasping, body arching into his, overwhelmed by how full he made you feel. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, grounding yourself against the dizzying pleasure.
and then he started to move— faster, deeper, driving into you with smooth, powerful thrusts. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard thudded against the wall in rhythm.
“yeah, take it, baby,” he grunted. “takin’ it so good for me.”
his mouth found your neck, then your shoulder, then your lips again— hot and open, tongue sliding against yours between moans. you couldn’t think, couldn’t speak— only hold on and feel. your nails raked down his back as he fucked you harder, each thrust making your breath hitch.
“always thought about this,” he confessed between gritted teeth. “every fuckin’ night on that couch. wanted to come in here… split you open.”
his hand came up to wrap around your throat, not choking, just holding. “look at me.”
your eyes fluttered open, and he looked down at you like he was worshipping you. you were already teary, completely undone, and somehow still falling apart beneath him.
his lips were back on yours, languid, teasing, yet driven by something deeper. like he finally understood what it meant to want.
“mine,” he growled, low and steady. “you hear me?”
“yours,” you whispered back, broken and sure.
he groaned as he came, burying himself as deep as he could go, hips grinding into you while he spilled inside— thick and warm, pulse after pulse. you felt it fill you, every drop, your walls fluttering around him as you whimpered through the overstimulation.
you clung to him like a lifeline, barely able to breathe.
and still, he didn’t move.
he stayed there, chest heaving, one hand cupping your cheek, nose brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you. he kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw. soft and sweet and quiet.
“shouldn’t’ve waited this long,” he murmured against your skin. “you… you make this place feel like home.”
you blinked up at him, bleary-eyed.
“…i thought you didn’t like me,” you hesitantly confessed.
his brows pulled together. “didn’t like you?”
you nodded. “you always slept on the couch. you never talked to me…”
his expression softened, almost ashamed.
he lets out a shaky breath.
“did it ‘cause i didn’t wanna scare you. didn’t think i deserved to sleep next to you yet.”
your heart clenched so tightly you thought it might break.
“…you do,” you whispered, reaching up to touch his face. “you do now.”
he leaned into your palm.
then kissed you— slow, tender, like he meant every breath of it.
that night, for the first time, you fell asleep in your husband’s arms.
and for once… he didn’t leave.
i don’t think i’m very good at writing angst but i tried 🤧 i rlly hope i executed this well enough bc i never wrote arranged marriage trope before but i feel like this wasn’t that bad idkskdksk
If someone had asked (y/n) about living with three guys a few years ago, she would have laughed in their face and said, "absolutely not."
She'd heard enough roommate horror stories to know better: used socks and underwear strewn over every floor, mountains of dirty laundry that made the house smell of a sports locker room, and a stack of never-ending dishes in the sink that (y/n) would no doubt have to clean. When Osamu first suggested the idea of sharing a place with him, his brother, and Suna, she'd nearly choked on her school lunch.
Suna she knew well enough, having been friends for so long. And although he kept his room relatively tidy, she knew how... laid back he could be when it came to chores and other responsibilities. As for the twins, if they treated their living space anything like they treated each other—well, it'd be a miracle if the walls were still standing by the end of their tenancy.
Despite her initial reluctance, (y/n) found herself pleasantly surprised after moving in. Suna—once the epitome of teenage laziness—now actually pulled his weight and remembered when it was his turn to take out the bins. But it was Osamu who truly kept the whole place together, filling their apartment with the scent of his cooking, ensuring that the cupboards were never empty, and always knowing exactly when they were running low on toilet paper. With (y/n) handling the deeper cleaning and somehow managing to keep track of four different laundry schedules, their house-share ran pretty darn smoothy.
Most of the time.
One of their roommates, on the other hand, despite eighteen years of sharing space with his twin, still behaved like he was the only one living there. He blasted music from his room like it was nobody's business, left damp towels on furniture, and—most infuriatingly—never knocked before entering rooms.
Exhibit A:
(Y/n) is halfway through swapping into her pyjamas, arms tangled in the sleeves, when her bedroom door swings open.
“Oi, (y/n), didja see my—”
Atsumu freezes in the doorway, slack jawed. His eyes flick down—just once, so quick she’d almost miss it if she wasn’t looking straight at him—to the bare inch of rib peeking before she yanks her shirt down.
They stare at each other. Atsumu’s cheeks bloom a raw, fever-pink that climbs nearly to his hairline. He slaps a hand over his eyes, not nearly fast enough.
“Shit, sorry! Sorry! I thought you were—” He backs into the doorframe, colliding with it so hard the impact rattles the small wooden shelves on her wall. "I didn’t mean to, I swear—!“
Apologies sound funny in Atsumu’s mouth—clumsy and erratic, like they’re something that tumble out rather than enunciated clearly. (Y/n) giggles as he keeps his palm over his face. Gaps in his fingers, though, like he might peek.
She should be embarrassed, but she’s too busy watching Atsumu’s performance: the frantic back steps, the way his free hand glides over the wall behind him as he tries to feel for the exit.
“I’m not, uh, naked anymore. You can stay,” she says, or tries to. The sound gets lost behind all his groaning.
“Ya know, some warnin' would be nice when yer—” He gestures blindly, eyes still covered. “Doin’ that.”
“Doing what?” she challenges. "This is my room."
He makes a noise, like his internal cringe is seeping out. He peeks through his fingers, warily, as though expecting to be hit. “Changin'!?” he says, voice high. “I wasn’t tryna—I mean, I am a gentleman—! Plus, ya left the door open!"
(Y/n) doesn’t bother addressing his first questionable statement. As for the second, "It was ajar," she corrects, which—granted, was probably a little risky in hindsight. Atsumu doesn't argue, instead he looks like he’s about to flee, one foot already out the door.
“Wait,” (y/n) says, softer. “Did you need something?”
Atsumu freezes at the threshold. Just like that, the current of embarrassment reverses. His hand drops, but his gaze sticks politely on the wall above her head, as if her prints are the most fascinating things in the world.
“Oh, right. My protein shake. Ya seen it?” He’s all business now, pretending like he didn’t just walk in on her with her shirt half-off. “It was on the counter, then Suna said he saw ya take it. Do you—” He gestures again, then aborts the motion. “Uh, never mind. I'll just look for it."
She takes pity on him. “I put it in the fridge so it wouldn’t separate.”
He processes this, a long pause that ends with his eyes finally meeting hers. “’Oh—‘course ya did,” he says, a smirk edging in, but not quite making it past his embarrassment. “Thanks.”
He steps back, but not before risking one more glance at her—a quick, sly flicker. Then he’s gone, clearing his throat, his heavy footsteps thudding down the hall.
When the door clicks shut, (y/n) shakes her head and lets herself laugh. It’s not that she wanted to embarrass him, exactly. It’s just—Atsumu Miya never gets flustered. He’s the king of shameless, a known womanizer, always the smooth-talker. Seeing him stammer and flush over something so silly gives her a tiny flicker of pride.
She’s still smiling when she ties her hair into a loose braid and heads for the kitchen. When she rounds the corner, Atsumu is kneeling on the linoleum, squinting into the bottom shelf of the fridge where his protein shake sits, just as described. He turns, sees her, and flushes all over again.
This time, neither of them look away. He holds her gaze, chin tilting up in a dare.
“Maybe next time, knock?” she says, teasing.
He grins, and suddenly the cocky veneer is back, but not quite all the way. “Maybe next time, close the door?"
(Y/n) shrugs and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Now he’s the one who’s stuck, words slow to catch up with his expression. He finally finds a comeback, sharp and bright, but she’s already halfway out of the kitchen, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.
thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️
The Strongest who isn’t really strong when you tie him up with his own bIindfold and ride him silly—who’s strong enough to break free from them, but doesn’t because he knows you won’t let him off easy.
The Strongest who just cries and begs when you’re teasin’ him for hours and stopping right before he finishes- who looks up at you with tears in those pretty blue eyes of his and asks you nicely. He’ll do anything, he’ll buy you anything if you just let him-
The Strongest who ends up summoning his black card with whatever cursed energy he has left, holding it up to you with his teeth. And, well, how could you deny him when he’s using his good manners (you’re about to run that bank account dry…and him as well).
summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.
genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major
word count: 33k (oops)
note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu
jjk masterlist
It began at one of the English department get-togethers.
Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And it’s not that you particularly disliked these events, but they weren’t the first thing you’d think of when it came to how you’d prefer to spend your free time.
The weather was just getting chilly enough where you’d rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where you’d rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.
You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students you’ve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.
Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howard’s research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasn’t too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.
There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions.
You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself.
“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.”
Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self.
“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?”
His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded.
“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.”
Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done.
The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked.
“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.”
“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”
You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible.
The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun.
“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.”
Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.
“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.”
You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look.
“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have.
You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from.
“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly.
Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave.
“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.”
That’s when you felt your breathing stop.
The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them.
You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side.
You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth.
When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.
The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back.
You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray.
Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.
“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”
The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look.
“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds.
Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently.
“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”
You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face.
“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.”
“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”
You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it.
You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue.
“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.”
Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening.
That was your sophomore year.
Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months.
Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night.
It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better.
Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.
Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited.
But you’re fine keeping it down.
You were fine until recently.
—
“I’m debating switching majors.”
Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down.
“To what?”
She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating.
“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?”
“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot.
“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification.
“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.”
Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance.
“His side?”
Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless.
You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks.
Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it.
Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant.
But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him.
At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that.
When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him.
So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine.
What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity.
Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was.
Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.
And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party.
So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend.
“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum.
You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance.
Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm.
You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing.
“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions.
You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing.
Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave.
“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop.
“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.”
You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you.
“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen.
You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face.
“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.”
You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track.
Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses.
Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else.
They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue.
He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was.
Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again.
Smudges.
You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him.
After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo.
He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return.
Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.
“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject.
“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew.
“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?”
You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name.
“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?”
Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name.
“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."
Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here.
Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.
“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.”
Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue.
Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.
“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.
But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.
Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this.
Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent.
“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up.
You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.
“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone.
Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in.
There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.”
Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator.
“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor.
You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you.
“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”
Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment.
“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”
You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position.
“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect.
“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.
“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?”
There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes.
“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!”
Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.
“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly.
“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it.
You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for.
The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work.
Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person.
It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting.
“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.”
You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard.
Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.
When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.
He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it.
“What’re you reading?”
Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.”
Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.
“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”
His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie.
“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.”
“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.”
You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back.
“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs.
“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?”
Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor.
“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.”
His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy.
“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”
You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.
“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam.
They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal.
Like you have for the past two years.
—
The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate.
You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for.
For the most part.
Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days.
The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.
Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table.
“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink.
You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.”
She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.
“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding.
“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement.
“You don’t like Shakespeare?”
Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question.
Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room.
“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.”
Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you.
“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.”
Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend.
“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised.
Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces.
“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work.
You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it.
“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts.
Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable.
“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment.
“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.”
You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion.
“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them.
“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely.
“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it.
You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her.
Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection.
“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.”
“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.”
He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers.
“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”
“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”
Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement.
Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention.
You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on.
The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders.
“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.”
You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths.
“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.
He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.
“Water?”
Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”
You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles.
“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out.
Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist.
You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face.
Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison.
The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck.
Cute in a schoolish way, you think.
“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…”
Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words.
“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth.
Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento.
Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal.
Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior.
One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting.
Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.
“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior.
“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”
His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words.
Satoru looks at you, taking another sip.
“What?”
You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words.
“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”
His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.
But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest.
You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were.
The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of.
Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).
But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.
And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.
“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.”
Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.
“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.
Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.
“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”
You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.
Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed.
That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand.
“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-”
Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press.
“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!”
Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly.
“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”
You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.
You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.
“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself.
“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.”
Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst.
“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile.
He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to.
“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries.
“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!”
Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care.
“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left.
You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room.
“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters.
“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself.
“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!”
You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own.
“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”
Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.
You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason.
“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.”
That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement.
“Why’d you move?”
Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind.
“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.
The rest of the night continued as it usually does.
If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal.
—
Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties.
It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes.
Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear.
It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.
Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long.
Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once.
shoko: pick up
shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya
shoko: pls pls pls pick up
shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back
shoko: pls
You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this.
It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better.
“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.”
The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat.
“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at.
“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-”
You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling.
“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-”
“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.”
A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head.
“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.”
You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.”
“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-”
This time, she’s cut off, but not by you.
A knock sounds over your door.
You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.”
She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done.
“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought.
“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend,
But Satoru.
Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.
Damn you, Shoko Ieiri.
“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”
His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh.
“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly.
“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”
You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away.
“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”
He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater.
“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price.
Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction.
“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”
Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough.
This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself,
Everything was going to be fine.
—-
The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom.
“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.”
The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night.
It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know.
But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air.
“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself.
“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.”
He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were.
“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks!
“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.”
Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly.
“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.”
You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet.
Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them.
Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this.
Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line.
Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash.
Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-
And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile.
The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience.
You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone.
From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason.
It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most.
You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way.
Like he was right now.
Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start.
You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention.
When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut.
She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote.
“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends.
“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”
The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent.
“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.
Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit.
“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.
“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”
Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting.
When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark.
You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding.
The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other.
He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage.
“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand.
“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably.
Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat.
“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.”
It’s yours.
Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.
“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.
You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you.
—
Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was.
The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts.
You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it.
The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused.
Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second.
When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch.
A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains.
“Funny, huh?”
Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment.
“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.”
You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now.
People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit.
“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods.
You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.
Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours.
“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words.
“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity.
After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays.
That’s what you did.
And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such.
But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this.
And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you.
“Are you enjoying it?”
His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.
“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.”
He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self.
As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself.
“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat.
“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words.
Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.
You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.
He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.
There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice.
But, of course, he does.
He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely.
“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek.
You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise.
“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.
“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-”
But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.”
He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up.
“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else.
You feel tears prickly in your eyes.
And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back.
—
When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis.
There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending.
Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.
“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly.
You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.
“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you
“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”
You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.
The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door.
His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall.
The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter.
You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush.
At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it.
You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.
Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky.
You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face.
“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter.
“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were.
Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next.
You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.
After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man.
Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner.
2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.
You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into.
His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust.
It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too.
So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming.
You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure.
Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out.
People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.
This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you.
Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was.
To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone.
You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again.
Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place.
The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them.
When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.
Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.
“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.
“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.
“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?”
This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift.
Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.
“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.
A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.
“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.”
And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.
“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle.
“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?”
You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair.
“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves.
“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly.
He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking.
Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you.
“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”
You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is.
He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly.
“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off.
“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.
But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.
“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.
He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look.
And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.
—
As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm.
You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away.
“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.”
That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed.
With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase.
It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.
He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you.
You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting.
Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.
You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers.
It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you.
You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway.
Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile.
He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers.
“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed.
“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head.
“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk.
You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over.
“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction.
“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world.
“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”
He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up.
“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?”
His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.
“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back.
You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf.
You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you.
Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying.
The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names.
Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention.
Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer.
A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.
The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside.
Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips.
Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat.
It’s a polaroid of the two of you.
You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably.
But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet.
You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.
Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out.
You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them.
“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake.
In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand.
His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film.
“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf.
“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit.
“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?”
You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug.
“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”
“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?”
Damn him.
You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile.
“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied.
He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits.
You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.
“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare.
“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”
He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything.
“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest.
“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.
“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,
But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken.
He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it.
Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly.
Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply.
“Were you…Were you going through my things?”
The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut.
“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles.
“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself.
He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing.
And then he moves.
His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.
“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”
Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses.
…huh?
You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues.
“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time.
“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.
“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back.
“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”
The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.
Not the way you did.
“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”
He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression.
“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?”
You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods.
“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”
Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.
“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”
You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”
“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”
“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.”
When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of.
“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”
Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his.
Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily.
“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.”
You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.
“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.”
Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.”
You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.
“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes.
“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.”
You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.
“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”
You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts.
“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view.
“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”
And he’s right.
The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.
“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics.
“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.”
You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements.
“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles.
“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.”
You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling. His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation.
“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”
The question makes you stop.
Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back.
It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one.
After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face.
Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks.
“What about…what about the others?”
The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building.
“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him.
“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.”
He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest.
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”
You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.
“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips.
“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.”
You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours.
He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet.
You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next.
His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in.
“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.”
You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side.
“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.
He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.
“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.”
He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues.
“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it.
“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.”
You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either.
“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.
“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”
You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.
“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?”
He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra.
“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”
Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue.
“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.”
He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh.
“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?”
You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine.
“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command.
Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.
“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;
“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.”
When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach.
“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully.
You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him.
His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else.
“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.”
His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on.
“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them.
Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.
His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad.
“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?”
You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in.
When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this.
“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.
“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.”
He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.
Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.
Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened.
You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more.
When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain.
“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.”
Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright.
“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”
Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows.
“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains.
“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”
You let out a breathless laugh.
Because of course he had.
“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly.
You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.
“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”
You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly.
Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.
You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling.
Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly.
“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours.
You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.
You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.
“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.
At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.
“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?”
He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable.
“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name.
You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.
He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”
Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.
“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?”
He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek.
“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.”
You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.
His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better.
“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one.
“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.”
You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.
“I want to be yours too, Satoru,” you say, and he groans, his eyes rolling back like those were the only words he’s been dying to hear, and he lets out a victorious laugh, something happy and sickeningly sweet because the girl he’s been in love with for the past two years just so happens to love him back.
choso has wide eyes in the mirror's reflection as they meet yours. glossy and blown out with lust, but wide—nervous, like a deer stuck in headlights. you're bent over, back arched down as your boyfriends hands rest gently on your hips. there's a sting that lingers over your ass, and choso is holding his hand out like he's committed a crime with it.
it's not like he's vanilla—you're being fucked ass-up in front of a mirror so that you can watch him take what's his—but he's frozen still like he's appalled at his own actions.
"oh," he's flushing a gentle pink. "i'm sorry, i don't know why i did that. it was just so much and you were so—i mean... i wasn't thinking and—"
"do it again."
he's still balls deep inside of you—hips pressed tight against the flesh of your ass: his cock pulses inside of you, each veiny ridge filling you out like you're made for him. "why would i do that?"
“because it feels good,” you shrug, pushing back onto his cock a little. "cho, baby, i'm asking you to spank me, not commit a war crime."
"might as well be," he mumbles under his breath, looking down at the curve of your ass at his face scrunches up into an expression you've never seen on him before. is that... restraint?
your poor choso has never been all that good at controlling his wants and whims. he's a man whose body often betrays him: he couldn't hold an orgasm back to save his life, nor can he ever stifle those pretty moans of his. much like how he couldn't stop his hand from smacking against the flesh of your ass.
so, of course, you goad him on. clenching tight around his achy cock as you meet his gaze in the mirror. "i want you to spank me again, choso. be mean. make it hurt when i sit down tomorrow."
"i don't want to hurt you."
"don't you? you spanked me first, cho. i think you want it even more than i do."
his eyebrows furrow. its devastatingly cute for a man balls-deep inside of you. "shut up," he says with no real bite. "i didn't mean to."
"your hand just slipped and landed on my ass?"
"...yes."
you roll your eyes, and offer choso a smile in the mirrors reflection. “you look all embarrassed. just like that time you came just from kissing m— fuck !”
a sharp sting radiates over your ass cheek, and once you blink the shock out of your eyes, you’re met with a very sudden snapping of chosos hips into yours. he somehow manages to fuck you even deeper than before. with every thrust he sends you forward on the bed, until you’re no longer holding yourself up with your arms and your face is pressed right into the mattress.
“you always-” smack! “-make me feel-” smack! “-so nervous around you.”
your face screws up. “what?”
he stills, leans forward to take the sheet away from your face so you can look back at him properly. “i’m punishing you.”
“for what, giving you butterflies?”
“yes.” the sweetest of smiles pulls at his lips—you’d think it endearing if not for the way his hand slaps down onto your ass again, and he resumes his mean pace.
live and let cum, you suppose. choso drills into you in such a way that you’re cumming both quicker and harder than you ever have with him. your orgasm, the sweet way your pussy grips him in pleasured need, sends choso over the edge right after you. “mmm iloveyouiloveyouimsorryforspankingyouiloveyou”
of course with another mean spank to your ass, choso pulls out and exhales the prettiest moan you’ve heard from him as he releases all over your tender ass. you’re spent, and fucked so dumb you don’t chide him for then using his fingers to rub his cum around in soothing circles over your ass. you won’t admit it, but it feels kinda nice.
“sorry,” choso whispers as he reaches for something to wash you down with. “you should slap me as payback.”
“you’d probably like it.”
“…yeah.”
this is a repost! from my old account (also @fricks) i have no threats to make this time. accuse me of stealing if you want, i’ve turned a new leaf. peace and love.
sakusa’s got you pinned under him on the bed, his massive body dwarfing yours completely, those broad shoulders blocking out everything but him.
you’re already a mess. your legs wrapped around his waist, grinding up against the hard bulge in his sweatpants like you can’t get enough. and it’s really really not enough when he’s humping you like this instead of giving you a proper fucking.
he’s rocking into you slowly, the friction of fabric against your soaked panties making your clit throb with every drag.
“omi, please... put it in already," you whine, your voice high and needy, fingers clawing at his back through his shirt.
he just hum, his eyes never leaving yours, that intense gaze locked on your flushed face, his breath hot against your ear. “just a little bit more, baby. feels good like this, doesn’t it?” he grinds his hips harder, the outline of his thick cock pressing right against your slick folds, making you feel every inch without actually giving it to you.
you’re dripping, your pussy so embarrassingly wet just from this. the wet spot on his pants growing from both of you, his precum mixing with your juices through the layers.
“but i need it... mmnnhh, please omi, feels so empty, i’ll be good...” you beg, bucking up desperately, tears pricking your eyes from the tease.
he’s so big, towering over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other grips your thigh, holding you open.
he leans down, lips brushing yours in a messy kiss, his tongue slipping in deeply and hungrily, tasting like mint and want.
“you’re so pretty when you beg like this, love” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low and rough.
his hips speeds up just enough to make you gasp. his cock rutting against you desperately, making you whine even loudly.
he groans at your wetness, your panties clinging to your puffy lips, outlining everything for him to feel.
“omiii, please, fuck me— can’t take it, need your cock so bad,” you whine, your body arching under him like a needy little thing.
he groans, eyes half-lidded as he watches you fall apart without even fucking you. “just a little longer, baby. wanna feel you cum like this first. can you do that for me?”
his thrusts starts to get erratic, grinding that fat bulge right over your clit, the pressure building until you’re shaking, your puffy clit pulsing wildly.
you cum with a loud cry, “omi— hhaahh, oh fuuuck—” your juices soaking through your panties completely, the mess seeping onto his pants.
sakusa he doesn’t stop. he chase his own high, humping you through your orgasm until his breath hitches. “fuck baby... gonna cum,” he grunts, and you feel him throb hard against you, hot creamy spurts filling his pants, the warmth spreading as he grinds out every drop, marking the fabric with his load while you whimper under him.
after some time, he pulls back, breathing heavily, and tugs his sweatpants down. his cock springs free— huge, veiny, still half hard and glistening with his own cum at the tip.
he slid your drenched panties to the side, revealing your throbbing cunt, clenching around nothing.
he taps it against your soaked pussy, the heavy thwack making you jolt, slick strings connecting as he teases your entrance.
sum. new year, new you? well you definitely pick up a new kink or two after a visit to the ultra-trendy fitness club, limitless, with personal trainer!sukuna. but when you can't afford another session, will you get your fix with a new obsession?
cw. mdni. major scent kink + sweat kink. reader is down HORRENDOUS. semi-public sex. semi-public masturbation. humiliation. reader is a perv. stalking. reader is a lil degen towel stealing goblin. piv. minor choking/headlocks. gojo is a goof. creampies. unprotected. dry humping. dirty talk. [art by sab_xcvii & sakimenz]
an. so happy to say this was inspired by my bbgirl @sytorusdoll beautifully nasty toji sweat-kink fic so check it out! i know im supposed to be working on other things and tried to toss this over to @yenayaps but she told me i had to write it myself 💞😭 buuuut i am excited to post this on the day of the return of jjk s3 we are soooo back my lil ecchi angels! wc. 7.4k idk how.
The only reason your broke ass is stepping foot into Limitless—the ultra-chic, LED-lit, influencer-infested gym—is because your rich aunt gifted you a year-long membership for Christmas.
You clocked the look she gave you at Thanksgiving—that side-eye scrutiny of you squeezed into a dress that used to fit you perfectly last summer. Let’s just say... the turkey wasn’t the only thing stuffed at the table this year.
But whatever. You’re not complaining about anything that’s free‑99. As a struggling grad student, you’ve been surviving off ramen, iced coffee, and vibes for a year now.
But the second you walk through Limitless’s sleek steel doors, two things hit you—
You’re being sonically assaulted by the unce-unce-unce of euro-house bangers vibrating through the walls like some nightclub in Amsterdam.
The man behind the front desk is unreasonably hot.
Like, offensively hot.
Lounging behind the counter in a black dry-fit shirt that's cropped to showcase his washboard abs, while his toused white hair and stupidly perfect complexion make him look like he's headed to a photoshoot rather than a workout.
Tipping his sunglasses just low enough for you to catch the flash of icy blue eyes, his grin widens as you approach—like he already knows just how completely out of your depth you are.
“Welcome to Limitless!” he chirps. “I’m the owner, Gojo Satoru.”
Like you don’t already know.
Even a ramen-fueled, overworked shut-in like you knows about @ SixPackGod—TikTok’s reigning fitness thirst trap.
Gojo’s got 5 million followers and a cult-like fanbase—naturally, he monetized it by opening a gym. You’ve definitely seen his videos—stretching in ways that should get him banned and somehow making kettlebell swings look erotic.
