we're far too culturally obsessed with men who are mean and rough around the edges but turn out to be big softies underneath it all when, in reality, most men who are like this are simply dicks
Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:
is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?
Canto IV - The Emerging Stars
℘ this was a mistake. all of it was. from the very beginning, it was doomed. you're too similar, too ambitious, too cutthroat. at the end of the day, you're only ever meant to be rivals...aren't you?
Warnings: angst, some sexual references but no smut, fluff, not really much to say except hope you guys don't mind that this is not proofread either sorry, when I upload the other chapters to AO3, I promise it'll be proofread
Word Count: 10.6k
Canto III - Masterlist - EPILOGUE
The lecture hall smells faintly of old paper and radiator heat. Morning light filters weakly through tall windows, catching dust in slow suspension. At the front, Professor Aldmahn adjusts his glasses and turns a page.
“As we see in Book XI,” he says, voice projecting in a way only one with experience can do without much thought, “the katabasis is not merely a narrative descent, but a ritualised confrontation with memory. Odysseus does not simply visit the dead or observe them — he negotiates with the dead. Knowledge, in this context, is therefore transactional. This is important to note.”
A few pens scratch. Someone coughs.
9am lectures always carry a sense of death to them. Something about waking up before the sun’s risen kills a person’s soul and leads them down quiet corridors with dark shadows under their eyes, life saving coffee cups in their hands.
Most students don’t like 9am lectures. Most students want to sleep in. You’re no exception.
Drained as you are though, there is a restlessness in you. A thing that itches to move its legs, to stretch, to run up and down the hallway screaming. Perhaps a ball of tension looking for release, perhaps some unresolved trauma from childhood, or maybe, much less interestingly, you’re just bored.
Boredom is a human experience.
It is a painful experience.
One that could be likened to pushing a boulder up a hill or walking in a field for eternity. It is an experience shared by all, an experience as natural as breathing. It is an experience you’ve never felt in a lecture before. Because, yes you are one of those people that others look at weirdly when you excitedly riff with other students or with the professor, who's done the further readings, who always has something to add, who leaves the hall buzzing. One of those people that can’t have friends in the course because you’re considered too much at any hour of the day.
Today, however, people seem to tolerate you just fine; someone to your right even asked how your weekend was and what your plans for the week are!
You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad change.
Professor Aldmahn continues, “In this sense, Tiresias is exceptional. He alone retains the ability to speak coherently and offer guidance. The other shades, in comparison, lack agency. They require blood to speak, and even then, what they offer is fragmented. Tiresias stands apart as a stable source of knowledge.”
If the professor’s deterred by the soulless faces that stare back at him, he doesn’t show it.
There’s a small shift to your left.
A few heads turn.
You don’t look.
“But that stability is questionable,” he says, calm as ever, voice carrying without effort. “Tiresias doesn’t provide a full account. He gives Odysseus what he needs to return home, nothing more. I think his wisdom is overstated.”
Professor Aldmahn tilts his head slightly. “Interesting. So you argue Tiresias’ usefulness is exaggerated? Is that a limitation imposed by the narrative, or by Tiresias himself?”
“Both, I believe,” he replies. “The information is selective. It’s shaped by what the poem needs Odysseus to know at that point.”
“And what do you think?” Professor Aldmahn’s voice redirects. His gaze settles on you. “You’ve been quiet today.”
A beat.
The room shifts with it.
You feel it. The familiar shape of an argument forming, precise and sharp. You could dismantle that. You know you could. It’s too neat, too contained. There’s a gap there, something unaddressed, something—
Your pen lowers to the page.
Some people sigh, as though aware that another miserable thing is going to make them regret turning up to this lecture. And for once, you’re on their side, and not on the other.
Lifting your head, you meet the Professor’s gaze easily. “I think the selectivity is the point; the underworld isn’t meant to be a place of full revelation. It’s a place of suffering, of punishment. The underworld offers partial knowledge, and only under strict conditions. To find any hint of stability and aid is already a miracle in and of itself. Narratively, the characters cannot rely too much on Tiresias — knowledge is supposed to be limited, restricted.”
There’s a small murmur. Approval, maybe. Or irritation. Certainly some grumbles of ‘Am I even in the right class?’
Professor Aldmahn nods slowly, smiling and revealing deep wrinkles in his eyes. “Controlled by whom?”
“The poem,” he cuts in. “Or by the structure of the nostos. Everything in that scene is oriented toward getting Odysseus home. Even the dead only matter insofar as they contribute to that.”
“Do you concur?” the professor asks you.
There it is.
The opening.
It’s almost instinctive: the way your mind turns, the counterargument rising sharp and immediate. You could push back, point out the inconsistency, pull at the thread until it…
You don’t.
Instead, you nod. Once. Politely. No more than that. “Sure,” you say.
Eyes bore a searing hole into the side of your head, challenging. You pretend you don’t feel it.
Professor Aldmahn’s pen stills in his hand. “…I see,” he says after a moment, though he doesn’t sound entirely convinced of anything at all. If anything, he seems confused and cautious in one breath. “Well, those were good thoughts, you two. Glad to see some people are paying attention.”
People whisper. Some glances between the two of you, waiting, expecting the familiar escalation, the relentless, eye-rolling back-and-forth that usually follows. It doesn’t come. Judging by the look on people’s faces, one would think the world was ending and trumpets were singing.
And when Professor Aldmahn clears his throat and resumes the lecture, there’s a faint, unspoken sense that something has gone slightly, inexplicably off course.
Is it really that big of a deal that you didn’t continue debating, you wonder to yourself, with a little self-consciousness dragging you deeper into your seat to avoid the looks people are throwing at you.
After the lecture, you pack up your things and head straight for the door. A presence appears at your side. Blue sweater, blond hair, long legs, and a tight frown.
“You don’t agree with me,” he says. It could come off as a question to someone else, perhaps an accusation or a reminder. To you, it comes with a tone of surprise, a hint of betrayal that almost makes you scoff.
Still walking, you hike your bag up your shoulder and reply, “No, I do not.”
“So why didn’t you say?”
Usually, daring to dispute the other’s point so publicly, or even at all, would warrant a long back and forth battle that didn’t resemble a debate at all, more like turn-based lashings. The two of you would glare at each other, scoffing, turning your noses up. You’d point out how he has bed hair and he’d say your lips are crusty, or something of the sort. People would roll their eyes around you but no one would step in. Not professors. Not campus security. Not your friends.
It could go on for hours.
Today, you don’t have it in you.
You sigh and, for the first time in about a week, you meet his eyes. He looks the same as usual, albeit more tired. It’s hard to tell if that pleases you or not. Seriously, you ask, “What do you want? To gloat? Or maybe you want me to get on my knees and blow you?”
He flinches like you struck him. Pink tinges his pale skin. A visceral reaction to the emotionless voice that pierces him. “No,” he says firmly, blinking hard. “No, of course not.”
“So? Is there something I can do for you?”
“A chance to talk, perhaps?” Nanami says, running a hand through his hair.
Coldly, you remind him, “You had that, remember?”
Nanami freezes. He blanches. Pales like a ghost. You know he knows exactly what you’re referring to. Is he actually surprised you brought it up? Did he think you were just never going to say anything? Did he think you’d roll over and carry on as usual?
“I did what you would have done,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
You grip your bag tighter. “Is that what you tell yourself? Is that how you justify setting me up to yourself, to your friends, to whatever higher power you answer to? All for an assistant job you’ll have for only a month, maybe some time into summer too if you’re hanging around, before you go off and have an actual, graduate job?”
Nanami frowns. “She would have asked you if I had said no. She would have offered it to you, and you would have said yes.”
“Maybe,” you admit, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “Maybe, but guess we’ll never know because you eagerly took the offer, didn’t you?”
To that, he has nothing to say.
Nanami Kento…
Finally rendered speechless.
The sight doesn’t offer you much satisfaction. Another sigh, and you’re telling him, “Don’t be a pussy. You did what you did and you’re better off for it. Stand on all ten toes and keep your chin up. You got what you wanted from me — orgasms, momentary companionship, a job, the ultimate sense of superiority. You won. You won. There’s nothing else left you could take from me. It’s over. Don’t you get it? It’s done. We’re done. You won, Nanami, and it better fucking feel good, because it sure doesn’t feel like it on my end.”
Each syllable you utter leaves a deeper indent on the crease between his brows. He blinks through the words, tries to process them as he would a text written in Latin or a Shakespearean puzzle. His hands flex. His shoulders roll back. He takes every hit with slight winces. And for once, he doesn’t argue with you.
Today just doesn’t seem to be a day for debates.
You glance at your phone screen, and nod. “I gotta get to class.”
You look up at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the space between you. There’s no telling what he’s thinking, and at this moment, you can’t bring yourself to care.
From your position, he doesn’t look as tall or as blond as you remember. “Congratulations, Nanami.”
Your legs don’t stop moving. You let yourself be carried forward with the crowd, down the hall, where the lights flicker and the sun doesn’t reach.
Behind you, he remains standing, following you with his eyes and pleading for you to look back once.
You don’t.
.
.
.
Nanami Kento has known loss.
He knew loss at 6 years old, when he was passed for class representative in favour of a badly behaved boy who couldn’t even tie his laces on his own, simply because he was louder. He faced loss the two times he placed second in exams as a pre-teen — both times having been because he was ill the days of the exams, so he hardly counted those as reflections of his performance. And lost too many times to count in high school.
Oh, and how could he ever forget the horror that was the obnoxious loudmouths in his school, who always roped him into their shenanigans? The same horrors that followed him into university and became his closest friends.
Loss, he learnt from a young age, is a part of life. It builds character. Motivates one to work even harder, to reflect upon their mistakes, and grow.
Loss is natural.
Inevitable.
Loss…
Loss is good.
He knows that.
So why is losing to you so hard to swallow?
From the very beginning, from the very first day, you were a pain in the ass.
He remembers Induction Day so clearly — he had already memorised every single fact about the university and the course before arriving, so he thought the whole day was nonsense, but his parents had forced him to go. They wanted him to be more outgoing, to get out of his shell. To please them, he went.
“Does anyone know where our campus library ranks in terms of collection size in the country?” the student tour guide droned.
She was clearly tired. Fatigued. Bored of herself. Whatever pay she was getting for this little gig, it wasn’t enough. Perhaps that’s what contributed to the drained mood he was in; they were putting out the energy they were getting themselves, leading to an endless cycle of misery that not even a bullet to the temple would end.
“Yeah, it’s the second largest library in the UK,” a voice said brightly to the group, turning back with a smile that was a little too pleased with itself.
He recalls the wide eyes and bushy-tailed quality of that person, the sincerity in the smile, and the twinkle in those eyes that spoke of excitement and profound interest. They stood out in a crowd of anxious, pimply-faced, shy individuals whose faces and names he could never remember even if he was held at gunpoint.
That person on the other hand struck him as being someone who everyone’s gaze would naturally gravitate towards in a hall of people.
That person was you.
Of course, he had no way of knowing exactly who you would become in his life — a rival, a pain in the ass, a colleague, a… lover, and a reflection of all of his worst qualities. He did, however, know in that very second he looked at you that you would be a face he’d always notice on campus.
“First,” Nanami corrected, without looking up from the pamphlet in his hands. It slipped out. He hadn’t even planned to say anything, to make his presence known to the group of people he was sure he wouldn’t remember meeting after the day. Yet, he did.
And whether he regrets it to this day, it remains unclear.
There was a beat.
Nanami looked up then, feeling the weight of many eyes upon him. Most distinctly, yours. There was a challenge in your gaze. A spark of a flame that was being stifled by the lack of enthusiasm the tour guide was showing.
You wore an off-the-shoulder top he never saw again. It was somewhat out of fashion, a fact he only knew from seeing what the other students were wearing, both prospective and existing. Your Converse, however, were already worn in and you never could bring yourself to part with them, no matter how dirty or busted they became through the years.
The two of you cocked a brow at each other.
At the same time as he was sizing you up, he knew you were doing the same. He was sure you were looking at his shiny Oxfords, his ironed trousers, the structured blue sweater over his white button up, his smudgeless glasses, and combed back hair, and came to the conclusion that he was a complete and utter nerd.
He’s certainly heard the words come out of your mouth often enough.
Tilting your head, you said, “It was second, as of last year. They updated the figures.”
“Your source?” he coldly asked.
You smiled wider. Like you had been waiting for him to ask. Like he shouldn’t have. Like he was going to regret that. “Current.”
“Yes,” the tour guide drawled. “It’s second now. But second isn’t bad.”
The both of you thought otherwise. That was why you looked so smug, and he was fighting the physical urge to show his devastation. How could he have outdated data? How could he so casually humiliate himself like that, especially in front of a pretty girl?
Yes, in the very distant past, Nanami had once, quite briefly, considered you an attractive young woman. But something about you was off-putting — maybe your arrogant smile, your refusal to raise your hand to answer questions, your loud talking, your too-shiny lipgloss?
Or, maybe, he simply recognised a deeper evil inside you.
One that prompts you to fold the corners of pages, to crack spines, to eat as you read and leave greasy residue on book covers, that encourages you to rate books as you read, to chew on your pen lids, to mutter under your breath as you read passages, to clench down on him when you knew he was trying not to orga—
“…I see,” Nanami said at last.
You hummed. “Yes, I hope you do.”
“Your course?”
“Classical Lit.”
“Me too.”
“Hmm.”
And just like that, it was understood: you were going to be seeing a lot more of each other.
It’s silly, really. To be so caught up in petty rivalry to the point that you become infamous around the department, that admin staff have to separate you as much as possible. Even sillier that it would keep Nanami up at night.
Oh, he’s pondered how to destroy you so many times.
After every exchange, he’d be left seething, grinding his teeth, bouncing his knee, plotting how to best you at the next opportune. Sometimes he’s successful, sometimes he’s not. The latter mattered most. He could win 999 times, but that one time he doesn’t never fails to have him tossing and turning in bed, replaying your smug smile, your repulsive laughter, cutting words, and the way you spitefully strut away.
Nanami would love nothing more than to wipe your smile away, to smother your laughter, to dull your words into something resembling admittance of defeat, and to drag you back so he can continue his scathing monologue about the superiority of his own points.
He did all that but the last when it mattered most, and again when you gave him the opportunity to talk; he had nothing to say for himself.
What does it matter?
He won.
He got you to admit defeat. He got the job, got to have the last real word in the lecture, got to see you at your lowest. And he’ll have so much more beyond you after graduation.
So why can’t he focus on shelving the damn books? Why can’t he feel a sense of pride at the grateful smiles patrons give him after he helped? Why can’t he sleep satisfied and knowing he won’t have to be at the top of his game come the next day because you won’t challenge him anymore?
Why can’t he stop thinking about you?
“Any other symptoms?” Shoko drawls.
Nanami jolts.
“What?” he asks, straightening up with a small frown.
Shoko’s brow rises but ultimately says nothing about whatever trance he was just in. Instead, she continues stirring the olive in her dirty martini with the toothpick. “You were asking what that ‘painful squeezing’ in your chest was, remember? Like, I’m the Doctor of everything. I’m not even a doctor of anything,” she grumbles.
Right…
They’re at a bar.
The campus bar.
He’d invited her out for a long overdue drink, since he’s been so busy at the library for weeks. It’s a catch-up between cynical friends. Also an excuse to get an informal check up without the hassle of making a doctor’s appointment and trekking across the city to find out that he’s merely overworked and underpaid.
Adjusting his glasses, he says, “Yes. It’s been persisting for about a week now. Eight days exactly. It’s nonstop. Although, the intensity comes in waves. It’s distracting. Even debilitating. I also experience a shortness of breath — a panting, of sorts — that renders me unable to think, to see clearly, to remain standing. It happened last night.”
She leans closer. “Oh?”
“I was at my desk, studying. The pain was dull then. Forgettable. Out of nowhere, a notification from my bank came through — a deposit from my assistant librarian job, if I recall correctly. That’s when it happened. I suddenly felt like the room was spinning,” Nanami continues, fingers drumming on the sticky bar table. “I couldn’t process where I was or what was happening. I ended up…”
“Ended up…”
“Huddling in the corner of my room, clutching my body,” he admits. There’s a hint of a blush on his cheeks, yet he persists. “Does any of that sound familiar? Perhaps something you covered?”
Shoko blinks at him from across the table.
Then she laughs.
It’s loud enough to attract the attention of people around. She doesn’t care. Nanami does. Very much. But he knows he can’t do anything about the chortling she’s letting out.
All he can do is mutter, “What an overly-insensitive response to your dear friend’s admittance of medical concerns,” beneath her unrestricted laughter.
Five whole minutes must pass before she could get herself together. She’s wiping the tears from her eyes and clutching her side as she recovers. “Are you kidding me?” she asks. “Nanami, you big, tall idiot. You had a panic attack. You had a panic attack because you were reminded of your day job. I’m no psychologist but I’d say you’re feeling guilty. How can someone who reads and knows so much not know that?”
“Is that what Freud’s diagnosis would be?” he dryly responds, feeling foolish for having thought she would be able to offer any real help.
She snorts. “Freud would say you’re overwhelmed with a sexual urge to mount your mother, so I really wouldn’t listen to him.”
Left with no choice, Nanami contemplates the concept a little longer.
Did he have a panic attack?
The hyperventilating, the rocking oneself back and forth, the feeling like the world was going to end—
Yes.
Yes, he did have a panic attack, didn’t he?
He releases a long, heavy sigh. Resigned, he drags a hand down his face and asks, “And the chest thing? Why does my chest clench so tightly? Why is my chest so painful I almost can’t walk?”
Shrugging, Shoko responds, “Dunno. Could be something serious. I really wouldn’t rely on Med students for official diagnosis. Like, at all. Go to the doctors.”
“I know, and I will, if it continues on like this. But I wanted to talk to you first.”
“You’re not coming to me for medical advice,” Shoko points out. She leans back onto the wrinkled faux-leather booth and pops the olive in her mouth. “You came to me as a friend. You want my personal opinion.”
Nanami swallows a ball in his throat.
Her words ring true. Shoko may be a lot of things — mischievous, rebellious, a delinquent — but she is neither stupid nor a liar. Which begs the question: why did he not realise these things about himself? When did he stop being so sure of his character, of his thoughts, of his own body? And why doesn’t he know what to do?
He’s always known the right path for him. He’s always known the rational course of action. He never hesitates when it comes to helping someone pick their fallen items up from the floor, never doubts his judgment regarding someone’s intentions, never worries about anything other than his future.
So what the hell is happening?
“Guilt, you say?” Nanami murmurs, finding the word particularly bitter. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible. After all, I did do something unethical to get ahead; I should have never resorted to underhanded tactics.”
Shoko rolls her eyes. “You’re telling the wrong person, babes. Look, you’re a friend of mine so I’m always going to have your back even when you do dumb shit. You really don’t need to justify yourself to me. Talk to her. Explain all of this to her. Be honest, to her and yourself.”
“Her?”
He hadn’t mentioned a ‘her’ to anyone. He’d been quite vague about his time at the library, and how he came to be the last one standing.
She takes a sip of her drink, as though needing something to dull the frustration of dealing with clueless men. “Her. The her. The only her that matters to you. The one you jilted. The one you can’t stop thinking about. The one that’s literally causing your body to shut down, that’s breaking your heart into little pieces. Her.”
That gets the man rolling his eyes. “A girl can’t possibly be the reason for my symptoms. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Yet you knew exactly who I was talking about,” she points out. He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off immediately. “I’ll leave that for you to figure out. Here’s my professional diagnosis: you are burdened with a great sense of guilt over what you did, or whatever. To relieve yourself of your pain, you should address your guilt. In other words, apologise to her. Talk to her and reach a settlement. And maybe by doing so, you’ll finally realise something.”
Then she smiles to herself. “Hey, that sounded Doctor-like, right? God, I’m awesome.”
Brows furrowing, he asks, “‘Realise something?’ Realise what?”
She groans. “Oh my god, Nanami, I can’t do everything for you. Go do something to get her attention. Do something to force her to listen to you. Just talk to her. Confront her and all the things you don’t want to process, don’t want to admit to yourself. Just do something!”
A barrage of kicks under the table lands on his shins. Nanami shuffles out of the booth soon after. “Alright, alright. I understand. Right my wrongs, confront my source of malady, and relieve my psychological torment. Got it.”
Shoko watches him pull out his phone as he hurriedly strolls out of the bar. She rests her head on his hand and thinks, he don’t got a clue in the whole wide world.
Outside, Nanami sends a text to his friend:
Do you happen to know either of the numbers of Needa and Frend?
.
.
.
“Where are you guys?” you murmur as you text the words out to the group chat.
They’d texted you this afternoon, asking to meet up at the library before going to get coffee, which in and of itself isn’t odd — you meet up at the library often, being the diligent students that you are — but something about the location had your spine growing rigid.
You arrived on time, and had been waiting for about five minutes before they asked you to come inside. That was going to be a problem, you thought. You didn’t want to go inside. You haven’t been inside the library in over a week.
Mrs. Collins was in there. He was in there.
You didn’t want to run into either.
But you need to see your friends, and they won’t reply to your messages about waiting outside. Were they doing an intervention on you? Were they fed up with the depressed mood you’d bring back to the apartment after every class? Were they forcing exposure therapy upon you?
Or maybe, they really do just need you to come in as they pack their things up. Ugh, why is this so hard for you? Why can’t you be nonchalant and pretend none of what happened bothers you?
It’s a big library, you tell yourself. What are the chances you’ll see them?
Though, as you finally walk in, chanting those things in your head over and over again, you know you don’t quite believe in them.
The first thing you notice is that not much has changed. It’s the same library. Same polished floors, same tall shelves stretching endlessly, same muted hum of turning pages and quiet footsteps. The smell hits you too — paper and dust and something faintly woody. Usually, it settles you. Grounds you.
Not today.
Today, it feels suffocating.
The air is thicker. Every sound is sharper. The space itself is watching you, waiting.
You slow your steps.
You’ve always loved it here. Loved the quiet corners, the weight of books in your hands, the feeling of getting lost between aisles and emerging hours later with something new tucked under your arm. It used to feel like a sanctuary, like a slice of heaven.
Now it feels like a place you’ve overstayed your welcome in.
Familiar spines, familiar sections, all arranged how you would have done it. Then, something new catches your eye. A display near the front, freshly arranged. Hardcovers, crisp and untouched, their jackets gleaming under the overhead lights.
New arrivals.
Your fingers hover over one of the books, tracing the sharp edge of its spine. Untouched. Unclaimed. No creases, no history yet. For a moment, something in your chest loosens.
You almost reach for it.
“They came in just today.”
His voice.
Right behind you.
“We’ve been having more and more new arrivals recently. More so than before,” he says, matter-of-factly.
Hand dropping, you reply, “How interesting.”
Nanami says, “It is. It’s really quite interesting how Mrs. Collins had been able to acquire an increase in funding during a time of budget cuts, don’t you think?”
See?
This is exactly what you were afraid of.
“I suppose that was her plan all along when she purposely hired two people she knew hated each other — she waited for us to cause trouble, to make a mess of things, so she could go cry to the board about needing more support.”
With a sigh, you turn to him.
He’s standing at the end of the aisle, watching you. He’s exhausted, you can tell — dark shadows under his eyes, a slight stubbling on his jaw, a crease in his pant legs, his Oxfords not as shiny as they usually are, and his shirt untucked under his sweater all tell a story.
You’ve never seen him look more like a mess. Not even when it was in the heart of exam and application season.
Bitterly, you ask “Is this the part where we bond over how we were both used? Because the way I see things, it isn’t an us versus her set up. It’s me against you, like it’s always been.”
Nanami ignores you.
He strolls over to where you are. His chest meets your back, arms caging you in between the shelves. The familiar warmth, the woody scent over his soap, the slotting of bodies, it hits you all at once. You remain still. Very still. Wondering what he’d do.
Behind you, he lets out a shaky breath, nose skimming your hair. “We were too good at our jobs. We took too long to mess up. And one ripped page from a random book, when we were… She couldn’t prove it was us, and it wouldn’t be enough to convince the board what the library needed: one, protection from the budget cuts; and two, an increase in funding. So she got her hands dirty. She staged a crime scene, so to speak, inspired by what we reported to her.”
“I don’t care,” you tell him, unable to shove him away and get some air.
Shaking his head, he continues, “Now, she’s received special money to increase security and pity money to order more new additions. That, and she gets to go on holiday more often this year. It’s sickening, and we can gather evidence of it.”
“Stop ignoring me.” You spin around, glaring at him. “I. Don’t. Care.”
He frowns. “I thought you would want to do something about this. Call her out, report her—”
“Are you not hearing me?” you snap.
Stunned into silence, he blinks rapidly, as though reeling from your failure to meet his expectation — he expected that you’d care about justice, about vindication, about being right. He expected you to stand up for yourself, to fight, to win. What he didn’t expect is for your eyes to turn glossy and for a flicker of pain to flash in them, all while you stare up at him like he’d kick you in the stomach after petting you.
“I care that you called me unreliable, emotional, and not cut out for the job.”
“That was in the interviews,” he defends. “When she asked me why I was a better fit. That was before..”
You don’t hear his words; blood is rushing in your ears. “I care that you ignored me for a week. I care about being blindsided. I care about the reason why you would…” you stammer out, blinking back tears that were rising, “...after everything we did, everything we said to each other… How could you not warn me what she was planning? How could you stand there and do nothing? How. Could. You.”
“You…you would have done the same thing,” he repeats like it’s the one tether he has and he’ll grasp it till it frays and snaps. “I didn’t want to be the one left behind. I-I thought that was your intention from the start, with all our little games, the ones we knew we shouldn’t play. I thought you were fattening me up for the kill. I thought you would have done the same thing when given the chance.”
Perhaps disappointed, you laugh to yourself. It’s cutting, both yourself and him.
So that’s what all of that was to him: a complex plot to sabotage him.
You straighten up, tears drying and the towering walls you’d erected returning. He can feel the chilling gust breeze through him. He’s losing you. Again.
“Yeah, sure. You’re right. Maybe if she’d come to me first, I would have agreed to set you up. Maybe I would be raking in a bonus for my help. And maybe I wouldn’t even be chasing you to explain myself, to try and backtrack, to apologise. Maybe we’d just part ways understanding that in some ways — in ways that matter most — we lost to each other.”
You’d already figured out that, somehow, he’d gotten your friends to agree to help him set this up, so he can have an opportunity to talk to you. It’s likely that they thought it’d help you. It’s also as likely that Nanami had smooth-talked his way into weakening their defences with some promises or the other.
They’re not here, but they will be at home, and you’re going to give them an earful when you get back. Then you’ll lean on their shoulders and get the suffocating waves of sobs threatening to rise up and out of your mouth out of your system once and for all.
Nanami reaches for your arm, fingers grazing the material of your sweater. “No, it doesn’t matter,” he decides right here and now. “I don’t care if you would have.”
“Stop trying to talk to me. I have nothing more to say to you. Just leave me alone,” you say, snatching your arm away.
“I can’t!”
You draw back.
He…
Nanami had raised his voice for the first time since you’d known him.
People passing by stop. They’re staring at him, at the assistant librarian they recognise. They eye you too, but you pay them no mind. You’re far too shocked by how crazed he looks — hair a mess from the frequent running of his hands through them, face flushed, chest heaving, and stoic face crumbling into a look of total panic. He starts pacing back and forth between the shelves.
“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, and outside of sex, it’s so jarring to hear him say something so uncouth. He resembles nothing like the Nanami you know. The Nanami everyone knows. “I’m doing this all wrong,” he mutters to himself. “I prepared a speech. I ran through this scenario hundreds of times in my head. I anticipated your insults, your revenge, physical attacks, and I was ready for it. Any of it. All of it.”
Those piercing eyes look at you, insisting, as though begging for you to understand.
“Yell at me. Hit me. Right here,” he says, grabbing your hand with his own. He presses it to his chest, over his heart. “Hit me. Please.”
You try to tug your hand away out of his grip. He doesn’t let you. A little disoriented by the manic tremble of his voice, you carefully say, “Nanami, I’m not going to hit you.”
“Please,” he breathes out. Nanami keeps your palm flat against his chest. You can feel the thundering of his heart. It’s so strong you fear it might leap out of his ribs. “Please, hit me. Hurt me. Do something other than ignore me. I-I don’t know what to do when you don’t look at me, when you don’t argue with me, don’t shove your opinions down my throat, don’t gloat, don’t put me in my place, when you’re indifferent to me.”
The word came out like it’d been barbed.
He draws closer, unwilling to let you go. “I can take your constant chattering, your glares, your grating laughter, your differing opinions — wrong as they are.” That almost gave you enough strength to pull away with a deadpan face, but his soft gaze keeps you glued to the spot. “I can take your hate. Because it means you feel something for me, because it makes me special. It gives me a role, a goal, a fucking purpose. So hit me, hurt me, hate me. Anything but writing me out of your life.”
Your heart’s pounding in your chest now too. It’s beating with an intensity that nearly has your vision spotting.
Nanami was right, a thing he often is; you had been ignoring him.
It hurt too much to look at him, to listen to his voice, to know his eyes were on you instead of the lecturer. You couldn’t understand why he was so insistent on getting your attention, on talking to you, when he had been the one to cut you off.
He rejected your invitation to come up to your apartment. He kept his distance the last week before Mrs. Collins, the old hag, had made her decision. He accepted her offer. He stood by and allowed you to take the fall, because it benefited him, because he expected the worst from you.
And yes, you kept agreeing that you would have done the same thing. The truth is, however, you really don’t think you would have.
Values aside, because sabotage truly wasn’t below you, you’d grown to consider him a…friend. He was an ally on long days, a person to glance at when an older man asks where a copy of Lolita can be found for the third time in a week, a person who’d let you drink from his thermos when you’d ran late and couldn’t grab a cup of coffee, a person who brushed your hair into place after rendezvouses.
The line between you had been crossed and blurred; it was impossible to define your relationship. But an alliance was there. A loyalty you’d come to expect. An understanding you would have gone above and beyond to protect. He didn’t feel the same.
That was fine.
It was fine when that ache in your chest thrummed so hard you couldn’t sleep, when you’d spend classes and lectures with an empty notebook spread and a blank document. It was fine when you would find yourself standing in the shower for what felt like five minutes, but was actually an hour, just staring off into space. It was fine when you saw him talking to girls who he hadn’t betrayed, hadn’t sold out for a job, and it had your knees weak and your breathing staggered.
It was fine because it defined what you were to him.
Him grasping your hand like it was the only thing keeping him on the ground, like you’re about to disappear at any given moment and it would kill him, however?
Not fucking fine.
“Nanami,” you exhale out, scared, “that…that sounds an awful lot like a confession…of love.” The last syllable has your wide eyes meeting, equally as frightened by the word. “Is it?”
He lets your hand drop. You step back. No, stumble back. Nanami follows. His breathing is growing ragged, more so than before, and you can see a tempest spiralling inside.
“You tell me,” he says, laughing a little. “No, seriously. Tell me. Because all I know is I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t focus on any of my work. I can’t breathe when you’re not looking at me. I feel like I cease to exist if you’re not perceiving me, ever the proverbial fucking tree in the forest.”
Every step you take back, he counters with a step forward. He maintains the short distance between you, keeping you in arm’s reach.
Nanami continues, sounding angry, whether at himself or at you, you can’t tell: “I do things I shouldn’t do, that I wouldn’t do if it weren’t for you, like damage priceless books because I think your body’s more precious than historical artefacts. I steal manuscripts because I want to make you smile and annoyed in equal measure with the fact that I’ve gone ahead and written my thoughts all over it, left my mark, my soul, on something I desperately and pathetically hope you’ll go on and cherish.”
How did he get his hands on the manuscript?
The look on your face has him laughing mirthlessly.
“Of course you didn’t open it,” he says to himself. “You must have been too mad to, right? I ruined a beloved author of yours? Forever tainted your reading experience?”
No, you hadn’t read it; you couldn’t bring yourself to. You tucked the heavy thing under your bed, and, once it started to feel like it was burning a mark under your back when you slept, you hid it in Frend’s room, along with all other copies you have of the authors’ works.
Did she give it to him?
Now that you know he’d written things inside it, you realise you should have burnt it — you’ll never be able to fight the curiosity otherwise. You’ll forever be haunted with the need to know what he’d written, what he said, what he thought.
“Want to know something?” Nanami wonders. He doesn’t wait for you to respond, though you’d already started to shake your head. “I’m beyond happy to know I’ve made my mark on you, that every time you hear that authors’ name, you’ll think of me.”
Voice hoarse, you can’t help but ask, “What did you write?”
His lips quirk up at the corner. “Nothing you’d agree with, I’m sure.”
“You were insulting one of my favourite writers?”
“Critiquing,” he corrects, taking another step forward right as you step back. “I wrote down my thoughts, and anticipated your counters during my breaks at my internship, every time I was thinking of you and wondering what you were doing. If you were stocking, shelving, dusting, offering recommendations, cursing me out. I argued with my imagination in those pages, because I’d clearly gone insane.”
He certainly looks it, you think.
Especially when your back meets the wall in a corner of the library no one ever goes to and he cages you with his body, shielding you from locking eyes with anyone but him.
“That’s where I’m at now,” Nanami says, resigned to the fact. “I pleasure you with my body where we could be caught, and I don’t think about how terrible it would be to be seen in an intimate position, to get into trouble, to lose everything I’ve built. I think about how devastated I’d be if someone else were to see you in a way only I should. But then it eats me up that I think that way about you, that I dare lay claim to your body, when no part of you is mine. And I so badly want to have a part of you. Any part — your body momentarily, your pleasure, your laughter, your smile.”
You’re panting as hard as he is.
Your head is reeling.