As if on cue, a group of girls swish by in matching Lulu, Alo, and Vuori sets—tan, toned, and giggling as they wave at him. He winks back, weaponized charm turned up to 100 earning him shrill squees and coos as they exit.
It makes you want to book it the hell out of there. You clearly had no idea what you were getting yourself into, suddenly becoming painfully aware of your ratty anime tee and faded track shorts from high school.
Gojo turns back to you excitedly, completely unbothered by the fact that you look practically homeless. He launches into a rapid-fire tour, rattling off all the high-tech equipment and renovations—some already done, some still on the way.
You nod, clueless, too busy tracing the slope of his arms, the stretch of his shirt, the twitch of long fingers as he talks with his whole body.
Looking back, Gojo catches your totally glazed-over expression.
“Y’know,” he says, flashing you a panty-evaporating grin, “all new members get one free personal training session. Helps you get the most out of the place.”
Gojo steps in closer, charm dialed up to max and absolutely zero concept of personal space.
“Oh—no, thank you,” you say quickly, hands going up in half-surrender, half-subtle plea for him to back the hell up. “I—I can’t afford that. I mean, to continue after.”
You wouldn’t even be in here if your aunt hadn’t paid for your membership. One session probably costs your rent.
And in this economy?
You can barely afford to heat your apartment in the winter.
Gojo just shrugs, all smiles. “It’s freeeeee though! C’mon cutie.”
Cutie!? You!?
“I-I just don’t wanna waste your time,” you mumble, flustered and trying to keep your shit together.
“I don’t mind, you wouldn’t be the first,” Gojo flirts with a wink. “Buuuut, if it eases your worries, I’ll set you up with a girl trainer. Yuki. She’s great! Won’t yell at you… well, much. No strings. Promise. C’monnnnnn babe.”
The drawn-out plea and puppy-dog eyes are ridiculous—but the ‘babe’ seals it.
You fold faster than a wet paper towel in a hurricane, agreeing to sign up for a session on the spot.
What harm could one free session with a girl trainer do?
Except you don’t get Yuki.
Two days later, you show up—and Yuki’s “out sick.”
Instead, standing in front of you is Personal Trainer!Sukuna.
And holy shit—he’s fucking massive.
Like someone compressed chaotic aggression and carved it into pure muscle. Black tribal tattoos snake across his arms and chest, flexing under his tight “trainer” shirt like every inch of him is weaponized.
Your gaze drags from the cut of his shoulders to his chest—and lower, to thighs thick enough to crush a watermelon. And is that—? Oh fuck. There's a heavy print stretching his sweats.
You suddenly get what SZA meant about needing a big boy for winter.
What would it feel like—being pinned under all that weight? Back arched against the mat—
"AYE!"
Sukuna snaps your name like a whip, yanking you out of your fantasy and causing you to flinch so hard your heels lift out of your shoes.
He just looks at you like you’re stupid.
Which, to be fair, at this moment, you absolutely are.
You start babbling, fast and frantic—sputtering about how this is a bad idea, how you’re not going to book more sessions, how you’re probably just wasting his—
He rolls his eyes and gives you a look that screams: I don’t get paid to hear your bullshit.
That shuts you up immediately.
Sukuna’s red eyes then skim over you in a brutally clinical fashion. Unlike your ogling, his glance catalogs every weak point, every soft roll, every underdeveloped muscle in under fifteen seconds.
“Sukuna,” he says flatly. “Your PT.”
That’s it. That’s all the intro he gives you.
“You’re mine for the next sixty minutes—now move!”
You nod like a bobblehead, eyes wide—but he’s already walking away.
Scrambling after him, heart pounding, you try not to trip over your own feet Sukuna leads you deeper into the gym.
Not surprisingly, Sukuna’s intensity is so fierce that you can barely look at him the entire session. He runs you like a drill sergeant—efficient and merciless.
There's zero flirting, no coddling and definitely no encouraging bullshit beyond clipped commands.
When he needs to correct you, he does it physically—grabbing your hips, waist and shoulders with rough, unapologetic hands. Sukuna moves you into position like you’re a piece of gym equipment needing to be adjusted for his use.
His fingers press into muscle and bone like he already knows exactly how your weak little body is supposed to work for him, and it does, struggling yet ultimately bending to his will.
You can only sort of be thankful that Sukuna doesn’t seem to give a fuck that you freeze under his every touch. He certainly doesn’t blink nor acknowledge when you suck in a sharp breath or let out a shaky, humiliating little sound of anguish when his fingers trace over your ribs to correct your posture.
He just keeps going, dishing out relentless commands that push you harder than you’ve ever worked out in your entire life.
“Stop trying to cheat, brat” Sukuna growls, tapping your soft belly—right over your abs—with just enough force to make you squeak like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
“You’re weak here. Engage it. Squeeze tighter. That’s it, good girl.”
Good girl!?
Little does Sukuna know it’s not your core that’s responding but your pelvic muscles, your pussy fluttering wildly at the command like he's addressing her directly.
By the end of the session, every muscle in your body is cooked. Lungs on fire, like you’ve never worked out a day in your life.
And honestly—if this is what real training entails?
Then yeah. You definitely haven’t. Not even close.
Still, for a one‑off session, Sukuna gave you more than enough to continue on your own—form breakdowns, weak points to target, enough structure to build a routine from scratch.
Not that you’re thinking about fitness anymore. You just want to crawl out of here—and into bed.
You’re so worn down, so light-headed, that you don’t even notice you’ve grabbed the wrong towel—Sukuna’s, damp and still warm from use—instead of one of the cool eucalyptus-scented ones the gym provides. You sling it over your shoulders without thinking, wobbling toward the water fountain.
By the time you bend down for a much-needed drink, it practically slaps you across the face.
The aroma of salty sandalwood and heat, along with a musk so dark and undeniably masculine it makes your belly tingle.
Oh sweet fuck!
Warmth floods your senses, spreading through you all the way down to your toes. Your legs begin to quake once more—worse than they did during the three-minute wall squats Sukuna forced you to hold.
You’re no virgin—but you’ve never been affected by a man’s scent like this.
Ever.
You spot the laundry bin the moment you step into the women’s locker room—your rational brain whispering to just drop the towel and walk away.
Your hand hovers over the bin… but lingers a second too long. Voices now echo behind you as a group of women enter.
Snatching the towel back on instinct, your pulse spikes as you shove it into your locker like illicit contraband. There's no time to think more about it as you rush to the showers, hoping cold water can cool off whatever the hell is happening in your brain.
The shower soothes your muscles but it does nothing for the fire in your belly rapidly increasing.
Already weak, you slide down the cool tile. Water beats against your body as your fingers slip between your thighs on instinct. You circle your clit once, twice, then trail lower, pushing two fingers into your cunt with shaking hands.
You bite your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, acutely aware of how thin the walls are, how public and just wrong this is.
Yet no matter how hard you work your fingers, you can’t scratch the itch.
Even angling yourself so the water beats directly against your clit doesn’t get you there.
Shiiiit. You can’t even get off properly. Argh!
Frustrated and flustered, you finally give up. Shutting off the shower, you towel off in record time and book it out of the locker room—but not before stuffing Sukuna’s sweat-drenched towel deep into your duffel like contraband.
Glancing around you attempt to play it cool as you make your exit… only to duck your head a little too obviously as you pass the front desk.
Gojo, of course, spots you anyway. He waves at you cheerily and you try not to flinch as you force a smile and wave back, doing your best to look inconspicuous.
Nothing at all like the perverted little horn-dog thief you actually are.
You drive home like a woman possessed. The second your door clicks shut behind you, you’re already bolting for your room.
Shoes kicked off in a hurry, your duffel landed on the bed with a heavy thud. Your hands shake as you fumble with the zipper, pulse pounding with the insanity of what you’re about to do.
There it is.
The stolen towel, still damp and filthy, you lift it to your face and inhale like it’s oxygen itself.
God, that hits!
Your eyes lodge into your skull as the odor particles hit your brain, your mouth and pussy watering instantly.
This is wrong.
Disgusting.
Depraved.
And yet—you can’t remember the last time you were this fucking horny.
You don’t even undress properly—just shove your shorts down, kicking them off with your panties as you hurriedly reach into your nightstand.
Got it!
The suction vibrator hums to life in your hand as you collapse back against the pillows, towel pressed over your face.
The second the toy clasps over your clit, a gasp punches out of your chest, your eyes flying open.
Embarrassingly slick and oversensitive, your body reacts like it’s been waiting for this since his hands were on you. Your hips grind into the suction with helpless little thrusts.
The crumpled towel muffles your moans as your brain fills in the blanks—his voice, his hands, his tongue in place of the toy.
His gruff voice berates your thoughts.
Push harder, brat.
Hold it. Take it.
Good fucking girl.
As far as your delusions are concerned the soreness in your muscles isn’t from the workout, but from him folding you over the bench, stretching you open with this hefty cock and working you over until you’re shaking for an entirely different reason.
Trembling, your hand almost slips as your orgasm builds, causing you to arch into the vibrations.
Engage it! You hear him growl.
And you do—just like he taught you as you bury your face deeper into the towel and flick the button increasing the pulsing suction on your throbbing button.
When you come, it hits you all at once.
A breathless cry tears out of you as your body locks up—pleasure tearing through you. You cling to his scent, hips jerking as you ride the overstimulation until you finally go limp.
Lying there afterward, dazed, sweaty, staring at the ceiling in quiet horror because even through your shame the hard truth is—you want more.
And like an addict after the first hit—you’re already clicking the wand back on.
By morning, to your horror, the scent has already started to fade from the towel and the panic that claws up your throat is immediate.
You know you can’t afford another session...
But an unhealthy obsession?
That, you can manage.
After that, the gym doesn’t just become part of your routine—it is the routine. You start showing up religiously, like you’re worshipping at the altar of your own filthy fixations.
Well, for your workouts too. But mostly?
You come for him. Sukuna.
Like a fucking weirdo you start watching Sukuna from a distance.
In mirror reflections. From across the floor. From behind machines.
You just… observe—quietly and patiently—drinking him in like a thirst you can’t quite quench.
You never try to make eye contact though, nor dare to try to make conversation.
Hell no, you’re too terrified of him for that.
Plus Sukuna didn’t seem like the small talk type.
On the rare occasion your eyes do meet in the gym in close passing, you barely manage a stiff and squeaky, “Hi” before darting your eyes away, like you’ve been caught doing something illegal.
Which, honestly, feels kinda accurate.
But you weren’t really doing anything bad right?
You were a gym member. He worked there.
Of course you’d see him. It’s normal.
Super casual.
Just like you casually timing your workouts to use machines near wherever he is training clients. Hoping to get close enough to maybe, just maybe, catch another whiff of those musky pheromones that rewired your brain chemistry and wrecked your sense of normalcy in a single afternoon.
Your jealousy hits fast when those bubbly influencer girls, all high-ponytails and matching sets, laugh way too loud at things he definitely meant as insults and actually have the nerve to try to cling to his adonis-like form.
The only consolation is they are usually crying by the end and few rebook in return, making Sukuna's regulars mainly men who want him to tear them apart so they can have even a fraction of the physique he does.
Yet man or woman, Sukuna runs them into the ground. He doesn’t care how pretty they are or how hard they flirt or how much they protest.
It doesn’t take long to realize something else, either:
Sukuna’s harder to book than Gojo.
You only got him that day by pure fluke—Yuki was out, and someone canceled.
Sure, Gojo’s the golden boy. Content king, the face of the gym and the main draw to why people sign up for the ridiculously expensive membership in the first place.
But Gojo’s sessions are all vibes. He jokes, flirts, counts a few reps, and always films a cute reel for your socials—just as long as you make sure to tag him and the gym.
But Sukuna? Sukuna doesn’t even have social media.
You only go to Sukuna if you’re serious. Or masochistic.
Or just plain obsessed.
Like you.
No one leaves his sessions looking camera-ready. They leave wrecked.
And goddamn—that just makes you want him even more.
Once, while leaving the gym, you spot the personal trainer shift schedule—just left out on the front desk.
Plain as day, just sitting there in the open.
You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.
But the next thing you know, you’re pretending to scan a QR code on a sign advertising the gym app (which you downloaded weeks ago), while sneakily snapping a photo of Sukuna’s hours instead.
You nearly shit yourself when Gojo pops up out of nowhere.
Grinning, smoothie in hand, he starts chatting you up like you didn’t just commit a minor felony.
Panicked, you mumble something about catching your bus—
…while holding your car keys in plain view like a dumbass.
Then you bolt outta there like your name is Usain.
But minor mortification aside, from that day on, your visits become a lot more strategic.
You realize Sukuna comes in at the ass crack of dawn to train before his shift.
So, naturally, you start showing up even earlier—just to watch.
Today’s upper body, apparently.
You find Sukuna posted up at the shoulder press, casually repping weights that are triple your mass. His black tank clings to him, sweat-darkened and stretched across his chest like it’s trying to merge with his skin. You swear it looks just as desperate as you are to be pressed against him.
Getting visibly annoyed at the clingy fabric, Sukuna rips the tank off one-handed, yanking it over his head and tossing it to the floor like it had personally offended him.
You nearly fall off the elliptical at the sight.
His bare chest is on full display now—tatted pecs glistening, thick and meaty, bouncing slightly as he pumps out reps like it’s nothing.
You’re barely moving.
The machine beeps at you, flashing “INACTIVITY DETECTED.”
Chile, you don't even notice.
You’re too busy imagining burying your face in those muscular mounds, tits squishing against your cheeks while he presses you in deep and lets you suffocate in nirvana.
God, you just want to motorboat your face into them until you pass tf out.
Unknowingly, a soft whine slips out of you.
Louder than it should in the mostly empty gym, even with music pumping.
Sukuna’s eyes flick over toward you.
Fuckkkk.
Caught, your neck twinges from how fast you whip your head away.
You don’t dare look back, but you feel Sukuna watching you. His stare scorches a hole straight through your soul.
You don’t look anywhere other than the ellipticals display until Gojo’s obnoxiously loud voice calls Sukuna over from the back office, waving encouragingly like he’s summoning a particularly grumpy doberman.
Leaving all his stuff at the machine, there's a distinct growl of annoyance from Sukuna as he rolls his eyes and stomps away.
Alone now, your gaze slides back to the shoulder press machine.
The black leather shines under the overhead lights—drenched, shining like a fucking beacon, soaked through with Sukuna’s delicious man‑sweat.
Practically calling to you like an obscene siren song.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re already in front of the machine.
You’ve never even used it before—but that’s not about to stop you now.
Under the pretense of adjusting the weights, you crouch down and press your nose to the seat where Sukuna had been sitting.
A salty musk clings to the cushion.
Mmm, pungent. It’s so fresh. God, it’s been too long since you’ve smelled him this intensely.
A shudder rips through your spine as you inhale deep, chest stuttering.
Quickly, you glance around, checking to make sure the coast is clear. It is. Then you do something you never would have considered doing just a few weeks ago—you lean forward, tongue peeking out of your drool glossed lips and lick a lingering bead of sweat straight off the backrest.
Oh damn, Oh fuck!
This must be what heaven tastes like.
Suddenly, a door booms open from the back. You hear Gojo’s laughter, in near hysterics as and Sukuna’s grumbling something you can't quite make out.
Startled, you bolt upright, heart slamming into your ribs.
You don’t think, you just know you can’t get caught licking seats like a freakazoid so—you book it.
By the time you stumble into the locker room, panting you notice something in your hand—
It's practically saturated with sweat, beads dripping down onto your sneakers. Biting your lip, you know you just can't walk out there and give it back to him.
You'd look bonkers.
And worse—you can still feel his warmth in the fabric.
Shit! Darting into the nearest bathroom stall, you slam the door shut, sitting on the toilet lid as you stare at the dirtied tank in your hands.
You are absolutely fucking disgusting.
And you don’t give a solitary fuck.
Without hesitation, you wring the fabric out over your open mouth, catching the salty drip on your tongue. A moan fumbles from your lips as you lick them, before you stuff the fabric into your mouth and slurp it down glutinously like its holy water.
From there, it only escalates further.
A few days later, a long sock falls out of Sukuna’s bag in the lobby.
You bend down like you’re tying your shoe and swipe it when no one’s looking. At home, you loop it around your head—hands‑free—covering your nose while you grind against a pillow until your thighs ache.
You steal water bottles.
Sweatbands.
Once, you even snag a pen he’d been chewing on—lift it straight off his clipboard and stuff it into your pocket. Later, you suck on it like it’s his tongue while your fingers work between your legs in the women’s locker‑room showers.
Yeah. You get over the embarrassment of getting off in the private stalls pretty fast.
It goes on like this for weeks.
No matter how much you take, telling yourself it's the last time. It never is.
It's never enough.
When Sunday rolls around, you show up at 5:30 bright and early—well, not bright exactly.
The sun isn’t even out yet, but as expected the gym’s a ghost town.
Just Gojo behind the front desk, humming to himself as he uploads another fitness thirst trap video, sipping an energy drink he definitely doesn’t need.
“Morning, cutie. You’ve been looking good lately,” he calls out as you enter, flashing a devilish grin that throws you off before you’ve even cleared the threshold. “Reconsider any personal training yet? Sorry again about Yuki bailing. But you enjoyed Sukuna, riiiiight?”
You freeze mid-step.
Gojo hasn’t brought up training since that first—and only—session.
He doesn’t know anything… right? So then why bring it up now?
“Ah, um—no, I did,” you stammer. “It… it was great. Amazing, even. B-but like I said, budget is so tight it’s nonexistent.”
You laugh nervously and Gojo hums like he's thinking something he’s not outright saying. “Mmhmm. Got it.”
Before you can slip past the desk though, he continues: “Oh! We just installed an infrared sauna, you should check it out! No one’s even used it yet, give it a test go for me will ya?”
Gripping your bag tighter, you offer a weak noncommittal smile, eager to get away from Gojo’s amused eyes.
But upon entering the main workout area your mood dips immediately.
No sign of Sukuna.
Goddamn it.
Early Sundays are usually your favorite—You always get a front-row seat to Sukuna’s infamous leg day routine. Full of squats that show off just how dummy thick his ass is.
Still, if you dragged yourself out here, you might as well make it count.
Surprisingly, when you pick up the 25lb dumbbell you used to struggle with, it feels light. Stalking clearly is a workout—your gains speak for themselves.
Usually, your “sessions” don’t last long—mostly an excuse to ogle—but today you grab a towel and decide to hit the new sauna tucked in the back.
You might as well do Gojo the solid, your study group isn’t until noon.
Besides, you’ve never tried the regular Saunas—too self-conscious to sit half-naked next to glossy, influencer types. But the gym’s a ghost town and the new one is down a quiet, empty hall.
Perfect.
Stripping down in the locker room, you wrap the towel around yourself and head down the corridor.
There’s only one sauna, but a paper sign slapped on the door reads Women’s, so you don’t think twice.
Stepping inside, the noise from the main floor vanishes, sealed off by thick walls. The red glow of infrared lights paints the wooden heatbox in a soft, sultry rouge.
It’s oddly peaceful.
You breathe deep, lowering yourself onto one of the benches. Your limbs still ache from your half-hearted workout, but the heat is a balm. Eyes fluttering shut, you let it melt into your muscles, loosening tension you didn’t even realize you were carrying.
But your mind refuses to settle. Ten minutes, maybe less, go by, and all you can think about is Sukuna.
That wild pink hair. That gruff voice. Those hands. And of course—that stench.
You squirm slightly on the hard wooden bench, warmth pressing in from all sides. The silence thickens around you, humid and still. Your legs part just a little. A hand slips beneath your towel, nudging it up past your hips.
Sure, this is way more public than the showers… But no one’s around. Just Gojo up front—too busy refreshing his comments section to do any actual work.
Relaxing, as soon as your fingers dip into your folds—
Creak.
The door swings open.
Scrambling, you snap your legs shut, crossing them tight. Your hands fold in your lap like you’ve been sitting politely this entire time.
Adrenaline in overdrive, just when you think it can’t get worse—Sukuna steps in.
Shirtless, only in swim trunks, with a towel slung over one shoulder, Sukuna's torso gleams. The visible temperature of the sauna makes him look like a tempting mirage.
Pool? Since when does he swim? Also, you didn’t even realize the gym had one.
Breath stuttering you clutch your towel tighter around you.
“Um, e-excuse me, M-Mr. S-Sukuna?” you mumble, refusing to meet his eyes, “T-This is the women’s sauna”
Sukuna just looks at you incredulously.
“Cut that Mister shit out right now brat—tsk, but who the fuck said that?” he huffs, “There’s only one. It’s unisex.”
There’s plenty of room across from you, even on one of the upper levels. But Sukuna sits next to you, the bench creaking under his hefty bulk.
You swallow hard. “Ah, er… b-but the sign—?”
“What sign, you dizzy brat?” he smirks, flashing a single sharp canine.
Scrambling to your feet, you crack the door open and scan the hallway.
You blink at the walls, the floor, the door itself but the sign is nowhere to be seen.
Where the hell did it go!?
“Get your ass back in here and close the damn door,” Sukuna grumbles. “You’re letting all the hot air out.”
You straighten, nearly dropping your towel as you scurry back inside to avoid his wrath. Still mumbling apologies, you hover near the door—until Sukuna throws you a look.
You flinch, then shuffle back to your seat beside him.
Okay, girl, be calm.
But that's near impossible when you are internally freaking the fuck out.
Your thoughts race to find an excuse to leave. But the moment you turn toward Sukuna to speak, every thought evaporates—unlike the thick sweat beading along his tanned skin, your gaze zeroing in on a drop rolling lazily between his sculpted pecs.
You’d kill for a taste of that right now.
“You look good,” he finally says, causing you to jump, which only seems to amuse him.
You blink. He means you!?
Well… you suppose you can slip on your thanksgiving dress without a fight now. But you hadn’t really noticed—too busy splitting your time between school, the gym, and gooning yourself stupid over Sukuna.
Somehow, you’ve turned into a regular gym rat.
“You’ve been doing the sets I taught you, yeah?”
You nod quickly.
Sukuna doesn’t respond, his gaze unreadable as silence stretches between you. But you are stuck, frozen like a deer in headlights—fighting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
Unfortunately for you though, patience has never been a virtue of his.
“Tch.” Sukuna clicks his tongue, clearly fed up.
“Is that it? That all you’re gonna say for yourself?” His questions are intense as he eyes you down. “Didn’t take a freaky lil’ brat like you to be so damn shy.”
Hello!?
“Um, what—?”
Sukuna’s expression hardens further, his teeth sucking sharply as he leans in.
“Don’t bullshit me, brat. You’re into some kinda perverted stalker shit, right?”
Well…tea but damn, saying it like that makes you sound crazy.
“I—I don’t—what are you talking—”
“Careful.” Sukuna cuts you off with a sneer. “Lying’s not your strong suit.”
He shifts closer, thigh brushing yours, arm on the upper level bench draping behind you.
Dear god, he's so close you can smell him now.
The scent of his sweat curls around you like a chain, thick and oppressive in the heat, seeping into your pores.
The same scent that lives in the sock under your pillow. The tank you sleep in. The towel on your nightstand. The water bottle. All the stupid little trophies you stole like a greedy hoarding goblin.
“There are cameras in the gym,” Sukuna says casually—like he’s reciting policy, although his eyes never leave yours. “When my shit started going missing, I checked the footage.”
You would die on the spot right now if that was actually a viable option.
“I saw everything, woman” Sukuna spits, “You’re a fuckin’ freak. You should be locked up.”
Shitshitshit—is he actually going to call the cops!?
The sauna feels a thousand degrees hotter. Your instinct screams run—but you know you wouldn’t make it to the door if he decided to stop you.
“Ha, you know…Gojo called me into the office that day on purpose,” Sukuna adds, clicking his tongue, “He didn’t believe me that a quiet lil thing like you would be such a fuckin' weirdo at first, so he’d thought it’d be funny set a lil trap for ya.”
Your stomach drops… trap? Oh god, that day…
"Tch, a'course you fuckin' fell for it too—just like I knew you would…licked that groadie bench down like a slut."
But Sukuna, is unbothered by your falling apart, not softening his blows.
“You think I didn’t see you sniffing benches?”
“Licking the rim of my shaker bottle?”
“And that sock I dropped?” He snorts. “Wore that shit for five days straight. Smelled like rank ass.”
A broken sound slips out of you—half gasp, half whimper as you bury your face in your knees, trying to scrunch up in the tightest ball possible.
You can feel Sukuna looming closer though, his aura utterly overwhelming.
“Just admit.” Sukuna’s voice lowers, a bit gentler but not by much.
“You’ve been stealing my shit to flick your slutty little bean for three months straight. Figured you’d own it, now that I’m giving you a chance.”
Peer up at him from your knees, you look puzzled.
A chance??
“You, um… mean you're not mad?”
His grin widens, sharp teeth flashing.
“Oh, I’m fuckin’ pissed,” he says easily. “That some greedy, perverted brat’s too cheap to pay for more sessions, so she creeps on me and steals my shit like a freaked out leprechaun…”
You grip the edge of the bench, ready to run. Out of the sauna. Out of the gym. Out of the goddamn country. Nine months of prepaid membership? You’d flush it down the drain and never look back.
“…but,” Sukuna interrupts your spiral, licking his lips, “I’ve seen how hard you’ve been working. Like you’ve got my voice in that nasty little head of yours… telling you what to do.”
He leans in just slightly, voice dropping with heat.
“And that? That gets me hard as fuck.”
Your eyes drop. His shorts are tented—thick, obscene, stretching toward his thigh.
Pulling away from you, Sukuna leans back, spreading his arms along the bench behind you like he owns the place.
“Come here, brat.”