You’re dizzy with every confession, every brush of his breath against your cheek, every graze of your heaving chest against his, every inch of skin his eyes touch. “Nanami…”
Bending down, he presses his forehead to yours. At the same time, your eyes flutter shut. All you can feel is him. A pained noise escapes him the moment skin touches skin. He sounds accusing, betrayed, when he whispers, “You’ve taken all of that away now.”
He’s everywhere, a shade from the depths of hell, that spirit that follows you and you cannot, under any circumstances, look back at.
His head falls to your shoulder, and you’re so still you could be a statue carved by Bernini himself. “And fine, I deserve it. I’m the worst. I’m a monster. And I finally understand why you’d prefer to talk over me in our debates — I cannot stand the sound of my own voice either.”
Lips slide up the curve of your neck.
You gasp.
It’s light. Barely there. Yet, it lights up a path under your skin, your jaw, your cheek, temple.
“But please, please, do not take your hatred of me away,” Nanami pleads at your hairline, unable to face you. “It is all I have left, all I know, and I don’t know how to function without it. So yes, tell me. Is this love?”
“Let me go,” you murmur.
He says your name in response like a prayer.
You push him away, and this time he lets you. “No, Nanami. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” Wrapping your arms around yourself at the sudden chill in the air, you continue, “I need time to think. I need time to process all of this, a-and we’ve got exams, and graduation to worry about. I don’t know if I should even forgive you.”
“Don’t,” he says resolutely, licking his lips. “Don’t forgive me. I want to be kept in your heart and your mind, even if it is for all the wrong reasons. If resentment is all you can give me, then I’ll take it.”
God, when did the most cynical, pragmatic man you know become such a romantic?
With a nod, you back away as he stays where he stands, watching.
“Alright,” you agree. “Time and space. That’s all I need.”
Nanami tries to give you a reassuring smile, but his heart isn’t quite in it. He says, “Whatever you need.”
Like your feet are on fire, you start walking away, confused and adrift in a sea of thoughts and voices.
The last one you hear says, “I’ll wait for you.”
.
.
.
“Smile, sweetheart.”
Groaning, you force yet another smile on your face as your mother takes the millionth picture of the day.
“Just one more,” she insists, again. She tilts the phone, steps back, then forward, then back again. One would think she’s directing a full photoshoot instead of capturing you in an oversized gown and a cap that won’t sit straight.
“It’s been ‘one more’ for the past twenty minutes,” you mutter.
Behind her, your father fixes you a look that says, ‘make my wife happy or you won’t get your graduation gift.’ You smile even wider.
The campus is buzzing — families calling out names, bursts of laughter, the sharp pop of champagne somewhere in the distance. Caps are already being tossed, hugging circles forming and dissolving just as quickly. All around, mothers are fussing over their no-longer-children children, fathers patting their sons on the back, and friends are crying in huddles.
“Hold your certificate higher,” she says. You do, barely adjusting your grip. It still feels a little unreal in your hands; it feels like it belongs to someone else, someone more put-together, more certain of what comes next. “Perfect,” she says softly this time, snapping the photo.
With a plea in your eyes, you groan, “Please, mom, that’s enough. My feet hurt and I’m hungry. That ceremony took forever.”
“Okay, okay. Come here,” your mother says, pulling you into a hug before you can say anything. It’s tighter than usual. “I’m proud of you,” she murmurs into your hair.
Your dad steps forward, pressing a smile to your forehead with a kiss. “I’m proud of you too, honey. You worked hard, and I know you’ll do great, all that cheesy stuff fathers are supposed to say without crying.”
Something in you loosens at that.
When they pull away, eyes a little glassy, you have to clear your throat and pretend you don’t want to bawl up and cry. “Stop, you’re going to ruin my makeup.”
“Go ahead, dear. I brought your makeup bag,” your mother teases. “After all, it’s not everyday my baby graduates.”
Graduation…
The day you’ve been waiting for for years. It’s the culmination of all of the work you put in every day of your life. When you missed plans with friends to study, when you pulled all-nighters to make sure you’ve memorised your essay plans, when you’ve missed mealtimes, when you beat yourself up for losing easy marks.
All of it was for this day.
And it’s pretty bittersweet.
For as long as you can remember, there was always a next step laid out — another year, another exam, another goal to chase. School, college, university…it had been a constant, something steady to measure yourself against.
Now it just… ends.
A strange quiet sits beneath all the noise around you. Beneath the laughter and the congratulations and the endless pictures, there’s this soft, unfamiliar feeling, like standing at the edge of something vast without quite seeing what’s on the other side. Yeah, graduating has clearly been having a cheesy effect on you. You’re contemplative, poetic, melancholy, already nostalgic.
You think of your friends, scattered somewhere in the crowd. The ones who knew your worst habits, who sat beside you in lectures, who shared notes and snacks and stress in equal measure. It’s so easy to pretend nothing will change, that you’ll still see each other all the time, but you know better. Life has a way of pulling people in different directions.
That part aches.
But there’s something else too. Something lighter.
A thought that, for the first time, nothing is decided for you. No timetables, no deadlines, no predetermined path. Just space, wide and open and yours.
You exhale slowly, shoulders easing.
Maybe it’s okay not to know yet.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe you’re allowed to take a leap and just follow your heart, not your brain now. Maybe it’s time to give logic and reason a break.
“Come on,” your mum nudges, already reaching for your hand again, eyes bright despite the tears she’s pretending aren’t there. “We’re going to be late for our reservation.”
“Hold on. I have something to do.”
You push through the crowd, leaving them there for a moment. You bundle your dress up with a fist and hold your cap down with the other. Through the gaps between bodies and crowds, you move. You meander, searching.
Where is he?
Where is he?
Where is he?
Then, a flash of blond.
“Nanami!”
He turns at the sound of your voice over the din. He’s dressed just like you — cap in hand, gown with the Literature department’s colours, in his best clothes under it. His family surrounds him.
For a second, he just looks at you, surprised. Then something in his expression softens. Hope, maybe. Or caution; he doesn’t want to assume. He doesn’t want to get ahead of himself.
You slow to a stop in front of him, suddenly aware of your heartbeat, of everything you meant to say slipping just out of reach. “Hi,” you manage, a little breathless. “Um, congratulations.”
He lets out a small huff of a laugh, almost disbelieving. “Hi.” Nanami steps forward, away from his family, who are sharing glances with interest and mischief. You feel his eyes take all of you in. “Congratulations to you too.”
Up close, he looks the same, and not. Still composed, still steady, but there’s a looseness to him now, something less guarded than before. He’s matured, you realise. He was so stiff when you first met him, so rigid. He’d grown more lax in the years, but especially in the last couple months. Nanami doesn’t look like the nerdy, condescending boy you corrected on Induction Day; he looks like a man about to take on the world.
“I, um…I saw you,” you say, gesturing vaguely, wincing at how inadequate it sounds. “I thought I should come over. Just to—” You trail off. Just to what? “Say hi?”
He tilts his head slightly, watching you in that quiet, attentive way of his. If he finds your sudden weirdness off-putting, he gives no indication of it. On the contrary, he just looks happy. “I’m glad you did,” he says simply.
And he means it. You can hear it in the way his voice dips.
Your chest tightens.
A month ago, you’d asked for time. Space to think, to feel, to figure out what his apology, and his confession, meant to you. You hadn’t reached out. Hadn’t known how. Part of you had wondered if that silence had already said everything. And you know, by how surprised he was to see you approach him, he was thinking the same thing.
Nanami’s gentle gaze skims your features. His voice is a mere whisper in the air when he admits, “I wanted to say hi too. At the very least, congratulate you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”
He’s being so meek, so shy. It doesn’t suit him. And it doesn’t suit you either. So you admit something too: “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
“I always want to.”
This whole time, you’d been wondering if you left it too late to respond. If by the time you came up with an answer, he’d look at you strangely and ask, ‘what are you talking about?’, and you thought about how much more that would hurt than whatever he did wrong to begin with. But Nanami’s not leaving much room for doubt now that you’re standing in front of him.
“I read the manuscript.”
He blinks. “Oh.” He recovers. “The courteous thing to do is ask what you thought of it, but I’m not certain I’d like to know.”
“Your notes in the first section, where she traces the history of the word, were irritating as hell,” you tell him anyway. “You kept trying to ground everything in formal sources. Legal language, institutional use. That’s only one part of it. She’s looking at how the word moves in everyday use. Who says it, when, and why. That’s where the meaning shifts. You can’t ignore that just because it’s harder to pin down.”
Nanami, despite your lecture, stays standing in front of you. “I see.”
“And the part on the reclamation of the word? She’s clear about that, and its feminist roots. It depends on context. It depends on who is speaking and who is listening. You kept trying to make it consistent when it isn’t meant to be, and I didn’t appreciate you writing quotation marks around ‘empowerment — it is empowering!”
“Sure,” he says. “Or is that another way the patriarchy keeps women down, by indoctrinating you to believe normalising degrading language against women by both women so that you will accept it when a man says it?”
“Shut up,” you counter, because he made a good point and you don’t really have the time to break that down. “Also, you kept anticipating what I would say. Some of it was right. Not all of it. You assumed I’d defend everything she wrote. I wouldn’t. Some of it is speculative, I’m smart enough to recognise that, despite my biases towards Rightur.”
He adjusts his glasses. “Of course you are. I did write some of those comments to get a reaction. Forgive me.”
“No, I knew that,” you say. Shuffling in your heels, you fiddle with the tassel on your cap. “I just wanted you to know that I read your notes, and I didn’t find it as completely irritating as I initially thought. I actually kinda enjoyed reading them, and there were times where I anticipated what you’d say, and I could imagine the faces you’d make, and that was the annoying part. I couldn’t read without thinking of you.”
Nanami’s brows knit together.
“I don’t understand.”
Taking a deep breath, you say, “Listen, I won’t keep you; I’m sure you have plans with your family. I do too. All I wanted to say before we parted ways is that, I’m thankful for you, for the manuscript, for the games we shouldn’t have played, for our debates.”
His mouth opens, you stop him with a hand.
“No, just let me speak,” you huff. He does. “I’m grateful for you pushing me, for you being a pain in my ass, for making these three years memorable and fun. I know that if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have pushed myself as far as I did. I wouldn’t have found every achievement as gratifying and fulfilling as I did; they would have been like all my other successes: a relief.”
It’s funny how you hadn’t rehearsed any of these words and yet they flow out of you so naturally. You’d thought about how hard it’d be to face him, but as it turns out, it’s not that hard at all.
You continue, cheeks heated under the watchful and curious eyes of his family,“And most of all, I’m thankful for your honesty that day. I never stopped thinking about what you said, and all I worried about was whether I’d be able to say anything remotely as heartfelt and poetic, and that really grinded my gears, y’know?”
“That I’d be more eloquent and sophisticated with my confession than you?” Nanami fills in the gaps, cocking a brow as he does.
Sheepishly, you nod. “Yeah. I had all this time, and all I could think to say is… I hate you.”
He falters just slightly, then recovers with a smile. “You do?”
“Yes,” you say, meeting his eyes with certainty. “I hate you. I hate you so, so much. I hate everything about you: your blondness, the fact that you sometimes make good points, that you remind me natural intelligence isn’t enough. I hate that you judge me for dog-earring my pages and cracking my spine. I hate that you read a new book every week and I read the same ones all the time. I hate that you’ve got impaired vision but you see better than me.”
His family behind him try to step up, concerned as to why their beloved Nanami is probably being bullied, but he steps closer to you, ignoring them.
“Yeah?”
Sniffling, you mutter, “Yeah. I hate that you’ve already formed a little wrinkle between your eyebrows because you’re always so serious, and it makes me giggle to see you look so mad when you’re just writing notes or putting books away.”
Nanami smiles wider. “You hate my wrinkle? What else?”
“I hate that you’re so patient, even when people say and do the stupidest things. I hate that you match your sweaters to your mood — light blue for when you received good news, dark blue when you’re tired, and brown for when you’re meeting friends. I hate that I associate blue and yellow to you, and I can’t look up at the sky or the sea without thinking of you. I hate that you’re everywhere I look. I hate, hate, hate, that we might never see each other again.”
He draws closer till you’re craning your neck to look up at him. He’s smiling really hard now. Grinning ear to ear. Hands cradle your cheeks and you let him feel how heated they are, let him brush his thumbs over them.
“Oh, you poor thing,” he drawls. “You must be overwhelmed with hate.”
You scrunch your nose, even as you lean into his touch. “Yeah, but it comes naturally to me. You drive me insane, you see.”
“Mm,” he hums, thumbs still brushing gently over your cheeks, like he’s committing the shape of you to memory, like he thought he’d never get the chance to touch you again. Not a hint of embarrassment at the fact that his family’s watching shows on his face. He might have forgotten they’re there at all. “Sounds terminal.”
“It is,” you murmur, though your voice wobbles. “I don’t think I’ll recover.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he says. “I think I caught the same thing. Must have gotten it from me. Forgive me.”
The two of you share light laughter. And it’s so easy. It’s as easy as arguing, as reading, as wishing the worst for someone who made you the best. You could spend hours like this. But your parents are waiting, and so are his.
Your hands come up, almost without thinking, settling over his wrists. “I was serious about the not seeing you again thing. I want to see you after this. I don’t—” you shake your head, searching for the words, “—I don’t want that to be how this ends. I don’t want you to just become…a person I used to know.”
“Neither do I,” he says, sure.
“So,” you say, forcing a steadiness you don’t quite feel, “can we try again? Not necessarily to fix everything right now and pretend nothing happened, but just…to meet? Talk properly?”
His answer comes too quickly to be anything but honest: “Yes. Yes, please.”
It almost makes you laugh, how immediate it is. “Okay,” you say, a little breathless. “Okay, good. Then, when are you free?”
That’s when he hesitates. It’s subtle, yet you catch it instantly. He glances back briefly, like he just remembered they existed. “My family’s going on a trip, to celebrate. We’ve got more relatives to visit around the country, and it was planned weeks ago.”
Nanami’s explaining as though he needs to justify any of it, but all you’re thinking is, of course it was. Of course the timing would be like this. Of course you’re too late.
“Oh,” you repeat, softer this time.
Something in your face must give you away, because his hands tighten slightly against your cheeks. “I’ll come back,” he says, firm now.
You blink. “What?”
“I’ll drive back as soon as I can,” he continues, as though he’s already decided it, as though it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “We won’t leave it like this again. I won’t.”
“Nanami—”
“I mean it,” he insists, quieter but no less intense. “If this is…if this is you giving me a chance, I’m not going to miss it. I’ll come back. We’ll talk. Properly.”
There’s something almost desperate in the way he says it; he’s already mapped it out in his head, already prepared to bend whatever he has to just to make it happen, already rushing through conversations and parties with relatives he’s not even very close to.
You stare at him for a moment, a little stunned. “…You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. None.
A small, disbelieving laugh escapes you. “God, I hate that you’re like this.”
“I know.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling now, really smiling. “Okay,” you say. “Then… go. Do your family thing.”
“I will,” he says, though he doesn’t move. Not yet.
“And come back,” you add.
“I will.”
A beat.
“…Where are you even going?” you ask, suddenly realising you don’t actually know, realising that if you’re going to do this — whatever this is — you have to ask questions. It’s what girlfriends do, or whatever you are or will be to him.
For the first time since you started speaking, something unreadable flickers across his face. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, smoothed over into something fine.
But not quite as warm.
“Shibuya.”
“Shibuya,” you repeat. “Sounds fun.”
Nanami peers into your eyes before he draws back. Crowds reappear in your peripheral. The noise sets in again, almost deafening. He’s smiling, and so are you. Whatever you wear on your face, he reflects threefold.
You back away too, back the way you went, back to where your parents are waiting.
The wind blows between you, carrying petals with them, which swirl around your bodies.
Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:
is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?
Canto III - The Dark Descent
℘ stakes have been added to the pot. you should stop letting him part your legs, should stop allowing him to light your fire, but no harm no foul if you guys just continue as you have been, no?
Warnings: smut, cunnilingus, public sexual activities/trying not to get caught, fucking in front of a mirror, inappropriate use of a cart/book/stamp, body marking, outercourse, cúm eating, kicking someone in the balls, rivals to lovers, not very slowburn at all, some dark humour, Nanami and reader being mean to each other, both are Classical Literature students, some sexual jokes, not proofread — actually not. this went through so many revisions I doubt it's even coherent (do let me know if you spot typos and inconsistencies, that would be very helpful!)
Word Count: 15.1k
Canto II - Masterlist - Canto IV
Low grunts fill the bathroom stall.
Your mouth is full with his cock, which he’s desperately thrusting inside you.
“God, look at you,” he rasps, a hand guiding your head back and forth on his impressive length. “So sweet and agreeable when you -hah fuck- have something to occupy that dirty mouth of yours, aren’t you?”
Soon as he clocked in this morning, he’d claimed victory over the fact that he was first to arrive. It was a flimsy excuse for a competition, but you let it slide. Nanami took you to the women’s bathroom — well, he initially tried to lure you to the men’s, and that just wasn’t going to happen so you dug your heels in — and was initially going to eat you out whilst you were sitting on the toilet lid but you insisted.
You roll your eyes. You’re always sweet and agreeable, just with people who aren’t bitter and hard to agree with because they’re wrong. Aggrieved, you grip his balls too fast and too hard all so you’d hear his sharp intake of air and feel his cockhead bump the back of your throat.
“Mm, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”
Tossing his head back, he explodes in your mouth with no other warning except for the final throbbing of his cock.
You swallow it all. Whilst you get to your feet, you think about how much easier it’s becoming for you to take him down your throat, for you to swallow his cum, and generally tolerate his entire being.
“Thank you,” he mutters.
“Don’t mention it,” you reply, wiping your lips.
He’s still panting by the time both of your phones ping.
“It’s Mrs. Collins,” you announce, frowning.
Nanami tucks himself back inside his slacks. “I wonder what she wants.”
The two of you exit, taking advantage of the fact that the library has yet to open to the general campus. You both wash your hands in relative silence as though he hadn’t been bruising your throat and smacking your chin with his swinging balls for the last ten minutes.
Outside is clear too.
You walk to her office, down from the second floor.
A little worried, you ask in a hushed voice, “You don’t think she knows what we’ve been doing, do you?”
He takes a second or two to think about it. Then, certain, or at least wanting to convince himself he’s certain, he answers, “No. We’ve been careful.”
Though as he says those words, you know that, with the awkward air hanging over you, neither of you really believe those words. The absolute truth is, you haven’t been very careful at all. In fact, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’ve been indulging in being careless too much; it turned you both on to know you could be caught by anyone at any second.
Eventually, you both reach her door. You knock.
“Good morning, Mrs. Collins,” you say in unison.
She’s sitting behind her desk, rubbing at her temple with one hand and holding her reading glasses with the other. A beckon with her hand has you sliding in a seat across from her desk, Nanami in the other.
Despite yourselves, you share a glance — this looks serious.
Mrs. Collins exhales slowly, setting her glasses down on the desk with a soft clink.
“Yes, good morning,” she replies, though there’s a weariness in her voice that immediately puts you on edge. Her fingers press briefly to her temple again before she straightens, folding her hands together in a way that feels…rehearsed almost.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “No point in beating around the bus with you two.”
Your spine stiffens.
Beside you, Nanami goes still.
Is this it? Is she going to out you two for indecent behaviour? Is she going to reveal CCTV footage of your pussy being munched right by the feminist literature section and lecture you on the irony of it all? Did you leave behind evidence? A panty, drops of cum she got forensics to do DNA tests on, or witnesses?
Are you going to be fired?
Expelled?
Sent to jail?
Drawn and quartered?
“There have been some…adjustments made to the department budget.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Unfortunately, the library has not been spared.”
A beat.
You feel your stomach drop — for a different reason than you’d been anticipating. Relief doesn’t settle inside. How could it when a different bomb’s been dropped on you?
“We’ve had our funding cut,” she continues, more firmly now. “Quite significantly.”
Silence settles over the room. You glance at Nanami, and he’s already looking at you — sharp, assessing, like he’s trying to piece together the implications before they’re fully spoken.
Mrs. Collins doesn’t leave you waiting long. “As a result,” she says, “I can only retain one of you through to the end of the academic year.”
The words land heavily. For a moment, neither of you reacts.
“What?” you blurt, sitting forward before you can stop yourself. “You can’t be serious.”
Nanami’s jaw tightens, though his tone stays controlled. “On what basis is that decision being made?”
Mrs. Collins sighs, as though she’s already had this conversation a dozen times in her head. “That,” she says, “is precisely the difficulty.”
You swallow, exchanging another quick glance with Nanami. You can see it in his expression too: the rug’s been pulled from under him. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Too much uncertainty rides along in her words.
Mrs. Collins continues, oblivious. “You’re both excellent in your own ways. Truly outstanding,” she says. “But I don’t have the resources to justify keeping you both on. So…” She leans back slightly, eyes moving between the two of you. “I’m giving you a choice.”
That growing knot in your stomach twists again.
“You may decide between yourselves,” she says plainly. “Or, I will observe your work over the course of the next three weeks and make the decision myself.” The room feels smaller suddenly. “By the end of the month,” she finishes, not sounding the least bit pleased about any of this, “I will inform one of you that your contract will not be extended. Whoever gets to stay will have the opportunity to work for the last month or so of the academic year, and as long through summer as they please.”
You let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “You’re asking us to…what? Compete for a role we already competed for?”
That truly shouldn’t be such a disgusting word to utter; you’ve been competing for years. Now, however, when it’s being enforced by a third party, it feels cheap, ridiculous, completely and utterly absurd.
“I’m asking you to be practical,” Mrs. Collins replies, not unkindly. She is not happy with the turn of events herself. “This is an unfortunate situation, but it is the reality. You needn’t do anything but be yourself. I’ll take on the burden.”
Another pause. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the office suddenly feels deafening. You glance at Nanami again, but this time it’s different. Not shared amusement nor quiet complicity. Something tighter. More uncertain. Because for the first time since this whole…thing between you began, the two of you are being placed on opposite sides of something real.
Mrs. Collins folds her hands again. “I’ll give you some time,” she says. “But not too much. I expect an answer soon.” Her gaze lingers, measured, final.
“You may go.”
Neither of you moves immediately.
And when you do stand, it’s slower than before, like an invisible thing has shifted between you on the way in, and neither of you quite knows how to step around it on the way out.
Nanami’s the first to speak ten minutes later as you’re both opening the heavy doors and letting the early birds reserve their seats. He says, “There’s no conceivable way we’ll agree on who should stay and who should leave, so I suggest we leave it up to her. It’s the fairest option.”
Already walking away to push a heavy cart down the shelves, you follow him. “You’re not actually considering competing for this role, are you?”
“What’s so wrong about that?”
That familiar wrinkle between his brows has appeared as he frowns down at you. He begins shelving the books away cool, calm and collected, like he always is, and it’s irritating you more than usual.
“Um, maybe the fact that we’d already competed to have this job in the first place? And now she’s just taking it from us? After all the interviews, the bullshit application forms and the ‘tell us something no one knows about you’ farce?”
Sighing, he leans against a shelf, arms crossed. “We have no choice — the decision was clearly made above her head.”
“So that’s it?” you ask him. “You’re fine with us having to fight each other for a job?”
Nanami looks at you over the rim of his glasses. There’s a certain weight to his question when he counters, “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing this entire time? What’s the difference now? Apart from the tangible consequences looming beyond our…”
You don’t need him to finish his sentence; you got it.
Technically, he wasn’t wrong — a thought you keep to yourself. Competing is something you’re familiar with. Even once you both secured the jobs over many other applicants, you were aware that the competition hadn’t ended. You were always going to have to be on your A-game to show him up, for your pride and satisfaction.
However, you can’t seem to shake off the feeling that something’s different this time, something irreversible, a loss that the loser will suffer that neither of you are ready for.
“You’re aware then that we’ll have to really give this our all, right?” you say, finally coming to a conclusion he already reached. “We can’t keep sneaking around, blurring lines, getting involved with each other. If we’re rivals, we’re rivals.”
He swallows hard and adjusts his glasses. Nanami extends a hand out.
“May the best man, or woman, win.”
You don’t shake it. You walk away from him and from the conversation with pursed lips. Under your breath, you mutter, “Oh, she will.”
The rest of the morning is spent not in each other’s pants but rather in a blur of menial and meticulous tasks that leave barely a moment to breathe or fucking think — collecting returned books, helping people find what they’re looking for, checking books out, giving recommendations, cataloging a fresh shipment of books that seems to have doubled overnight, your fingers sticky with dust jackets and your eyes straining to read tiny print on the spine labels, and blah blah blah.
Nanami is elsewhere, reshelving rare texts, stamping due dates, checking inventory lists, or killing babies, you don’t know.
Once, you caught sight of him and a girl. She gave him a shy smile, and he returned a warm one back. You didn’t hear their conversation, you don’t know what she wanted, and what he replied, and you realised it’s probably best — if she can successfully distract him, that would be wonderful.
Generally, though, you try not to think too much about him; getting caught up in what your competition is doing, after all, is a sure-fire way to lose your footing.
But perhaps tension in your shoulders did release when you notice she’s nowhere to be seen after and he’s still here, as serious as he always looks when he’s focused.
The library is large, but the quiet makes every movement sound like an announcement, and you’re acutely aware of the other’s presence without needing to see him.
When your paths cross, it’s brief, perfunctory. You’ll reach for the same cart, hesitating a heartbeat too long before sliding past each other, shoulders brushing lightly, eyes flicking up and meeting, just for an instant. Each glance is careful, loaded with silent calculation.
Neither of you smiles, neither speaks, but it’s a conversation all the same.
A warning, a challenge, a question: who will falter first?
It’s nearing lunch break — when you can clock off, grab some food with your friends, and then head off to your afternoon classes.
You’re behind the desk, taking over for Loretta, one of the older ladies. Stamping due dates, a voice makes you look up.
“Hey,” he says, leaning casually against the counter. Tall, well-dressed, a little sun-kissed from the outdoors, with a smile that’s perfectly practiced. “You’ve been avoiding me, huh?”
You frown. “Excuse me?”
He grins, tilting his head as if that should explain everything. “I gave you my number weeks ago. Why haven’t you messaged me?”
Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I…what?”
Is he drunk? Do you need to call campus security? Maybe he’s a crackhead; the well dressed, rich-looking kids were always on coke, you’ve noticed.
The guy laughs, a little embarrassed, but persistent. “Yeah. Remember? I gave it to—” he glances to the side of the desk where Nanami had been helping with the returns earlier— “your coworker here. Asked him to hook me up.”
Something clicks in your brain. You pause mid-stamp, eyes widening. “Wait…you’re telling me you’ve been trying to reach me…through him?”
“Uh… yeah?” he says, shrugging, still smiling like it’s not a big deal. “He said he’d get me your attention, but—” he gestures vaguely—“guess that didn’t exactly happen.”
There’s nothing you can do but blink. The whole conversation’s confusing you so badly. What on Earth is happening?
When he doesn’t see you fawning, he sighs and mutters to himself, “Shoulda listened to the others. That guy’s really not helpful at all.”
Others?
Over the past month, several guys in the library had given you looks, had lingered a little too long at the front desk, and nothing ever happened. Sure, they’d come up to you and directly ask, but you’d turn them away because you’re too busy trying to put away the most books. You didn’t think much about any of it.
Things are starting to make sense and simultaneously only leave you more confused the more you try to think about it now.
You look toward the stacks, half-expecting to see him watching.
And there he is, precise as always, shelving a row of books, perfectly still, expression neutral but eyes flicking toward you ever so slightly. Nanami can’t do subtle even if it kills him.
Gazes clash.
Something thrums beneath the surface. You swallow.
The guy at the desk, oblivious to the internal storm, smiles again. “So…lunch? Or are you gonna make me beg?”
You stare at him, then at the silent figure of Nanami across the room, and finally mutter, half amused, half exasperated, “I think you’re going to have to wait your turn.”
And just like that, you’ve made up your mind.
He’s in the cloak room of the conference hall when you seek him out right before lunch break, after you’ve completed the imminent task at hand. It’s a tight space but that doesn’t stop you from bulldozing your way in and taking him by surprise with a slap on the back.
“What— What are you doing here?” he asks, twisting his neck to look back at you.
“Punishing you,” you say, casually. You wind your arms around his hips. You find his soft dick with ease.
Nanami grunts.
In the narrow confines, he puts up a fight at first, something about right and wrong you’re sure, and the competition for the one assistant librarian role, but he quickly loosens up with a long sigh. “What have I done now?” he wonders, resigned.
With expert skill, you take his cock out. It’s already so heavy even though it’s only now starting to chub up. Lightly, you pet it, bringing it to full mast.
Meanwhile, your head is buried between his shoulder blades. You tease, “A little birdy let me in on your shenanigans.”
One of his hands envelops yours. It drags your palm up and down the length at the pace he likes. Nanami groans. “Get to the point. You’re frightening me.”
“Always so on guard with me, aren’t you?” you say, smiling. “I’m talking about how you’ve been hoarding all the numbers guys have been trying to give me.”
Nanami stiffens.
Slowly, like he’s being careful not to set you off, aware you’ve got him by his literal dick and balls, he says, “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you sing.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, yes, I have been withholding the many numbers and messages men want me to pass along. But it is only because I believe it is unprofessional, and certainly not because of whatever you’re accusing me of.”
Thumb guided by his, you collect the bead of pre that’s escaping his flushed tip. You smear it on his pretty, pink cockhead. He’s fully hard now, and the familiar heat, weight, and length has your mouth salivating.
“Oh, so you didn’t purposefully and proactively stifle a possible competition for who could be asked out more while on the job? God, you’re such a baby. You knew I’d win by a longshot because not many people want to date your grumpy ass, so you didn’t even let me know I was being asked out at all. Wow. Really. Wow.”
Nanami exhales. “Yes. That’s exactly it. You got me.”
“Yeah, I got you by the dick. Now that I’ve found you out, you have to accept my punishment. Them’s the rules.”
You round his body. The warm light from the flickering bulb doesn’t do much to illuminate the small space. With coats sandwiching you in and hangers rattling, you peer up at him.
There’s a vanity behind you.
Leading him by his dick, you get yourself up on it and slot him in between your legs. Nanami casts a shadow over you as he eyes you suspiciously. You don’t blame him — just hours before, you two had decided to go back to your old ways and compete as fiercely and as normally as you always have.
Now, you’re stroking his cock and spreading your legs so he can see the wet spot that’s grown on your panties.
He releases a shaky breath.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters, deeply troubled if the furrowing of his brows and the tentative placement of his hands on your bare thighs are anything to go by. “Why are we playing games at all? I thought we’d made an agreement to take the competition for the permanent role seriously. I thought…I thought you’d never talk to me again, much less touch me.”
You watch him seek out your sopping pussy, thumbing the clit and prodding the wet spot. With little patience, Nanami pulls your panties to the side and feels you skin to skin. You moan.
“I thought that too,” you tell him, lifting your shirt to reveal your bare breasts to his eyes. His mouth parts. A finger of his slips inside your pussy with ease. “But I realised something — our games didn’t just start when we got the job. We’ve been playing games since we met: who can correct our professors more, who can find a way to insert ourselves into discussions more, who can get better marks, who can get the best compliments, who frequents the Dean’s List more often.”
Nanami bends down. His lips grazes your chest, skimming and basking in the softness of your skin. He travels down the valley between your breasts before pressing a kiss to the curve of one. All while he’s worming a second finger inside your drenched pussy, wringing out slippery squelches muffled by the coats around you.
“Don’t you -hah- get it, Nanami?” you ask him, back arching. “Everything is a game between us. So why don’t we just commit to it? Just stop pretending? We can keep playing our games whilst we let Mrs. Collins decide which of us she wants to keep. I don’t know about you, but I need the orgasms.”
He finally takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking it into a hard bud. His thumb rubs your pussy’s bud too. “Kento,” he says.
“Huh?”
His tongue flicks your nipple at the same time he curves his long, slender fingers against your g-spot. You gasp.
“If we’re committing to our ridiculous games, then you should commit to calling me Kento when I’m knuckles deep inside your pretty pussy, don’t you think?
You laugh. “You’re such a narcissist you’ve got a fetish for your name, don’t you?”
“I plead the fifth,” he says, squeezing your tit as he makes his way down your stomach.
Nanami’s about to kneel and have a go at your cunt when the doorknob rattles.
The two of you freeze.
You only have a second to process what the hell’s about to happen before he carries you in his arms and tucks you both at the back, behind some thick, furry coats.
Someone’s in here. You don’t turn to look to see who, lest you make a noise. Instead, you clutch him tightly, face buried in the crook of his neck as he grips you up by your ass. Nanami breathes low and even despite the redness of his face.
It’s dark and crowded enough in here to blend in if whoever the person is doesn’t go looking through the coats. And it’d honestly be fine if his cockhead wasn’t prodding your clit.
His cock has slipped through your pussy lips. You’re pressed up against it. Every slight shuffle, every inhale, every minor adjustment has him rubbing your pussy.
He whispers right into your ear, bare audible even to you, “Stop. Moving.”
“You stop moving,” you fire right back.
When his grip slackens a little, it leaves you sliding down his length. Nanami reflexively hikes you up higher the very moment it happened. Which is a mistake. Because he had just effectively rubbed you up and down his cock.
You whine, fingers threading through his hair and pulling for a tether. He hisses.
A shit show is what this is — each reaction has an equal and opposite reaction and each of those has you oozing more juices on his cock, making the slip and slide easier, and all the more pleasurable.
The person’s still here; they’re humming as they use the very same vanity you were sitting on.
They left the door open, and the light thrumming of life beyond covers a little of the noises you two are making. You hope, at least.
“Kento,” you whine, hips moving on your own now.
He shushes you. “I know, I know. Me too. Just bear with me, alright?”
You’re grinding on him now, using the length of his cock and the prominent veins there to stimulate your poor clit, and he can’t do a thing about it. Nanami throbs here and there when your clit nudges his frenulum or the slit of his tip.