You freeze, just a beat too long—long enough to piss him off and before you know it Sukuna is grabbing you by the scruff of the neck, hauling you into his lap. Your towel slips in the process, falling around your hips.
But you don’t even notice as his thumb presses beneath your jaw, tilting your face up to focus solely on him.
“Look at me, woman.”
Your throat tightens, holding his gaze, forced and trembling as your palms press flat to his chest and your bare pussy rests on his thick cock, still caged in his shorts—yet you still feel the twitch of it through the material.
The contact hits you like a fever, soaking into your naked body like fire. At long last, you are skin to sin, you imagined this more times in the last few weeks than you can count.
You can’t help the tremor that ripples through you.
Sukuna’s lip curls.
“So…”
SMACK.
His palm cracks against your ass, the punishing blow, has you biting down on your lip not to scream.
“You like the way I stink, huh, slut?”
Your bottom lip quivers and sick of holding it in, your degeneracy boils over in your admission.
“Oh fuckfuckfuck… yesss!”
God, that felt good. Like confession—but instead of relief, all it does is stoke the heat rolling through your body. You’re no sinner seeking redemption—you’re reveling in your own depravity.
Sukuna chuckles, pleased at your admission as his grip tightens at the back of your neck, yanking you forward until your face is buried in the thick curve of his raised arm.
Right into his funky pit. The epicenter of everything you’ve been chasing.
“Then get a good whiff, freaky-ass brat.”
And you do. Eyes fluttering shut, you bury your face in the muggy pocket of sweat and inhale—deep, greedy lungfuls that make your pussy clench helplessly around nothing.
Sukuna reeks of unfiltered masculinity. No deodorant. No pretense. Just thick heady pheomones—raw, musky and pungent.
You don’t care that you’re naked. Don’t care that you’re in public.
All you care about is getting more. More of him. More of that addictive stench that’s already rewired your addict brain.
“That’s it,” Sukuna says, “Just like that. Fucking knew a nasty brat like you’d melt.”
You whimper against his skin, but shame doesn’t stand a chance anymore—choked out by sheer, throbbing need.
This is your sickest fantasy made flesh.
You nuzzle deeper, nosing through the soaked pit, surprised by how smooth the skin is—just a faint dusting of pink fuzz tickling your cheek. The texture alone makes your clit throb.
A needy moan slips from your throat as your hips roll forward on instinct, grinding against the fat stiff ridge straining in his shorts.
Already dizzy and feral, you rut shamelessly—slick soaking through the fabric—like you’ve long since forgotten what the concept of dignity even is.
Sukuna growls, teeth clenched as your soppy cunny smears across his thigh.
“Shiiit,” he grits out, voice rough as gravel. One big hand slips between your legs, fingers sliding languidly through your messy folds, far too composed compared to the frantic buck of your hips.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time?”
He snorts at the pitiful sound you make.
“What—never thought to get your fix straight from the source, huh? Fuckin’ scent junkie?”
You whine, helpless, hips jerking as he pushes a thick finger inside your perverted lil’ pussy.
“Where’s your shame, slut?” Sukuna jeers teasingly, “You want someone to walk in here and see you like this?”
You couldn’t care less.
You could die like this. And die happy.
Eager to show your gratitude your tongue drags wet and slow through the sweaty hollow of his pit, flicking, swirling and sucking at the flesh.
Your tongue swirls more obscenely at his praise—devouring the taste of him like you’ll never get another chance.
Exhaling hard, Sukuna knows if he doesn’t stop you, he’s going to fucking bust soon, just from your vulgar lil’ tongue in his pit and from the feral way you dry hump his cock like a deranged, funk-drunk perv.
“Say, brat?” Sukuna’s tone is laced with something dangerous but you’re too far gone to register, only groaning into his skin.
Sukuna loosens his grip on your neck just slightly to stroke the back of it, deceptively gentle.
“You do your warm-ups today? The ones I showed you?”
“Mmm—ah—” Your mouth breaks from his skin just long enough to mumble a blissed-out, “Always do~!”
“Good,” Sukuna chuckles, shaking his head “This shouldn’t break you then.”
Before you can blink, Sukuna yanks you from his pit.
He manhandles you face-down, ass-up on the bench, forcing your spine into a brutal arch.
There’s a rustle behind you—the sound of fabric hitting the floor.
That’s the only warning you get.
Then he slams in.
One brutal, bottomed-out thrust—balls deep—and the air rips straight from your lungs.
“Ngghh!—F-FUH!”
Your thighs spasm, cunt clenching tight as Sukuna rams straight into your G‑spot, slick pulsing out around his cock and soaking him to the heavy sack.
“Called it,” Sukuna snorts, smacking your ass, watching it ripple. “The crazy ones are always fuckin’ gushers.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Completely incapacitated, you quiver beneath him—already fucked too dumb by his veiny girth splitting you open. No time to brace. No chance to adjust.
Just reduced to a shell, a fucktoy for his use—and fuck, it feels sooo good.
“Quit squirmin’, woman,” Sukuna growls, landing another smack—harder this time—making even the cheek he didn’t hit jiggle.
You’re desperate to follow orders—but you barely know where you are anymore. The sauna’s heat blurs your vision, your brain melted by the fire in your core and the way Sukuna’s cock throbs inside you, turning your guts to mush.
“Tsk. Not stable enough—looks like you need a spot.”
Sukuna plants one foot, swinging the other up to plant on the center of your back, pinning you in a shape exactly to his liking. Locked into position at the perfect depth, angle, and tilt to pound into your spongy walls and pound straight into your womb.
“There,” he grunts satisfied, “Perfect fuckin' form.”
The sauna fills with the sound of sloshing flesh. You’re leaking from everywhere—sweat slicking your skin, tits dripping, cunt gushing around his cock. The bench beneath you is drenched, an obscene puddle collecting under your trembling limbs and dripping onto the floor.
It’s messy, it’s vile and it’s the hottest sex you'd ever had,
“Take it,” Sukuna roars. Spreading your ass cheeks wider, he hunches over you, crescent moons digging into your flesh for leverage lest he slips out of your slick cunt entirely.
“That’s it. Fuckin’—tight little thing, *puh*” Sukuna grits, spitting.
The fat wad of fluids hits the top of your crack, pooling with the sweat dripping off his brow and your own, rolling in rivulets down your back, dribbling down—all messily coalescing in the crack of your ass. The mixture bubbles over your hole as it flutters, struggling to take it in, but Sukuna’s thumbs keep it stretched open, ensuring it does.
Fuck what a filthy sight—it hasn’t even been that long and already his balls are tightening, wanting to explode in your crazy, stalker coochie.
“Look at you,” Sukuna pants, muscles twitching, the sauna’s heat finally catching up to even him. “This is the real training ya needed. Been too long since this freaked-out pussy had a good workout.”
“YESSSSS!” you cry, it feels so good, but it’s all too much. You’re seconds from blacking out.
Your hands claw at the bench, nails leaving streaks in the wood as Sukuna, removes his foot from your back, grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright, putting you in a headlock.
Each brutal thrust snaps your body forward, cheeks stinging with every slap of his hips against your ass.
“Sniff,” he orders. Thrusting harder with each word. “Breathe. It. All. In.”
But his arm's tight around your throat—you can’t breathe.
Everything collapses into sensation: the choke of his hold, his scent pouring over you, the heavy weight of his body pressing down, the wet flick of his tongue in your ear before he bites the shell just to hear you squeal.
“You wanted this,” he mocks, voice ragged. “Earned every inch, creepin’ on me like a filthy lil’ perv.”
The moment his palm smacks your swollen clit, your orgasm detonates.
Bruttally ripping through your body, your pussy clenching around his cock like a vice.
You’re sobbing in pleasure, helpless, as Sukuna swears under his breath—but doesn’t slow.
He fucks you through the aftershocks, pussy squeezing him in erratic, wet pulses that has him coming undone.
With a final, guttural grunt, Sukuna’s cockhead presses flush to your cervix, thick, hot ropes of white flood your womb, searing your insides until you’re dazed and seeing galaxies behind your lids. Keeping you pinned in the headlock, Sukuna holds you there until the worst of your spams subside, finally pulling out with a wet, heavy pop.
You’re half-conscious, limp from exertion—but Sukuna isn’t finished.
He lowers you onto your back, spreads your trembling legs, and drops between them to survey the looks of your battered, swollen cunt, still plugged full of his cum.
“You know,” Sukuna smirks, “You’re not the only one into musky shit, slut.”
You shiver as he licks his lips—then dives in, hungrily sucking his own cum out of your pussy, groaning low as the cocktail of scents flood his senses.
You have no idea how much time passes. Surely there’s no cum left—yet Sukuna’s still down there face buried deep like your folds like your pussy juice was the much needed recovery electrolytes his body craved after fucking you into the bench.
If you had the strength, you’d push him away.
But you don’t.
You just lie there, ruined and twitching, as he rips another body racking orgasm out of you.
Click.
Unexpectedly, the sauna door creaks open.
You can barely see now with all the sweat dripping into your eyes—but the voice is unmistakable.
“…Well, well.”
Gojo.
He’s standing in the doorway, a green smoothie in one hand, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“Oh,” he says, sipping through his straw. “Thought I heard some suspicious moaning through the vents. Wanted to make sure no one was dying back here.”
Panicked, you try to sit up—but Sukuna doesn’t let you. His arms lock tight around your thighs, dragging your ass back down onto the bench with a scowl.
He doesn't even look at Gojo.
Gojo snickers, lounging in the doorway. “I know I of all people shouldn’t judge but, Sukuna, buddy. The women’s sauna?”
“Unisex,” Sukuna grunts into your cunt. “You labeled it wrong on purpose, dickhead.”
“Guil-ty~,” Gojo sing-songs. “But hey—look at you! Finally got your dick wet in some crazy stalker pussy. I definitely did you a favor.”
“The both of you actually,” he drawls on, swirling the straw of his smoothie like a martini, “I did leave that trainer schedule out on purpose. Didn’t think you’d go full gremlin though, girliepop, but hey—looks like it paid off!”
A pathetic sob escapes you—half humiliation, half pleasure—especially when Sukuna tightens his grip on your thighs, holding you down like a meal that won’t stay still.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna snaps, surfacing just long enough to glare at Gojo’s smug ass. “You’ll scare her off. She’s jumpy enough.”
Gojo merely laughs it off.
“Nah, not this one,” he says, eyes glittering with mischief. “After indulging that freaky lil appetite? You’re the one who should be scared, Kuna~.”
But Sukuna clearly doesn’t give a fuck—he’s already back between your legs, this time sliding his thumb into your ass.
You jolt, thighs shaking violently, muffling a cry behind your hands as your body bucks against his mouth. Although, given the situation, you still are considering skipping town when all of this is over.
“Well, don’t stop on my account.” Gojo hums. “I’ll throw a cone outside so no one wanders in on your little… aroma therapy session~”
Just before disappearing, Gojo pauses in the doorway, faux-pouting.
“Oh—and next time, you fuck little miss agora hills? Invite me. Or I’m docking your pay for unauthorized client sessions—okay toodles~~!”
Click. The door swings shut behind him.
Sukuna doesn’t even look up.
Tch. Like hell he’s inviting that fruity-smelling bastard.
an. this was a hyperfocus brain obsession i had to thug out, soz. going back to work on elevator p2, freddy!sukuna and incel!naoya [if i didnt mention it no im not working on it right at this second, yes i do plan to finish it, please don't bug me about it :) ]
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
caleb checks if he'd fit inside
size difference, size kink, excessive use of gege
He was kind, and gentle, and patient. That was how you knew him. Even when tension radiated off his body after a long absence with the fleet. Even when you pestered him, pushed him, secretly hoping he might snap and finally, finally let you make it better.
It's no different now, as he sits there across from you, helping you finish a model plane you'd been working on for weeks.
You crawl across the carpet to him, frustrated with the fiddly parts. "I can't make them fit," you pout, holding out two pieces for inspection.
"Hm?" he hums, placing his own little piece of the project down beside him. "Let me see."
You watch him work on slotting the two parts together, his large, vascular hands manipulating the delicate plastic with a gentleness that reminded you of yourself––of the restraint he showed when holding you.
He was bigger, after all. So much bigger. All of him.
"There," he says, holding out the expertly joined pieces for you to take. "They fit."
"You forced them."
He looks at the pieces, then to you. "Nah, they fit perfectly. See?" He gestures for you to take them––to see for yourself.
You refuse, unmoving.
He tilts his head. "What's wrong?"
"You're stronger than me."
His lips twitch a little in one corner. "Only a little."
You shake your head, frowning.
"Alright," he says, "Much stronger. Happy?" He asks, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
"And bigger."
His eyes drop, analysing, like he hasn't noticed before. Then, a little smile. "Only a little."
You crawl a little closer. Settling on your knees in front of him. "Much bigger."
"Is that right?" he questions, amused.
"Look," you say, holding your palm up for him to meet with his own. His eyes make a slight flick away from your face to your joined hands—to the way his fingers curl over yours comfortably.
"Maybe I just have very… very, large hands," he says as his fingers make a path down your palm to wrap around your wrist. His eyes flick across your face. Then, "Should we check the rest of me, too? Check how much bigger I am?"
He was teasing. Playing. Testing. You could turn around and return to your model, and he'd continue on just as he had before: a calm, warm presence.
Instead, you untuck your legs from beneath you, and keeping your eyes on his, you lower yourself onto your back––hair splayed out across the carpet. He’s pulled a little towards you as he refuses to release your wrist, angling down over you.
A pause.
"Alright," he says finally, much like he had when you'd passed him your two difficult plane parts. "Let gege see."
He lifts himself to his knees and shuffles even closer. Then he lifts your legs and arranges them around his waist and hips, slotting himself up against you.
"Hm," he hums, looming over you, blocking out the sun through the window behind him. "You do look very small like this." His hand snakes up your thigh. A smile pulls at his lips. "You'll stay still for me while I check, won't you? You can be good for gege and stay nice and still.”
Despite your nod––a silent promise to obey, to be good––he keeps his grip on your ankle as he works to undo the button at his waistband. Control. You didn’t mind it at all. Control was safe.
And when he shoves his pants down just below his ass, he closes the gap between you again, pressing himself between your thighs.
His movements are slow, precise, like they’d been as he manipulated the tiny little plastic pieces. A hand snaking its way up your calf. His warm palm wrapping around your thigh as his heavy cock, confined in dark briefs, rests against your white cotton underwear.
“See?” you squeak as he rocks his hips once against you. “All of you is bigger. We wouldn’t fit.”
“Wouldn’t fit?” he questions, mocking.
Then, without warning, he hooks his thumb into the waistband of his briefs and tugs them down to free himself. Hard, and a little pink at the tip, it adds to his looming presence over you.
Using one hand to hold your hips slightly off the ground, up against him nice and close, he uses the other to press his cock down against your belly.
His head tilts a little.
“I could make it fit,” he announces, sounding a little distracted, eyes fixed where he measures himself against you. “Would stretch your pretty little hole open,” he says. “Might hurt a little… But you could bite my hand, yeah? You can take it out on gege.”
You shift a little, starting to squirm.
“Might just take the tip…” he continues as his hand works a little over himself. “But if you were really good for me… so, so good… you could hold on to me tight and let me sink all the way inside… would fill your belly up nice and deep… but we’d fit. Gege promises.”
⚘. summary 𓄲 love is a simple yet most complex feeling—it makes people turn into their best or worst versions. Picture-perfect handsome golden boy Caleb is the epitome of perfection to everyone around him: star athlete, top student, effortlessly charming. But beneath it all hides a shameful, consuming secret—he’s hopelessly, obsessively in love with the one person he grew up calling “jiejie,”. For years he’s been a pathetic, suffering loser in secret, tormented by his forbidden desire, until one drunken night of raw confession shatters the boundaries and turns their relationship into an intense, carnal, and deeply emotional taboo romance.
⚘. content warnings 𓄲 pseudocest, older!reader, younger!caleb, reader is described as a curvy woman, forbidden desires, obsession, jealousy, insecurity, pathetic pervert behaviour, male masturbation, panty stealing, self-loathing, mild angst, lack of communication, heavy emotions, hurt with comfort, alcohol usage, drunken confession, dubcon, guilt-denial-acceptance, loss of virginity, explicit smut, porn with plot, pinv, multiple rounds, raw, creampie, excessive cumming, happy ending, communication is the key. . . written as dark erotica, meant for mature audience . . .18+ ★ MINORS DNI !
⚘. wc 𓄲 7k (holy yap)
⚘. cherry’s note 𓄲 a self indulgence fic that started as “joke” ended up framing some real relationship problems irl. there's always something about challenging myself with forbidden tropes—every time pushing myself to capture those “emotions”. Here I've tried to capture Caleb's inner turmoil, how it consumed him to the point he was struggling like his life depends on it. If you can't associate with the reader, it's fine, it was written for myself.
Caleb was the guy every girl at campus whispered about.
Tall, messy brown hair, sharp jaw, that lazy smirk that made teachers forgive his late assignments and girls trip over themselves in the hallway. Captain of the basketball team, top grades when he bothered, always surrounded by friends who slapped his back and called him “king.” Everyone assumed he was drowning in pussy—hooking up in the locker room, sneaking girls into his car after games, the full college campus legend package.
But Caleb would just sigh whenever a pretty classmate batted her lashes at him.
Some cheerleader would lean in too close at a party, hand on his arm, giggling about how “hot” he was, and he’d give her a polite smile, mutter something vague, and disappear to the bathroom or the backyard. His friends ribbed him endlessly for it.
“Bro, you gay or something?” they’d laugh. “Girls are throwing themselves at you and you act like they’ve got cooties.”
One time, after he turned down the hottest senior for the third time, his buddies cornered him in the locker room.
“Dude, seriously, what’s the problem? You got a two-inch dick or some shit? Scared to whip it out?”
Caleb just rolled his eyes, shoved his shorts down, and stepped up to the urinal.
The joking stopped instantly.
Dead silence, then a chorus of “holy shit” and “no fucking way.” His cock hung thick and heavy even soft, veins visible, length that made every guy in the room suddenly very interested in the floor tiles. Someone muttered, “That’s not fair, man,” and the two-inch jokes died forever.
No one could figure him out. The hottest guy in campus, packing a monster, and still a virgin. Not a single rumor, not even a messy make-out story. Just… nothing.
What nobody knew—what Caleb guarded like a shameful secret—was that every ounce of desire he had was locked on one person.
His jiejie.
You.
He’d been a pervert for you since the day he figured out what his dick was for. Peeking through the crack in your bedroom door when you changed, “accidentally” brushing against your chest when you hugged him goodnight, timing his showers so he could barge in on yours and catch glimpses through the steam. Every girl his age looked boring, small, forgettable next to you—your curves, your voice, the way your tits filled out every shirt, the sway of your hips when you walked past him in the hallway.
He didn’t want them. He wanted the one person he wasn’t supposed to want.
And it made him miserable in the best, most twisted way.
He’d lie in bed at night, hand wrapped around that huge cock everyone envied, stroking himself raw to the thought of you. Imagining your tits in his mouth, your thighs spread for him, your voice calling him “caleb~” while he buried himself inside you. He’d cum so hard he saw stars, then hate himself for it, then do it again the next night.
Virgin. Loser. Obsessed.
All because the only pussy he craved was the one he grew up calling jiejie.
The perfect, handsome guy everyone thought was a player was, in reality, a desperate, untouched pervert who belonged—body, cock, and soul—to his strict, beautiful jiejie.
—
—
Caleb’s room at night is always the same ritual.
Door locked, lights off, phone hidden under the pillow in case Gran knocks. He pulls open the bottom drawer of his dresser—the one with the false back he built himself—and takes out the small bundle he’s stashed there— three pairs of your panties, carefully rotated so none stay missing too long. The softest ones, the ones you wear most often. He knows because he’s watched you fold laundry enough times to memorize which you reach for first.
Tonight it’s the pale pink cotton pair with the little bow at the front. He presses them to his face immediately, inhaling deep, eyes fluttering shut. Your scent is still there—warm skin, faint laundry detergent, and that unmistakable trace of you that makes his cock throb painfully against his thigh. He’s already leaking, a wet spot forming on his boxers before he even touches himself.
He strips fast, kicking everything off until he’s naked on his bed, knees drawn up, panties clutched in one hand. The other wraps around his huge cock—too thick for his fingers to meet, veins standing out from how hard he is just from smelling you.
“Jiejie…” he whispers into the dark, voice cracking as he starts stroking slow. He drags the panties down his face, over his lips, tongue darting out to taste the crotch where you’ve been all day. The fabric is soft from countless washes, but he swears he can still feel your warmth in it. “Fuck… you smell so good… always so good…”
He pictures you the way he’s seen you a thousand times—bending over to pick something up, tank top dipping low; stepping out of the bathroom in just a towel, hair wet; lying on the couch with your legs tucked under you, tits heavy and soft under thin fabric. Every stolen glimpse he’s hoarded for years plays on loop behind his closed eyes.
His strokes speed up, hips rocking into his fist. He presses the panties harder against his nose, breathing you in like oxygen. “Please… jiejie… miss you so much…” The words come out muffled, broken. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes because it hurts—his chest aches with how much he needs you, how wrong it is, how he can’t stop.
He remembers when you used to tuck him in as a kid, kiss his forehead, call him “didi~” in that soft voice. You raised him more than anyone, bandaged his scraped knees, helped with homework, held him when he had nightmares. You’re supposed to be sacred. Untouchable.
But he’s filthy for you.
Pre-cum slicks his palm, making the slide easier, faster. He bites the pillow to muffle the sob that rips out of him when he imagines you catching him like this—walking in, seeing him humping his hand with your panties against his face. Would you be disgusted? Angry? Or would you… touch him? Call him sweet even while he’s being depraved?
That thought sends him over.
He cums with your name muffled against the fabric, thick ropes spilling over his fist, stomach, dripping down his balls. His whole body shakes with it, hips jerking helplessly as wave after wave hits. Tears slip free now, hot on his cheeks, because even the release doesn’t ease the ache. It just makes him miss you more.
When it’s over he stays curled on his side, panting, still clutching your panties. He wipes himself clean with them—slow, deliberate—then folds them carefully and tucks them under his pillow for tomorrow night.
He falls asleep like that, face buried in the soft cotton that smells like you, whispering “I’m sorry, jiejie… I love you… I’m so sorry…” into the dark until exhaustion takes him.
Virgin. Pathetic. Completely, hopelessly yours.
And nobody—not his friends, not the girls who chase him, not even God—will ever understand how deep it goes.
But the thing is, Caleb is unraveling.
He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That if he can just cut the cord—stop peeking, stop stealing your panties, stop jerking off to the sound of your voice through the wall—maybe the ache will finally dull. Maybe he’ll stop being the pathetic virgin loser who’s in love with his big sister figure.
It starts the day he sees you getting ready for a date.
You’re in the bathroom, door half-open like always, curling your hair, wearing that tight little dress that hugs your tits and makes your ass look unreal. You’re humming, smiling at yourself in the mirror, excited. He catches a glimpse from the hallway and feels his stomach drop.
Another guy. Again.
He’s hated every single one of your boyfriends with a venom that scared even him. They were never good enough—too handsy, too smug, too eager to touch what should’ve been… No. He can’t think like that anymore.
So he decides to stop.
He stops answering your texts. When you send “dinner’s ready, come down” or “can you grab milk on your way home?” he leaves you on read. He stops coming out of his room when you’re in the living room. Stops saying good morning. Stops everything.
At first you think he’s just moody. You knock on his door, soft voice through the wood: “Caleb? Everything okay, baby?”
He presses his forehead to the door, hand clenched around his phone, and doesn’t answer. Because if he opens it he’ll break—he’ll fall to his knees and beg you not to go out with that guy, beg you to let him touch you instead.
He starts staying out later—basketball practice, “hanging with the guys,” anything to avoid being home when you come back from dates. He hears you sometimes, late at night, laughing quietly on the phone in your room, voice all soft and sweet for someone else. Each giggle is a knife.
He hates himself for the relief he felt when your last relationship ended. You’d been quiet for weeks, curled up on the couch in his hoodies, eyes red from crying. He’d brought you tea without being asked, sat close but not too close, let you lean on his shoulder while you watched sad movies. For a little while, you were just his again.
Now you’re glowing. Texting someone new. Going out. Coming home with that flushed, happy look he’s never been the one to put on your face.
He can’t stand it.
So he locks himself in his room and tries to purge you from his system. Deletes the hidden folder of candid photos he’s taken of you over the years. Throws out the panties he’s kept—then digs them out of the trash at 3 a.m. because he’s weak. Tries to jerk off thinking about anyone else—literally anyone—and can’t even stay hard unless he lets himself imagine your tits, your scent, your voice moaning his name.
Every night he ends up the same way—face buried in his pillow, sobbing quietly as he fucks his fist, whispering “jiejie… please… I love you… I’m sorry…” while he cums harder than ever. Then hates himself more than ever.
He ignores your calls. Your “are you mad at me?” texts. The worried notes you start leaving on his door.
He tells himself it’s for the best. That if he can just stay away, maybe you’ll never know what a sick fuck he is. Maybe he’ll learn to live with the fact that you’ll never be his.
But every time he hears you leave for another date, makeup perfect, perfume lingering in the hallway, something inside him breaks a little more.
He’s not okay.
He’s drowning.
And the worst part—the part that makes him feel truly pathetic—is that even now, even while he’s ignoring you, he’s still waiting.Still hoping, somewhere deep and stupid and hopeless, that one day you’ll choose him.
So oneday when he's drunk as fuck, he decides if he'll sleep with someone else, maybe he'll forget you.
The party is a blur of pounding music and colored lights that make Caleb’s head spin even harder. He’s drunk—way past his limit—because tonight he is supposed to fix himself. Tonight he is supposed to prove he could want someone else.