Whoever the newcomer is, they’re taking their stupid fucking time. You want to strangle them. Especially when they trip over something and send a bunch of things clattering. “Ah, fuck,” they groan.
The act itself is harmless. Accidental. A mercy because it means they’re distracted with re-righting whatever mess they’ve made.
But you can’t find it in yourself to be grateful because it had startled you and Nanami. Your bodies jolted, sending you higher up his hold and falling down right onto his dick.
His tip pushes in.
You barely manage to bite back your moan.
Eyes wide and body tense, you stare at him in the shadows. Through his glasses, his eyes are just as wide as yours. His jaw is clenched tightly, grip on your body bruising. “S-stay still,” he commands shakily. “I’ll pull out.”
“No,” you find yourself breathing out before you can process the word. When he stares right through you, disbelieving but so badly wanting to believe, you find the courage to say, “No, I want it. I want it so bad, Ken. Please?”
Nanami’s eyes almost roll back. “Yes, baby. Fuck, if you ask so nicely, how am I meant to say no?”
All he has to do now is lighten his grip on you; you slide down and down and down until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re feeling fuller than you ever have. His size is almost impossible to manage but you’re so wet, so needy, that it only takes a couple winces and fluttering of your walls.
Foreheads pressed together, you moan into each other’s mouths, lips just touching.
Feet pad away.
A door closes.
“You’re so tight,” he groans louder, unhesitating to exploit the fact that it’s just you two in here again.
“So big,” you whisper.
He emerges you both from the stuffy corner and walks over to the door. Each step has his fat cockhead prodding your g-spot over and over again. He locks it without breaking eye contact.
The heat in his gaze sets your skin alight.
Nanami sets you down on the vanity, still inside you. He pinches your chin and says, “Are you sure about this?”
You roll your eyes. You clamp down on him.
He gasps, cock throbbing inside you.
Swallowing down the choked, animalistic noise about to creep up his throat, he snarls, “Always so difficult with you, isn’t it?”
To your satisfaction, he starts rutting into you. Shallow thrusts at first, testing the waters, getting used to your warmth and the exact feel of your walls. Then faster and deeper, bumping the exact spot that has you mewling and writhing.
“Here?” he asks, voice hoarse. He splays a hand out on your lower belly, pushing down a little. You cry out, back arching. “Oh yes, I see now. This is where you feel me most, no?”
God, he feels so good.
There’s no barriers between you, and if he was anyone else, you’d be deeply worried. But Nanami is Nanami. He’s cleaner than a surgery table.
“Ken,” you moan. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”
He nods, lips to your head as he holds you close. He rams his cock in with greater force, rattling the whole desk.
You whine. “Yes! Yes! Just like that.”
“Tell me how to please you,” Nanami whispers, cradling the back of your head before it can hit the mirror behind you. “Tell me everything about you, about what makes you feel good, your fantasies, who you want me to be, what you want me to say.”
Arms wrapped around his neck, you shake your head, fucking down onto him. “This is great. It’s perfect. God, hngh! J-just be yourself. Keep fucking me like this.”
Nanami groans.
“I hate how good you feel,” he confesses, angry. “Hate how perfect your -ngh fuck!- body is, the sounds you make. How one touch, one look from you, has me weak in my fucking knees.”
He pulls your head back by your hair. His hazy eyes scan every inch of your face, drinking up every wince, every flutter of your eyes, every gasp out of your lips. He wants to be mad. He wants to say something insulting, something to make your cunt clench down on him. But when you mumble his name, Nanami’s whole face softens.
Burying his face in the curve connecting your neck to your shoulder, he presses a kiss there. “God, you drive me insane.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t cum the moment you finally felt a woman’s insides.”
His lips twitch.
“And I’m surprised you haven’t melted with how wet you are around my cock.”
Nanami pulls out and spins you around before you can make a retort. You see yourself in the mirror. You make eye contact all the way as he pushes back inside you.
The way he bites his lips, blows air out to get some clarity, flush and sweat — you can’t take your eyes off him, can’t unnotice all these things about him.
Soon his pelvis is flushed with your ass. He pummels his cock in and out at a rhythmic pace, controlled and measured. Your eyes roll back. The squelches, the slapping of skin, the fwop fwop fwop, everything is simultaneously muted by the intensity of the pleasure blooming inside your core and heightened by the finite space between you.
He can’t seem to decide whether he wants to watch his cock entering you or to watch your face scrunch up in bliss. With a frustrated growl, he finally decides instead to shut his eyes tight.
Weak.
Both hands sneak under your body. He gropes your swinging tits in one and rubs your clit with the other.
“Are you going to cum for me?” he asks though it’s not a question, not really.
You grind back into him, wanting him deeper and deeper as you near your climax. Unable to help yourself, you answer, “I’m gonna cum for me.”
Nanami’s low chuckle sends chills down your spine. His dark eyes keep you pinned through the reflection.
“Then cum,” he says.
And you do.
He stifles the too-loud moan that was about to alert the whole library to what you’re doing with a palm slapped over your mouth. You don’t care. Muffled moans are subdued and spasms wracking your entire body, the waves of euphoria race through you, rendering you a dumb, soaked mess.
“Ah, fuck!” Nanami’s hips stutter. “T-too tight. Don’t -fuck- s-squeeze down on me.”
“No, w-wait,” you stammer, unable to lift any of your tired limbs to physically prevent him from cumming where he shouldn’t.
But it’s too late.
He orgasms right after you.
Hot, searing cum explodes inside you. It paints your walls white. You pant, made dizzy by the feeling of his pulsing cock staking its claim inside your pussy.
“So good, so good, so fucking good,” he gasps.
The two of you catch your breath, neither one pulling away. His hands are still all over you, squeezing and absorbing the sensations of a flushed, clammy body. You hope the two of you were quiet enough not to be noticed.
He softens inside you. Finally, he pulls out.
You wince.
“Forgive me,” Nanami mutters, rubbing a hand over your pussy as though to soothe it.
When he pushes two fingers inside, wringing squelches out with your mixed juices, you reach back to smack him. “Hey!”
Nanami apologises again. He pulls his fingers out and clears his throat. The flush on his face renews with the suspicious glare you throw at him. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I know came inside of me,” you grouch, slapping his chest. “You’re lucky I’m on the pill, idiot.” To that, he has no reply. He only regretfully uses someone’s inside sleeve to wipe his fingers clean. Spinning around, you grimace. “Got anything to clean me up with?”
“I’d use someone’s coat or scarf, but I can’t vouch for how clean they’d be,” he mutters, troubled. He thinks for a second, looking around and patting his pockets. There isn’t anything. Nanami tucks himself back in, zips his pants up, then gets down on his knees before you.
“Woah, what’re you doing?”
“Cleaning you up,” he says simply, like it’s supposed to be obvious and he’s disappointed you didn’t work that out yourself. Firm hands spread your legs apart.
“Hey! No, don’t.” Your protests fall on deaf ears. Nanami won’t budge. He buries his face right up against your pussy, unhesitating to lap up the juices flowing out of you. “Oh, fuck, Kento. Y-you’re a freak.”
The man doesn’t seem to care that he’s eating his own cum out of you. Or maybe that’s exactly what he wants. You can’t tell, and you can’t think too much about it when he’s circling your clit with his tongue.
Nanami licks through your slit like a dog, just cleaning you up and all the wetness that’s made your thighs sticky. He says, “No, I’m thorough. We can’t leave behind any evidence.”
Your head leans back on the mirror, accepting that you’ve got no choice but to let him do what he wants with your cunt. Though that doesn’t stop you from remaking, “Please, you just wanted to taste me again. Can’t get enough, can you?”
It’s a joke. A statement made with humour.
But his unwavering gaze — the way he’s looking up at you and reading every expression, every thought and flicker in your face and eyes — suggests he’s not when he ponders out loud, “Is that so wrong?”
Nervously, you gulp, then smile.
“Probably, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?”
Nanami kisses your clit so gently, so tenderly that your smile drops.
“Far too late.”
.
.
.
Like something awakened, a dam burst, you two have been fucking nonstop.
Every opening and closing since Monday morning have begun and ended with sex in the storage room. Quick, dirty sex. Mindblowing sex. Neither of you can seem to get enough of how each other feels, of the momentary washing away of all that was looming by the end of the week, but your rivalry never ended.
You two would compete to see who’d cum first in the toilet stalls, each taking turns to be on their knees. He’d eat you out as well as he could, pulling all his tricks, and you’d blow him like you wanted to suck his soul out from his balls. A timer would be going on your phone, and you’d battle it out to the very last second. Currently, you’re winning 3-2.
The loser gets a stamp — one that you’d snatched from Mrs. Collins office — pressed right on their pelvis: Late Return.
They’d have to walk around like that till they can get home and wash the ink off.
When you lost, Nanami had thumbed the mark right above your cunt, both his lips and your pussy lips still glistening. He hummed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t misty-eyed. I’m gonna get you back.”
He looked up at you and smiled. “Of course you will.”
And when he lost, you stamped it high enough that whenever he reached up, it’d be visible by virtue of his sweater or shirt riding up. You passed by, running a nail across that sliver of skin. He shuddered. His cheeks reddened. He muttered, “Tease.”
You muttered back, “Loser.”
On Wednesday, you both started a game that involved not touching each other and seeing who could hold out longer. Of course, there were caveats: he had brought a vibrator with the intention of leaving in your panties, thrumming away at your sensitive clit, and you would send him faceless nudes every five minutes.
The fun of it was that you could back out at any second; you could take the vibe out and he could just not open your messages. But he had given you his phone number for this reason and so it’d be a waste of your time to chicken out.
It seemed easy enough at first anyway.
For the most part, you could keep a straight face when dealing with other students and researchers. He’d pass by and press some button on the remote control he has all to hear your voice hitch or watch your eyes cross. In retaliation, you’d send him pictures and videos of you playing with yourself and moaning his name.
He gave in first.
What broke him wasn’t the nudes, though they certainly pushed him close. No, what did it was the fact that you had experienced a full-body orgasm right in front of some guy asking you out. The guy was about to touch you, to ask if you were okay because you were breathing weird and all squirmy.
Nanami swooped in with a casual excuse of you being sick.
You tried to hobble over to the nearest room, the coat room, but couldn’t make it any further than a study booth in the back corner. The same one you first blew him on. You were pawing at his cock, fishing it out right there and then, and he decided he couldn’t wait any longer.
So, whilst no one was there, he took you right in the booth, ducking low.
“You showed him something you shouldn’t have,” he growled, a sound you’d never heard him make before.
Weakly, you argued, “That was your fault, asshole.”
And when he stacked two hardcover books over your lower belly, pressing on your bladder and driving you fucking insane?
You made a mess all over him that he forced you to clean up with your tongue.
Which was fine since he was going to be punished with pen markings all over his body as a result of his surrender.
Vibe dead and tossed, you met up after in the break room, knowing that all the other staff members would be having a meeting about the budget cuts, and since they had yet to decide which of you they were going to keep, neither of you were privy to the information. And that too was fine, since it meant you had an hour or so to yourself on the comfortable sofa.
Gleefully, encouraged by the blush on his cheeks and the way he was throbbing right under your pussy, you drew ‘loser’, ‘inferior intellect’, ‘pleb’, and ‘my bitch’, among other things, on his bare torso.
He protested each new label but with how you were grinding on his cock and pouting down at him to play fair, he couldn’t exactly fight against it.
It was a delirious high to keep him pinned under you, covering his pristine skin with proof of your superiority.
“Hush, Ken,” you scolded. He was groaning and complaining incessantly. It was hot.
Nanami huffed, hands on your thighs as you straddled him. “You’re taking too long; there can’t possibly be any more space on my body.”
“Thou doth protest too much.” You gripped his face, smiling down at him, and said, “You’ve never looked prettier than with my name written right here on your chest, Kento.”
He pulsed right up against your clit.
Another quickie was slotted in before the meeting ended and the staff would be roaming around again.
A fire drill has taken all the occupants of the library this Friday afternoon. Instead of following procedure, the two of you decided to stay behind, with everyone none the wiser.
Nanami’s buried balls deep inside you, a hand splayed out over your back as he keeps you bent over one of the carts you use to transport books around the library. It’s empty and you’re clinging to the metal thing for dear life, moaning wantonly with every harsh shove of his cock inside your sloppy pussy.
He’s holding the cart, dragging it back and forth the way he would with your hips. You have no choice but to let the cart yank you on his length.
“Ken,” you mewl, “we need to hurry. They’ll be back any time soon.”
He grunts behind you. “I know. But I will not cum until you do.”
Your clothes are still on, just slightly shuffled around to allow you to touch where you wanted. The clothes always stay on; you can’t seem to cross the line of being completely bare. Mostly because you two keep fucking in places where you could caught, and partly because it seemed to be an unspoken boundary you won’t cross.
It hardly matters to you — his cock is all that you need to see.
The way the hot thing bullies a path through your gummy walls is delectable. It’s honestly all you can think about in class or at home. He fills out every nook and cranny, stretching your walls and making sure you feel all of him.
“You’re insatiable,” you say, riding the snappy movements of the cart. “You’re a sex maniac, just obsessed with me.”
Scoffing, he yanks the cart back harder. He thrusts in deeper. You cry out. Nanami retorts, breathy and hoarse, “Says the girl who chose to greet me by squeezing my cock through my pants. You were already wet when I touched you. Dirty girl,” he rasps. “Must have been thinking about me all day.”
“As if,” you mutter. Then, you add, “You were already —wait, Ken, deeper, yessss— you were already hard when I felt you up. Bet the sight of me was enough to get you going, huh?”
“I’ll admit to your —f-fuck, loosen up— a-accusations if you do.”
“Never.”
Nanami chuckles.
His hips are relentless. They never tire, never falter. Not till he’s about to come anyway. No one’s ever fucked you this good, and it kills you to admit to yourself that the person you’d deemed the devil just weeks before has the best dick game full stop.
Ugh, you just love when he fucks you from behind, when his balls swing and smack against your clit, when he covers your back and groans right into your ear.
It’s no wonder then that you cum mere minutes later.
“Oh god,” you moan. “So, so good.”
“Hmm, fuck. Perfect. Just perfect.”
He slides himself out of you, coming to kneel behind you to eat the cum spilling out from behind. Yeah, after all the sleeping around, you still hadn’t enforced the rule of wearing a condom. It just seems so pointless when he’d already been inside you. And you don’t want a layer muting the feeling of his prominent veins scraping your sloppy walls.
“Do we taste good, Kento?” you ask, smiling lazily. You reach back, drumming your fingers over the hand that grips your thigh in place.
Nanami moves his hand to trap yours in his clutch. A thumb brushes over your knuckles. Voice muffled, he responds, “Mmm. Best choice of breakfast I rather think, though that’s mostly because of me.”
“Ugh, don’t act like I don’t often have to kick you away from my pussy because you won’t stop eating her out otherwise. Lying is a sin, Kento.”
He chuckles, suckling your pulsing clit. “So is pre-marital sex, but we’ve already done a lot of that.”
“See you in hell then,” you say, wistful.
“Yes. Save me a seat.”
The distant alarm stops by the time you cum again. Noises outside get louder. You two, like experienced criminals, rearrange your clothes so that no eyes would be able to tell what you’ve done. You even sneak around to blend in with the group, as though you had been out with everyone else.
It’s somewhat of an impossibility how you two managed to balance fucking like rabbits with your tasks. There’s not a single book gone unshelved, no student left waiting around, no emails about late returns unsent. In fact, Mrs. Collins had complimented you both on a couple occasions for how well you two worked. She seemed especially pleased that you weren’t arguing — though you’re sure if she knew what exactly you had taken up on doing, you’re not sure she’d keep looking at you with pride.
Naturally, the week passed by quicker than all the others before it.
And made the next week feel so much slower.
.
.
.
Nanami didn’t come into work.
His internship had set him on a project that would require his attention and efforts most. Or at least that’s what you heard from Mrs. Collins, who warned you that you’d have to be picking up his slack, at least until next week, when he should be back.
Which is great.
Really.
Because it can be an opportunity to show you’re better for this job than he is.
A heads up from him himself would have been nice though. Why hadn’t he told you anyway? Sure, you were just fuck-buddies with much less emphasis on the buddies than the fuck, but still. And honestly with how this week is going so far, you’d place less emphasis on fuck too, since he hadn’t even opened any of the nudes you sent him.
The more you grumble about it, however — when wiping tables, logging returns, reshelving books, touring prospective students — the more you turn your negative energy to yourself.
Nanami doesn’t owe you an explanation, nor does he owe your nudes a viewing, even if they are works of art.
He’s never explained his own schedule to you, and you’ve never thought to do the same to him. Really, why would he tell you anything? And why do you care? You have toys and fingers you can use if you need to get off so badly.
Once in a while, you’ll see him on campus, on your way to your respective classes. The two of you don’t pause to chat, don’t say hi, don’t even look at each other. Which is how it usually was between you. Although, there used to be the occasional glares or snide comments if the other gave a smug look after gaining higher marks on some essay. Or if you two just felt like it.
Now, there’s nothing.
No one to look at with a ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ when someone spills their drink all over a table, or knocks over a pile of books you were reorganising. No one to mutter a quiet ‘what idiot gets Camus and Sartre mixed up?’ to or a ‘not it!’ if someone reports a clogged toilet in the men’s bathroom — and it was always the men’s.
Was this job always so fucking boring?
“Hi.”
“What.” The word spews out of you faster than you can process the one syllable the stranger uttered. You look up at the girl. She’s staring wide-eyed at you. Standing up, heat growing in your cheeks, you say, “I am so, so, sorry.”
She waves it off, shuffling on her feet. “No, don’t worry about it. I work at a bakery, so I understand what a bad day looks like when you’re dealing with people,” she says with a laugh. “I just wanted to know if you could pass a message along to the guy you work with. Um, Kento?”
How does she know his first name?
Did he introduce himself to her as such?
They don’t seem to be close friends, one because he has a very small number of friends, and two because she almost didn’t remember his name.
The girl’s pretty: brown hair in a ponytail, kind eyes and a warm smile. She looks like the kind of girl you bring home to mother. And she bakes?
Nanami loves bread; you’ve seen him snacking on pastries and sandwiches far too many times not to notice that. She can bake for him, or at the very least, get him a discount at the bakery she works at. Bet he’d like having sex in the toilet stall at a bakery. The smell of a pain au chocolat can get him off.
“What is it?”
A blush blossoms on her cheeks. You fight the urge to frown in disgust. Is she blushing because of that guy? The blond with poor eyesight? The one who wears business casual clothes everywhere? What kind of sorcery did he use on her?
“Oh, um, I guess I just wanted to tell him I really enjoyed the book he recommended to me when I was here last week. I’ve been looking for him every day but I haven’t seen him.” A thought occurs to her. She adds, “Maybe I can tell him myself — do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No idea,” you lie through your lying teeth.
Disappointed but not discouraged, she suggests, “Could you ask him?”
“I can’t.” Another lie — you have his phone number now, but it’s not like you can explain to her that you only have it because you were sending him nudes.
Baker girl sighs. She smiles at you, a smile so full of goodness that you have to mentally swat the instinct to hiss at the burn. “Alright. Then, could you tell him that I’d love to hear his thoughts on the book over coffee? I hope I’m not giving you too much trouble!”
“Sure. I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you!”
With that, she strolls away, still smiling, still blushing, and no doubt thinking of him.
Turning to the books in front of you, you finally scowl.
“Nanami? Seriously?” you mutter.
The same Nanami who called you a strumpet under his breath for suggesting that he would have been a concubinus in the Roman era with how passive he is? The Nanami that stretches his legs out to trip you but claims he’s simply exercising his right to take up space? The Nanami that was literally eating you out at the very same spot you’re standing in now?
Ugh, there really is no accounting for taste.
Thankfully the message she left with you was short and brief, easy to remember. You ponder over it every hour of every day — as you work in the library, as you’re in class, showering, walking through campus, meeting up with friends, laying in bed awake.
The end of the day at the end of the week arrives pretty soon after.
Waving goodbye to the nighttime caretaker, you exit through the front doors.
You’re exhausted. More so than usual.
Technically, you had done two people’s worth of tasks. And perhaps it was just your annoyance clouding your judgment, but you could have sworn it was busier than ever this week. The burden of doing the grunt work finally caught up to you; your feet hurt, your back aches, you feel greasy and hideous, and ready to burn down libraries for no reason.
Fresh air envelops you, and it helps a little.
The cold night air is lovely. A much needed relief after spending a whole, stuffy day in the heart of academia and after back to back morning classes. At least the weekend is ahead of you. That’s something, you guess.
“Hey, pretty lady.”
The voice slurs a little around the edges.
You turn your head and immediately regret it.
Some guy lurches toward you from the direction of the dorms, one hand stuffed into the pocket of a puffer jacket that looks like it’s seen more beer spills than washing machines. His cheeks are flushed a blotchy red, eyes glassy, hair flattened in strange directions like he’s run his hands through it one too many times tonight. There’s a plastic cup clutched in his other hand, whatever’s inside it sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
It’s a typical frat guy.
The kind of guy you’re rarely ever around as a Classic Lit student, and as what most people would call a nerd.
Yet, here he is, passing by the library, right on time for you to be walking home in the dark, alone. Terrific. Fantastic. Just great!
He grins at you — the confident grin of someone who has absolutely no reason to be confident. “Where you headed?” he asks, leaning a little too close, the sour-sweet smell of cheap alcohol drifting over. “Party over at Sigma something. You should come.”
You stare at him.
Frat Guy takes your silence as encouragement. “I mean—” he gestures vaguely at you with the cup, nearly spilling it, “—you look like you could use a drink. Loosen up a little, y’know?”
His eyes drag down and back up again in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Bet you’d be real fun once you’re not all…” he waves his hand again, searching for the word, “...uptight.”
A laugh escapes him as though he said something clever. He leans against the brick wall beside you, missing slightly and having to correct himself.
“So what’s your name, pretty lady?” he presses, smile widening. “C’mon. Don’t be shy.”
Full body shuddering, you ignore him and start walking off. There’s streetlamps lighting paths, and you do see the silhouettes of a couple people walking by in the distance. Worse comes to worse, you’re ready to drop kick the guy as soon as he shows any sign of being a problem.
Which, right on cue, he does.
“Hey,” Frat Guy says, losing his dopey smile. His voice has dropped an octave, taking on a deeper, darker tone, and you stiffen. “Who the fuck do you think you are ignoring me? You think you’re all that, you fucking loser?”
Your steps don’t stop.
Behind you, you hear his shoes scuff faster against the pavement. “Oi,” he calls, irritation bleeding into his voice. “I’m talking to you.”
You’re already turning slightly, gauging distance, weight shifting instinctively to the balls of your feet. If he grabs you, you’ll—
A hand settles lightly on your shoulder.
Neither grabbing nor restraining. Just there. Warm. You know that hand. You’ve felt that hand, but it’s never provided comfort, reassurance, not in the dark of the night, and certainly not when it shouldn’t be here at all.
“Is there a problem?”
You look up.
Nanami stands beside you.
His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. There’s still the faint stiffness of the office about him — creased trousers, polished shoes, suit jacket draped over one arm — but the long day clings to him too. A shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes. A faint crease between his brows.
He glances down at you first. A quick once-over. Checking. Then his gaze shifts to the guy behind you.
It sharpens.
Frat Guy squints at him, clearly trying to process the sudden appearance of a tall, broad man in business clothes standing between him and his intended target.
“Who the hell are you?” he scoffs.
Expression unchasing, he steps forward just slightly, positioning himself so you’re fully behind his shoulder. “A passerby,” he says calmly. “Who noticed you harassing someone who has clearly chosen not to engage with you.”
Frat Guy lets out a drunken laugh. “Oh, she wants me.”
“She walked away.”
“So?”
Nanami tilts his head a fraction. It’s such a small movement, but something about it drains the air from the space between them. “Then the conversation,” Nanami says evenly, “is over.”
“Fuck. You. Four. Eyes.”
“Hey, I call him Four-Eyes! Well, not really, but I’ll start, you dickless piece of shit,” you yell.
Uggo reddens even more in the face. And when Nanami snickers, that’s when he reacts: he lunges forward for Nanami with his teeth bared and his fists clenched so tight the knuckles have turned white.
You get in between before he lands a punch. With a swift kick to the balls, you both watch as he doubles over, heaving and red in the face. He clutches his groin, veins popping in his forehead. He wheezes.
Oh, fuck. You definitely kicked him too hard. Like hard enough that his testicles definitely turned back into ovaries inside of him.
You make eye contact with Nanami, who’s wincing with second-hand ball-pain.
“Run.”
You both bolt down a random direction. Cool air whirls past you, pushing your hair back. You pump your legs, feet pounding the ground. He’s right beside you, running with ease, though with less heavy breathing, you bitterly notice.
Laughter rings out.
It’s only until your lungs begin to hurt that you realise it’s yours. And his.
What you did was a crime. And Nanami’s an accessory to the crime. Which is fan-fucking-tastic because it means you won’t go down alone. Or could you rely on self-defence? It hardly matters. You both fled the crime scene together, laughing shamelessly, and disturbing the peace.
You’ve never kicked someone in the balls before. It felt pretty fucking awesome.
Eventually, you reach a good enough distance from the library, from the scene of the crime, and come to a slow stop.
“Why would the assailant go for me instead of you?” Nanami asks, bewildered as he processes what happened. “You were the one who called him a ‘dickless piece of shit.’ And I cannot get blood on my work clothes. Certainly not for someone who thinks Shakespeare was a homesexual fraud.”
“He is.”
“He is not.”
“Oh, cause you were there?”
“Were you?”
“In spirit, yes.”
“Well, then in spirit, you are deluded, and as always, wrong.”
“Whatever.”
“Hmm.”
Releasing a breath, you run a hand through your hair. “I can’t believe I kicked him in the balls. What a rush.”
“I can’t believe he called me ‘Four Eyes,’” Nanami muses, half-humoured, half-offended. “Having glasses does not give me two new eyes. It basically only makes my two existing ones work the way they should.”
You pat him on the back. “Sure.”
The two of you begin walking, reorienting yourself based on where you are. For a while the only sounds are your voice, the distant thrum of music from somewhere deeper in campus, and the soft rhythm of Nanami’s footsteps beside yours. Soon, that asshole becomes what feels like a figment of your imagination. So does the adrenaline.
The fight in you weakens. Slackens. He doesn’t comment on it. On any of it.
When you can’t stand the silence any longer, you ask, much calmer and less worked up now, “Why were you there? By the library, I mean. I thought you’d be coming back from your internship.”
Nanami hikes his bag high up on his shoulder. “My commute involves walking through campus at this time.”
“Liar,” you say not a moment later. “The publishing house is not anywhere near here. You’d have to go out of your way to be on campus to get to your place — and before you say something about how I must be stalking you if I know where you live, I want you to know I overheard Haibara remarking quite gratefully that you live near the big supermarket. So spare me.”
A small twitch comes to life on the corner of his lip, one you would have missed if you two hadn’t just walked under a streetlamp. Clearly amused, Nanami responds, “Fine, you got me. I came by because I wanted to gloat.”
“You’re lying again.”
He glances down at you. “Are you suggesting I’m not capable of doing something for completely self-serving, sadistic reasons?” he wonders, a teasing lilt to his voice.
Laughing, you answer, “No. You’re more than capable. I’m saying, you’re not the type to admit to it. They’re more inside thoughts.”
Nanami chuckles and doesn’t argue.
Instead, he wonders, “How was the library?”
“Oh, you know,” you begin, shrugging, “same old, same old. Real dickhead behaviour not warning me, by the way. That you’d be gone the whole week.”
“Did you miss me? Is that it?” he teases. “I did not peg you for the sentimental type.”
You scoff. “Of course I didn’t miss you. If anything, I missed your tongue. Or your dick. You know how annoying people get me so tense.”
Adjusting his glasses, he points to a dark spot behind a tree. “If you’re in quick need of release, I’m sure we can manage something before the next person passes this trail.”
“I know you’re joking,” you start, feet slowing down, “but that would actually be nice.”
A hand at your back pushes you along, forcing your walking to pick back up. “There are limits to how public our sex can get. Move along.”
‘Boo,’ you almost say. That, or ‘pussy.’
Shaking his head, Nanami says, “I did debate over whether to tell you. It’s…difficult for me to know the do’s and don’t’s of our new dynamic. And truthfully, seeing as you didn’t reach out to me with a complaint, I thought you didn’t care.”
If he’s expecting you to rebut that, then he’s sorely mistaken. Because you don’t care. You really do not care. It was nice to have him gone, actually. You had more room to breathe. You didn’t have to worry about him scolding some poor soul about their preference for translated works on account of their inability to read the original text, didn’t have to share the sixth floor seating area when you needed some downtime, or anticipate him scoffing at your chosen book for the week.
“It’s fine,” you mumble loud enough for him to hear. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Nanami hums.
With a small frown, you mull your next words over. “Some girl wanted me to pass a message on to you.”
That piques his interest. “Oh? What did she say?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
A laugh escapes him. It’s loud. It takes you both by surprise.
You thought he would have been mad, would have thought you were playing games again, wanting to take a little revenge against him. On the contrary, he seems entertained.
He continues walking with you. His suit and tie are wrinkled with the day’s hard work (and the running), and despite the slightly dishevelled look to him, he still looks like he could charm the pants off any recruiter. You can tell he hasn’t been on a break from responsibilities — whatever they did to him on that internship this week has dragged him through the mud.
Good.
That’s precisely what you wanted after you had to clean up what smelt like piss on a spot on the carpet by the children’s development section, which was a concern in and of itself.
“I do sincerely hope you don’t hate me too much for abandoning you this week,” Nanami muses eventually, returning to the previous subject matter. “Whilst it brings me great pleasure to imagine that crease between your eyebrows leaving a permanent mark because you couldn’t stop yourself from cursing me out every shift, I don’t very much feel like walking into a boobytrapped workplace come Monday morning.”
A small smile playing on your lips, you fiddle with the strap of your back as you say, “I was pissed. Like you wouldn’t believe. But I feel better now that I’ve seen you.” Your eyes meet. You hurriedly add, “Because you look like shit; I’m sure they put you through it at the publishing house, right?”
Nanami makes some kind of face, a mix between a grimace and a nod. “Hmm. There was some printing error for a book that’s about to have a big launch. There was a lot of scrambling happening.”
“What book?”
“The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by Phayk Rightur,” he answers.
Your jaw drops. You grab his arm. “You’re joking. I fucking love Rightur! She wrote about the history of sex toys and how deeply ingrained they are in history. One of my most favourite books ever!”
“So she did,” he replies, smiling. “And so it is.”
“How do you manage it?” you ask, smile fading. “Studying, attending classes, the internship, and being president of a society? I’d drop dead if I had to do all of that. I mean, I had a taste of it last year when I was working a part time job to afford a ski trip with my friends while I was on the committee for two societies. But president in your third year? Damn.”
You’re on the main road now, just walking side by side as cars zoom past. Light from stores, from headlights, and from overhead streetlamps keep you both clear as day to each other’s gazes.
“A lot of late nights,” he replies humourlessly. Then something indiscernible passes in his eyes as he looks down at you. “I ought to thank you, I think.”
You blink. “Thank me?”
He nods, looking straight ahead now, posture straighter, renewed energy channeling itself though his bones. “Yes. Without you, I wouldn’t have been motivated to work late nights, forced to open my notes and read and read until I passed out at my desk from exhaustion; I knew if I slacked off at any point for any reason, you would have eaten me up.”
This is the first time he’s ever revealed personal information to you, willingly anyway. Most of what you knew about him came from your own observations and from things heard in passing.
Now, he’s readily offering information.
And you don’t know how to feel.
You stay silent, afraid that if you speak the bubble will burst. Nanami strikes you as the kind of man who, if he realises he’s divulging too much, will pull back and restrain himself. Maybe if you keep quiet long enough he’ll tell you a secret so embarrassing you can lord it over him in the future.
“I hate late nights,” he starts with absolute certainty. “I hate booking office hours and sitting in dull rooms when all I want is to take a stroll through the park. I hate staying in the library longer than I need to when the weather’s lovely and my friends are pestering me to hang out. I hate flicking through pages and pages until I get papercuts. I hate drinking energy drinks and coffee at terrible hours, and ruining my diet, and relying on ginger shots to keep my immune system protected enough to sit through an exam.”
You’re not a fan of late nights either.
Who is?
All your friends would confidently say you hate them, in fact; you complain enough. Sacrificing parties and dinners out for dusty old books isn’t easy, and you love dusty old books. You love learning, not cramming dates and foreign names into your head. You love constructing arguments, not typing away for hours and hours until your eyes are red and words start to lose all meaning.
Suffice to say, there’s certainly been many times when you’ve driven yourself mad wondering what it’s all for, but failure is not an option for you.
It just isn’t.
You never really thought about if Nanami felt the same way, if he hated late nights too. Maybe in the back of your head you just saw him as an absolute machine powered by vitriol and a need to be pretentious. Maybe you just never saw him as someone who struggled, not like you.
“I’m already set to graduate with honours, with an impressive résumé and enviable references, and I have offers for graduate jobs lined up. So all this unnecessary bullshit — pardon my French — leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.”
Frowning, you say, “What a long winded way to flex—”
“But there was,” Nanami continues, the weight of his eyes landing on the side of your face, “and is, nothing I hate more than seeing you claim victory over me.”
You look up at him, footsteps stuttering.
He’s not looking at you, yet he’s aware enough of your positioning to pull you by the crook of your elbow closer to his side when a fellow pedestrian walks a little too closely.
“You’re not a good winner: you’re loud, you want everyone to know, and you’ll never let any of your competition live it down. And that uncoordinated display you call a ‘victory dance’ you do all over campus whenever you’re the top of your class leaves me with so much second-hand embarrassment, I have to sit by a pond and really reflect on where it all went wrong.”
Rolling your eyes, you say, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m awful. I’ve heard that before. Mostly from you. But also from plenty of other people. Thanks for the reminder.”
Nanami shakes his head, still smiling. “It wasn’t intended as an insult. Granted, it wasn’t a compliment either. I simply meant to say that if it wasn’t for you, for our rivalry, I would not be where I am today. Do not let it get to your head though. It doesn’t mean anything more than a comment I’ll deny in the future, but I thought it’s something that should be said aloud at least once.”
Knuckles brush against each other. Neither of you snatch your hands away.
“Yeah, well, I guess I could say the same for you,” you reluctantly say, huffing uneasily. “I admit I wouldn’t have worked as hard as I did, and do, if it wasn’t for the incentive of rubbing it into your face that I’m better than you. Thanks.”
He chuckles. “You’re very welcome.”
You reach your apartment before you realise it. It hadn’t even occurred to you that that was where you were walking. The walk felt as long as it was short. Your friends will be up, doing their own thing in their rooms. They wouldn’t notice if you came up unless you announce yourself.
You don’t make your way inside. The two of you stand by the doors, leaning against the railings of a ramp facing the road.
Why did he walk with you the entire way? His place is in another direction entirely.
That should have been your question. What comes out instead is, “Why didn’t you ask me what the girl said?”
“What girl?” he asks, blinking.
“The girl,” you say as though that should be enough to spark something. It doesn’t. Somewhat exasperated, you add, “The girl with the message she wanted me to pass onto you?”
“Ah.” Nanami drops his bag and jacket off on the ground. He crosses his arms and legs at the ankle. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I expected you wouldn’t tell me even if I asked, especially considering that I hadn’t been giving you other men’s numbers or whatever message they have either.”
You forgot all about that. It never even occurred to you to ask for what exactly they’ve said.
“I would have,” you say. “Told you if you wanted to know, I mean.” Your eyes flit to him. “Do you? Want to know?”
He looks at you quizzically, likely suspicious of your sudden inability to piece together a full sentence. “I suppose so,” he replies, slowly, carefully. “What did she say?”
Your arms are brushing together. Neither of you move. Despite the chill of the night, you don’t shiver, don’t think you should scurry off inside where it’s warmer, where you can put your sore feet up and sleep like the dead.
“She was pretty. A baker. Or just works at a bakery, I don’t know. Brown hair, brown eyes, petite. She seemed nice. Dresses well too. Cute top, classy jeans, clean shoes—”
“The relevance of her appearance will soon make itself clear I hope,” Nanami sarcastically drawls.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. “Just wanted to set the scene, maybe jog your memory.”
“The message will suffice.”
Why is it so hard for you to say it aloud? Why can’t you just tell him? It’s not like she said anything offensive or embarrassing. Maybe you’re worried he’ll be upset that you withheld the information for so long, that you buried the lede, or didn’t chase her up on it on his behalf.
Maybe…
“She said she liked the book you recommended to her last week.”
He hums. “Is that why you’re dragging your feet in telling me? Because you’re jealous that no one has given you that feedback?”
Offended, you turn to him. “Um, actually, no. A lot of people have told me that. More people than you, I’m sure.”
Nanami looks at you too. His eyes soften out of lethargy. “Then why are you upset? Did she say something to you, something insulting? Or was she rude? I know you’ve encountered your fair share of impolite people, as have I, but try not to let her ruin your mood. For every bad customer, there are many more good ones,” he reminds you.
“No,” you breathe out, feeling guilty not that he’s assuming the worst of her, of someone who has a crush on him. “No, it’s nothing like that. I told you she was nice. Really nice actually. I think you’d like her.”
“I’ve yet to understand the relevance of any of these comments,” he says, concerned now.
People pass by. None that spare either of you more than a glance, the kind of glance people give strangers to make sure they’re not a danger.
Although you’re in public, there’s a twinge of intimacy colouring the atmosphere, one that not even being pressed up in a storage room together can bring.
Finally, you give in.
Head slumping on his chest, you mutter, “She wants to go on a date with you. To discuss the book or whatever.”
If he’s surprised by the weight of your body leaning on him, he doesn’t show it. Nanami wraps an arm around you, patting your back. He bears both of your weight as he leans back on the railing and you slot yourself between his legs. Your exhaustion has returned and you can no longer stand on your own.
“I see. And this is upsetting to you?”
He’s like a therapist gauging your reactions, trying to see if you need to be restrained and kept away from sharp objects. It almost makes you laugh. Fiddling with a button on his shirt, you mumble into his chest, “No, I don’t care.”
Nanami’s warm. Like a furnace. It’s nice. He also smells good in spite of having worked a whole day. So unfair.
“Of course you don’t. You’re far more concerned with beating me in our classes, in our library, and in life right, my little victory-fanatic?”
You nod weakly. “Yep. That’s it. You got me.” Slowly, you peer up at him. Whatever he sees on your face has his gaze softening again, though not with exhaustion this time. You ask, “Are you going to say yes to her?”
He tucks your hair behind your ear. “What would you like me to say?”
“No. I want you to say no.”
Where did the honesty come from? You’re really dying to know. Because that was a truth you didn’t realise you bore. How odd. How seriously odd.
His nose skims your hairline, lips brushing your forehead. “You’re in luck — I have no intentions of agreeing to date her, or anyone. I’m far too busy to be a very good partner I fear.”
You hum. “It’s great to be self aware.”
The answer was a relief, but it also leaves you unsatisfied, restless, unsure. Let’s just chalk it up to sleep deprivation, you mentally decide.
“Before I forget,” he says suddenly, pulling away a little to pick up his work bag, though he keeps a hand at your hips, fingers drumming, “I snuck a little something away from the firm. A gift for myself, I thought, after all the work they put me through for minimum wage.”
Curiously, you watch him open his bag and pull out a big envelope. He hands it to you.
“For me?” You don’t wait for him to reply; you rip open the envelope, eyeing him with a warning in case what’s inside is a dead spider or a mousetrap. It’s neither. A hard, flat thing is pulled out by your tentative hand. “Is this…”
He adjusts his glasses, pink tinging his cheeks. “It’s not quite of my interest. I figured you’d find it of more value than I would. Especially after I noticed you brought another of her book to class some time last year. Although, that being said, you are under no obligation to like it, a fact which you’ll no doubt make clear if history with you is anything to go by—”
“Kento, shut the fuck up.”
“Yes, alright.”
The hard, flat thing in question is a manuscript. Bound in a hard case, like a notebook with coil binding. When you open it to the front page, you see in uppercase and in bold, The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by none other than Phayk Rightur.
Squealing, you jump into his arms, wrapping your own around his neck, and placing a long kiss on his lips before you can even think about your actions. Nanami’s grip on your hips tighten at first in surprise. He drops his guard, melting, and tugging you closer to him.
His eyes are half-lidded, staring down at your lips and chasing them when you pull away with a fat grin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you repeat, peppering kisses all over his face. “This is the best gift ever!”
You’ve never been given a manuscript before. It just simply isn’t a gift one could buy. And your family and roommates know very well how many books you have — this is by far the most valuable one you have. Who even knows how much it could sell for? Not that you would; you’d both get into a lot of trouble if the firm knew their intern had stolen from them.
Clearing your throat, you ask,“Do you, um… Do you want to come up? It’s late and you’ll have a lot of walking to do. It might be best to wait till the morning.”
Nanami brows are knitted together as he runs a finger along the seam of his lips. Something seems to pass in his eyes. A realisation. A dawning. A something you can’t quite figure out. He straightens up, picking up the work bag he placed on the ground. “No. I appreciate the offer. Haibara will be expecting me. Go inside.” He raises a taunting brow up. “I won’t go easy on you even if you come in on Monday with a cold.”
Is he rejecting you?
Does it sting or are you just cold now that he’s let go of you?
“Y-yeah. Alright.”
The two of you stare at each other for a moment or two, unsure and waiting for the other’s next move. Why is it suddenly so awkward?
“Um, goodnight, I guess,” you say, internally cringing.
He gives a tight lipped smile, which isn’t really a smile at all. “Yes. Goodnight.”
And off you go, walking into your apartment building and not daring to glance back, afraid of what you’ll see if you do.
.
.
.
“Oh, there you two are.”
You look to the side. Mrs. Collins is speed-walking in the way older ladies too, all hip swaying and slow. She flags down Nanami who’s ahead and brushing the floor up.
“Before the end of your shift, before closing, please come by my office — it’s time for me to make my decision,” she says.
A glance is shared between you and him.
A whole week had passed since he walked you home. It also marks the end of the three weeks the Library Director had given you both to decide between you who goes and who doesn’t, and now it is time for her to decide for herself.
The two of you didn’t mess around this week. Something about the looming end had him limp and you bone-dry. That or another reason you can’t really think much about.
You’d texted Nanami once or twice. He never replied. You’d also tried to strike up a conversation with him, either during lunch breaks or on the way out, but he was always busy and had to go first. He didn’t come up to the sixth floor once to read. At least, he didn’t when you were there.
His sudden distance was odd. And frankly, annoying. And also not something you could casually mention to him. It felt very much like being right back at the start.
Mrs. Collins smiles warmly, squeezing both of your arms. She adds, “Take it easy today. Don’t worry about slacking off or being behind. I want you two to enjoy your last couples here as two of my finest assistant librarians. Take a gander over at the restricted section if you haven’t already. I’ll see you both later.”
Without your replies, she strolls off, chasing down someone who’s holding a drink by the shelves with her stern face.
“This is it, huh?”
You jolt. You didn’t expect him to talk to you. “...It would seem so.”
“We should do something symbolic to commemorate our last shift together, don’t you think? We wouldn’t be Classical Lit students if we weren’t clichés, after all,” he suggests.
You beam. “We still haven’t read Satyricon. Should we go back up to the restricted section and read it?”
Adjusting his glasses, he nods. “Great idea. You go ahead, I’ll follow soon; I’m going to the bathroom first.
With a smile, you say, “Okiedokie. Don’t take too long.”
Weirdly enough, now that the day has arrived, you don’t feel very stressed. You were before you walked in through the doors. Now, you’re feeling pretty good. Maybe because he was actually talking to you, and you can stop feeling like you’d done something wrong.
The air shifts the moment you pass through the narrow iron gate of the restricted section — cooler, heavier, touched with the dry, almost sweet scent of aging paper and leather that has long since outlived its makers.
This is what you love about libraries: the smell of lives lived, of stories told thousands of times.
None of your friends understood why you would sniff every new book you bought, but to you it’s like crack. Better even. Not that you’ve had a taste of crack. Can you taste crack or is it strictly for sniffing?
A sense of nostalgia hits you.
You’re going to miss this place if you’re not chosen.
A lifetime before, it seems, you would have been devastated by the concept of losing, especially to Nanami. Now, however, you don’t seem to have a strong preference for winning. All you can think about is that it’s a shame that the library’s experiencing budget cuts and that means you both can’t be here together from now on.
Acutely aware of everything, you see this part of the library in a new light.
An appreciative one.
An amazed gratitude.
You don’t rush.
There’s something deliberate in the way your fingers trail along the spines as you pass, grazing titles you’ve only ever whispered about in lectures, in half-joking, half-reverent tones. The Satyricon waits somewhere ahead, scandalous and sullied by you. You don’t greedily run to read it to make up for what you had failed to do the first time. Because this, more than anything, feels like the last moment before something closes. Before you are chosen, or not. Before you become singular instead of we.
A desk sits tucked beneath one of the windows.
The rest of the room is curated, meticulous, every volume catalogued and caged behind careful order; Mrs. Collins and the other keepers care for every book here like they’re their children.
But the desk looks…interrupted. A chair drawn out just slightly. A book laid open, its spine pressed flat. The sight of it pulls you forward before you quite realise you’ve moved.
By the time you reach it, something uneasy has already begun to settle low in your stomach.
The book is older than most here — vellum pages, the ink faintly uneven with age, margins annotated in a careful, archaic hand. And…
A tear.
Not a gentle loosening of the binding, not the quiet decay of time. A page has been ripped clean out. Jagged edges remain, fibres splayed like a wound, the absence stark and unmistakable. For a moment, all you can do is stare at it, your mind refusing to reconcile the violence of it with the sanctity of the room.
“No,” you murmur, barely audible, as though the book might hear you. “What the hell? Who would do this?”
Your fingers hover, hesitant, before lowering to the edge of the tear. You don’t touch it, not really. Just enough to confirm it’s real, that this isn’t some trick of the light or your imagination.
The damage feels…fresh.
“Oh, my dear! I know I suggested you come up here, but I didn’t realise you would do it so soon. I am pleased to see you seizing the opportunity.”
The voice slices cleanly through the stillness.
Your head snaps up. Mrs. Collins stands a few steps in front of you, one gloved hand pressed lightly to her chest, the other still curled as though she’s just pushed the gate open in haste. She’s smiling at you.
“Isn’t it just so wonderful up here?”
Her gaze drops.
So does her smile.
The shift is immediate. The next words she was about to utter to you are cut off mid-thought, replaced by a silence that seems to expand, pressing outward until it fills every corner of the room.
You follow her eyes, though you already know what she sees.
The open book. The torn page. Your hand, still hovering far too close.
“Oh,” she says softly. It isn’t loud. It isn’t accusatory, not in any overt way. But something in it lands heavier than if she had raised her voice.
“No.” The word comes quickly, instinctively, as you straighten, pulling your hand back as though burned. “That’s not— I found it like this. I just came in, and it was already—”
“My dear,” she interrupts, stepping forward now, her attention wholly claimed by the book. The warmth she’d worn earlier has thinned into something panicked, something intended to be subdued but failing. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
Her gloved fingers hover over the pages with a care you hadn’t quite managed, reverent even in their urgency.
“I wouldn’t….Mrs. Collins, I didn’t do this,” you say, hating the way your voice sounds: too fast, too eager to prove you know, that you understand the gravity of it.
A small hum escapes her, noncommittal. Thoughtful.
She doesn’t look at you.
Instead, she leans closer to the book, inspecting the torn edge with a focus so intense it feels like you’ve already been dismissed from the equation. As though the only thing that matters — the only thing — is the damage itself, not how it came to be. “This is irreplaceable,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Absolutely irreplaceable…”
“I know,” you insist, softer now, stepping closer despite the instinct telling you to retreat. “That’s why I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t touch it like that. I came in and it was open already, I thought someone must have done this. Because I wouldn’t. You must know that.”
“Must I?” she wonders. “Because I seem to recall you reporting a previous incident to do with a ripped book.”
The pause that follows is small.
But it stretches.
Goddamn it, it stretches until you feel it’s about to snap against your skin and leave a permanent mark. And of course it stretches; you have no defence for yourself. That previous incident is damning. As is the fact that less than ten people have access to the restricted section, and you are one of those ten, and the only one found at the scene of the crime with a record that could be tied to vandalism.
At last, she straightens. Her gaze lifts, settling on you fully this time, and there it is.
The change.
There’s no clear accusation to fight, no direct disbelief to dismantle. Only that subtle shift in the way she holds herself, the careful neutrality that feels, somehow, like distance. Like a decision made and buried in the grass, six feet under.
Footsteps approach behind you.
Measured. Familiar.
Nanami.
Relief sparks. Brief, bright, almost desperate. You turn before he’s even fully in the room, already reaching for the steadiness of him, the unspoken understanding that has carried you through long shifts and longer nights, through whispered conversations between stacks and the quiet, heated moments stolen where no one could see.
He takes in the scene quickly. The desk. The book. You.
And he doesn’t look surprised.
Mrs. Collins turns to him at once, as though grateful for a second witness, a second anchor. “Mr. Nanami,” she says, her tone composed once more, though the tension beneath it remains. “Were you in here earlier? Did you happen to leave the gate unsecured? Because your colleague here is suggesting someone left the gate unlocked, allowing a vandal to desecrate a priceless manuscript, and all other members of our library are accounted for, but you.”
You flinch with her wording; she’s suggesting you’ve thrown him under the bus. But Nanami would see through that. He’d know you wouldn’t.
It would be so easy.
You don’t even realise you’ve stepped closer to him until your shoulder nearly brushes his arm. There’s an expectation there. Built on everything that has passed between you. On the way he looks at you when no one else is watching. All he has to do is look at you. Just once. To see you.
“I’ve only just arrived,” he replies, adjusting his glasses.
And that’s it.
No hesitation. No glance in your direction. No acknowledgment of the space you occupy, the accusation you’re standing in. The words fall cleanly into the room and settle there, offering nothing for you to hold onto.
Something in your chest tightens, sharp and immediate.
Of course he’s telling the truth. Of course he is. That’s who he is — precise, measured, unwilling to bend facts for comfort. You’ve admired that about him. Relied on it. But this isn’t about facts, and you both know it.
Mrs. Collins nods slowly, absorbing his answer, her attention already drifting back to the book, to the problem that can be quantified and contained. “I see.”
It’s absurd, really. Nothing has been said outright. No verdict delivered. And yet the conclusion settles heavy in your bones all the same.
If Mrs. Collins had wanted to keep you, she doesn’t now. All of you know it. Yet no one offers you an opportunity to defend yourself, to put your case forward. They’ve both stepped ahead together, leaving you behind.
You look at him again, waiting stupidly, for something more. A correction. A clarification. Even just a quiet, “She wouldn’t do that.”
He doesn’t offer it.
When you look into his eyes, pleading, searching, all you can see is the flicker of doubt. You know without asking that he’s thinking back to when you had casually ripped a page from some random book some time ago too. He’s not staring at you accusingly, but the very fact that he’s not sure you didn’t do this is enough.
The distance between you yawns open, sudden and immense.
And when Mrs. Collins shakes her head and off-handedly says to Nanami, “You were right — she’s just not cut out for this job. Too emotional. Too unstable. Just doesn’t have what it takes,” that distance becomes a gaping chasm.
You stumble back, like you’d been struck.
Neither of them are on your side.
They never were.
“I understand,” you say at last, though no one has asked you to. “Perhaps it’s best that I see myself out early today.”
Your voice sounds steady. You’re grateful for that, at least. For the small mercy of not fracturing in front of them both. Because you will not cry in front of Nanami fucking Kento.
Mrs. Collins offers a polite, distracted nod, already reaching for solutions that don’t involve you.
Nanami says nothing.
And in the quiet that follows, you turn away and never look back.
dead serious normalize having an average boring ass life where you have enough to meet your needs we do not need to be remarkable we just need to be alive
Synopsis: in sexually liberal Republic of Orgasms, to become a state approved Breeder (aka be allowed to fuck anyone, anytime, anywhere) you must first be assessed by a doctor so you can gain your certificate. and you so badly want to be fucked. lucky for you, you've finally come of age.
and today, you'll be seen by Doctor Nanami, who's more than happy to do his duty and assist an eager citizen ;)
Warnings: smut, porn with a lil plot, p in v, unprotected sex, dubcon/systematic dubcon, non curse au, weird highly sexual world don't question it, pússy slapping, breast play, deepthroating, cunnilingus, virgin!reader, spitting, latex gloves, doctor!nanami making reader use state mandated terms, improper use of medical equipment, talking reader through it, dom daddy!nanami, horny!reader, throat bulging, belly bulging, brief rimming, some anal, creampie, spitting, cúm eating, hair pulling, backshots, pússy inspection, mentions of exhibitionism and voyeurism, squirting and drinking it, pússyjob/outercourse, spanking, orgasm denial, asking for permission, not proofread
Word Count: 5.9k
It’s time for your very first physical examination.
Everyone, once they reach the age of 21, must be checked for their sexual reproductivity value. In a world where reproduction is king, and sex is so highly revered, there is nothing more important than having a body that could spread pleasure and bear children.
You’re excited, to say the least.
Finally, the State will acknowledge your womanhood, will allow you to do your part as a citizen, and determine your place in society.
A little nervous, you walk into the examination room. It’s a sterile place, as any hospital rooms tend to be, but this one is even more so because it’s a room in the country’s most celebrated reproduction facility. How lucky your body gets to be assessed in such a respectable place.
There’s a gynecology chair in the middle and that’s where your eyes gravitate to immediately.
“Good morning.”
You jolt.
“Oh!”
A man in a white lab coat and slacks sits at a desk. He has luscious blond hair, glasses, and a face as stoic as a speculum. You’re taken aback by his handsomeness. Broad shoulders, defined features, chiselled face, and great height. How is it possible that he’s a doctor and not a Breeder?
The demand for his superior genetics would be through the roof.
“H-hi, doctor. Forgive me, I didn’t see you.”
You’re grateful to be paired with someone young and attractive. One of your neighbours had an old man who she claimed should have retired decades ago. It’s a blessing to have nice eye candy.
As though he knows exactly what you’re thinking, he purses his lips. “It’s quite alright.” Then he jerks his chin, encouraging you to step in and close the door behind you. “I’m Doctor Kento Nanami, you may call me Doctor or Nanami or the two combined.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes meet yours. One glance up and down your body is all he needs, and he’s returning to his papers.
Scribbling notes down on a pad, your eyes focus on the slenderness of his fingers and their length. Is he gentle or clinical in his approach?
Your older friend had a very gentle one and she said the process felt quite relaxing, almost therapeutic. Meanwhile, your other friend remarked how cold and unfeeling her doctor was, and that she was on edge the entire time. And another one of your friends said hers was actually rather rough, like a father scolding a child!
Which would you prefer, you wonder.
Doctor Nanami asks, “You have been informed about the due process, yes?”
The State mandated broadcasts are your bread and butter as a young woman; there’s no way you could forget the procedure. For the longest time, you’d been dreaming of this moment and finally it’s here. You won’t mess it up.
“Yes, of course — I must strip all of my clothes, lie on the chair, and place my feet on the stirrups,” you recite, cheerfully.
He raises a brow at you.
Somehow you’re getting the impression that he’s not very impressed with your enthusiasm. Maybe it’s because he’s been doing this for so long. Maybe he’s seen it all, and more, and he’s just looking forward to getting it over and done with. Or maybe he just really doesn’t like you.
Regardless, you’re undeterred.
Humming under your breath, you shrug off your clothes and fold them on the table to the side, like you’ve seen in the videos. It’s cold here, and you fight the shivers threatening to wrack your body.
As an aspiring Female Breeder, nudity is something you’ve had to grow familiar and comfortable with but now that you’re faced with your first time being nude in front of the opposite gender, it feels a little too daunting.
Heat flushes on your skin, embarrassment coursing through your veins, although one shy glance at him reveals he isn’t looking at you at all.
Are you disappointed or relieved?
The nurses had thoroughly cleansed and prepped your body — you’re washed, exfoliated, and waxed from head to toe. You’ve never felt cleaner and softer, like a newborn baby.
You climb onto the chair, the protective paper crinkling beneath you, and spread your legs. It faces him entirely, and you have to rationalise with yourself that he’s probably seen a thousand vaginas in his life and he won’t think yours look weird at all.
Bright, white light shines down upon you, and you squint at its blinding capacity. Then, you hear him put his pen down, and push his chair back.
“Alright, I will begin the examination now.”
Craning to see him, you watch him roll his sleeves up revealing the thickness of his forearms, the light hairs, and the prominent veins that run up the length and bulge with his movement. Doctor Nanami snaps latex gloves on with expert precision, a rehearsed move that’s become a habit.
He carries a clipboard and a pen, and he comes to stand over you, eyes roving over your body.
“I’ll be making notes for your record, please don’t mind me,” he mutters, adjusting his glasses.
You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze; it’s like you can feel the weight of his all-seeing eyes and where they land, where they skim, where they narrow in on, and where they return to. Does he find you attractive? If he saw you in the streets, would he be overcome with the need to breed you, hard and rough on the dirty ground?
“Forgive my touch,” Doctor Nanami says, reaching a hand down to press three fingers on the fat of your breast. He watches it bounce, and notes down his thoughts. “Your areolas seem to be quite average in size, neither too small nor too large per regulations. Its shade is also of interest.”
No one’s ever voiced out their assessment of your body like so. He’s so blunt, so matter-of-fact. Yet, you find that you don’t really mind it. It’s much better than the crude lies boys tell you. Many have tried to get under your skirt but you never let them. You vowed that your first time being touched would be by a respectable man who would accurately know your worth. And who would be better than someone whose whole occupation is dedicated to determining the worth of Breeders?
Doctor Nanami asks, “Do you touch your breasts?”
“Um, touch as in…”
He looks at you over the clipboard. “Do you play with your breasts? Do you squeeze them, grope them, tease your nipples, have you determined their sensitivity?”
“No…sorry.”
The State encourages you all to explore their bodies, to know your likes and dislikes as appropriate, but you never did. It seemed too scary for you. Virgins are not seen as especially good nor particularly bad in today’s climate. In fact, experience and skill is more valuable. That’s why you were hoping you could just leave it to the experts, when it came down to ‘getting down.’ At least then, they wouldn’t accidentally break something, like you fear you would.
Shaking his head, he says, “It’s nothing to apologise for. It simply means I will have to determine for myself.” He flicks to a different page on his clipboard and signs something. “Do you consent?”
“I consent.”
Board placed down on a metal table, he leaves both hands free.
You gulp as they approach your breasts.
A finger brushes lightly against the underside. You stiffen. It ventures up, circling your nipple but not touching just yet. Voice deep, he asks, “You know the breeding term for your breasts, yes?”
Suddenly feeling like you’re back in school, you answer, “Tits, sir— sorry, I mean, Doctor.”
His lip twitches. “That’s quite alright.”
His finger flicks your nipple, the bud already hard due to the chill of the examination room. You gasp.
Doctor Nanami nods, and does the same to the other. Now, both of your breasts are being groped. You writhe beneath him. “You have above average sensitivity,” he notes. “Are you partial to the sting of pain?”
“I-I don’t know,” you confess, distracted by the sensation of your nipples being flicked and rolled by latex-covered fingers.
“Well, let’s see, shall we?” That’s all the warning he gives you before he pinches both nipples hard. You wince, body ever so slightly jerking away from his merciless touch. The doctor hums. “It does not appear to be your thing. I’ll have to conduct more tests to determine for sure you do not have masochistic traits.”
Quietly and with a drop of fright, you ask, “Tests? What kind of tests?”
He presses a button on the chair, and the top half of your body is lowered down until your eyes are at his crotch level. You avert your eyes.
“Full-body tests. As per your records, you are a virgin and with little to no sexual exploration of yourself, correct?” He waits for your nod. He continues. “It means there is much information about you the State will be missing. It is my duty to fill in those blanks. You may revoke your consent now, but do be aware that you will have to rebook, and there is a backlog, so you may have to wait months before gaining your certification.”
You shake your head. “No, no, I don’t want to wait. You’re free to do whatever you’d like with me, Doctor.”
“Careful,” he rasps. “Those are Breeding words, Miss, and you are aware that, as per regulations, upon your consent to please, I have every right to take you up on that offer.”
Licking your lips, you allow yourself to eye the bulge that’s steadily growing in his slacks. Heat rushes to your pussy. You hadn’t meant to say those words, especially because you’re not yet qualified to do so, but you’re only one step away and, S.M.S.E. (State Mandated Sexual Examiners) have the privilege of being able to examine anyone they’d like — women who are not yet 21 but are at least 18, already married women, mothers, strangers on the street who wear the yellow pin to show they’re certified to fornicate in public.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to learn all about yourself before you step out into the wider world a real woman.
Plus, it’d be nice if your first time could be taken by someone as hot as him.
“I’d like a full body examination please, Doctor. I understand the implications of my word and consent to leaving my body to your full scrutiny,” you recite the prepared speech. “Please take care of me.”
Doctor Nanami sighs and picks up the clipboard. He signs another random page and hands it over to you. The page is titled ‘Virginity Removal Consent Form.’
At the bottom line, you sign too.
The dull thud of it placed back on the table signifies the finality of the contract.
Your heart beats faster, palms sweating, and core tingling to life.
“Alright, let’s start with your vagina.”
He drags his chair over to where your legs are spread on the stirrups, and sits there. You know he can see everything, and you know he’s properly looking now. You hope he’s not weirded out by how wet you are. His gloved hands rests on your knees, sliding down your inner thighs, rubbing warmth there, before they push them wider.
“Do you know the correct term for your vagina?”
“P-pussy,” you answer.
He nods, patting your thigh. “Good. Will you describe for me what I’m doing right now?”
“You’re looking at my pussy, Doctor.”
His fingers stroke your puffy lips, assessing the shape, size and colour, you’re sure. He spreads them open then, revealing you fully to his watchful eyes. “And now?”
“You’re spreading my pussy lips open, Doctor.”
“And if I have an erection in my pants, it means?”
You’re breathless at the question, and you’re aware that, at the twitch of his lips, he saw the twitch of your clit. You want to hide from him, but you can’t. And he wouldn’t let you. Despite your nervousness, you reply, “It means you like what you see?”
“And if my mouth is watering?”
A gasp tears out of you.
Countless videos have prepared you for your lines, but they’ve never prepared you for the real thing, never prepped you to be so openly desired by someone older and more experienced. How can he so easily say something like that? Doesn’t he know the effect he has on women?
His voice is so deep, so raspy, and his touch is warm despite the layer that keeps him from really touching you. Having such a hot doctor wasn’t a blessing, you realise; it’s a curse.
SMACK!
You yelp, thighs shutting around his hand. He’d slapped your pussy.
Growling, he shoves them back open and says, “I will repeat myself once, and only once — what does it mean if my mouth waters at the sight of your pretty pussy?”
“You want to taste it.”
Doctor Nanami’s breath fans across your sopping cunt. His hands tuuuuug you down so you’re even closer to his face. He doesn’t touch you there yet. No, he’s taking his time. First, he tests you again. “What’s this action called, hmm?”
“C-cunnilingus?”
“Are you asking or telling me?”
His curt tone leaves no room for argument; he’s not the kind of man who’s playful during sex, or even before nor after, it seems.
Eager to feel his mouth on you, to know what it feels like to be eaten out, to know for yourself if it feels as good as the couple you always see on the park bench on your way to school makes it seem, you whine, “Telling you, sir. Please taste me, please, Doctor.”
The scruff on his jaw rubs your inner thigh as he mutters, “You must be top in your class in Begging 101.”
Then, he’s tasting you.
A lap of his long, flat tongue covers your entire slit from hole to clit. He collects your wetness and gulps it down. Doctor Nanami mulls the taste over and says aloud, “Sweet. A 9.2 out of 10. I can tell you keep a healthy diet. Very good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
You feel his smile on your clit, lips mouthing against the pulsing thing. “Such a polite girl you are. You’ll make for a very good Breeder.”
That’s all you’ve ever wanted — to be taken so readily in the streets, to be watched as you’re fucked so good by a big, strong man who only wants to pump his cum inside your pussy, and be stretched out enough for another to slip in easily. You want to make your country proud.
Doctor Nanami laps up your juices precisely.
He doesn’t hesitate to circle the rim of your other hole too, if an errant drop were to escape him. In fact, he lingers there for a moment, waiting until you’re absolutely squirming and whimpering for it.
His tongue flicks your clit over and over again, sucking on the bud so you’ll hear the squelches! and feel the incredible pleasure of being eaten out by a pro.
Your hips rock towards his face, seeking the friction. The doctor’s gorging himself on your creamy juices, tasting you as if you’re just so delicious, so intoxicating. Tongue lashing through your cunt, he slithers it through, all while massaging your ass, kneading the flesh to comfort you.
He’s paying so much attention on your clit, it has you panting like a dog, and fighting to scramble away from him. “Ngh! Not there, please doctor.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” he scolds, yanking you back, and slapping your clit in punishment. You squeal. “The clitoris is where you’ll feel the most pleasure. Do not run from it.”
Squirming and blubbering, you confess, “It feels too scary.”
“Then I highly recommend you rub your little clit when you get home until you’re cumming all over your sheets. Grow very familiar with your pussy. I don’t want any arguments about it. You think a Breeder would go easy on your cunt?”
Of course the answer is no. You’ve seen from demonstrations in your college how relentless and cruel dominant Breeders can be — they’ll have you crying and begging and saying things you’d never say in any other situation. And by god, were you always so jealous. Like the other girls, you’d squeeze your thighs, soaking through your panties when piercing eyes would land on you, and scarred lips would curl into a smirk, as though vowing it’d be you next.
Delirious with the roughness of his slurrrping!, you can only nod and promise, “I will. I’ll rub my clit so hard later, Doctor.”
“Good girl.”
A dollop of spit lands with a thwack! right on your clit, sliding down your slit and mingling with your sloppy juices. Two fingers rub it in. He holds up his soaked hand, spreading the long digits to show you the translucent web it creates. Almost monotone, he quizzes you again, “What is the purpose of your pussy juices?”
“Lubrication.”
“Lubrication of what.”
“Of anything you want to put inside me, Doctor,” you mewl.
Doctor Nanami nods, pleased. “Clever girl. Most women answer with ‘cock’ or ‘fingers’ but the accurate answer is, the lubrication is to ease the entry of anything. Of course, there are a number of things you should not penetrate a pussy with, but in theory, anything goes. Now, relax for me.”
He pushes those two fingers in, pinning your hips with a heavy arm thrown over your belly so you can’t run away from the pressure.
They stretch you out, immediately curling upwards and finding that spot inside your gummy walls the broadcasts taught you was called a ‘g-spot’. It has you creaming even more on his fingers.
The feeling of latex against soft skin is odd, though it doesn’t bother you. It’s not a very thick material at all. You can still feel the callouses on his fingers, albeit weakly. Still, you wish you could feel him bare.
A thumb rubs your clit in tight circles, all while his fingers press in from inside, thoroughly stimulating all around and you feel it building and building. The doctor clamps his mouth over your clit, resistant to shoving hands.
“S-shit, I think I’m going to pee!”
“No,” he says, dragging the word out like you’re a child. “It’s not pee. You know what it is. Say it.”
Your cunt clenches around him. “Cum! Doctor, I’m gonna cum.”
“Yes, yes you are. But you must hold it.”