Two girls have been on him all night: one blonde with eager hands sliding under his shirt, the other brunette pressing red-lipstick kisses along his jaw, whispering things he doesn’t even hear. They dragged him to a dark corner of the couch, mouths on his neck, fingers tugging at his belt. Everyone else is too wasted to care.
He tries. God, he tries.
He lets them touch him, lets their hands roam, lets one straddle his lap while the other bites his earlobe. He tells himself this is normal. This is what guys his age do. This will burn you out of his system, jiejie. This will make the ache stop.
But nothing happens.
His body stays soft, lifeless, no matter how they grind against him or how many times they giggle about how “big” he must be. Panic creeps in first, then something darker—like the air is thickening, turning to tar in his lungs. Their hands feel wrong, foreign, invasive. Their mouths burn like acid on his skin. The room tilts, the lights smear, and suddenly he’s drowning in deep water, unseen fingers ripping at him, tearing him apart from the inside. He's drowning even more, everything around him is pitch black, light doesn't hit here, he tries to reach for something, anything but nothing falls in his grasp.
He can’t breathe.
He moves his limbs like a dying fish—maybe because he's dying. He's struggling, trying to pull him up, hold something to anchor himself.
There's hands of people he doesn't know, doesn't want holds him back, pulling him deeper into the infinite darkness. He feels his skin tearing apart, his heart so heavy it might fall out of his chest— he feels violated. He doesn't want this.
A strangled sound tears out of his throat—half-sob, half-scream—and he thrashes, shoving them off with more force than he means to. The girls reel back, confused, then angry.
“What the fuck, Caleb?”
“Seriously? Can’t even get it up?”
Someone nearby snickers. “Guess the rumors were bullshit.”
He doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already stumbling through the crowd, shoving people aside, bursting out the front door into the freezing night air. It slices into his lungs, sharp and clean, but it doesn’t help. His skin is crawling where they touched him—neck, chest, mouth—like their hands left bruises that go straight to bone.
He runs.
Barely feels the cold pavement under his sneakers, barely notices the tears freezing on his cheeks. He just runs until his legs burn and his chest feels like it’s going to explode.
“Caleb?”
Your voice cuts through the static in his head like a lifeline.
He stops so abruptly he almost falls. You’re standing on the sidewalk in your coat, phone in hand—you must’ve been looking for him after he didn’t answer any texts. The streetlight catches your face, worried and soft, and something inside him shatters completely.
You step closer, hesitant. “Caleb, what—”
He drops.
Knees hitting the concrete hard enough to bruise, arms wrapping around your waist like you’re the only solid thing in the world. His face presses into your stomach, and the sobs rip out of him—ugly, broken, uncontrollable.
“Jiejie…” It’s barely a word, more a wet, drunken wail. “I’m—I’m so fucked up… I tried… I tried to… I couldn’t… they touched me and it hurt… it hurt so bad… I can’t… I can’t do it…”
His whole body is shaking, fingers clutching the fabric of your coat like he’ll float away if he lets go.
You freeze for only a second, heart twisting at the sight of him—your cocky, bratty little brother reduced to this raw, trembling mess on the ground. Then your arms are around him, pulling him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his damp hair.
“Shh, baby, it’s okay… I’ve got you,” you murmur, voice steady even though your chest aches. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
He’s hiccupping now, face buried against you, smearing tears and snot and leftover lipstick onto your coat. “Hic… not feeling good… plz jiejie… hold me… love me… don’t let go… please…”
You glance at the red stains on his neck, the smudged lipstick around his mouth, and sigh softly—not angry, just heartbroken. You’ve never seen him like this. Not once. The mischievous pervert who lived to annoy you is gone, and in his place is someone small and terrified and desperately needing his jiejie.
“I’m not letting go,” you whisper, tightening your arms around him. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
You help him stand—he’s too tall for you to carry, but he leans heavily on you the whole walk back, head on your shoulder, still crying quietly. Every few steps he mumbles something incoherent, your name over and over like a prayer.
You get him inside the house with his arm slung heavy over your shoulders, his tall frame leaning almost all its weight on you. He smells like cheap vodka, sweat, and something sharp—tears, maybe. The door clicks shut behind you, and the sudden quiet of the living room feels too loud after the chaos outside.
You don’t ask questions yet. You just hold him, guide him to the couch, wrap him in the big blanket you both used to fight over as kids. He curls into you immediately, face pressed to your chest, arms locked around your waist.
And for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t pull away.
He just breathes you in, shaky and wrecked, and lets you hold him together.
Caleb doesn’t let go.
His fingers dig into your hips through your coat, anchoring himself like he’s scared the floor will open up and swallow him if he loosens his grip even a little. His face is pressed to the side of your neck, hot breaths coming in shaky pants against your skin. Every exhale is a whimper, a broken little sound that twists something deep in your chest.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, over and over, lips brushing your jaw with every word. “I’m sorry, jiejie… sorry… sorry…”
You try to guide him toward his room, but his hold tightens, pulling you closer instead. “Caleb—” you start, voice soft but firm, meaning to tell him to sit, to breathe, to calm down.
He doesn’t let you finish.
His mouth finds your jaw, clumsy and desperate, pressing open-mouthed kisses that are more drool than anything else. Down to your neck, your cheek, wherever he can reach. He’s shaking, glassy eyes unfocused, tears still leaking steadily down his flushed face. He looks completely undone—your bratty, cocky Caleb reduced to this raw, trembling mess.
“I love you so much…” he sobs, voice cracking on every word. “Hic—I love you so much… jiejie…”
Your heart stutters. You’ve heard him say it a thousand times growing up—sleepy mumbles when he was little, casual throwaways when he wanted something—but never like this. Never with this kind of weight.
You take a slow breath through your nose, hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. “I know, Caleb,” you murmur, fingers threading gently through his messy hair. “I love you too—”
“NO!”
The word rips out of him, half-scream, half-sob. Before you can react, he’s moving—hands gripping your waist, pushing you down onto the couch with surprising strength for someone so drunk. You let out a startled squeak as your back hits the cushions, coat falling open. He follows immediately, hovering over you, knees bracketing your hips, tears dripping from his cheeks onto your face and collarbone.
He’s crying harder now, shoulders shaking, but his eyes are fixed on yours—pleading, terrified, like he’s finally saying the thing that’s been killing him for years.
“Not like that…” he whispers, voice hoarse and trembling. “Not like how you expect me to… hic… not like a brother should…”
He lowers himself slowly, carefully, until his head rests between your breasts. His cheek presses to the soft skin just above your neckline, chin nestled in the valley, arms sliding under your back to hold you closer. He nuzzles in like he’s trying to burrow inside you, like your warmth is the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
“I love you nasty, jiejie…” The confession spills out against your skin, raw and devastating. “I love you in a way that’s wrong… against everything… hic… I love you so bad it makes me wanna ruin myself. Ruin you. Ruin everything…”
A broken little laugh escapes him, wet and self-loathing. He presses a soft, reverent kiss to the swell of your chest, right over your heartbeat.
“I learned what love was from you,” he whispers, voice barely audible now, thick with tears. “You raised me… you were always there… and somehow I ended up loving you like this instead. Like a fucking idiot. Hopelessly… completely… in love with my own jiejie.”
The words hang in the air between you.
Your mouth falls open, breath catching in your throat. You stare down at him—his tear-streaked face half-buried in your chest, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling against yours—and feel something shift inside you, something huge and irreversible.
He’s drunk, yes.
But he’s also never been more honest.
And the truth he just poured out at your feet is one you’ve felt brushing against the edges of your awareness for years—the lingering touches, the way his eyes followed you, the tension that’s been building like a storm.
He loves you.
Not like a brother.
Like a man who’s been drowning in you his whole life.
You stay frozen for a long moment, heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it against his cheek. Then, slowly, your hand moves—fingers sliding into his hair again, cradling him closer instead of pushing him away.
He whimpers at the touch, clinging tighter, like he’s terrified you’ll reject him now that it’s out.
But you don’t.
You just hold him, letting the weight of his confession settle over both of you in the quiet living room, the beginning of something neither of you can take back.
You pull him closer without thinking, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders to steady him—to steady yourself. His face is still buried in your chest, hot tears soaking through your shirt, but the moment your fingers tighten in his hair, something shifts.
He lifts his head just enough to start kissing your skin—messy, desperate, open-mouthed presses that leave wet trails along your neck. His lips drag sloppily down to your collarbone, then lower, dipping into the soft valley of your cleavage as he nuzzles deeper. Each kiss is uncoordinated, drunk and needy, but the heat of his mouth makes you gasp despite yourself.
“Caleb,” you say, voice shaky, trying to warn him, trying to stop this before it goes too far. “Caleb, wait—”
But in his fuzzy, alcohol-soaked brain, your voice saying his name over and over sounds like encouragement. Sounds like yes.
He groans low in his throat, hands sliding down your sides until his fingers grip your plush thighs. He pushes them apart with surprising strength, slotting himself between them on the couch, his weight pressing you deeper into the cushions.
“Caleb—” It comes out louder this time, half-groan, half-plea, as his clumsy fingers fumble under your dress. He hooks your panties with trembling hands, yanking them down your legs in one impatient tug. The fabric catches on your ankle before he tosses it aside. His knuckles bump against your clit as he spreads you open, accidental but electric, and a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.
“Caleb!”
His glassy eyes snap up to meet yours—red-rimmed, wet, full of raw desperation. For a second he just stares, breathing hard, like he’s waiting for you to shove him away.
Then he dips his head and tries to kiss you.
The first attempt lands on the tip of your nose, sloppy and off-center. He pauses, breath hitching, but you don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your face up, meeting him halfway. Your hands grip his shoulders as your lips finally connect.
The kiss is messy, inexperienced on his end—teeth clacking at first, too much tongue, too much urgency—but so full of everything he’s never said out loud that it steals your breath. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers digging into the muscle of his arms, tasting vodka and salt from his tears.
He moans into your mouth, low and broken, hips starting to move on instinct. You feel it immediately—his cock, thick and burning hot even through his jeans, rutting against your bare pussy in slow, desperate grinds. Each drag of his clothed length over your slick folds makes you both shudder.
Reality slams into you.
You break the kiss with a gasp, hand flying to his chest. “Wait—wait, Caleb… what… what are you—”
He freezes, looking down at the obscene tent in his pants like he’s only just noticing it. Then, without hesitation, he yanks his jeans and boxers down in one frantic motion. His cock springs free—heavy, flushed, bigger than you ever imagined—and you let out a startled squeak, eyes wide.
He looks back at you, tears still clinging to his lashes, expression crumbling into something heartbreakingly vulnerable. Like a kicked puppy left out in the rain.
“What do you think, jiejie?” he whispers, voice small and slurred, hiccupping through the tears. “Am I… am I good enough… hic… for your love?”
The question hangs in the air, raw and devastating.
Your mind is spinning—wrong, this is wrong, he’s drunk, he’s your so-called-brother—but your heart is pounding so hard it drowns everything else out. You see it all in his face: years of hiding, of hurting, of loving you in silence until it nearly destroyed him.
You swallow hard, lips trembling.
“Yes,” you whisper finally, voice barely audible but steady. You reach up, cupping his wet cheek. “You’re worthy of my love, Caleb. My everything.”
His breath catches on a sob—relief, disbelief, gratitude all at once. Fresh tears spill over as he drops his forehead to yours, body shaking.
“Jiejie…” he chokes out, like a prayer.
In that moment, with his confession still echoing between you and his bare cock throbbing against your thigh, you know there’s no going back.
Not for either of you.
One second he’s hovering over you on the couch, forehead pressed to yours, tears dripping onto your skin as he whispers how hopelessly in love he is. The next, the weight of it all seems to crash into him—relief, terror, pure desperate need—and he surges forward.
He hauls you up off the couch with shaky arms, stumbling toward your bedroom door. Your back hits the wood with a soft thud as he pins you there, mouth crashing back onto yours in a messy, frantic kiss. His body presses flush against you, hips rolling instinctively, and you feel it immediately—his bare cock, thick and burning hot, grinding against your slick, exposed pussy.
He’s sobbing into the kiss, hips jerking clumsily, the swollen head of his cock bumping over your clit again and again. Every accidental slide sends sparks shooting up your spine, makes you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
“Can’t… can’t put it in…” he whimpers against your lips, voice breaking with frustration and tears. “Sorry… sorry, jiejie… I’m too drunk… fuck…”
He keeps trying anyway, rutting helplessly, pre-cum mixing with your wetness, turning every drag into torturous pleasure. His length slides through your folds, nudging your entrance but never quite catching, teasing you both until you’re trembling against the door.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But watching him fall apart—your proud, beautiful Caleb reduced to this sobbing, desperate mess trying to get inside you—breaks whatever restraint you have left.
Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his cock.
Oh god.
He’s so thick your fingers barely meet, velvet-soft skin over steel, throbbing so hard you can feel his heartbeat in your palm. A shiver races down your spine at how heavy he is, how perfectly he fills your grip.