Eyes widening, you stare down at him, bewildered. “No, I can’t. I can’t hold it in!”
His cold eyes pin you to the chair, and with challenge in those eyes, he doubles the speed and intensity in which he’s sucking your clit and curling against your g-spot. “You can, and you will. Do not come until I count to one, do you hear me?”
A strong wrist pistons his fingers in, never missing that sensitive spot inside you, never breaking eye contact and never letting your clit get a second to rest.
“Three,” he says.
The obscene squelches he’s wringing from you reach your ears, filling the room, and you have to wonder if anyone could hear what’s happening here from outside. They’d probably be so jealous, waiting for their turn.
“Two.”
They’re imagining your lewd body played mercilessly by Doctor Nanami, and be incapable of deciding who they wanted to be more.
You being fingered to your first proper orgasm or him, having the honour.
“One.”
You cum with a scream. Hot juices spring out of you, splashing and coating his arm and labcoat with the liquid. As the State recommends, he guzzles down as much of your cum as he can, even as it dribbles down his chin. Your whole body spasms.
You’ve had orgasms before — accidentally realising you can feel good from humping your teddy bear in your bed, sitting on the washing machine as it was running, riding the crease of your jeans — but they’ve been weak in comparison to this.
The convulsions eventually slow. He gives your pulsing cunt a few final licks.
Limp, you lie there, panting from the remnants of a mindmelting cum.
Doctor Nanami pats your pussy, and leisurely strolls over to the other end. “Well done. You did well. It’s a good sign that you can squirt so easily. 60% of Breeders value that in their partners; you’ll be quite a popular thing.”
His wet, gloved fingers drag over your naked body, circling your clit for the last time, climbing up your belly, the valley between your breasts, flicking a nipple and making it glisten with your spend, before finally arriving at your mouth.
He smears your own juices across your lips, humming with approval when you lick his fingers clean.
Soon, he rips his gloves off and a second later, cold, calloused hands are rubbing your cheek. Looming over you, he pulls your bottom lip down to watch it bounce back in place, and says, “Open wide for me, dear.”
Shining a flashlight pen inside your mouth, he inspects that part of you too. Satisfied, he stands up, and begins to unbuckle his belt. The sound of leather scraping and metal clinking has your thighs clenching tight together, feet no longer on the stirrups.
His cock is freed and your mouth drools at the size.
It’s bigger than the average penises they show on the broadcasts, in the school textbooks and live performances. Long, clean, thick, with two veins leading up to a pretty, pink tip. A Grade 1 cock for sure!
Doctor Nanami taps the cockhead at your lips, and like the videos you’ve watched, you stretch your lips out into as big of an O as you can and readily swallow him in. You’ve practiced on dildos before, and even cucumbers, but none of your past experiences can compare to the feel of an actual cock.
The heat, the ridges, the salty taste of skin and pre…
It’s quite wonderful.
“No teeth,” he warns. “It will not reflect well on your record if you cannot blow a man properly.”
“I understand, Doctor.”
You shut your eyes tight, focusing on not gagging and throwing up all over him, like the textbooks warned against. To his credit, he’s going slowly, not shoving it all in one go. It’s an odd gentleness that contrasts with his usual harshness.
And when he’s about halfway in, he pulls out just enough to keep his tip inside your mouth, and inches back inside. Your hands clench into fists.
“Breathe through your nose,” he advises. “As soon as you are -hah- certified, there will be men wanting to take –mm, what a tight little mouth– t-take advantage of you. Be sure you warn them ahead of time you’re new and should not be deepthroated so casually, yes?”
You try to answer, but it comes out muffled, and when he groans, you realise maybe that was his intention all along.
Doctor Nanami cradles your neck. His thumb runs up and down the column of your throat, and you know he must be admiring the bulge of his cock. “I have no doubt you’ll be a Special Grade whore very soon.”
A couple seconds later, he pulls out again.
He doesn’t thrust back in.
Instead, he keeps his tip inside and says, “Lick it, sweetheart. Around, and on the slit. Slow but firm, that’s how I like it.”
You do as he says — you tongue his slit, digging the tip of your tongue inside and swallowing the salty taste he leaks out. The doctor grunts, clamping down on his base, and then he’s pulling away completely.
It wasn’t the most comfortable experience, but you have to admit, there’s something rather addictive about having your mouth preoccupied.
Back between your legs, he stands, tugging on his still-hard cock. It’s leaking precum and you almost want to lick it up again.
Doctor Nanami drops his heavy cock right onto your pussy, and your sticky juices grab on immediately. Back and forth, he begins sawing your cunt, drawing back so that his tip will nudge against your clit on his way up. Each thrust of his hip has you gasping and moaning.
“What do you call this act?”
He’s testing you again, and you don’t want to disappoint, so you answer, “Outercourse, sir. Or, pussyjob.”
“Good.”
Holding his cock down with a thumb, he makes sure the pressure and friction is just right. The squelches are coming back, so loud and so wet. He doesn’t make fun of you, doesn’t point out that you’re acting like a bitch in heat, he simply rubs his cock between your lips over and over again, until he’s smearing his pre on your lower belly.
Oh god, it’s so hot. His cock’s scalding against your pussy. You can’t believe you had to wait so long to be fucked.
The back of your knees are held. He pushes them back so that they’re grazing your chest. The position is uncomfortable, muscles creaking in complaint, and what’s more uncomfortable is the fact that he can see everything more clearly like this, even the puckering of your asshole.
“You will be bent in all sorts of positions,” he muses. “This is a personal favourite of mine, and soon you’ll have your own.”
That makes you smile.
You wonder what position men will put you in most, and which you’ll find the most pleasurable. Maybe doggy, since men love it so much. Maybe missionary because you can stare into your partner’s eyes and know that they’re rolling to the back of their heads. Maybe you’ll love all of them equally.
“Show me why it’s your favourite, Doctor. I want to feel you.”
Doctor Nanami leans forward, stretching your legs out even more, until his nose skims yours. “Open,” he huskily mutters. And when you do, his spit lands on your tongue. You swallow it down with a moan. “What a good girl you are. It’d be my honour to be your first. I promise to make you feel very good. Hold on to my arms, if you need. It might sting a little.”
His fat cock prods your opening. He inspects your face for hesitation, and when he finds none, only the eager drool of a whore ready for cock, he pushes in.
A whine leaves your lips.
“Mm fuck! It’s too big!”
Tutting, he doesn’t stop. “Breeders don’t complain. Breeders are grateful to be fucked by big cocks, yes?”
Tears in your eyes, you peer up at him, panting and feeling like you might pass out. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I -ngh- really don’t think I can take it.”
He shakes his head. “You can. You can absolutely take it. Be a good girl, won’t you? Breathe and relax this pussy for me. Just bear with it for another second, and soon you’ll be begging for more.”
The doctor’s stretching you out so wide, spearing you whole with his cock, that you think he might break you. But you have to trust him. He wants the best for you. With no other choice, you have to cling onto his strong arms, digging your nails for purchase.
Soon, he bottoms out. His pelvis presses against your clit. Absentmindedly, your hips grind in circles, aching for friction there.
“I’m going to start moving now. If you need to cum, you will tell me and ask for permission. Repeat it.”
“If I need to -hah- cum, I’ll ask for permission."
Doctor Nanami starts slowly, rutting his cock an inch at first, then two, then three, and soon he’s building up a clinical pace. His rhythm is consistent, unwavering, and it’s just what you need.
The pain disappears, and you have to think hard to remember if it even existed at all.
Just like he said, you begin feeling good. Too good.
Wantonly, you start moaning. Like something’s been awakened in you, you fuck back into him, eager to feel as much of him as you can.
“Your body was made to be fucked,” he rasps, hips slamming into yours now. Skin slaps against each other, making a fwop! fwop! fwop! sound you can’t escape from. “Your body was made to take cock. A good little cockwhore. Say it.”
“I’m a good -hngh!- cockwhore,” you moan out. Your tits are bouncing with the force of his thrusting. It can’t even be called that anymore — he’s effectively ramming his cock in, ploughing you.
His cockhead massages your inner walls, fighting against the pleats that try to hold onto him. He slides past your g-spot, constantly teasing the poor thing as he impales you on his fat, throbbing cock over and over again.
Doctor Nanami orders, “Look down. Tell me what you see.”
Your eyes fall to where you’re connected, and you clench hard on him. He grunts, hips speeding up.
“I see how deep you are, Doctor. I see my pussy taking you so easily now. Oh, fuck! Y-your cock, Doctor. I can see it pushing through my belly. You’re so big!”
“More,” he says.
You have to fight to keep your head steady, to make your glassy eyes clear enough to really see. “My juices and yours, they’re mixing a-and there’s a ring of cream at your base.”
Like he’d been waiting, he thumbs that cream and shoves it inside your mouth. It’s sweet, salty and tangy. You don’t hate it. You suck on it, bobbing your head up and down like it’s his cock. The doctor looks almost furious and he suddenly grabs your throat, squeezing hard enough to make you feel lightheaded. “God, you’re a filthy thing, aren’t you?”
Sweat layered over your skin, you know you’ve soaked through the paper beneath you. You slip and slide on the chair, kept in place by his firm hands. He’s ravaging you, rendering you a complete mess. No longer a woman, and just a slut for his cock.
It’s the best feeling in the world.
Just as he had done before, you play with your tits, squeezing and pinching your nipples.
So caught in the pleasure, you don’t notice he’d moved until something cold touches your clit. You shriek, hips grinding up towards it. You look down and see he’s picked up a stethoscope from somewhere. He rubs it in circles on the bundle of nerves, watching drool leak out of your lips at the slight sting of the coldness..
He lifts his glasses out of the way, and licks your drool up. The doctor shoves his tongue inside your mouth.
For the first time in the appointment, he kisses you. Your tongues tangle together, and you think you’ve never tasted anything more amazing.
His rough hands gather you up, bringing you to a sitting position. “Wrap your arms around me,” he commands.
Carried in his arms, he bounces you up and down on his cock, using gravity to do most of the work for him.
“Ngh! Y-you’re in so deep, Doctor!”
He huffs, glasses foggy with the humidity you two have created. You hold onto it, so it doesn’t rattle off. “You’re clamping down on me so hard,” he hisses. “You like this position, don’t you?”
“Yes! Yes! It’s so fucking good!”
Like this, he can push in even deeper. You swear you can feel him in your lungs. All the while, you’re still kissing him, sucking on his tongue and drinking up as much of his saliva as you can.
One of his hands is carrying you up by the ass, and he repositions it enough so that his finger can circle your asshole. You moan into his mouth. “Doctor, n-no!”
“You signed the form,” he growls out. “Behave and take it.”
That finger pushes in, knuckle deep, and it’s enough to make you feel so impossibly full.
“I’m going to cum,” you warn.
He shakes his head. “Wait.”
But you can’t. You cum again.
As you’re spasming in his arms, he doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you, splitting you with his throbbing cock. Only when you stop does he drop you back down on the chair, spinning you around so you’re face down on the soaked paper.
He thrusts back in, holding your hips and dragging it back and forth. “I told you to wait, didn’t I?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor! I couldn’t help it.”
“Oh, but you could. You just didn’t want to, did you, you little cockslut?”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Heat blossoms on your ass cheek, where he’d slapped the rippling flesh. He grunts with every clench of your cunt because of the pain. You don’t hate the pain. You almost beg him to spank you harder, but you don’t. Too much is already happening. You don’t think you can take any more.
You can only moan and moan and moan some more as he uses you like a fleshlight. The doctor spits on your puckering hole and hooks his thumb inside.
“Hngh! N-not -hic!- there.”
“Not here?” he repeats, mocking now. “But your pussy’s pulsing like crazy. It’d be wise if you learned to be more honest.” The doctor bends down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, and he whispers, “Like you should be honest with me and say you’re about to cum again.”
Drowning in your own wetness, his hand shoving your face down right where your pussy juices had pooled, you scream loud enough for the whole hospital to hear, “I want to cum again!”
“Go ahead, darling.”
You howl, hands ripping up what’s left with the paper and threatening to break through the foam padding of the chair. You’re beyond sensitive now after the numerous orgasms he’s given you, and the slapping of his balls on your clit is enough stimulation to have mini orgasms suffocating you from inside.
Doctor Nanami bundles up a handful of your hair, and he yanks. Your back arches, and your ass slams back onto his hips. Your gargled gasp echoes in the room. He’s in so fucking deep and you think he might never leave you again. Oh god, you hope he never does.
“You want to be creampied? Hmm? You want this dirty pussy filled with my cum?”
“Yes!” you cry. “I want you to cum inside me!”
“How kind,” he growls out.
Doctor Nanami spurts inside with a low grunt, hips still rutting. The force of his orgasm sends you over the edge again. You cum another time, yelling his name, and thinking you might actually die.
When he pulls out, jerking his cock to wring out the last spurts on your back. He groans out, “Such a good girl, you took my cock so well.”
Eventually, silence returns to the examination room. You wonder how long it’s been, if someone’s waiting to take your place, and then decide you don’t really care.
Your knees give up and you fall to the floor.
With a sigh, he picks you up and lays you back down on the chair.
Running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, he releases a breath and readjusts his glasses. As he fixes up his slacks, tucking his softening cock inside, he smiles warmly for the first time.
Doctor Nanami pecks your lips, fingers fucking the cum oozing out of you back inside your cunt, and keeping you plugged up.
↣ 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | explicit language and sexual content. 18+ to read.
↣ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 22.9k
↣ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you thought you could escape the past but jeon jungkook doesn’t know how to let go.
↣ sequel to tell me no lies ↢
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The trees flitter and shake between the howls of wind that gust through the nipping air. Somewhere between the chaos of blooming fall and the almost setting sun does a young man walk down the concrete path. He walks with a limp, a cane in his right hand guiding his steps. Trees stand stout yet tall on each side of the path that leads up to the hospital doors. The man pauses, a boxy smile peaking on his face as he cranks his face towards the window on the 5th floor, 6 windows to the right.
He pats the breast pocket of his black suede trench coat. There, he pulls out a pair of brown thick-rimmed sunglasses and fits them just above the broad end of his nose bridge where they sit snug over his chocolate eyes. He takes a forefinger to the left side of the temple where the screw holds the rim attached. His thumb rests on the apple of his cheek as the side of his index finger lightly turns the screw. He hears the soft buzz of the zoom, his vision through the sunglasses adjusting closer to the window. It’s his luck that the room is lit and the blinds haven’t been closed quite yet. He sees you, a tray in hand as you walk towards the man in the hospital bed. He continues to watch, observing the way the man smiles back at you when you set the tray of food down on the table that sits between the window and his bed. The observing man readies himself. His index now moves to the top of the screw where a button is present. He sees you face the window now, stretching your arms to the top of the curtains. The man hovers over the button, pressing down only halfway for the image to come into focus. For a moment, he thinks you may have seen him when it seems like you’re looking directly at him. He promptly presses down on the button, a quiet click sounding as it would on an actual camera.
“I’ve got you now.” He says to himself, his smile growing to an eerie grin as he watches you drape the curtains closed.
Time moves fast in hospitals– or at least it feels that way to you, sitting in the Doctor’s office with your legs crossed, glass panes gleaming and sunlight too bright to bear. It's been over a year since Jungkook walked out of your apartment and into the autumn night. Some days it feels like yesterday; most days it feels like a lifetime ago.
“I swear time couldn’t go any slower right now,” Namjoon drags out the words laced in frustration. You sit in stunned silence at how he protests to even your inner thoughts. He leans back in his chair with a groan, the toe of his shoe tapping impatiently against the sterile tile floor. The clock above the door ticks loud enough to grate on your nerves, each second dragging longer than the last. You try to count them, but lose track somewhere past thirty, your eyes drifting instead to the maze of reflections in the glass panes.
Just as Namjoon opens his mouth to complain again, the door finally clicks open. The doctor steps in, clipboard tucked under his arm, his face carefully arranged in that unreadable mask you’ve come to dread.
He offers a polite nod. “Sorry to keep you both waiting,” he says, settling into the chair across from you.
Namjoon exhales through his nose, a strained smile barely covering his impatience. “What do you have for us, doc?”
The doctor gives a sympathetic dip of his head before glancing down at his notes. His voice softens. “The experimental treatment given to Mr. Jung Hoseok was… mostly successful.”
“What do you mean mostly?” Namjoon almost hisses.
"Well– the first dose of the trial medication stabilized his vitals, but the results weren't as consistent as we had hoped." The doctor shifts in his chair, tapping the edge of the clipboard. "As you know, we were only able to identify the mass during the third round of imaging, it took us far longer than we'd have liked. The treatment has slowed its progression, but there are side effects and we won't know the extent of them for another few months. For now it's fatigue, muscle weakness… but he is awake."
The words hang in the air, heavy. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it rushes out. You lean forward. “Awake?” Your voice cracks. “As in- he can talk to us?”
The doctor nods once. “He’s conscious, responsive. Though he’ll need assistance for now.”
And that was enough for you all, until it wasn’t anymore.
The months that followed blurred into a rhythm of hospital visits and hollow routines. You moved through them the way you moved through water. It’s slow, heavy, and you never quite reach the surface. Some nights, you didn't reach it at all.
You think if you close your eyes hard enough, maybe just maybe you’d cease to exist.
3.
2.
1.
You let out all the air in your lungs, and your eyes bulge out. When the panic settles, you’re at complete and utter peace. But it doesn’t last for too long. Just as your vision goes dark and you let the water fill your lungs until there is nothing left of you, you wake up with a loud gasp.
“Woah, bad dream?” The voice seems distant yet all too familiar. It’s the voice of your very dear friend. It’s the voice of Hoseok.
You remember where you are again when your eyes hit the panelled ceiling. The metal grids give way to beaming lights subdued by frosted plastic, reminding you of the place you have basically called home for the last year. For as much money as it is to keep him here, you would be the first to admit Hoseok definitely has the best room in this hospital.
“I guess.” You let out a shaky breath and push up, palms flattening against the mattress as you swing your legs over the side. Bittersweet. Hoseok watches you with that careful tilt of his head, like he’s cataloguing your frayed edges. You don’t know that he’s wondering when your spirits had gotten so low. To him, you’ve always been the light of the group, though little did he know, you’d think the same of him.
You sigh once more and face towards him, brows now strewn together, a serious expression crossing your face until a question lodges in your throat.
“Are you afraid to die?”
It’s a heavy subject you’ve introduced, and you feel the room grow silent as Hoseok ponders over your question. Perhaps it’s because he’s so close to death itself that he doesn’t have to give it much thought for too long. He simply purses his lips and shakes his head ‘no’ in response. Maybe proximity to the edge makes it easier to answer; maybe he’s already rehearsed this.
Not a day has gone by since he woke up that you haven’t thought about how to say goodbye to Hoseok. Your friend is still very ill. Maybe that’s why you’ve grown so much resentment towards the world. It’s hard to wrap your head around but you try not to think about it often because he’s here right now, conscious and most importantly alive.
Hoseok’s hospital bed is quite different from the hospital bed the nurse put in the room for you. It’s quite different from yours as it’s actually hooked up to something- a lot of somethings at that. A nasal cannula is stuffed up his nose, attached to two giant tanks of oxygen and for a brief moment, it pangs you to see him like this. You’ve lost count of the wires that seem relentlessly stuck to his body, working tirelessly just to keep him afloat. Sometimes you wonder if it would have been better to let go than to see him struggle like this. But you’d never share this thought out loud, shuddering at yourself for even thinking it just now.
“It’s inevitable, _____.” A weak hand waves in the air as he tries to continue explaining his thoughts. “If not now, it’ll happen eventually- to all of us, so why be scared?” His voice is airy, quiet and less vibrant than you remember it being.
“The after-stuff,” you prompt. “What do you think happens after?”
He smiles the kind of smile you remember from before the sickness: small, stubborn and heart-shaped. “The after-stuff is whatever you want it to be.”
It’s then that Namjoon chimes in as he walks into the hospital room, a tray of hospital food in his hands. You already know whatever he’s about to say will be utter rubbish. “Well, _____ some people swear you’ll wake up in paradise, rivers of milk and honey, endless peace. Others think you’re reborn, spinning through life again and again until you finally get it right. There are even people who say we just…merge with the light, some kind of cosmic energy.” He pauses, smirking as he shifts the tray in his hands.
“Or if you’re like me, you know that there’s nothing waiting. There’s no heaven, no reincarnation…just dirt and silence.” It’s said in poor taste, and you see Hoseok frown in response.
“I didn’t realize I was asking you.” You say, deadpan at how ridiculous he sounds. “I didn’t realize the Christopher Hitchens was a part of our friend group.” To this, Hoseok snorts weakly and reaches over for the remote that controls his bed. You watch as he pushes a button that allows the headboard to elevate, letting him sit up in bed. Namjoon strides towards him, swivelling the tray attached to the hospital bed in front of Hoseok before placing the steaming bowl of rice porridge on the tray. A side of white kimchi follows, but Hoseok merely pushes it aside. Your stomach growls in response, realization setting in that you haven’t had anything to eat today. Granted, you haven’t had much of an appetite for a while.
Namjoon simply ignores you and stretches out a hand. “Come, _____, we’ll grab you something to eat too.” You reluctantly agree. Though your stomach is angry, rumbling the weight of Thor’s hammer itself. You can’t find the strength to leave Hoseok alone for even 10 minutes.
It strikes you as you walk the hallway that it's only two of you now. The halls feel wider without Jimin's nervous energy filling them. He stopped answering the group chat three months ago. He moved cities, changed his number, and you don't blame him, not really. After the heist, the guilt ate at all of you differently. Jimin just let it swallow him whole.
When you reach the hospital’s food court with Namjoon, it hums with the low chatter of visitors and the clatter of trays. By the windowsill, Yoongi sits hunched over his laptop, brows furrowed, tongue pressed against his cheek in the way that means he’s deep in code or trouble– maybe even both. He’s always damn up to something. He hasn’t noticed you yet, fingers tapping in sharp, relentless bursts. A knot of unease coils in your chest.
Namjoon doesn’t hesitate, steering you toward him. “C’mon,” he mutters, nodding at the empty chairs. Yoongi glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing briefly before he snaps the laptop half-shut, like he’s guarding secrets. Still, he kicks out a chair with his foot in silent invitation.
Namjoon orders a big bowl of pasta for you, sliding a tray into your hands before you can protest. It’s a rose cream pasta and the first bite is so rich and velvety it almost knocks the air out of you. For a brief moment, you forget everything—Hoseok’s labored breaths, the sterile walls and the gnawing fear. You just sit there savoring the food. Who knew hospital chefs could cook up a mean pasta? Enough about the pasta. You tell yourself as you stab into it. Then you look at Namjoon, at Yoongi, at the two constants who’ve dragged you through hell and back, and you can’t help the bitter thought: it’s crazy that you still keep these sacks of shit as your friends after everything they’ve put you through.
You twirl another forkful of pasta, pretending not to notice how Yoongi keeps one hand planted on the lid of his laptop, guarding it like a vault. Still, curiosity prickles.
“So…” you start carefully, tilting your head. “What’s got you looking like you’re about to declare war on that keyboard?”
Yoongi smirks faintly but doesn’t answer you right away. He leans back, eyes flicking to Namjoon. “She doesn’t know?”
Namjoon sighs, running a hand down his face. “Not yet.”
Your fork clinks against the bowl. “Know what?”
Yoongi drums his fingers on the table, weighing his words. “Another job.”
Your stomach lurches. “You’ve got to be kidding.” And just like that, you’ve lost your appetite. The pasta might as well be ash on your tongue. You shove the bowl forward, porcelain clattering against the tray, and the screech of your chair rips through the food court as you push back in one frantic motion. A few heads turn but you don’t care as you grab your tote bag and storm off past the rows of tables, through the automatic doors, and out into the back courtyard. The air hits different here. It’s crisp, carrying the faint scent of disinfectant masked poorly by trimmed hedges and damp grass. Patients wheel slowly along the paved paths, loved ones trailing beside them with soft voices and careful hands. Laughter bursts from a child chasing bubbles near the fountain, a cruel contrast to the storm churning in your chest.
You drop onto a bench beneath a bare tree, the tote bag slumping against your feet. You feel sick.
“_____!” You groan out loud, the sound ripping from your chest as you shove yourself up from the bench. Twisting toward him, you see Namjoon striding across the courtyard, hands jammed into his pockets like he’s trying to anchor himself.
“Are you fucking serious, Namjoon?” The words spill out harsher than you intended, but you don’t reel them back. “After everything? After the mess you dragged us into already? Are you out of your fucking mind?” A couple nearby patients turn their heads, but Namjoon doesn’t slow. His jaw tightens, his footsteps steady until he stops just a few feet away.
“We need the money.” Namjoon’s voice is flat, but there’s a tremor under it like a rope fraying.
“Fuck the money!” You snap, springing to your feet. Your palms ball into fists at your sides. “No wonder Jimin fucked off to wherever the fuck— I’m surrounded by a bunch of selfish—”
“Selfish?” Namjoon’s voice rockets up to match yours, and suddenly neither of you gives a damn who’s listening. He takes a step forward, chest heaving. “You’re calling me selfish? After everything? After the nights we slept in shifts keeping him breathing, after the loans we sold our souls for? Everything we’ve done has been for each other. For Hoseok. Just because your little fling got complicated doesn’t change that.”
You point, the finger shaking. “Hoseok is dying, Namjoon!“ Silence drops between you, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the squeak of a wheelchair rolling past and the low murmur of a caregiver. “The money didn’t fix him before and it’s not going to fix him now.” You hate that you’re a crier when you’re angry and you hate it even more that you’re now crying in public as the words spew without reason. “And don’t you dare minimize what happened. You’re lucky Jungkook didn’t put us in jail.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Namjoon snaps back, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “Do you remember what the oncologist said? The treatments found what's been killing him and they slowed it down, yeah and guess what? He’s awake. Has been for 8 months. Time and medicine cost money. This isn’t about some adrenaline rush anymore. This is about buying him time to be lucid one more week, one more month. You’d rather let that slide because what? You feel guilty about Jungkook?”
Your shoulders sag and your bottom lip quivers as you look at him, defeated.
“I’m not minimizing it,” he says quieter, too tired to keep yelling. “But does that mean we bury Hoseok because we can’t live with our choices? Is that the line you’re gonna draw?”
“So we become worse thieves for one life?” You sit back down, dragging the heel of your hand across your cheek to wipe the tears away. “We used to have purpose. Now it’s just… wrong. All of it. We’re clutching at a thread that’s already frayed.” You meet his eyes. “I can’t do it anymore, Namjoon.”
For the first beat, something like shame flickers across his face. Then he clasps his hands together like he’s trying to hold himself in. “It’s not logic,” Namjoon admits, the words raw. “It’s desperation. And yeah, maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’ll ruin us. But if I had a choice between sitting in this courtyard pretending we did the right thing or giving him a chance to walk again– I’ll take the chance.”
Around you, a nurse huffs past pushing a cart; a child squeals near the fountain. Life goes on indifferent to how you break. You want to argue until your voice shreds, but the furious words dissolve into air. The truth is bitter, small, and undeniable. It settles between you both and the reality is that you’re all out of clean options. Hoseok is dying, and Namjoon’s grasping at straws to save his best friend.
Namjoon straightens, jaw clenched. “I can’t promise it won’t hurt us more. I can’t promise anything but we have to try. We do this one right, and then we get out. No more risks after. I swear it to you.”
You look at him. In his face you see sleepless nights, math done in the dark, the same stubborn loyalty that once made him the one you could lean on. It’s not enough to make you agree. But it’s enough to make your anger hiccup into a different kind of ache.
“How much money is it this time?” you ask, your voice small.
“Half a billion dollars.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“How the fuck are we going to do that?”
An hour later, you're back in the hospital room, sitting by the window across from Namjoon, who's excitedly bouncing back and forth as he explains.
“It’s this thing called Obsidian and this shit, _____, it works. It really works, and the best part is, it’s completely untraceable.”
You nervously look over at Hoseok, who's sound asleep in the center of the room. You don't understand why this is being discussed right now but here you are. You can't lie, his excitement is undeniably contagious but despite it all, it's crazy.
Yoongi, who'd been quiet until now, looks up from where he's been fiddling with his phone. His tone is flat. "No one gets a magic bullet. Obsidian’s privacy features are strong. It's designed to hide sender, receiver, and amounts, but 'completely' is a stretch. Obsidian adds obfuscation layers, but there are still technical limits, market realities, people trying to map transactions. Nothing's foolproof."
Namjoon waves his hand as if swatting at Yoongi’s caution. “Still. Compared to bank transfers or the usual rails, this is the closest thing to disappearing a trail. If we move smart, if Yoongi can work the ledger-side…we can buy ourselves distance.”
You stare at them both, the words twisting in your chest. Hope and dread tangle when you realize the plan feels like a lifeline and a razor at once. Hoseok shifts faintly in his sleep, machines humming softly around him.
“We’d be gambling on a lot more than just code,” Yoongi says finally. “Half a billion moves markets. There are legal heats, exchanges, and people who make a living unpicking this stuff. It’s possible, but it won’t be clean.” The uncertainty in his tone makes your stomach drop.
Namjoon swallows and, for the first time, his bravado flickers. “We don’t have clean options,” he says, quiet. “Not anymore. This is just…our best shot.”
Silence settles over the room, thick and suffocating.
You drag a hand down your face before looking back up at them. “So what’s the plan?” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Because we can’t afford messy. Not with this kind of money.” You glance at Hoseok, then back at them. “Jail would be the least of our problems.”
Namjoon and Yoongi exchange a quick and loaded look.
“It’s not a smash-and-grab,” he says. “It’s a transfer. It has to be quiet and scheduled.” He taps his phone, then turns it so you can see a grid of timestamps, nodes- something far too complex to fully grasp. “There’s a window. Eight minutes, maybe less, where their system mirrors itself for auditing. That’s the gap.”
Namjoon leans in, voice dropping. “It’s happening during a private event. Invitation-only. High security. It’s the kind of place no one questions money moving because everyone there has too much of it.”
A bad feeling creeps up your spine. “And we just…walk in?”
Namjoon doesn’t answer right away.
Yoongi does. “We don’t all walk in.” His eyes lift to meet yours. “We need one person inside. Someone who can blend. Someone who won’t get flagged. Someone who’s invited.”
The room feels smaller. “And you think that’s me?”
Namjoon’s silence is answer enough.
Your stomach drops. “Why me?” The question comes out sharper than you intend. It feels like déjà vu, and you’re so damn tired of being the guinea pig in their plans.
Another look passes between them and this one you don’t miss.
Yoongi exhales through his nose. “Because of who’s hosting it.”
Your pulse spikes. “Who?”
Namjoon finally says it.
“Jungkook.”
The name hits like a physical blow. For a second, you swear the machines in the room grow louder, sharper. Hoseok shifts in his sleep, completely unaware of the way your world just tilted.
Namjoon presses forward, urgency bleeding into his voice. "After the Gemini merger went through, GFC exploded. He's not just running a production company anymore– he's sitting on a media conglomerate. The gala is for his parent fund. He's tied to the company moving the funds, front-facing, the whole deal. What matters is you have a way in that none of us do."
“A way in?” You let out a hollow laugh. “I stole nearly three million dollars from him– actually, we did, Namjoon– and now you want me to steal from him again?” Your voice rises despite yourself before you force it back down. “Are you guys out of your minds?”
“Exactly,” Yoongi mutters. “Which means he remembers you.”
“That’s not a good thing!” you snap, exasperated.
“It means you won’t be invisible,” Namjoon says. “And right now, invisible people don’t get into rooms like that. Plus he sent an invitation.”
You stare at him, disbelief morphing into something sharper. “So your plan is to walk me into a room full of elite, powerful people– his room– and hope he doesn’t decide to ruin my life on the spot?” Why would Jungkook invite you?
Namjoon doesn’t flinch. “My plan is to get you close enough to access what we need. Eight minutes. That’s all.”
“Eight minutes,” You repeat. “We failed last time. How can I trust you this time? And what if he recognizes me?”
“He will,” Yoongi says bluntly. Your throat goes dry as your gaze drifts back to Hoseok.
Your fingers curl against your sleeve as you watch him breathe.
“…Then I have a condition.”
Namjoon stiffens. “This isn’t exactly–”
“It is,” you cut in, quieter now, but firm. “If I’m doing this, I’m not doing it your way.”
Yoongi studies you. “What do you want?”
You don’t look at them when you say it.
“Hoseok comes with me.”
The silence that follows is different from the others. It's not heavy with guilt or grief but bewildered and almost offended. You can feel Namjoon's stare boring into you without looking.
"He can barely stand," Namjoon says slowly, as if explaining something to a child.
"I know what he can barely do." You finally meet his eyes. "But if I'm walking back into that man's life to rob him again, Hoseok is going to know exactly what we're doing and why. No more secrets. No more pretending this is noble while he sleeps through it." Your voice doesn't waver. "He deserves to see what his life is costing us. And if he tells us to stop, we stop."
Namjoon opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw works like he's chewing on glass.
Yoongi is the one who speaks. "That's a hell of a condition."
"It's the only one I've got."
It takes you three days to work up the nerve.
Three days of rehearsing speeches in the shower, of mouthing words into the bathroom mirror that dissolve the second you try to hold them. Three days of sitting at Hoseok's bedside, watching him sip broth through a straw, laughing weakly at whatever variety show is playing on the mounted TV and swallowing the confession each time it crawls up your throat.
On the fourth morning, you arrive earlier than usual. The hallway is quiet, the nurses mid-shift change, and you carry two cups of vending machine coffee that you know Hoseok isn't supposed to have. It's a peace offering. Or maybe a bribe. You're not sure there's a difference anymore.
He's already awake when you nudge the door open with your hip, propped up against the elevated headboard with his eyes fixed on the window. The morning light catches the hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his jaw that used to be softer, rounder. He looks like a pencil sketch of the person you grew up with all the right lines, just thinner.
"You're early," he says without turning. His voice carries that raspy quality it has before noon, like his body needs a few hours to remember how to be alive.
"Couldn't sleep." You set both cups on his tray table, nudging one towards him. He eyes it, then you, a brow lifting.
"Is that coffee?"
"It's a vending machine's best interpretation of coffee."
He takes it anyway, wrapping both hands around the paper cup like it's something precious. You watch his fingers as they appear thinner than they should be, the knuckles more pronounced. He catches you staring and you look away too quickly.
"You've been weird," Hoseok says.
You blink. "What?"
"Weird. Weirder than usual." He takes a careful sip, wincing at the taste but drinking again anyway. "You keep looking at me like you're trying to memorize my face. And you chew your lip when you're holding something back– you've been doing that since high school." He gestures vaguely at your mouth with the cup. "You're doing it right now."
You release your bottom lip from between your teeth. Damn him.
A silence stretches, filled only by the rhythmic beep of his heart monitor and the distant squeak of a cart rolling down the hallway. You pull the chair closer to his bed, the metal legs scraping against the floor. When you sit, your knees are almost touching the bed rail.
"Hobi," you start, and the nickname alone shifts something in the room. You only use it when things are serious, and he knows that. His expression doesn't change, but you notice the way his fingers tighten around the cup. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to let me finish before you say anything."
He regards you for a long moment, lips pressed together, before he gives a single nod.
You don't start where you expected to. You thought you'd begin with the plan, with Namjoon's blueprints and Yoongi's flash drives and the clinical structure of it all. Instead, what comes out is Jungkook's name.
"I fell in love with someone." The words feel foreign and familiar at once, like a language you used to speak fluently. "His name is Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook. He's– he was my boss. CEO of a film production company." You pause, tracing a scratch on the bed rail with your thumbnail. "I was supposed to be a distraction. That's all and those were Namjoon's word, not mine. Get close, earn his trust, keep his attention somewhere else while Yoongi and Jimin did their thing."
Hoseok's brow furrows, but he stays silent. Honouring his promise.
"But I fell for him, Hobi. Completely. Stupidly. The kind of falling where you don't realize it's happening until you're already at the bottom." You swallow hard. The coffee in your hand has gone lukewarm but you grip it tighter. "He took me to a carnival. Won me a stuffed penguin. Named it Lyara— said it was a name for a future daughter." A breath shudders out of you. "He told me he loved me, and I said it back, and I meant it. I meant every syllable."
Something shifts behind Hoseok's eyes. It’s not judgment but something closer to ache.
"And then I robbed him."
The words drop like stones into still water. You watch the ripple cross Hoseok's face. It’s confusion first, then a slow, dawning understanding that rearranges his features entirely.
"We took two and a half million dollars," you continue, your voice flattening into something mechanical because if you let yourself feel it now, you'll never finish. "The Gemini Pictures merger… Jungkook's company was about to become one of the biggest production firms in the industry. We stole the deal. Yoongi hacked the system, Jimin and I broke in at night. I used a secret entrance Jungkook had shown me in confidence. I used his password, which was the date we first met, to access his computer." You pause. "He'd changed it to that date because it mattered to him. And I used it to steal from him."
Hoseok's jaw tightens. He sets the coffee cup down carefully, deliberately, the way you set down something when your hands need to be free.
"He found out with security cameras we missed. He showed me the footage over a dinner I cooked him– sat across from me with flowers and an envelope and watched me unravel." You're not crying yet, which surprises you. Maybe you've cried it all out. Maybe the numbness has finally won. "He said it was never about the money. That I stole his dignity, his trust. Everything." A beat. "He didn't press charges. He just… left."
The heart monitor beeps. Beeps again. The sound is maddening in the silence.
"Why?" Hoseok's voice is barely above a whisper. It's the first word he's spoken, and it cuts deeper than any sentence could.
You look at him, really look at him. At the nasal cannula, the oxygen tanks, the constellation of wires that tether him to the machines keeping him alive. At the boy who used to outrun all of you, who danced until his shoes wore through, who laughed so loud it filled whatever room he was in.
"For you."
The silence that follows is not like the others. It doesn't settle, it detonates. Hoseok's face doesn't crumble the way you expected. It hardens. You watch something cold move across his features, something you've never seen directed at you in all the years you've known him.
"For me," he repeats. Not a question.
"Your medical bills were–"
"I know what my medical bills are." His voice is quiet, but the edges of it are bladed. "I see the invoices. I'm sick, _____, not blind." He shifts in the bed, the movement costing him visible effort, and you instinctively reach forward to help. He stops you with a look. "Don't."
Your hand hovers, then retreats.
"So let me get this straight." Hoseok's breathing has quickened, the cannula hissing faintly with each inhale. "You, Namjoon, Yoongi and Jimin— my best friends— decided to become thieves. To steal from people. To ruin someone's life." He holds up a trembling hand when you open your mouth. "I said let me finish."
You press your lips shut, the irony of your own request being turned against you not lost.
"You fell in love with this man. And then you robbed him. While he was falling in love with you." He lets the words breathe, each one more surgical than the last. "And the whole time, I was unconscious. I had no say. No vote. You just decided—all of you— that my life was worth more than your souls and you never once thought to ask me if I agreed."
The tears come now. Of course they do.
"Hobi–"
"Who asked you to?" The question snaps out of him with a force that startles you both. The heart monitor spikes briefly, a nurse peeks through the window before Hoseok waves her away with a shaking hand. He waits until the footsteps recede before he speaks again, quieter now, but no less sharp. "Who asked any of you to do that for me?"
"Nobody had to ask!" Your voice breaks open, raw and desperate. "You're our family, you were dying, Hoseok, and we couldn't just–"
"You turned yourselves into criminals for me," he says, and the way he says it flat and disbelieving, almost disgusted. It carves a hollow in your chest. "You destroyed a man who loved you. For me. And I didn't even get to say no."
A sob wracks through you, ugly and uncontrolled. You press the heel of your palm against your mouth, trying to contain it, but it spills through your fingers like water. Hoseok watches you cry. He doesn't reach for you. He doesn't soothe you. For the first time in your friendship, he lets you sit in it.
When your breathing steadies to something resembling functional, Hoseok speaks again. "And now?" He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with a sharpness that reminds you he was always smarter than any of you gave him credit for. "You didn't come here just to confess. There's something else."
Of course he knows. The realization almost makes you laugh– a watery, broken thing. You drag your sleeve across your face.
"Namjoon has another plan. And it’s bigger, way bigger." You force yourself to hold his gaze. "Half a billion dollars. And it’s tied to Jungkook's company." You watch his eyes widen, his lips parting. "I told them I wouldn't do it unless you knew. Unless you were there. And unless you had the right to tell us to stop."
Hoseok stares at you for a long time. Long enough for the light in the room to shift, the morning sun climbing higher past the blinds, painting warm stripes across the foot of his bed. His jaw works, lips pressing and releasing. You can see the war behind his eyes and the fury wrestling with something else, something softer and more complicated.
"You want to take me to a gala," he says slowly. "Me." He gestures at himself with the wires, the tubes, the hospital gown. "Looking like this."
"I don't care what you look like."
"That's not the point and you know it." He exhales, the sound rattling in a way that makes your stomach clench. He looks towards the window, the curtains still drawn from where you'd closed them the night before. "Do you still love him?"
The question catches you off guard, an ambush from a flank you hadn't defended. Your mouth opens and then closes. You think of the carnival, the Ferris wheel, fireworks reflected in Jungkook's dark eyes. You think of Lyara the penguin, waterlogged and drenched on your apartment floor. You think of the blue plastic ring.
"Yes." It comes out barely audible. "I don't think I ever stopped."
Hoseok closes his eyes. The heart monitor beeps its steady rhythm, indifferent to the weight of what's unfolding.
"Then you need to know something." He opens his eyes, and when they meet yours, the anger has dimmed. What remains is something older and steadier. The Hoseok who held your hair back at parties, who proofread your essays at 3am, who once drove four hours in a thunderstorm because you called him crying. "If I let you do this… if I agree to be part of whatever the hell this is– it's not so you can steal from him again."
Your brow creases. "Then what—"
"It's so you can tell him the truth." His voice is firm despite its fragility, carrying a conviction that his body can no longer match. "About me. About why. About everything." He holds your gaze, unyielding. "You said he asked why, and you couldn't answer. This is your answer, _____. I am."
The simplicity of it winds you.
"If we walk into his world," Hoseok continues, "I'm not going as your alibi or your excuse. I'm going so he can see what you were trying to save. And then he can decide for himself whether it was worth what you took from him." He pauses, chest rising with a laboured breath. "That's my condition. Not Namjoon's money. Not Yoongi's code. The truth."
You stare at him, this man held together by machines and sheer will, and you realize that in trying to save his life, you forgot to account for who he actually is. He’s not a cause nor a justification but a person. One with more moral clarity in his deteriorating body than the rest of you have managed with your healthy ones.
"And if I tell him the truth," you say quietly, "and he still hates me?"
Hoseok's expression softens. For the first time since you started talking, you see the ghost of his heart-shaped smile but it’s not the full thing– just the scaffolding of it. It’s enough to remind you it still exists.
"Then at least he'll hate you for who you really are. Not for who he thinks you are."
You exhale. It feels like the first real breath you've taken in a year.
"And if Namjoon…"
"I'll deal with Namjoon." There's a glint in Hoseok's eye, something almost mischievous buried beneath the exhaustion. "He's not going to like it. But the last time I checked, it's my life you're all wagering with. I think that earns me a seat at the table."
You look down at your hands. They've stopped shaking. When you look back up, you reach for his hand gently, careful of the IV line taped to his wrist. He lets you take it this time. His fingers are cold, thinner than they should be, but they tighten around yours with surprising strength.
"I'm sorry, Hobi." The apology sits differently now. It's not the performative kind you've been rehearsing. It's stripped bare, a thing with no armour.
He squeezes your hand once. "I know." A beat. "But you owe that apology to someone else more than you owe it to me."
You nod, because he's right. He's so devastatingly right.
Outside the window, behind the curtains neither of you can see past, the autumn wind picks up. Somewhere on the path below, a young man in a black suede trench coat tucks his camera glasses into his breast pocket and pulls out his phone.
He dials. The line picks up on the second ring.
"She told him everything," he says, his boxy smile pulling wide. He pauses, listening. Then: "No, not yet. But she will."
A voice on the other end, quiet, measured.
"Understood, Mr. Jeon. I'll keep you updated."
The line goes dead. Kim Taehyung pockets his phone, adjusts the grip on his cane, and walks back towards the parking lot. The first leaves of autumn skitter across the concrete behind him, carried by a wind that seems to know exactly where it's going.
Namjoon doesn't take it well.
You expect this, of course. You've known him long enough to read the weather patterns of his anger. The tight jaw comes first, then the nostril flare, then the deadly calm that precedes the storm. What you don't expect is for Hoseok to be the one holding the umbrella.
It happens the following evening. You're the one who texts Namjoon, a simple 'come to the hospital.' With no context or softening. He arrives within the hour, Yoongi trailing behind him with his hands buried in his hoodie pockets and his laptop bag slung over one shoulder. They enter Hoseok's room expecting a logistics meeting. Instead, they find Hoseok sitting upright in bed– truly upright, not the half-reclined slouch he usually settles for. The TV is off and the overhead lights are turned to full. It feels less like a hospital room and more like a courtroom.
"Sit down," Hoseok says.
Namjoon glances at you. You're already seated by the window, arms crossed, offering nothing. He pulls up a chair, the legs squealing against the tile. Yoongi claims the far corner, perched on the windowsill with his legs dangling. He has the look of someone who already suspects what's coming.
"She told me." Three words. Hoseok lets them land without a cushion, watching the impact register on Namjoon's face. To his credit, Namjoon doesn't flinch. But you see it, the barely perceptible tightening around his eyes and the way his fingers flatten against his thighs.
"Told you what?" Namjoon asks. It's not denial. It's a test– he wants to know how much.
"Everything." Hoseok holds his gaze. "RED Hotel. Jungkook. The two and a half million. The fact that four people I'd take a bullet for became thieves while I was unconscious, and nobody thought to mention it once I woke up."
The room goes vacuum-sealed. You hear the oxygen tank hiss beside Hoseok's bed, marking time in soft, mechanical breaths. Namjoon's jaw works. You recognize the motion as he's building an argument, assembling it brick by brick behind his teeth.
"Hoseok–"
"I'm not done." Hoseok's voice carries an authority you haven't heard from him in years. It's faint, sure and it’s carried on compromised lungs and thinned breath. But the steel in it is unmistakable. Namjoon's mouth closes. "I know why you did it. I understand the reasoning. I even understand the math." He gestures faintly toward the machines flanking his bed. "Trust me, nobody in this room is more aware of what it costs to keep me alive than the person it's actually costing."
The guilt hits all three of you simultaneously. You see it in the way Yoongi's gaze drops to his sneakers and Namjoon's throat bobs with a hard swallow.
"But you didn't ask me." Hoseok's eyes are glassy now, though nothing falls. "Not once. Not before the first job, not before Jungkook, not before any of it. You decided my life was worth whatever it cost and you took that decision away from me." He pauses, the effort of sustained speech visible in the rise and fall of his chest. "I'm the one dying, Joon. Don't I get a say in what people destroy to keep me here?"
Namjoon leans forward, elbows on his knees, head dropping between his shoulders. For a long, terrible moment, you think he might cry. Namjoon doesn't cry. You've seen him through breakups, through his father's funeral, through the night Hoseok collapsed and the ambulance took twenty-three minutes to arrive. He didn't cry then. He’s organized, he’s planned, he’s calculated. Crying was a luxury he never permitted himself.
He doesn't cry now either. But it's close. When he raises his head, his eyes are red-rimmed, his voice stripped of its usual command.
"What was I supposed to do?" The question is so raw, so unlike the Namjoon who always has an answer, that it physically hurts to hear. "Watch you die? Sit in that waiting room and count ceiling tiles while they told us you had weeks?" His voice cracks on the last word. He catches it, swallows, presses on. "There was no version of this where I did nothing. I couldn't– I can't do nothing. Not when it comes to you."
The confession unpins something in the room. Yoongi turns his face toward the window, his reflection caught in the glass with a tight jaw and distant eyes. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing you are: that Namjoon never once framed this as anything other than a mission, a plan, a stratagem. Never once admitted that underneath the blueprints and the bravado, it was just a man terrified of losing his best friend.
Hoseok exhales a long, thin whistle through the cannula. "I know," he says, and there's no anger left– just a bone-deep weariness. "I know you can't do anything. It's the most annoying thing about you." The faintest crack of a smile, gone as quickly as it appears. "But here's what's going to happen."
Namjoon straightens. You see him shift instinctively into listening mode, the same posture he adopts when a plan is being laid out. Old habits.
"I'm going to the gala," Hoseok says as if he's announcing he's going to the cafeteria. Matter-of-fact and decided. "Not as a prop. Not as your sick friend who justifies everything. I'm going because _____ owes someone the truth and she's not going to do it alone." His eyes find yours and hold. "And I'm going because if this is what my life is costing, I want to look the price in the face."
Namjoon opens his mouth–
"I'm not finished." Hoseok's hand raises, trembling but firm. "The job goes forward. I'm not going to pretend I can stop you, you're all too stubborn and too stupid for that." The faintest ghost of warmth in his voice. "But the truth comes first. Before Yoongi touches a keyboard, before anyone transfers a single won, _____ tells Jungkook why. She shows him me. And if after he knows, if after he sees what you were trying to save, he still wants us gone? We go. We walk away. No arguments. No contingencies."
"That's—" Namjoon starts.
"Non-negotiable." Hoseok meets his stare, unflinching. "You stole two and a half million dollars from that man to pay for my heartbeat. I think the least I can do is show him the heart."
The silence that follows is so absolute, you can hear the fluorescent lights humming above you. Namjoon sits motionless, eyes locked with Hoseok's. Something passes between them that you've only ever witnessed a handful of times. It’s a form of communication that predates the rest of you, rooted in a friendship that started before any of yours did. They were friends first. Before the group, before Jimin, before Yoongi, before you. That foundation carries a weight none of you can overrule.
Namjoon's shoulders drop but not in defeat, in concession. He nods once. "Okay." The word costs him more than the half a billion ever could.
Yoongi speaks for the first time. "For the record," he says from his corner, still facing the window, "I think this is the best idea any of us has had in two years." He turns, and there's something close to respect in his gaze when it settles on Hoseok. "You should've been calling the shots the whole time."
Hoseok smiles and it’s the real one this time, heart-shaped and warm, though it sits on a face too thin to hold it properly. "Yeah," he says. "I should've been."
Two weeks before the gala, your life becomes a choreography of preparation and pretense.
Yoongi sets up a command center of sorts in Hoseok's hospital room, much to the displeasure of the nursing staff. His laptop occupies the guest table, flanked by two additional monitors he smuggled in inside instrument cases. The wires snake across the floor like veins, taped down in haphazard lines that one particular nurse has tripped over three times. You've started leaving her apology chocolates at the nurses' station.
"The system mirrors for exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds," Yoongi explains one afternoon, pointing to a diagram on his screen that looks like a subway map designed by a lunatic. "During that window, the auditing protocol creates a duplicate ledger. We intercept the mirror, redirect the funds through a series of Obsidian wallets layered on the platform’s blockchain, and by the time the mirror collapses, the money's been scattered across so many nodes it would take a forensic team six months to trace a single transaction."
"And you can do all of that in seven minutes?" You lean over his shoulder, squinting at the screen.
"Seven minutes and forty-three seconds," he corrects. "And no. I can do it in four."
"Then why do we need eight?"
"Because four minutes is for the transfer." He taps a second diagram. "The other four are for you."
You frown. "Me?"
"You need to physically access a terminal at the event. The system requires biometric confirmation from an authorized user to initiate the mirror. A fingerprint scan." He looks at you over the rim of his glasses. "Jungkook's fingerprint."
Your stomach bottoms out. "You want me to get his fingerprint."
"I want you to get him to touch a screen," Yoongi clarifies, pulling up an image of what looks like an ordinary phone. "This. It's a modified device, looks like a standard tablet. The screen captures biometric data on contact. All you need to do is get him to interact with it. Hand it to him, show him something on it. Thirty seconds of contact is all I need."
"You want me to hand Jungkook, a man I robbed and whose heart I broke— a tablet. And have him casually press his finger to it."
"Ideally his thumb." Yoongi's tone doesn't change. "Index works too."
You stare at him until he has the decency to look uncomfortable. From across the room, Hoseok snorts.
The suit fitting happens on a Tuesday.
Namjoon arranges it through a contact, someone who doesn't ask questions and makes house calls to hospitals. The tailor arrives with a rolling rack and a measuring tape draped around his neck like a stethoscope. The irony isn't lost on any of you.
Hoseok hasn't stood unaided in months, but he insists on being upright for the measurements. It takes both you and Namjoon to help him from the bed, his arms draped over your shoulders, legs finding the floor like a newborn colt. The tailor politely pretends not to notice the IV stand trailing behind his client.
"Charcoal or navy?" the tailor asks, unfurling fabric swatches.
Hoseok studies them with more intensity than a dying man should reasonably dedicate to colour theory. "Black," he says finally.
"Black wasn't an option," Namjoon mutters.
"It is now." Hoseok stands a little straighter, the effort whitening his knuckles where they grip the bed rail. "If I'm going to a party to show some billionaire what his money paid for, I'm not doing it in charcoal."
You press your lips together to keep from laughing, but the sound escapes anyway, a wet, breathy thing that's half humor and half grief. The tailor measures him with clinical efficiency: inseam, shoulders, waist. Each number feels like a subtraction, a quantification of how much of Hoseok has been whittled away. His waist is narrower than yours now. The tailor doesn't comment.
When it's your turn, the process is quicker. Namjoon has procured a gown that’s floor-length, deep emerald, with a neckline that suggests elegance and a back that suggests intention. You try it on in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror under fluorescent light that does no one any favours.
You barely recognize yourself, and it’s not because of the dress, but because of the eyes staring back at you. They're harder than you remember. More guarded. The woman who fell in love with Jungkook at a carnival had softer edges. You wonder if he'll notice.
When you step out, Hoseok is back in bed, but he wolf-whistles, breathy and weak and absolutely ridiculous. And for a single, perfect moment, it feels like old times.
"Stunning," he says. "He won't know what hit him."
You smooth the fabric over your hip. "That's what I'm afraid of."
The days leading up to the gala pass in a strange twilight of hyperactivity and dread. Yoongi runs simulations. Namjoon drills contingencies. Hoseok practices walking.
This last part guts you more than anything else. Every morning, you watch him grip the parallel bars the physical therapist set up along the length of his room, knuckles bone-white, jaw set, legs quaking beneath him as he forces one foot in front of the other. The cannula trails behind him, the oxygen tank wheeled alongside by a patient nurse who's learned to match his agonizing pace. Ten steps the first day. Twelve the second. By the end of the first week, he makes it to the door and back.
He doesn't complain. Not once. Not about the pain, not about the exhaustion that collapses him back into bed afterward, not about the indignity of a twenty-six year old man celebrating the fact that he walked fourteen steps. When you catch him grimacing after a session, he flattens his expression the instant he notices you watching.
"Stop looking at me like that," he says one evening, breathless and sheened with sweat.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm going to break."
You hold his gaze. "Are you?"
He considers this for a moment, genuinely, then shakes his head. "Not yet."
By the second week, he can manage twenty steps with a cane. It's enough. It has to be.
Twelve hundred kilometres away, in a penthouse suite that overlooks the city from the forty-second floor, Jeon Jungkook stands at the floor-to-ceiling window with a glass of whiskey he hasn't touched.
The city below pulses with light and arterial reds of brake lights, the gold spill of storefronts, the cold blue wash of office buildings still lit past midnight. It's beautiful in the way that expensive things are beautiful: perfectly maintained and utterly soulless.
He hears the elevator chime behind him but he doesn't turn.
"She told him," Kim Taehyung's voice carries across the marble floor, accompanied by the rhythmic tap of his cane. "Everything. The first heist, you, the money. All of it."
Jungkook's reflection stares back at him in the glass, translucent, ghostly against the cityscape. He's changed in the year since he walked away from her door. His hair is shorter, cropped close at the sides and pushed back from his forehead. The softness that once rounded his cheeks has sharpened into angles. He looks older. Not in years but in something harder to quantify.
"How did he react?" Jungkook asks. His voice is even, controlled. It’s the voice of a man who's spent twelve months learning how to discuss her without flinching.
Taehyung settles onto the leather sofa behind him, stretching his bad leg out with a wince. "Angry. He didn't know any of it. They kept him in the dark the entire time." He pauses.
Jungkook is quiet for a long time. The ice in his untouched whiskey has melted, the amber liquid diluted to pale gold. When he finally speaks, his voice is stripped back, nearly inaudible.
"He's dying. Has been for a while." Taehyung's voice loses its professional edge, softening into something more human. He and Jungkook are friends before they are business associates and have been since Taehyung took a bullet in Busan five years ago that left him with a permanent limp. Jungkook paid for his rehabilitation without being asked. Loyalty, between them, is a currency that predates money.
Jungkook closes his eyes. Behind his lids, he sees her. Not the woman who sat across from him at the dinner table, leafing through surveillance photos with trembling hands. He sees the woman he fell in love with ice cream on her lip, laughing at something he said.
"I hired you to find out why she did it," he says quietly. "I hired you to get them close enough so I could look her in the eye and understand. That's all I wanted. An answer." He finally lifts the glass, taking a sip of the watered-down whiskey. It's weak and bitter, and he grimaces but drinks again anyway. "I didn't plan for this."
"For what?"
"For a reason that makes sense." He sets the glass down on the sill, harder than necessary. The sound pings across the silent penthouse. "It was supposed to be greed. Something I could be angry at.” He swallows. "Not a dying man in a hospital bed."
Taehyung watches him carefully. "Does it change anything?"
Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out— a small, circular object that catches the city light. A bright blue plastic ring. The paint has faded, chipped in places, but he's kept it. This entire time, he's kept it.
He turns it between his fingers, studying it the way one studies a relic from a past life.
"It changes everything," he says finally. "And nothing. She still lied." He pockets the ring again. "But now I know she had a reason. And that might be worse."
"Worse?"
Jungkook looks at Taehyung, and for the first time, the mask slips. Underneath is not the CEO, not the conglomerate head, not the man with his name on buildings and gala invitations. Underneath is a boy with doe eyes who fell in love with the wrong person and hasn't figured out how to fall back out.
"Because I could've helped her." The words land like a confession of their own. "If she had just told me about her friend, about the money, about any of it— I would've helped. I had the resources. I had the means. She didn't have to steal from me." His voice frays at the edges. "She chose to rob me instead of trust me. And I don't know which one hurts more."
Taehyung is silent for a long time. "The gala is in six days."
"I know."
"Namjoon's team is prepping. Your security detail has their profiles. We can intercept at any point."
"No." Jungkook turns from the window, eyes hardened with resolve. "Let them come. I need them to do this for me.”
Taehyung nods, rising from the sofa with a lean on his cane. He studies Jungkook for a moment, then turns for the elevator. He stops halfway, speaking over his shoulder. "For what it's worth," he says, "I don’t think you’ve left her mind."
"Maybe." Jungkook's voice is barely a whisper. "But eventually she’ll have to leave mine."
The elevator doors close. Jungkook stands alone in the penthouse, the city sprawled beneath him like a circuit board, every light a connection, every dark space a severance. He thinks of a password he once set: eight digits, a date, a beginning. He wonders if endings have dates too.
The night of the gala arrives the way all inevitable things do, too quickly and not quickly enough.
You're in Hoseok's room, the emerald gown pooling around your feet as you sit on the edge of his bed, holding a tube of lipstick you can't seem to apply with steady hands. The room has been transformed over the past two weeks with Yoongi's command center now humming in the corner, three monitors glowing with data feeds and communication channels. A garment bag hangs from the curtain rod, Hoseok's black suit pressed and waiting.
Namjoon arrives in a charcoal suit that fits like an apology. He hasn't said much in the days since Hoseok laid down his terms, operating with a quiet efficiency that you've come to interpret as his version of penance. He runs through the plan one final time with Yoongi over comms, voice low and clinical, stripped of the bravado that used to characterize these briefings. Something has changed in him. The desperation is still there, but it's been tempered, reined in by the leash of Hoseok's conviction.
"Comms check," Yoongi says from behind his monitors, an earpiece tucked into his right ear. He'll be stationed in a service van two blocks from the venue, running the operation remotely. "Radio silence unless absolutely necessary. _____, your frequency is channel 3. Namjoon is on standby at channel 7. If anything goes sideways—"
"It won't," Namjoon interrupts. He meets Yoongi's stare. "It can't."
Yoongi holds his gaze for a beat, then nods.
The hardest part is getting Hoseok ready.
It takes forty minutes. You help him into his shirt first, guiding his arms through the sleeves with the gentleness of handling something irreplaceable. Namjoon handles the trousers, steadying Hoseok's legs as he steps into them one at a time, both of them pretending it's not a struggle. The jacket goes last, and when Hoseok is finally dressed, standing between the two of you in his black suit, cane in one hand, cannula removed for the first time in months, you almost lose your composure entirely.
He looks beautiful. Devastatingly, impossibly beautiful. The suit hangs on his diminished frame in ways the tailor couldn't fully compensate for, the shoulders a touch too wide, the waist pinched with an extra fold of fabric. But his face– his face is alive. His eyes are bright, focused, burning with a determination that his body has no business supporting. He looks like a man who has decided, with absolute finality, that he is not done yet.
"How do I look?" he asks, adjusting his cuffs with fingers that only shake a little.
"Like hell," Namjoon says.
Hoseok grins fully, heart-shaped and radiant. "Perfect."
A portable oxygen concentrator has been arranged that’s small enough to fit in a bag and discreet enough to pass unnoticed. The doctor fought against this expedition with considerable force, relenting only when Hoseok signed a release form with the calm resignation of a man who's already made peace with every possible outcome. The nurse attached a pulse oximeter to his finger with a look that said everything her professionalism wouldn't allow.
The car waits at the hospital's rear exit. Namjoon drives. You sit in the back with Hoseok, his hand in yours, his cane propped between his knees. The city slides past the tinted windows in streaks of light and shadow. None of you speak. The silence is too full for words and weighted with everything you're about to do, everything you've done and everything that can't be undone.
Hoseok squeezes your hand once. You look at him.
"Whatever happens in there," he says quietly, "you just need to tell him the truth." His eyes hold yours, steady despite the exhaustion pulling at their edges. "Promise me."
You squeeze back. "I promise."
The car pulls to a stop. Through the window, you see it, the Grand Meridian Hotel. Its façade bathed in gold light, a procession of black cars depositing glittering figures onto a red carpet that bleeds into the lobby. The building reaches into the night sky like a monolith, its upper floors disappearing into low-hanging clouds. Security lines the entrance in tailored suits, earpieces catching light.
Namjoon kills the engine. In the rearview mirror, his eyes find yours.
"Eight minutes," he says. "That's all we need."
You hold his gaze. "No," you say quietly. "That's all you need."
You step out of the car first, the autumn air biting through the silk of your gown. You turn and offer your hand to Hoseok. He takes it, rising from the car with a controlled effort that costs him more than anyone watching would ever guess. His cane clicks against the pavement. He steadies himself, lifts his chin, and for a moment, just a moment, you see the Hoseok from before. The one who lit up every room. The one who made you believe that sheer force of joy could outrun anything, even death.
The two of you stand together at the base of the steps, staring up at the golden doors. Music drifts out with a string quartet, something classical and expensive. Laughter follows, the tinkling kind that belongs to people who've never had to choose between rent and groceries.
Hoseok glances at you. "Ready?"
You think of Jungkook somewhere inside those walls. Of the love you once shared, although now one-sided.
"No," you answer honestly.
He smiles. "Good. That means you care."
Together, you climb the steps. Hoseok's cane taps a steady rhythm against the stone, one, two, one, two- a metronome counting down to something neither of you can predict. Your hand stays on his arm, steadying. The doorman opens the gilded entrance without a word.
Warmth engulfs you. Light, sound, perfume, the shimmer of crystal and the murmur of a hundred conversations layered over strings. The ballroom opens before you like the throat of some magnificent, glittering beast. Chandeliers hang like frozen constellations. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns orbit each other in practiced elegance, champagne catching light in their hands. It’s the kind of wealth that you only see in the movies.
A waiter materializes at your elbow with a tray of champagne flutes, and you take two without thinking, pressing one into Hoseok's free hand. He accepts it with a look that says he has no intention of drinking it and every intention of using it as a prop.
"Smile," he murmurs, lips barely moving. "You look like you're calculating an exit route."
"I am calculating an exit route."
"Do it while smiling."
You smile. It feels like something you're wearing, like the gown, like the earrings that are already beginning to pinch. Hoseok's arm is warm beneath your hand, and you focus on that, on the solidity of him, as you move deeper into the ballroom's current.
The room works the way these rooms always do, pulling people into its orbit through some unspoken social gravity. A couple drifts past you, trailing perfume and quiet laughter. A man in a tuxedo gestures broadly at nothing, making a point no one will remember. Somewhere to your left, a woman's necklace catches the chandelier light and throws small stars across the ceiling.
Yoongi's voice arrives in your ear, low and even. “Perimeter looks clean. Security rotation is every four minutes on the east corridor. Namjoon's in position near the main stairs. You have time.”
You search the crowd of elites and suck in a breath when you see him.
Across the room, half-turned from you, a glass of something dark in his hand. His hair is shorter than you remember, pushed back from his forehead in a way that sharpens the line of his jaw. He's mid-conversation with a silver-haired man, nodding at something being said, his posture carrying the easy authority of someone who owns the room and every wall around it.
Your body responds before your brain can intervene. Heat blooms across your chest, your pulse spiking in places that have nothing to do with fear. You know this reaction, in fact you know it intimately. You know it from every time he walked into a room, every time his hand found the small of your back and every time he had you pinned underneath him with slow, deliberate drags of his– no. You can’t go there. A year of distance has done nothing to rewire it. Your body still recognizes him as something it wants, and the betrayal of that recognition makes your skin burn.
Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around Hoseok's arm.
Jungkook hasn't seen you yet. Or maybe he has. You can't tell from here whether the slight tension in his shoulders is for you or for the conversation. That is before a woman joins in. She’s breathtakingly gorgeous, a red gown ten times more luxurious than the one you’ve adorned. Her dark hair falls behind her open back in curls, and what takes you most aback is the way Jungkook lights up when he sees her- gently placing a small peck against her cheek.
Something sharp and ugly twists in your chest. You have absolutely no right to feel it, and you feel it anyway.
Hoseok follows your gaze across the room. He studies the man who funded his heartbeat without ever knowing it. The man you robbed, loved, and lost.
"He's tall," Hoseok observes quietly, a faint note of something unreadable in his voice.
You can't bring yourself to respond. Your heart is hammering so violently, you're certain Hoseok can feel it through your arm.
And then, as if summoned by the weight of your stare, Jungkook turns.
As you loosen your grip on Hoseok’s arm, you’re met by the vibrant and bright chocolate doe eyes of Jeon Jungkook while he holds her the way he once held you.
And the world goes quiet. The music fades. The chatter dissolves. There is only the distance between you, forty feet of marble floor, a year of silence, and every unspoken word that fills the space between.
The look he gives you isn't anger. It isn't warmth. It's the look of a man taking inventory of something he lost. His gaze traces from your eyes to your mouth, lingering there for a beat that makes your skin prickle, before dropping to the emerald neckline and back up. You feel it like a physical thing, like fingers dragging across your collarbone or how soft and careful his kisses were, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.
He doesn't move. Neither do you.
The woman in red places a hand on Jungkook's arm, saying something you can't hear. He doesn't look at her. His eyes stay on yours, and whatever she says dissolves into the noise of the room, unanswered.