Caleb lets out a broken moan at the first touch, hips stuttering forward into your hand.
You guide him gently, lining the flushed head with your dripping entrance, coating him in your slick. Then you lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice soft and sweet like you’re soothing a frightened child.
“Now try to thrust, baby~”
The words hit him like a match to gasoline.
He whimpers—high, wrecked—and snaps his hips forward.
One hard, clumsy thrust and he’s inside you, stretching you wide, filling you so suddenly you both cry out. Your head thumps back against the door as he bottoms out, thick length buried to the hilt.
Then he loses it.
He starts moving immediately—wild, off-rhythm thrusts that slam into you too hard, too fast, knocking the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.
“Caleb—Caleb!” you gasp, smacking his shoulder weakly. “Slow down! Slowly!”
He groans like it physically hurts to obey, but he forces himself to slow, breaths coming in ragged sobs. His hands grip your thighs, lifting one leg to hook over his arm, spreading you wider. Then he’s walking you backward toward the bed, still buried deep, until your knees hit the mattress and you fall onto it.
Clothes scatter everywhere in the frenzy—your dress shoved up and bunched under your breasts, his cheap t-shirt hanging open off his shoulders, jeans kicked off somewhere on the floor. He stays standing at the edge of the bed, your leg thrown over his shoulder, fucking you sideways in deep, deliberate strokes now.
Sweat glistens on his chest, abs flexing with every roll of his hips. His cock drags slow and heavy inside you, veins pulsing against your walls, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder than your moans.
You grip the sheets until your knuckles go white, head thrown back, lost in the overwhelming feeling of him finally inside you—your sweet, broken Caleb claiming you the only way he knows how.
And neither of you is thinking about stopping anymore.
The night blurs into a haze of sweat-slicked skin and desperate need after that first frantic coupling on the bed. Caleb's drunken haze doesn't dull his stamina—it amplifies it, turning him into an insatiable force, thrusting through round after round until neither of you can keep track. Clothes are long gone, scattered like forgotten memories across the floor; you're both fully naked now, bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and heat.
He hauls you up from the bed mid-thrust, strong arms lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your back slams against the bedroom wall with a thud that rattles the pictures, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. He's still buried deep inside you, cock throbbing from his first release, cum already leaking down your thighs as he pins you there.
"Jiejie... fuck, you're so tight... so perfect..." he babbles, voice slurred and whimpering, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm. His hands grip your ass, fingers digging into the plush flesh, spreading you wider as he pounds into you. The wall digs into your back, but the pain only heightens the pleasure—every thrust drives him impossibly deep, his thick length stretching you to your limits.
You gasp, nails raking down his sweat-glistened back. "Caleb—oh god, yes—harder..."
He obeys with a broken moan, slamming in with reckless abandon. His greedy hands roam everywhere—squeezing your thighs, groping your hips, sliding up to palm your bouncing tits roughly. "Love these... love you... hic... can't stop... gonna cum again—fuck, jiejie, I'm gonna fill you up more..."
And he does. His thrusts stutter, a high-pitched whimper tearing from his throat as he unloads another thick load deep inside you. You feel it—hot, endless ropes pulsing against your walls, overflowing your pussy until it drips down his balls and onto the floor. "So much... ahh... take it all, please... love filling you..."
You clench around him, moaning at how full you feel, his cum already seeping out with every shallow thrust. You've never had anyone cum like this—almost too much, like his body won't stop producing it, flooding you until you're stuffed and slick. "Caleb... you're cumming so much... it's so deep..."
He doesn't pull out. Instead, he carries you back to the bed, cock still hard and twitching inside you, and flips you both so you're straddling him. His hands grab your hips immediately, guiding you up and down his length as you start bouncing.
"Ride me... please, jiejie... need to see you..." he whimpers, eyes glassy and locked on your tits as they bounce wildly with every drop of your hips. He leans up, mouth latching onto one nipple with a desperate suck, tongue swirling clumsily but eagerly. His free hand gropes the other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple until you're arching into him.
"Fuck—your tits... so soft... hic... taste so good..." he mumbles around the swollen bud, teeth grazing it lightly before he switches sides, sucking harder, leaving wet trails of saliva across your chest. His hands are everywhere—sliding down to squeeze your ass, pulling you down harder onto his cock, then back up to knead your breasts like he can't decide where to touch first.
You grind down faster, feeling him hit that spot deep inside with every bounce. "Just like that... oh god, Caleb, you're so big... filling me up again..."
He thrusts up to meet you, whimpering into your skin. "Can't... can't hold it... jiejie, you're making me cum... again... ahh—!" His body tenses, another massive load erupting inside you, overflowing instantly, cum squelching out around his base as you keep riding through it. You feel it everywhere—deep in your core, spilling down your thighs, making everything slick and messy.
"Too much... but feels so good..." you moan, surprised at how his releases seem endless, each one thicker than the last, coating your walls until you're dripping with him.
He doesn't stop. Round after round blends together—him flipping you onto your back to pound into you missionary-style, hands groping your thighs as he babbles, "Love you... love this pussy... hic... mine... all mine..."; you on top again, his mouth back on your nipples, sucking like he's starving while his cum leaks out with every bounce; against the wall once more, your legs around his hips as he ruts wildly, whimpering apologies for cumming too fast but never slowing down.
By the time exhaustion finally claims you both—too many rounds to count, bodies spent and sticky—you're a tangled mess on the bed, his cock still half-hard inside you, cum pooled between your thighs. He's curled into you, face nuzzled against your chest, murmuring soft, drunken "I love you"s as sleep takes him.
And in the quiet aftermath, you realize this is only the beginning.
The morning light slices through the half-open curtains like a knife, stabbing straight into Caleb’s skull. He groans low in his throat, rolling onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes.
“Fuck… too much drink…” he mutters, voice gravel-rough. His whole body aches in a way that feels deeper than just a hangover—muscles sore, skin hypersensitive, a dull throb between his legs.
Fragments of memory flash behind his closed lids: your voice saying yes, the heat of your body, the way you felt around him. He drags a palm down his face, cheeks burning even through the headache.
“What a crazy dream… felt too real…”
His hand flops to the side, searching for his pillow—and lands on something warm, soft, impossibly plush. He freezes. Squeezes once. Then again, curious. So soft.
His eyes snap open.
This isn’t his room.
The sheets are your color. The scent in the air is your shampoo. And his hand—his hand is cupping your bare breast, fingers sunk into the heavy weight like it belongs there.
You’re asleep beside him, naked under the thin sheet, lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow.
Caleb gasps so loudly it’s almost a yelp. He yanks his hand away and tries to bolt upright, but his legs tangle in the sheets and he crashes off the bed with a thunderous thud, bare ass hitting the hardwood.
The impact jars him from head to toe. He groans, rubbing his tailbone, then looks down in horror—completely naked, morning wood hanging heavy and half-hard between his thighs.
“Shit—shit—”
He scrambles for something to cover himself, but there’s nothing within reach. Panic floods him as your eyes flutter open.
You sit up fast, the sheet off your chest, worry etched across your face. “Caleb? Are you okay—”
He’s already trying to flee, palms cupped desperately over his cock, stumbling toward the door on shaky legs.
“Caleb!”
Your voice cracks like a whip—strict, big-sister sharp—and he freezes mid-step, back to you, whole body flushed crimson from the tips of his ears to his chest.
His heart is hammering so hard he’s sure you can hear it. The memories are flooding back now, vivid and undeniable: you under him, around him, the way he came inside you again and again, your moans, your hands in his hair.
He slept with you.
He lost his virginity to his jiejie.
“Get back here,” you say, softer but still firm.
He walks backward slowly, awkwardly, until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He slips under the sheet, yanking it up to his waist to hide the evidence of what’s already stirring again. He can’t look at you.
“Jiejie… your…” he stammers, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
You huff, cheeks pink, pulling the sheet higher over your own chest. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“I—I’m… I’m sorry, I—”
You shift closer, sliding an arm around his. He finally turns his head, wide-eyed and trembling, and you lean in until your foreheads almost touch.
“Jiejie… I—”
You press a finger to his lips, gentle but unyielding.
“Last night you were honest,” you say quietly. “Why are you running from the truth now? Trying to ignore me again? That’s not very nice, Caleb.”
He shivers, blush deepening impossibly. His fingers twist in the sheet. “I just… yeah, I… I love you, okay? And it’s wrong. Whatever we did was wrong. And you were dating that guy—”
“I said no to him yesterday.”
His eyes snap to yours, wide and stunned.
You keep going, voice steady even as your own cheeks warm. “Seeing you ignore me so hard made me think about a lot of things. Made me wonder if I was doing something wrong, upsetting you somehow. I don’t want you upset with me, Caleb. I turned him down because I realized… what I actually wanted has been right here with me all this time.”
You smile—soft, bright, a little shy—and Caleb’s eyes fill with tears instantly.
He sobs once, broken and relieved, and lunges forward to hug you tightly, arms locking around your waist, face buried in your neck.
“Jiejie… I love you so much… I love you so fucking much…”
You wrap your arms around him, fingers stroking through his messy hair. “I love you too, you big idiot. Next time you’re confused about your feelings, come to me. Not to random girls.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, face blotchy and guilty. “I… I thought if I slept with someone else I could forget you. But I couldn’t even get hard.” He groans, hiding his face against your shoulder. “I felt sick the second they touched me.”
Then he peeks up, pouting. “But… what about you? You had boyfriends…”
You sigh, tracing idle patterns on his palm. “Yeah. Unfortunately. And none of them were any good.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “Did you ever notice they all kind of… looked like you?”
He shivers hard against you.
You smile softly, voice dropping. “I was never really attached. The relationships fell apart fast because I wouldn’t get intimate. The only time I almost did… it stopped before anything happened because I moaned the wrong name.”
You hide your face against his neck, whispering, “I moaned your name, Caleb.”
His mouth falls open. He stares at you, stunned, tears spilling over again—but this time there’s joy in them, bright and disbelieving.
He laughs through the tears, shaky and wet, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. One hand slides to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh; the other cups your face.
“Guess we’re both desperate, huh?” he whispers, voice thick.
You yelp softly as he tugs your leg over his lap. His cock—already fully hard again—presses hot and heavy against your stomach. He looks so happy, eyes shining, lips inches from yours.
“It can’t be helped then,” he says, voice low and steady for the first time this morning. “Knowing I’m not the only sinner here… we’re stuck together. And God help me, I never want anything else.”
He leans in until your lips brush.
“So love me loud, jiejie,” he breathes. “I’ll love you back even louder.”
You close the distance, kissing him slow and deliberate—no alcohol, no excuses, just the two of you finally choosing each other—the morning light feels a lot less harsh.
—
—
The next day at campus, Caleb is practically floating.
He walks through the halls with this stupid, unstoppable grin plastered on his face, shoulders relaxed, eyes bright—like the weight he’s carried for years finally lifted. People notice. Girls glance twice in the hallway, whispering. Guys nod at him with raised eyebrows. Even teachers pause mid-sentence when he answers a question with actual enthusiasm instead of his usual half-assed sarcasm.
He’s glowing. The happiest anyone has ever seen him.
In the locker room before P.E., his friends crowd around him like usual, slapping his back, joking about weekend plans. But the second Caleb peels off his shirt, the room goes dead quiet.
Then the gasps hit.
His neck is a map of hickeys—dark purple and red blooming across his throat, disappearing under his collarbone. His chest and abs are littered with scratches, faint bite marks, more kisses sucked into his skin like someone couldn’t get enough. And when he drops his jeans to change into gym shorts, someone whistles low.
There’s a perfect, unmistakable lipstick-shaped mark just inches from the base of his cock, right on the sharp V of his hip.
The silence breaks into chaos.
“Jesus, dude—”
“Who the hell did you murder last night?”
“Bro had a CRAZY weekend!”
Laughter erupts, elbows digging into his ribs, eyebrows waggling. One guy claps him on the back, grinning. “Wow, man. Looks like you had one hell of a night.”
Caleb doesn’t even try to hide it. He smirks wider, proud and unashamed, pulling on his gym shirt like he’s wearing medals.
“Best one ever,” he says simply, voice warm with something deeper than bragging.
Another friend leans in, smirking. “Yo, was the chick hot—”
Caleb’s smile vanishes in an instant. His eyes sharpen, voice dropping low and dangerously calm.
“Don’t say shit about her.”
The room stills again. Everyone exchanges glances—half amused, half wary. This isn’t the usual locker-room banter. This is something else.
One of his closer friends slings an arm around his shoulders, breaking the tension with a knowing grin. “Okay, okay… seems like she’s someone special, huh?”
Caleb’s expression softens immediately. The charming, radiant smile comes back—bigger, brighter, like he’s thinking about you and can’t help it.
He adjusts his shorts, grabs his water bottle, and heads for the door.
“My closest person,” he says over his shoulder, voice full of quiet pride. And walks out into the gym like the luckiest guy in the world. Because he finally is.
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