"You should go," Hoseok says. Not unkindly.
"I'm not leaving you standing alone."
"I'm not alone." He nods toward the column. "I have this very sturdy piece of architecture." A beat passes. "And Yoongi will talk my ear off if I ask him to."
“He's not wrong,” Yoongi says in your ear, and you almost laugh despite everything.
You look at Hoseok for a moment longer than you mean to. He's watching the room with those bright, tired eyes, his cane resting against the column, champagne held loosely in one hand like a man entirely at ease. He has spent so much of these last months becoming smaller, quieter, reduced by increments. But here, in this borrowed hour, he has made himself enormous again through sheer will alone.
You squeeze his arm once, and he nods without looking at you, and that's enough. You turn. You begin to move through the crowd.
He's not just standing there; he's working. You catch him mid-handshake with a man in a navy blazer, his smile sharp and practiced, and as the man turns away, you see Namjoon's left hand slip something small and flat into his inner jacket pocket. A cloned access badge. He's already halfway through his own mission, running a parallel track you can only glimpse in fragments. His eyes cut to yours for half a second with a flicker of acknowledgment, a silent status report and then looks away. The sight of it settles something cold in your chest.
Eight minutes, he'd said.
Your heels click against the marble. One step. Then another.
Jungkook watches you come.
He moves before you've fully decided to. Or perhaps you move first. Later, you won't be able to say with certainty. What you'll remember is that the distance between you simply begins to close, pulled shut by something older and more stubborn than either of your intentions, and then there are only a few feet of marble between you, and then there are none.
Up close, he is worse.
That's the only word for it. Worse. More real. The year that stretched between you like an ocean has done nothing to blunt the specific way he occupies space, the breadth of his shoulders, the slight asymmetry of his mouth, the way his eyes catch light and hold it longer than they should. He is exactly as you remember and entirely different and both of these things are devastating in their own register.
The woman in red has drifted away. You caught the movement in your periphery, some acquaintance pulling her into a separate orbit, laughing at something, her dark curls disappearing into the crowd. She doesn't know she's given you anything. She doesn't know there is anything to give.
Jungkook's glass is still in his hand. He hasn't looked away from you since you started moving.
"You’re here," he says.
It's not what you expected. You don't know what you expected, something cooler, something with more architecture to hide behind. But those two words come out slightly uneven, fractionally too quiet for the room, and you watch him register that he's said them wrong, too plainly, before his expression closes over it like water over a stone.
"I was invited," you say.
Something moves behind his eyes. "You were."
The space between those words and his next ones is too long. He fills it by dropping his gaze briefly, just a half-second, taking in the emerald gown, the earrings, the lipstick you finally managed to apply with shaking hands in the car. When he looks back up, his jaw is set in a way you recognize. It's the look he gets when he's decided to be careful.
"You look—" He stops. Starts again. "It's good to see you." It isn't what he was going to say. You both know it.
The string quartet shifts into something slower. Around you, the room continues its elaborate performance of itself, glasses lifted, laughter rising and falling in practiced waves, none of it touching the two feet of charged air between you and the man you robbed. The man you loved. The man who is watching you now, like he's trying to solve something, like you are a problem he prepared for and finds himself unprepared for anyway.
Your pulse is very loud.
"Jungkook," you begin, because you promised Hoseok, because there is a clock somewhere running down eight minutes that has nothing to do with why you're really here, because the truth has been sitting in your chest for a year, and it is very heavy. "There are things I need to say to you."
His chin dips slightly. An acknowledgment that isn't quite permission.
"I know," he says.
Something in his tone stops you. Not the words, but the texture of them.
Your eyes search his face. "What do you know?"
He holds your gaze for a beat that lasts too long. His fingers shift around his glass. In another life, in another version of this night, you think he might have reached for your hand instead.
"That you're here," he says finally. "That's enough for now."
It's not an answer. You file that away somewhere and let it sit, because Yoongi's voice is a low murmur in your ear, reminding you of timelines, and across the room Namjoon is still performing his own careful theatre, and Hoseok is leaning against a column with borrowed breath and a champagne glass he won't drink from, and you made a promise.
But Jungkook is looking at you the way he used to, underneath the composure, underneath whatever careful thing he's built around himself this past year. Like you are something he thought he'd finished grieving. You feel like you might break under his gaze. The onslaught of emotions hit you harder than that night he left your house. And you can’t help but crave his touch again.
You look away first. You have to.
There's a pillar to your left and you fix your gaze on it for exactly two seconds, long enough to find the floor beneath your feet again.
Then you look back at him, because you promised.
"Can we go somewhere quieter?" you ask. The ballroom feels like it's shrinking, the string quartet and the laughter and the perfume collapsing inward.
Jungkook studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he tilts his head toward a corridor beyond the grand staircase. "There's a terrace."
You nod, and he moves first, setting his glass on a passing waiter's tray without looking. You follow a half-step behind, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne. It’s different from what he used to wear– it’s something darker and woodier. You hate that you notice.
As you pass the staircase, your eyes catch Namjoon's. He's watching you move toward the corridor, his jaw tightening. You give an imperceptible shake of your head. Not yet. His gaze holds yours for a beat too long before he turns back to his conversation, the tension in his shoulders broadcasting everything his face won't.
"She's moving to the east terrace," you hear Yoongi murmur through the earpiece, talking to Namjoon rather than you. "Timeline still holds. Let her work."
The corridor narrows, the noise of the ballroom dimming behind you like a radio being dialled down. Jungkook pushes through a glass door, and the autumn night hits you, sharp and clean against the heat of the gala. The terrace overlooks the city from a height that makes everything below look insignificant.
Jungkook walks to the stone railing and rests both hands on it, his back to you for a moment. You watch the way his shoulders rise with a breath, then drop. When he turns, he leans against the railing, arms crossed, and the posture is so deliberately casual it hurts. He's armouring himself.
"So," he says. "Talk."
The word is blunt, almost clinical, but underneath it, you hear the thing he's actually saying: I've been waiting a year for this. You straighten your spine. You think of Hoseok somewhere inside, leaning against his column, counting the minutes of borrowed breath.
"The night you came to my apartment," you start, your voice thin against the open air. "You showed me the photos. You asked me why." The memory is a blade. You distinctly remember his flowers, the envelope, the surveillance stills scattering across the table. "I couldn't answer you."
"I remember." His voice is flat but his eyes aren't. There's something moving behind them, deep and restless.
"I'm answering you now."
Jungkook doesn't speak. He waits the way a man waits for a verdict he's already tried to accept.
"His name is Jung Hoseok." You say it clearly, giving the name its full weight. "He's my best friend. He's been my best friend since we were fourteen years old." You take a breath that shakes more than you'd like. "He got sick two years ago, and nobody knew what it was. The doctors ran every test, every scan, and came back with nothing. Then the bills started. You can't imagine what it costs to keep someone alive when medicine doesn't even know what's killing them."
Jungkook's expression hasn't changed, but you see the shift. There’s a fractional loosening around his jaw, like a door being unlocked without being opened.
"We were drowning," you continue. "Student loans, medical debt, the cost of keeping him in a hospital that could actually help. Namjoon– you remember Namjoon?" You don't wait for an answer. "He came up with the plan. The first one. Then the second." You swallow. "The second one was you."
A muscle feathers along Jungkook's jaw. His arms stay crossed.
"I was supposed to be a distraction. Get hired as your assistant, keep your attention occupied while they handled the technical side." You force yourself to hold his gaze. "That's all it was supposed to be."
"But it wasn't." His voice is quiet.
"No." The word catches in your throat. "It wasn't. I fell in love with you. I fell in love with the way you held doors open and remembered dates and how you loved me without condition." Your eyes are burning, but you refuse to blink. "I didn't plan on any of it. I didn't plan on you."
Jungkook uncrosses his arms. His hands find the railing behind him and grip it, knuckles whitening. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his chest, and you hate yourself for noticing and hate that even now, even mid-confession, some traitorous part of your brain is cataloguing
the way his jaw catches the moonlight, the column of his throat above his loosened collar. You're telling him about the worst thing you've ever done, and your body is remembering the best things he's ever done to it.
The silence between you is different from the ballroom silence, from the hospital silence, from the silence that fell when Jungkook walked away from your apartment a year ago. This silence has oxygen in it. It has room to breathe.
"March 14th," Jungkook says, very quietly.
"March 14th," you repeat. "I typed it into your computer to steal from you, and I hated myself for knowing it." You look towards him. "He's here," you say. "Hoseok. He's inside."
Something crosses Jungkook's face that you can't fully read; surprise isn't quite it, because it moves too quickly, replaced by something more complex. Recognition, maybe. Like a piece sliding into a puzzle he's been working on in the dark.
"He signed himself out of the hospital to be here tonight. He can barely walk. He has a cane and a portable oxygen concentrator in a bag, and he's wearing a suit that doesn't fit because his body is half of what it used to be." Your voice breaks on the last part, but you keep going because you promised. "He's twenty-six years old, and he's dying, and he's standing in your ballroom right now because he thinks you deserve to know that his heartbeat is the reason I broke yours."
The wind picks up, carrying with it the faint sound of the string quartet from inside, something melancholy, something in a minor key that has no business being this appropriate. Jungkook's chest rises with a deep breath, his fingers releasing the railing.
"Where is he?" he asks.
The question shocks you into stillness. You expected anger, cold dismissal, the same venom that lacerated you at your dinner table a year ago. You braced for impact. Instead, he's asking where Hoseok is.
"By the east columns," you manage. "Near the entrance."
Jungkook pushes off the railing. He takes a step toward the door and then stops, turning back to you. The city lights catch the silver of his cufflinks, the sharp line of his jaw, the look in his eyes that you've never seen before.
"I would love to meet him," he says. "Not for you. For me."
He holds the terrace door open for you, and you walk through it feeling as if you've just stepped off the edge of something with no certainty of where you'll land.
As you pass him in the doorway, the space is narrow enough that your arm grazes his chest. The contact lasts less than a second. It’s silk against cotton, your bare arm against the warmth of him– and you feel it everywhere. His breath catches. Or maybe yours does too. You don’t look at him. You can’t. If you look at him right now, with your defences stripped and his chest warm against your skin, you will do something you can’t take back. You keep walking as he follows.
Yoongi's voice returns in your ear, sharper now. "Fifteen minutes to mirror. _____, where are you? I need confirmation you're moving to the terminal."
"I need a minute," you say to both of them, though only one can hear you.
The ballroom swallows you both back into its machinery. Jungkook walks beside you but not with you, a deliberate distance maintained. You're aware of every inch of it.
You're halfway across the floor when it happens. A voice cuts through the ambient noise, sharp with recognition.
"Wait– don't I know you?"
You freeze. The woman in the red dress you saw earlier with Jungkook has stepped into your path, head tilted, eyes narrowing with the specific intensity of someone rifling through their memory. She's even more beautiful up close with expensive jewellery and the kind of face that attends a lot of industry events.
"You worked at GFC, didn't you?" she says. "Jungkook's assistant?"
Your blood goes cold. Beside you, Jungkook stiffens almost imperceptibly.
"I think you're mistaken," you manage, your voice remarkably steady for someone whose heart has just relocated to her throat.
The woman squints harder. "No, I'm sure of it. The holiday party, two years ago? You were handling the guest list. I remember because you—"
"Mrs. Ahn." Jungkook's voice slides in, smooth and warm, and the interruption is so seamless. He steps forward with a smile that reaches exactly as far as it needs to. "I'm so glad you could make it tonight. Have you met the team from Hana Ventures? I believe your husband was asking about their sustainability portfolio. They're just by the bar." Oh. She’s married. You can’t help but feel relief.
It's a redirection so elegant it borders on art. Mrs. Ahn's attention pivots to Jungkook entirely, her recognition of you dissolving into the social gravity of a CEO's full attention. She brightens, adjusts her necklace, and allows herself to be guided toward the bar with a delighted "Oh, wonderful!"
Jungkook glances back at you over his shoulder as he walks Mrs. Ahn away. The look lasts one second. In it, you read: Stay. I'll be back.
You press your back against the nearest column, heart hammering, and wait. Jungkook returns within two minutes, his composure fully restored, as though rescuing you from exposure is just another item on his host's agenda.
"Thank you," you breathe.
"Don't thank me yet." The words carry a weight you don't fully understand. "Come on. Show me your friend."
You navigate the remaining distance to the east columns. Hoseok is where you left him, still propped against the column with his untouched champagne. His cane is hooked over his forearm while he's watching a couple dance. His expression carries a wistfulness that makes your throat close. From this distance, in this light, in that suit, you could almost forget he's sick.
Hoseok senses your approach. His gaze shifts to you, then past you to the man walking in your wake. His eyes sharpen. He straightens with a conscious effort, drawing every reserve of energy he has to meet this moment upright. He sets the champagne glass on the column's ledge, frees his cane, and faces Jungkook fully.
The two men regard each other across a narrowing distance. You step to the side, because this isn't yours anymore. This is between the man whose life was bought at another man's expense and the man who paid the price without knowing.
Jungkook stops three feet from Hoseok. He takes him in, the ill-fitting suit, the too-sharp cheekbones, the way he leans on the cane with practised subtlety. You watch Jungkook's eyes trace the details the way he used to study you. It’s as if he’s cataloguing, absorbing, trying to understand.
"Jung Hoseok," Hoseok says, extending a hand that trembles just slightly. His voice is steady despite it. "I believe you've been keeping me alive.”
You see the impact land on Jungkook's face like a wave of something cresting and breaking behind his careful composure. He looks at Hoseok's extended hand. Then he takes it.
"Jeon Jungkook," he replies, and his voice is thick. "I wish we'd met differently."
"So do I." Hoseok's grip tightens before releasing. "But if we'd met differently, I'd probably be dead. So I'll take this."
The bluntness catches Jungkook off guard. You watch him blink to recalibrate. Hoseok does that to people and has always done that. Even diminished, even tethered to machines and measured in borrowed months, he has a way of cutting straight to the marrow of a thing.
Hoseok shifts his weight onto his cane, glancing at you briefly before returning to Jungkook.
"You're quite handsome," he says conversationally. "No wonder she's in love with you."
The floor drops out from under you.
"Hoseok!" His name comes out strangled.
"What?" He turns to you with an expression of perfect innocence that has absolutely no business existing on a man in his condition. "It's true."
You look at Jungkook. He is looking at you. You look away.
"He's been on an extraordinary amount of medication," you say, to no one and everyone. "Practically braindead. Medically speaking."
"Medically speaking, I have excellent observational skills," Hoseok replies, entirely unbothered, taking a small sip of the champagne he was never going to drink.
Jungkook lets the silence sit for exactly long enough that you feel every degree of it against your skin. Then, with a grace that costs him something you're certain of, he lets it go.
He turns to Hoseok.
"How are you feeling tonight?" The question is genuine, stripped of the social reflex that usually props up that particular phrase. He means it. You can tell he means it by the way he waits for the answer.
Hoseok glances around the ballroom, at the chandeliers, the gowns, the ancient indifferent wealth of it all. "Great. I haven't been anywhere in months, years some would say. Everywhere starts to look like a hospital ceiling after a while." His eyes return to Jungkook. "This is a very good ceiling."
Jungkook looks up despite himself. The chandelier throws fractured light across his face.
"It is," he agrees quietly.
Something passes between them that you don't entirely have access to. Two people negotiating the strange territory of a connection that has no map, no precedent and no name for what they are to each other.
"I wanted to meet you," Hoseok says. "That was the other reason I came tonight." He pauses. "She didn't know I was going to say that. She'd have talked me out of it."
"I absolutely would have," you confirm.
Jungkook's gaze moves to you then, briefly, warm in a way that undoes something small and load-bearing inside your chest, before returning to Hoseok. "I'm glad you did."
Hoseok nods slowly, as if this confirms something he suspected. He studies Jungkook for a moment with those bright, tired eyes, the same way he studied the ceiling of his hospital room on bad nights.
"You should talk," Hoseok says, looking between you both. "Really talk." His eyes flick almost imperceptibly toward your earpiece before coming back. "Because you owe it to each other."
A chill rolls through you. Time is ticking and quite frankly, you can’t think of how you’re going to pull this off.
"I'm going to find a chair before my legs stage a mutiny," Hoseok says, straightening with effort. He gives Jungkook a final look. It’s warm with a shot of exhaustion he can no longer mask. "Thank you for meeting me. Whatever you decide…about her, about all of this, I wanted you to know that your money bought time. And I used that time to wake up." He smiles, the heart-shaped one. "That's not nothing." He turns, cane tapping a steady beat against the marble, and you watch him walk toward a chair near the far column. A waiter approaches and Hoseok waves him off politely.
You turn back to Jungkook. He's watching Hoseok too, his expression caught between something shattered and something mending.
"Jungkook–" you start.
"Not here." His voice is rough. He drags his gaze from Hoseok's retreating figure back to you. His eyes are wet. "Come with me."
He doesn't reach for your hand. He simply walks, and you follow.
Jungkook takes you through a service corridor that the guests don't see. It’s past stacked chairs, and folded tablecloths, and the muted clatter of the kitchen beyond a swinging door. The noise of the gala dims to a muffle. He stops in a narrow hallway lit by bare bulbs.
He turns to face you. In this light, stripped of the ballroom's gilding, he looks younger. Closer to the boy you met on March 14th. His collar is still open, and in the bare light you can see the faint sheen of sweat at the base of his throat. You wonder if its nerves, or the heat of the ballroom, or something else entirely. You force your gaze upward.
"I need to tell you something," he says. His voice is steady but his hands aren't. You see them at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling. "And you're not going to like it."
Your blood cools. "What?"
He meets your eyes. "This gala. The invitation. You being here tonight." A pauses for a beat. "It wasn't coincidence."
Your stomach folds in on itself. "What are you talking about?"
"I know about Namjoon's plan." The words drop like stones. "I've known for weeks. The Obsidian transfer, the eight-minute window, the biometric scan. All of it."
The corridor tilts. You feel the wall at your back before you realize you've stepped into it. "How?"
"Because I'm the one who gave it to them."
Silence. It’s the kind that has a sound with a high, ringing pitch that fills your skull.
"I hired someone," Jungkook continues, his voice measured, careful, like he's defusing something. "After that night at your apartment. A private investigator. I needed to understand why. You couldn't tell me, so I went looking for the answer myself." He swallows. “He found your team. He found Namjoon."
Your mind races, tripping over itself. "Namjoon doesn't know," you say, the realization bleeding through the shock. "He thinks this job is real."
"It is real." Jungkook's jaw tightens. "The funds exist. The transfer window is genuine. Everything Yoongi built, everything Namjoon planned, it works. I just made sure I was on the other end of it."
"Why?" The word comes out shredded. "If you knew– if you've known this whole time…why let us get this far? Why let me walk in here and–" Your voice breaks. "Why let me tell you about Hoseok like you didn't already know?"
Jungkook flinches. It's the first true crack in his composure, a visible wound. "Because I needed to hear you say it." His voice drops. "I needed to know if you'd actually tell me the truth this time. Or if you'd just steal from me again."
The words land like a hand against your cheek. It’s not a violent slap per se, more devastatingly soft. Like the way he used to cup it before planting a kiss on your lips.
You stare at him, tears sliding silently, and the worst part isn't the betrayal. The worst part is that you understand. You understand because you would have done the same thing. Maybe you already did.
"So this whole time," you say slowly, "you've been watching us. Watching me. Planning this the same way Namjoon planned the first heist." A bitter laugh escapes you, wet and fractured. "You out-heisted the heist."
"I didn't want to." The urgency in his voice surprises you. He steps closer, and the distance between you shrinks to something dangerous. You can feel the warmth of him, smell the cedar and something underneath it. It’s something that's just him, unchanged and achingly familiar. Your back is against the wall and he's close enough that if either of you breathed too deeply, you'd touch. Neither of you breathes too deeply but neither of you steps back.
"I didn't set out to trap you," he says, and his voice is low enough that you feel it more than hear it. It’s a vibration that moves through the small space between your bodies. "I set out to understand you. And then Taehyung told me about Hoseok, about the hospital, the oxygen tanks, how you sleep in a bed next to his almost every night." His voice wavers. "And I realized you weren't a thief. You were desperate. The same way I was desperate to know why."
His eyes drop to your mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel it like a physical touch. You press your back harder against the wall, as if the concrete can anchor you, because every nerve in your body is screaming at you to close the distance and every rational thought is screaming at you not to.
"There's more," he says, pulling his gaze back to your eyes with visible effort. "The half billion you came here to steal, it's not mine."
You blink. "What?"
"The parent fund, GFC Capital,” he starts. “My name's on it. Every press release, every letterhead. But the money inside it isn't clean." His jaw tightens with controlled fury. "Three board members have been siphoning funds through shell companies for two years. Foreign accounts, fabricated invoices, phantom subsidiaries. By the time my forensic auditors flagged it, they'd already moved close to $400 million through channels I couldn't touch without exposing the entire fund which includes the legitimate investors who'd lose everything."
"Your own board has been stealing from you."
"From everyone. Pension funds. Institutional investors. People who trusted GFC Capital with their futures." His voice is cold now, but the coldness isn't aimed at you. "And I couldn't go public because the moment I do, the fund collapses, the stock craters, and thousands of people lose their retirement savings. The corruption has to be excised without killing the patient."
The medical metaphor isn't lost on you.
"So you need someone to move the money," you say slowly, the architecture of his plan assembling itself in your mind. "Someone outside the system. Someone untraceable."
"Someone who's already proven they can get in, take what they need, and disappear." He holds your gaze. "I didn't pick your team because of our history. I picked them because they're good. Yoongi's Obsidian protocol is better than anything my security consultants could design. And Namjoon's operational planning is…" He pauses, a reluctant admission pulling at his mouth. "Annoyingly brilliant."
"So we're not robbing you."
"You're robbing the people who robbed me. And the $500 million you redirect through Obsidian doesn't vanish. It gets funnelled into a forensic trust that my legal team uses to build a case. Every transaction Yoongi routes becomes evidence, every node, every wallet, every timestamp. It's a paper trail that looks invisible from the outside but reads like a confession from the inside."
You stare at him. The magnitude of it settles over you in layers. First, it’s the relief that you're not betraying him again, then the fury that he manipulated you into it, then the grudging, bone-deep recognition that it's exactly what you would have done.
The relief that floods through you is so disproportionate to the moment that it embarrasses you. You press your lips together, looking at the ceiling, and you hear him exhale.
Jungkook’s expression sobers. He reaches into his jacket pocket. His hand passes close enough to your hip that you feel the displacement of air, and what he pulls out makes your breath stop.
A bright blue plastic ring. Faded, chipped, ridiculous. The one you won him at the carnival. The one he wore for the rest of the night because it matched his shirt.
He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it in the bare light. You watch his hands, the same hands that held you, turn it slowly, and your throat tightens with something that isn't only grief.
"I could've helped," he says quietly. "If you had told me about him from the start, I would have helped. I had the money. I had the connections. You didn't have to steal from me." His voice frays. "You just had to trust me."
"I know," you whisper. Because what else is there? He's right. He's been right this entire time, and the most excruciating part is that some desperate, frightened version of you from two years ago knew it too and chose theft over trust anyway.
His hand rises almost involuntarily and his thumb grazes the edge of your jaw. Featherlight, barely there, gone before you can lean into it. The touch lasts less than a second, but it sends a current through you that buckles your knees. He pulls his hand back like he's been burned, fingers curling into his palm.
"Sorry," he says. He doesn't look sorry. He looks wrecked.
"Namjoon and Yoongi," you manage, dragging yourself back from the edge. "Are you going to—"
"Nobody's getting arrested." He says it firmly. "I told you before, it was never about the money. It's still not." He exhales. "But the transfer needs to happen tonight. The way Yoongi designed it."
In your ear, Yoongi's voice returns, oblivious. "Four minutes to mirror window. _____, I need you at the east wing terminal. Where are you?"
You close your eyes.
"What do you need from me?" Jungkook asks you. He looks at you for a long time. The bare bulb flickers once, casting his face in a brief strobe of shadow.
You look down at the purse hanging off your shoulder and unclip it open. From there, you pull out the small tablet Yoongi placed earlier with the calibration screen already on display for his fingerprint.
“Preferably your thumb or index finger.” You repeat Yoongi’s words.
As Jungkook registers his fingerprint, you stare at him. You stare at the ring still in his fingers, the boy underneath the CEO, at the man who kept a worthless piece of plastic in his pocket for over a year because it was the last honest thing you’d given him.
"Go," he says softly, turning the tablet back to you and creating space between you as he steps back. "Clock's ticking."
You go but before you do, Jungkook grabs your wrist and spins you toward him and then his mouth is on yours and every carefully constructed thing inside you comes apart at once.
It isn't gentle. It isn't the kind of kiss that asks permission or makes apologies. It is a year of silence compressed into something urgent and graceless and completely beyond either of your better judgments. His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face with a pressure that says stay even as everything around you is screaming go. You feel the cold of his ring against your jaw and it undoes you further.
You kiss him back. Of course you do. You kiss him back like you've been holding your breath for over twelve months and he is the only available air. Your fingers twisting into the lapel of his jacket, pulling rather than pushing.
He makes a low sound against your mouth. His hand slides from your face to the back of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw on its way. It’s unhurried despite the chaos assembling itself on the other side of the ballroom. You feel the warmth of his palm against your bare skin and your brain goes briefly, completely white.
Then his forehead drops to yours. Both of you breathing, the fraction of space between your mouths charged and unbearable.
His jaw tightens. "I couldn't make myself believe you were only that."
"Jungkook–"
"Go." His voice comes out rough at the edges. He pulls back, not far, just enough to look at you, and what's on his face is the full version of everything he's been carefully not showing all evening. Raw and steady and terrifying in its patience. Like a man who has decided he can wait a little longer now that he knows there's something worth waiting for. "Come back when it's done."
It's the come back that breaks you open.
You release his lapel. You smooth the fabric with your palm out of some automatic instinct toward repair, and his hand falls from your neck slowly but his fingertips last, like he's reluctant to confirm the absence.
You step back. Then another step. Your heels find their purpose again.
"When it's done," you repeat. A promise shaped like an echo.
His eyes hold yours until the crowd swallows you.
The east wing terminal is exactly where Yoongi's schematics said it would be, tucked behind a service door at the end of a corridor branching off the main ballroom. Namjoon is already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his charcoal suit jacket unbuttoned. He straightens when he sees you.
"Where the hell have you been?" His voice is a controlled hiss. "Yoongi's been—"
"I know." You cut past him and approach the terminal. A sleek console is embedded in the wall, its screen dark waiting. "I'm here. Let's go."
Namjoon studies you and you hope he doesn’t notice the distinct flush of your cheeks. He has that look, the one that precedes an interrogation. But there isn't time.
"Yoongi," you say into the mic. "I'm at the terminal."
"Finally." His relief is audible. "Placing the tablet on the scanner now, biometric should authenticate in three… two…"
A soft chime. The screen illuminates, casting blue light across your face.
[BIOMETRIC AUTHENTICATION: ACCEPTED]
"We're in." Yoongi's voice accelerates, the flat effect giving way to focused energy. "Mirror sequence initiating. Seven minutes forty-three seconds. Starting the Obsidian routing, first tranche moving through Node Alpha." Whatever he said is all gibberish to you as you watch numbers cascade down the terminal screen too fast to comprehend.
Your palms are slick against the console's edge. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck, disappearing into the fabric of your gown. Every sound is amplified, the hum of the terminal, your own breathing and the distant echo of the ballroom.
Then you both hear footsteps in the corridor behind you.
You spin. Namjoon's hand shoots to your arm, pulling you behind the terminal alcove. You both press flat against the wall, heartbeats competing. Through the crack in the service door, you see a security guard pass with an earpiece in, flashlight sweeping in a lazy arc. He pauses at the junction, tilts his head like he's listening to something on his radio, then continues down the opposite corridor.
You don't breathe again until his footsteps fade.
"Security sweep, east wing," Yoongi reports, his voice tight. "Routine. You're clear. Five minutes remaining."
Namjoon steps back to the terminal, eyes fixed on the screen. "It's working," he breathes. For the first time in months, you hear something in his voice you'd almost forgotten. It’s unguarded, uncalculated hope. "It's actually working."
You feel sick.
"Namjoon," you say quietly, your eyes still on the screen. The numbers keep cascading. Four minutes left.
"Not now."
"It has to be now."
Something in your tone makes him turn. His brow creases, then furrows, then drops into the expression you've come to associate with the moments before everything goes wrong.
"What did you do?" he asks.
"It's not what I did." You finally look at him. "It's what Jungkook did."
The name hits him like a slap. His eyes narrow. "What about him?"
"He knows, Joon." You say it plainly, the way Hoseok told you the truth deserved to be said without cushion. "He's known the whole time. The job, the Obsidian protocol, the eight-minute window. He's the one who set it up."
Namjoon goes very still. It’s not the calculated stillness of a strategist processing variables its the stillness of a man whose operating system has crashed.
"That's not possible," he says.
"The investigator who fed you the job, he works for Jungkook. Has been the whole time."
You watch the sequence unfold on Namjoon's face: disbelief, analysis, and fury. Each phase is distinct and each lasting exactly as long as it takes for the next to overwhelm it. His hands ball into fists at his sides.
"He played us." The words come through his teeth.
"He guided us." You echo Jungkook's word deliberately. "Namjoon, the money we're moving right now is not Jungkook's. It belongs to three corrupt board members who've been embezzling from his fund for years. We're not robbing him. We're helping him clean house."
"I don't give a damn whose money it is!" Namjoon's voice rises, bouncing off the corridor. "He manipulated us and he used us like fucking tools—"
"The way we used me?" The question leaves you before you can measure it, and it lands with surgical precision. Namjoon's mouth snaps shut.
Two minutes left. The numbers keep falling.
"He's not pressing charges," you say. "He never was. He built this so we could do what we're good at and so the people who actually deserve to be caught get caught."
Namjoon's chest heaves. He looks at the terminal, at the cascading numbers that represent everything he's spent months planning, and you watch the terrible realization settle over him: his masterwork was never his. Every contingency he mapped, every variable he accounted for, every sleepless night spent perfecting the plan– all of it ran on tracks that Jungkook had laid first.
"Ninety seconds," Yoongi reports. "Third tranche routing clean. No flags."
Namjoon stares at the screen. His fists unclench, finger by finger, like a man releasing something he's held too long.
"Does Yoongi know?" he asks quietly.
"Not yet."
He nods. Something shifts behind his eyes."The board members," he says. "Who are they?"
"Jungkook has the details."
"Of course he does." A bitter exhale. Then, quieter: "Is the evidence actually solid? If this goes to prosecution–"
"He has a forensic team. The Obsidian routing creates the trail. Every transaction we move tonight becomes a timestamped record."
"Thirty seconds," Yoongi's voice. "Final tranche clearing now."
Namjoon watches the last numbers fall. When the screen flashes [TRANSFER COMPLETE — MIRROR SEQUENCE CLOSING], he lets out a breath that seems to carry years in it.
"So we just helped a billionaire take out his own trash," Namjoon says flatly.
"We helped a man who could've sent us to prison choose to give us a second chance instead."
Namjoon's jaw clenches. He doesn't look at you when he speaks again.
"I want to talk to him. Directly."
"He's in the ballroom."
"Of course he is." Namjoon pushes off the wall, buttoning his jacket with sharp, precise movements. He pauses at the corridor entrance, half-turning to you.
"For what it's worth," he says, his voice stripped of its usual command, "I'm sorry. For putting you in the middle of this. For making you the weapon." He swallows. "You deserved better than that."
Before you can respond, he's gone.
You stand alone in the corridor. The terminal screen has gone dark. The earpiece is silent, Yoongi running post-transfer protocols in focused quiet.
You lean against the wall and close your eyes.
When you return to the ballroom, the scene that greets you is one you couldn't have predicted.
Hoseok is seated at a table near the east columns, his cane propped against the chair beside him. Across from him sits Jungkook, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, listening. Whatever Hoseok is saying has Jungkook's complete attention. It’s not the typical polite, half-engaged attention of a CEO at a networking event, but the focused, full-bodied attention of a person hearing something that matters.
And Hoseok is laughing.
It's not the full, room-filling laugh you remember from before. It's thinner, breathier, punctuated by pauses where his lungs catch up. But it's real. And Jungkook is smiling. An actual smile, slightly crooked, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
You stop mid-step, afraid that moving closer will break whatever fragile thing is happening between them.
Hoseok spots you first. He waves you over, and as you approach, you catch the tail end of whatever story he's been telling.
"—and she just stood there with spaghetti sauce on her face, trying to convince Namjoon that Italian cooking was her hidden talent." Hoseok wheezes slightly on the last word, pressing a hand to his chest. "She burned the garlic bread so badly the smoke detector went off twice."
Jungkook's eyes flick to you as you reach the table, and the amusement in them is so unexpected it winds you. "Sounds familiar," he says, and there's a warmth there that has no business existing tonight. "She tried to make me dinner once. I think I'm still recovering."
"Slander," you manage, sinking into the chair between them. "Both of you."
Hoseok's laughter fades into a cough but it’s just one and it's enough to remind everyone at the table of the stakes. He waves off your concern before it reaches your face.
Then Namjoon appears.
He approaches the table with the measured stride of a man who has reorganized his entire worldview in the span of a hallway walk. His eyes move from Hoseok to you to Jungkook, where they settle.
"Mr. Jeon," Namjoon says. His voice is level.
Jungkook rises from his chair. He stands a full inch taller than Namjoon, but the height difference isn't what fills the space between them. It's everything else.
"Kim Namjoon," Jungkook says. Neither extends a hand. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Apparently not as much as you already knew."
A moment passes. Then, impossibly, the corner of Jungkook's mouth twitches. "Your operational planning is impressive. Taehyung's words, not mine."
"I'll be sure to thank the man who conned me," Namjoon replies, dry as bone. But there's no venom in it. Just exhaustion and grudging respect.
Jungkook gestures to the chairs. "Sit down. We have a lot to discuss."
Namjoon glances at you. You nod.
He sits.
And from his chair, cane resting against his knee, oxygen concentrator humming quietly in the bag beneath the table, Hoseok watches the architect of his survival sit down across from the man whose money built it.
He reaches for his water glass, takes a slow sip, and closes his eyes.
For the first time in a very long while, he isn't counting breaths, he's just breathing.
Jungkook speaks quietly. "The board members, Park Chansik, Lee Minho, Kwon Jaesung– my legal team has everything they need as of forty minutes ago. The Obsidian routing created a clean timestamped trail. Prosecution is already in motion." He looks at Namjoon evenly. "No one at this table will be contacted by law enforcement. That was never the intended outcome."
Namjoon is quiet for a long moment. His hands are flat on the table. You watch him work through it, the last of the resistance, the pride that has kept him upright through years of operating in margins and shadows. You watch him set it down.
"You could have done this without us," Namjoon says.
"Yes."
"But you needed someone who wouldn't leave a trail back to you."
"I needed people who were good at what they do," Jungkook says. "There's a difference."
Another silence. Then Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.
"If you ever need anything," he says, each word measured, "done legitimately." A pause. "You know where to find me."
It isn't quite gratitude. It isn't quite an apology. It is, you think, the closest Namjoon has ever come to either in a single sentence.
Jungkook nods. "I do."
Namjoon stands, buttoning his jacket. He looks at you and something passes across his face, complicated, brief and genuine.
"Take care of yourself," he says.
Then he's gone, swallowed by the ballroom's glittering current, and you think that wherever he ends up next it will be somewhere worth being.
Jungkook turns to Hoseok.
He doesn't ease into it. You've come to understand this about him, that he reserves gentleness for his delivery, not his honesty.
"I'll be covering your treatment going forward," he says. "Full continuity of care. Whatever the next stage requires." He holds Hoseok's gaze. "No debt and no condition attached to it."
Hoseok is quiet. The ballroom moves around you three in almost slow motion.
Then Hoseok slowly nods in the way you'd accept something you'd almost stopped believing was possible. His jaw works briefly and then steadies. His eyes are very bright but nothing falls.
"Okay," he says softly. The same word Jungkook gave you earlier, carrying the same impossible weight.
Jungkook nods back. The matter is settled in the way that only truly important things are, without fanfare, without ceremony, in the space between two people who have decided to mean what they say.
Under the table, you find Hoseok's hand and press it once. He squeezes back and doesn't let go for a long moment. He’s going to be okay.
You take Hoseok out through the east corridor, away from the crowds, his cane tapping its familiar rhythm against the marble. At the rear exit, where the town car is already waiting, you both stop.
The autumn air is sharper now. Hoseok tilts his face up toward the sky, eyes closing briefly, and you watch him breathe it in with the deliberate attention of someone who has learned not to take breathing for granted.
"Hoseok—"
"Don't," he says gently, eyes still closed. "Don't do the thing where you cry and then apologize for crying."
"I wasn't going to cry."
"You absolutely were." He opens his eyes and looks at you, and the smile that follows is the full radiant one, the one that has survived everything. "Go back inside. Yoongi will ride with me." As if summoned, your earpiece crackles.
“Already on my way down,” Yoongi says, flat and fond in equal measure. “Go back inside.”
You look at Hoseok for a long moment. At the ill-fitting suit and the too-sharp cheekbones and the eyes that are still, despite everything, the brightest thing in any room he enters.
"You planned this," you say quietly. "All of it. Getting me here, saying what you said to him."
"I have limited time and unlimited audacity," he replies serenely. "It seemed efficient."
A sound escapes you that is almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. You step forward and press your forehead to his, carefully, the way you handle things that matter. His free hand comes up to the back of your head and holds you there for a moment.
"Go," he murmurs. "Be happy. That's an order."
You pull back. You smooth his lapel, the same instinct toward repair, and he lets you.
The ballroom has thinned. The late hour has winnowed the crowd to its most committed members, small clusters of people with nowhere better to be, the string quartet replaced by something low and recorded. The chandeliers are still burning but they feel softer now, less performative.
You find him where you somehow knew you would. Not waiting dramatically or posed. He’s simply there, standing near the tall windows at the far end of the room, looking out at the city below with his jacket unbuttoned and his glass long since abandoned. Like a man who has finished the work of the evening and is simply existing in what remains of it.
He hears your heels before he sees you. You watch his shoulders shift slightly, just a fraction, the body registering something before the mind catches up.
When he turns, his eyes find yours immediately.
"Hoseok?" he asks.
"With Yoongi. And Namjoon."
Something in his expression softens. "Good.”
He looks at you across the remaining distance, and there is nothing careful in it anymore. The composure that has been doing its careful architectural work all evening has finally, quietly, stood down.
"My suite is on the fourteenth floor," he says.
It isn't a question and it isn't quite an invitation. It is simply a fact, offered plainly, leaving the rest entirely to you.
You cross the distance between you.
"Then take me there," you say.
The elevator ascends in silence.
You're aware of everything. The warmth radiating off him where your arm almost touches his. The slight unevenness of his breathing. Your own reflection in the mirrored doors, the emerald gown and the lipstick worn down to almost nothing. It’s the evidence of a night that has taken you apart and put you back together in a different order.
His hand finds yours somewhere between the eighth and ninth floor. It’s not dramatic but it does knock some kind of breath out of you. It’s the way his fingers slide between yours like they belong there and they remember the architecture.
You look down at your joined hands. You don't say anything and neither does he.
The doors open.
His suite is at the end of a quiet corridor, all muted carpet and low light. He unlocks the door and holds it open and when you step through, you hear it close behind you. The sound of the latch catching feels like the period at the end of a very long sentence yet your heartbeat quickens. You can’t believe you’re here with Jungkook. After everything, the year of inner turmoil and hospital stays.
You turn and Jungkook is already looking at you.
And then there is no more careful distance. No more city full of people between you and this.
He reaches you in two strides and his mouth finds yours, and it's nothing like the kiss downstairs, which was urgent, surprised and compressed. This is slower and more devastating, his hands cupping your face with a pressure that says I have been thinking about this for a very long time and his mouth moving against yours like he intends to be thorough about it.
"I've thought about this," he says against your mouth, low and rough at the edges. "More than I should have."
"Tell me," you breathe.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and intent, and what's on his face is the unguarded version, the one with nothing between you and it.
"Every version of how it should have gone," he says. His thumb traces your jaw, slowly, deliberate. "Every version where you stayed."
Something in your chest cracks cleanly open.
You pull him back to you.
He finds the zip at the back of your gown with careful hands, drawing it down slowly, like he's unwrapping something he plans to take his time with. The silk loosens around you and he peels it from your shoulders with a patience that borders on unbearable, pressing his mouth to each inch of skin he uncovers. He starts at your shoulder then moves along the curve of your neck to the line of your collarbone.
The gown pools at your feet.
He looks at you. Really looks, in the low warm light of the suite, with an expression that makes your skin feel like it belongs to you differently than it did before.
"God," he says softly.
You reach for his shirt buttons. Your fingers are steadier than they were this morning with the lipstick and you're obscurely proud of this, working each button open while he watches you with that dark, patient attention. His hands rest at your hips as if he's restraining them.
You push the shirt open and run your palms flat up his chest, feeling him pull in a slow breath.
"Your turn," you say.
It seems as though his patience reaches its limit as something shifts in him.
He walks you backward to the bed, not roughly but with a decisive authority that makes your breath catch, his mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your ear, cataloguing you the way he always did.
When the backs of your knees meet the mattress he lowers you onto it and follows, bracing above you, and the weight of him bracketing you feels like the answer to a question you've been carrying for over a year.
"I missed you," you say. The words come out unplanned.
He goes very still above you. His eyes find yours in the low light.
"I know," he says. And then, quieter, his forehead dropping to yours: "I missed you every single day."
The words dissolve whatever was left of the distance.
What follows is desperate in the way that only reunion can be, the kind of desperate that isn't frantic but deep, the satisfaction of finally filling a space that has been hollow too long.
He starts at your throat.
His mouth drags slowly down the column of your neck, and you feel the graze of his teeth at your pulse point before he soothes it with his tongue. Your fingers go into his hair automatically, the muscle memory of a body that never forgot him even when you were trying to. He makes a low sound of approval against your skin that vibrates all the way down your spine. His hands map you like he's reclaiming territory. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs tracing the undersides of your ribs, learning the topography of you with an unhurried thoroughness.
He cups your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra and watches your face when he does it, cataloguing your reaction with those dark intent eyes, filing it away for later use.
"Still the same," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, unclasping your bra and drawing it away. He looks at you in the low light of the suite for a long moment, chest rising and falling. It’s like he’s learning you back like a language he was afraid he'd forgotten. He then dips his head and takes one nipple into his mouth and you arch off the bed with a sharp inhale.
He is not merciful about it. He takes his time, his tongue circling and his teeth grazing, one hand attending to what his mouth isn't. By the time he moves lower, your hands are fisted in the sheets and you have entirely abandoned any pretense of composure.
His mouth traces down your sternum, your stomach, pausing at your hip to press a kiss to the bone that is soft enough to undo you in an entirely different way. His fingers hook into the last of your underwear and draw it down slowly. He looks up at you from where he is and the expression on his face is dark, patient and wanting. It makes your breath stall completely.
"Jungkook—"
"I've got you," he says quietly. And then his mouth finds the most sensitive part of you and every coherent thought you had evaporates.
He is meticulous. Devastatingly and deliberately meticulous, like he has all night and intends to use it. His tongue works in slow controlled strokes against your clit while his hands hold your hips with a firmness that makes it clear he'll set the pace, not you. You try anyway, your hips rolling, chasing, but he presses down until you still beneath him.
"Stay," he says against you, the word more felt than heard.
You make a sound that is almost his name.
He takes you apart with a patience that borders on cruel, bringing you to the edge twice and pulling back, reading your body with an attention to detail that makes you feel known in the most exposed possible way. By the time he finally lets you fall over it, you've said his name so many times it's lost all meaning and found a new one.
You're still catching your breath when he kisses his way back up your body. He tastes of you when his mouth finds yours and you feel it everywhere. His weight settles over you and you reach between his legs, wrapping your hand around the thick and warm cock. You feel him shudder against your throat.
And then you flip him.
He lands on his back with a slight exhale of surprise and you rise over him with intent. There’s a look on his face when he registers what you're doing. Surprise cedes to something darker and more interested, sending heat flooding through you all over again.
You take your time the same way he did, because you have your own year's worth of thinking about this. Your mouth traces his chest, his stomach and the deep cut of muscle below his hip until his hand fists in your hair and his breathing has gone ragged.
"_____." His voice is strained. A warning and a plea at once.
"Patience," you say against his skin, throwing his own word back at him.
He says something under his breath that might be a curse.
You take him into your mouth and his whole body goes taut, the hand in your hair tightening, a low broken sound escaping him that you feel in your chest like a struck chord. You are thorough about it in the same way he was thorough about you, slow and attentive and entirely in control.
His grip in your hair tightens further and he pulls you up with a firmness that makes it clear the balance of power has shifted again.
He rolls you back beneath him in one fluid motion.
"Enough," he says roughly, and his voice has lost all its careful edges. He looks at you with his hair disheveled and his chest heaving and every last layer of composure completely dismantled. He truly is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. "I need to feel you."
"Then feel me," you say.
He does.
The moment he presses into you for the first time you both go very still. His forehead drops to yours. Your hands grip his shoulders. The room is completely quiet except for both of you breathing.
"Okay?" he asks softly.
"Yes," you breathe. "Yes."
He begins to roll his hips back before thrusting forward.
It's slow at first, deep and measured with each movement deliberate. You haven’t had sex in so long, it feels like the first time again. The uncontrollable way your skin buzzes with need makes your hands slide down his back and pull him closer. It’s urgent and he obliges, the pace building in increments that winds you tighter with every thrust.
His mouth finds your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. He says your name once, quietly, like it's something he's been holding carefully for a long time. You can’t help the onslaught of moans that precede your lips. Feeling him like this again is so sinfully beautiful.
Then the slowness runs out.
What replaces it is urgent, consuming and entirely mutual. His hands grip your hips and yours grip him back, both of you chasing the same thing with equal desperation. The headboard and the low sounds he makes against your throat is everything that has been held tightly finally, completely releasing. You feel it building at the base of your spine, tightening. He must feel it too because his hand slides between you and finds exactly the right place to be. You shatter with his name in your mouth and your fingers in his hair as he drags his thumb in circles around your sensitive bud.
He follows moments later, his whole body going rigid, your name broken apart on his lips as he buries himself deep and holds there.
The feeling of it, of him, of this, of all the right pieces finally back in place, is so complete that your eyes sting with something that has nothing to do with sadness.
Afterward the room settles around you like an exhale.
He gathers you against his chest without a word, one hand moving slowly through your hair. Your ear is pressed to his heartbeat and you count it without meaning to, the way you've been counting Hoseok's breaths for months, the habit of holding onto proof of life.
His heartbeat is steady and real and yours again.
The suite holds you both in its quiet, the city burning silently beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, all that distant light doing nothing to touch the stillness in here. His hand moves through your hair in slow, absent strokes. Your fingers trace idle patterns on his chest without deciding to.
This is the part you didn't let yourself imagine. Not the wanting, you'd lived inside that for twelve months without permission. But this. The after. The specific peace of lying in the wreckage of everything that was held too long and finding it habitable. Finding it, impossibly, like home.
"I have something to tell you," he says eventually. His voice is low and unhurried, the voice he uses when he's already decided something and is simply finding the words for it.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
"Tonight at the gala" he says, his eyes on the ceiling. "When you walked across that ballroom toward me." A pause. "I'd been planning every variable for months. Every contingency. Every possible outcome." His jaw shifts. "And then you were just…there. In that dress. Walking toward me like it cost you something, and I couldn't remember a single thing I'd prepared."
You're quiet for a moment. "Good," you say finally. "That means you care." Echoing Hoseok’s words.
He looks down at you.
He exhales something that is almost a laugh, soft and private, and presses his lips to the top of your head. You feel him settle more completely into the mattress beneath you, some last residual tension finally locating the exit.
"I want to do this properly," he says. "Whatever comes next. I want to do it right."
You think about what right means, after everything. After the theft and the year of silence and the gala and Hoseok's borrowed hours. After Namjoon's careful penance and Yoongi running an operation from a service van two blocks away because that's simply the kind of person he is. After all of it.
"Right doesn't look the same as it did before," you say carefully.
"No," he agrees. "It looks like this. Like whatever this is." His arm tightens around you slightly. "I just want it to be honest."
You press your palm flat against his chest, feel the steady beat beneath it.
"Then we start there," you say.
He turns his head and finds your mouth in the dark, slow and soft. It’s the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere because it doesn't need to.
You fall asleep before you mean to, somewhere between one breath and the next, his heartbeat counting you down into something that feels, for the first time in a very long time, like genuine rest.
Spring arrives the way good things do after long winters, gradually and then all at once.
Hoseok's new facility is twenty minutes from the city center, close enough that you can visit twice a week without rearranging your life around it. The room has a window that faces east, which he requested specifically, because he has developed strong opinions about morning light now that mornings are something he's decided to keep having.
He looks different. Not restored to before but present in a way that was once uncertain. The sharpness has softened back into his face by degrees. He laughs fully now, the room-filling version, and his lungs mostly cooperate.
Today he's sitting up in the chair by the window when you arrive, a book open in his lap and Jimin cross-legged on the floor beside him, arguing about something with the comfortable ferocity of people who have known each other long enough to mean nothing by it. That’s right,Jimin is back and his hair is blond now. It came as a text on a random Tuesday to let him into your house and he never left again since.
"She's here," Jimin announces without looking up. "Tell him he's wrong about the ending."
"I'm not getting involved," you say, setting the takeout containers on the table.
"You're already involved," Hoseok says. "You brought food. That's a political statement."
Jungkook arrives twenty minutes later, still in his work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The sight of him in this room, standing in the doorway of the place his money is keeping lit and warm and full of morning light, does something to you that nine months hasn't made ordinary.
He crosses to you first. Presses a kiss to your temple. His hand rests at the small of your back like it lives there, because it does now.
Hoseok watches this with the expression of a man who has been right about something for a very long time.
"I'm not going to say I told you so," he announces to the room.
"You absolutely are," Jimin replies.
"I told you so," Hoseok says serenely.
Yoongi arrives last, because Yoongi always arrives last, sliding into the remaining chair with a convenience store coffee and the flat affect of a man who finds this entire situation both deeply chaotic and exactly correct. He looks around the room. At Jimin on the floor. At Hoseok in the light. At you and Jungkook and the space between you that has finally, completely closed.
He takes a sip of his coffee.
"Good," he says simply.
And it is. It genuinely, completely is.
Namjoon sends a message that evening, while you're in the car going home with Jungkook's hand over yours on the console. A single line, no context, typical of him.
Started something new. Legitimate. Thought you should know.
You show it to Jungkook. He reads it and smiles, small and real.
"Good for him," he says.
You lean your head against the window. The city moves past in its familiar blur of light and shadow. Jungkook's thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand.
Nothing was returned to its original shape. That's not how any of this works. People don't unbreak, they rebuild differently. The seams show, and that's fine. That's more than fine.
You turn your hand over from under his and lace your fingers together.
Outside the window the city burns on, brilliant and ordinary and alive.
So do you.
[A/N]" *taps mic* is this thing on??
it's been a long wait my friends but i hope it was worth the 6 year wait. i hope this closes a chapter you all have been waiting for and as always, i hope you enjoyed tmyl jungkook again (: i promised it would be a happy ending xx
thank you for your patience and thank you for continuously supporting me after all this time. i love you to no end ♡
Synopsis: you want extra marks and you won't hesitate to bother TA!Toji for them, via email chain
Warnings: before and after of this fic, some suggestive content, nerd!toji, college au, pre relationship and established relationship back and forth emails between reader and Toji, a couple years age gap, mostly fluff and crack but does get slightly smutty near the end, additions to the Nanami and Gojo email fics, use of yn but kept to a minimum, fem!reader, problematic reader?, reader stalks him, Toji art by @/youka.i_, not proofread
Word Count: 2.4k (give or take)
Dear Toji Fushiguro,
I hope you are well.
Thank you so much for your feedback on my latest essay. The results are not quite what I was hoping for, as I am sure you can imagine after our years of friendship. If possible, could I discuss with you some points of improvement, or begin a conversation as to the possibility of having my essay remarked?
Best wishes,
A most studious and dutiful student
Sure, I’m free on Thursday afternoon at 1:30pm for an office hour. I’m happy to discuss any parts of your essay you would like feedback on and answer any questions regarding the feedback I provided. I cannot, however, remark your essay. Department policy.
— Toji
Dear Toji Fushiguro,
Thank you so much for your prompt reply, and for being amenable to meeting with me. Whilst your response greatly pleases me, it also disappoints — I was so very hoping you would consider re-reading my essay, because I am certain you will see the value in pushing me into the next grade boundary.
It is, after all, only a matter of recognising brilliance when it is placed directly in front of you. I trust this will not be your first encounter with such a phenomenon.
Please consider it.
Kind regards,
Someone who would owe you the world if you do
Um, excuse me.
Do you not find your reply unprofessional and unnecessarily rude? As the Teaching Assistant, you have a responsibility to respond appropriately and with grace. Need I remind you, you are representing our dear Professor, who would want the very best for his students (which includes me).
Nevertheless, I shall overlook this callous response in exchange for extra marks. I am, as always, generous. You could learn from me.
Best wishes,
Someone not above blackmail
I don’t know where you got the idea that you’re above policy, nor who told you I’d listen to you over the Prof (my employer), but you’re barking up the wrong tree. And in reference to your initial email, I have many friends, you are not one of them, but even if you were, I still wouldn’t pull strings and be as stupid as to leave a paper trail via email.
If you want higher marks, earn them the normal way.
Wishing you a speedy recovery from the head injury you must have suffered recently,
Toji
Dear TA with a stick up his ass,
Note how I have not explicitly asked to be given extra marks? I am only asking that you reconsider my essay and the marks you have awarded me, because I am absolutely certain you were mistaken in your initial assessment, which is fine. I understand. You’re overworked and underpaid.
Shit happens.
So allow me to say, my essay was well-researched, balanced, concise, and thoroughly supported with relevant scholarship. I engaged directly with the question, demonstrated independent thought, and constructed a coherent argument that remained consistent throughout. According to the mark scheme — which I have, unlike some people, actually read in detail — I should be placed in the top band.
This is not an isolated case of overconfidence either. I have submitted numerous essays to both you and the Professor, and they have consistently fallen within, or very near, the top band. There is a clear pattern of performance here, one that does not suddenly collapse without reason.
In short, my essays are worthy of that standard. I am worthy of that standard.
You are, at present, the only barrier between me and my deserved academic standing. I would encourage you to reflect on that carefully — on the weight of that responsibility, and on whether you are discharging it fairly.
Wondering why you were ever hired,
Girl who regrets ever giving you my last gum three months ago
P.S. You really needed it
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: that supposed to make me want to reconsider?
I’m sure Mommy and Daddy gave you too much praise and love as a child and that’s why you are the way that you are, but you’ll find that I’m not so easily impressed.
Your essay had egregious mistakes that, if I had it my way, would have earned a 0. Be grateful I even let you have the marks you have now.
No one is ‘worthy’ of top marks by the simple virtue of existing. That is an arrogant way of thinking I despise. There is only hard work and determination, which yes, you show at times, so good for you, kid. Still not just gonna hand out extra marks because of whatever history you think we have together.
Advising you to get over yourself,
Toji
P.S. Not taking judgment from someone who pops three gums in the morning instead of brushing their teeth
Dear Toji Fushiguro,
My parents are both dead, so thank you for bringing up traumatic memories. I really don’t appreciate the personal jabs. Please refrain from mentioning them, from talking about the people who worked multiple jobs to put me through college, who won’t be there to see me graduate, won’t be in the crowd cheering me on. But yes, they loved me very much. And it is because of their support, which I still feel even when they’re no longer here with me, that I do this.
It isn’t easy for me to grovel at your feet for scraps, for crumbs. However, I will do whatever I must to succeed. So judge me all you want, hate me, and show me disdain for my relentless, shameless ambition.
Just answer me this one question:
What are you willing to do to prove people wrong?
Because if it is anything less than what I am doing, then you are not a TA deserving of my respect.
Despite it all, best wishes,
An orphan
P.S. If you are apologetic and regretful, you may earn my apology via extra marks. Thanks in advance
P.P.S. I do brush my teeth thank you very much!
I saw you touring your fucking parents through campus just last month. You pointed at me and said and I fucking quote, see that miserable-looking homeless man? he’s the TA with no hobbies or interests other than grading that I told you about.
Spare me the guilt trip.
Even if you were a Make A Wish kid, still not giving you shit.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: did not know you heard me…my bad, big bro
Dear the greatest TA to have ever lived,
So, yes, I did lie about being an orphan. But, I feel that I was one in another life, and the tragedy of that distant life long lived carries me through this one.
More importantly, I have a special message for you:
Thank you so much for your continued responses. I deeply appreciate every hour you dedicate to aiding me, and the student body which you govern. I understand you are so busy and carry many burdens; it cannot be easy. Yet you persevere and always give detailed and insightful feedback that has never failed to guide me towards improvement. You truly are an inspiration.
If I could nominate you for employee of the month, I would. If such a thing existed. Let me know and I’ll campaign for you myself. Scout’s Honour!
(Please do forgive me for my lapse in judgment. It’s late and I am not thinking clearly).
All the best and love in the universe,
A student who really needs you to not tell the Professor about any of this
P.S. It really is late, what are you still doing up?
P.P.S. You jerking off?
P.P.P.S. The video you watching any good? Send recs pls
Dear idiot,
It’s just three marks. You can live without it.
Enjoying the ass-kissing though,
Toji
P.S. What the hell is wrong with you?
P.P.S. Working.
We have an early lecture tomorrow. Shut your laptop and count some sheep or something. I don’t want to hear anything from you tonight again. I’m serious.
I know you’ve been following me. To my classes, the library, my hang outs, my fucking home. Don’t pretend otherwise — I could hear you whispering ‘oooh you wanna remark my essay sooo bad’ from behind a fucking bookcase.
Not only is it stupid as hell, it’s also creepy as fuck. Do you not have better things to do? Like, I don’t know, hitting the books so your next essay will be better and we won’t have to do this whole song and dance?
Next time I see you stalking me, I’m going to tie you up to a lamppost and let campus security deal with you.
– Toji.
Dear Toji Fushiguro,
For legal reasons, I will neither admit nor deny your accusations. Perhaps every encounter you believe you had with me outside of lectures/classes/office hours were mere coincidences. Campus isn’t that big, after all. I promise I would never do anything to endanger you (unless, of course, it’ll give me extra marks — I kid, I kid).
If my persistent appearances are bothering you, however, maybe you should reconsider your rejection of my plea to have you re-read my essay. Just food for thought.
Best wishes,
Woman who might already have been, but I’ll keep that to myself
P.S. you’ll tie me up? Kinky. Didn’t know you have those kinds of interest rawr
Dearest Toji,
The distance is agony. I miss you so very dearly, yet every metre we are kept apart only strengthens my adoration for you.
Lots of love,
Your soulmate
Don’t be emailing me during a lecture. Focus. And I don't know what distance you're talking about; you’re literally sitting on the front row, right in front of me. Damn near killed that girl when you shoved her for the spot.
Listen to what the professor says — it’s important.
And stop spreading your legs; I can see your panties from here.
— Toji
P.S. Focus on your notes before I move you to the back.
Dear hot stuff,
Important, you say?
Important in the sense of appearing in the next exam important, or important for the soul important? You don't need to tell me, just send one wink for the former and two for the latter.
Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about.
I’m not wearing panties ;)
All the best,
Your gorgeous girl
P.S. ngh I love when you wear those grey sweatpants, if I look closely enough, I swear I can see every vein
Dear dumbass bound by the university’s Code of Conduct,
You know better than to solicit unfair advantages by exploiting your personal relationships. I trust you also know that since we filed an official form regarding our relationship that you face different papers than your peers, which will not be marked by me.
— Toji
P.S. quit staring at my dick. you panting like a bitch in heat ain't helping. neither was the low cut top you're wearing.
Dear Mr. Strict TA,
I’m well aware. I was just kidding. I actually appreciate that the department approved of our relationship, with the support of the Professor. Not that we would have let them stop us — I just like that we can still see each other in lectures and classes, whenever you’re auditing or teaching.
You know how worried I was that things would change if we became official.
I owe the Prof a lot. Guess he was preparing for this day or something.
Look, just don’t do anything that’ll get you in trouble or will make the other students think you’re getting special treatment. I don’t like the idea that you’ll be discredited because of me. You got a bright future ahead of you. I won’t ever hold you back.
So head down, alright?
Leave all the worrying to me.
— Your Toji
Okay, okay. I’ll pay attention. This is a rather interesting topic anyway. I bet the PowerPoint was all you — it screams, I don’t get paid enough to use pictures and animation lol
Oh, and don’t forget we promised Megs we’re taking him and his wittle friends to the movies tonight! Please don’t stay too late grading.
Love,
The best sister in law ever!
Yeah, didn’t forget. Little brat’s been going on and on about it. Says he wants to sit next to you, like I didn’t raise the runt. Whatever. Wait till he finds out you hog the popcorn.
Meet me in our usual spot after this lecture.
I wanna verify something you said for myself.
Better not have lied to me.
— Toji
Stupid Tumblr 30 images limit grrrr had to delete a couple emails rahhhh. It also keeps making random letters in normal size font 😭 I forgot how hostile Tumblr is to this format
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Warnings: eventual smut, plot with porn, fake dating trope, college au, no curses au, mean girl!reader, fem dom!reader, nerd!jo, subby!gojo, virgin!gojo, masochist!gojo, some angst but with a happy ending, very early 2000s romcoms, reader grows a lot (hate towards her will not be tolerated), reader gets humbled quite often here lol, chapter specific warnings will be listed on the chapter, some allusions to toxic/unhealthy relationships and coping, not proofread
Word Count: 41k
Gojo art by @/Leimiruu on X
Chapter ONE - Game start
Chapter TWO - Different levels
Chapter THREE - Boss fight
Chapter FOUR - Perfect victory
Disclaimers:
♤ COMPLETED
♤ Available on AO3.
♤ This is a mix of fluff, smut and angst, so minors/ageless blogs do not interact.
♤ Any comments hating on the reader in this story will be deleted and the user will be blocked. The story plays on the mean girl trope so you will see mean girl behaviour. Just know this is all intentional. If you are sensitive to a flawed female character, do not read. I know what some of you are like. I have played these games before.
♤ This is a college au separate from my EdenU au. Different Gojo and university setting altogether. Any semblance is coincidental.
♤ Every part of this is of my own work. No AI or external inspiration was used. Please do not repost this on Tumblr or on any other platform without credits. I do not give permission for this to be translated. And please do not feed my work into AI.
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Chapter FOUR: Gojo is a thing of the past, at least that’s what you keep telling yourself as you try to get over him by being under other people, but why does he still keep haunting you? Why can’t he let you go?
Content: angst, fluff and smut all in one chapter, there's alcohol consumption, unhealthy coping mechanism, sex with other people, cameos from other JJK character, not proofread - pls let me know if you spot typos!
Word Count: 11.3k
Chapter THREE - Masterlist
You lied.
You see him sometimes, around campus.
He’s always with friends. Most times friends you’ve met — Yuji, Inumaki, Ijichi, Haibara, even that ‘Sho’ girl — and other times with people you haven’t. Sometimes he doesn’t see you, and he’ll have that bright smile on his face as he talks to people animatedly about something sciency, you’re sure.
And other times, he does.
When that happens, you either turn away fast enough that you don’t get to see his smile drop or see him wear whatever expression you think he’ll have, or you can’t tear your eyes away quickly enough to miss the half hearted wave he gives you.
It’s better when he doesn’t see you, you think. That wave is more crushing than anything he’d say.
Naturally, you’ve blocked him.
You always block guys you’re done with. It gives you peace of mind. Except this guy doesn’t; you wonder all the time if he’s tried contacting you, and what he’s said. Maybe he changed his mind and begged for you to give him another chance, maybe he declared his undying love for you, maybe he’ll vow to dedicate himself to you for the rest of time.
None of those are likely though, because he would have chased after you the first couple times he spotted you on campus. But he hasn’t. Not even once. And you walk away slowly on purpose to give him the opportunity.
He’s never taken it.
“So, it’s over?” Brittany asks, plucking her eyebrows in her vanity, and occasionally looking at you through the mirror. “You ended it with him?”
You’re in her apartment, spread eagle on her bed and staring up at the ceiling wondering why she doesn’t have glow-in-the-dark stickers of stars. Her place smells like vanilla candles and expensive setting spray. Usually you’d fawn over the delicate scent, now you’re left feeling more suffocated.
It’s tradition for you to go crying to her after every heartbreak, but you’re not crying right now. You’re just taking shallow breaths. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Careful not to inhale too deeply in case something inside you splinters.
“Sure,” you say.
She sighs and puts her plucker down. “Babes, you don’t have to pretend you’re okay — I’m not going to gossip to those bitches, or any bitches, you know that.”
Through your lashes, you stare at her. Brittany’s been your friend since you were children. Two girls meant for more than the provincial life you were born in, destined to wear hot pink mini skirts and tight dresses in a conservative town. You’ve followed each other your entire lives — sleepovers, first kisses, college applications half-finished at her kitchen table — and you know her loyalty is to you before any man. You can tell her anything.
Despite that, you still say, “I am okay. He’s just some nerd, I’m gonna be fine, trust me.”
Her pursed lips suggest she won’t be trusting you.
Which is fine.
You’re not exactly trying very hard to convince her — you’re wearing a hoodie and sweatpants for Prada sake. Sure, it’s a sexy pink hoodie and Juicy Couture sweatpants, but the outfit tells the whole story. This is your version of waving a white flag. Hair unstyled. Makeup smudged into yesterday. No armor. She knows you’re devastated, and highkey suicidal, and you can’t bring yourself to pretend otherwise.
You just can’t say it. You can’t say the words, say that for the first time in your life you’re actually experiencing real heartbreak, and it’s robbing you of the ability to breathe.
It hurts.
It hurts a lot.
All the other times don’t even compare. The other times had you moping for a bit, stalking socials until your eyes burned, comparing yourself to whoever the bastard cheated on you with, buying curses from Etsy witches at 2 a.m., and eventually getting over them by getting under someone else. You’d call it empowerment. Reinvention. A glow-up.
This time, however, you don’t do any of those things. You don’t even think about getting revenge. You don’t want to hurt him. It’s not like he said anything wrong to begin with. He was probably right actually; you’re not in love with him. He was just nice and you liked it.
This time you’re just tired.
Bone-deep tired. The kind sleep doesn’t fix. And you so desperately want to sleep the day away, you want to let the paint on your toes crack and peel off, for your acrylics to grow out, lashes to fall off, and for your body to wither away.
“Is there a cute bridge nearby I can jump off?”
Brittany fixes you a blank look. “Not funny.” Then she groans, coming to stand over you and smacks you with a pillow. “Get up. I’m tired of your bad vibes ruining my Me Time. Why don’t you do some retail therapy? That always made you feel better, didn’t it?”
Releasing a heavy breath, you tell her, “I already did. I have boxes upon boxes in my room still unopened. I tried to find happiness at the bottom of a shopping cart, and I’ve dug myself into further debt. It didn’t even make me feel better.”
None of the cute thongs or super high high heels you’ve gotten numbed the pain for even a second. You did look really cute in everything you bought though.
A ping goes off on her phone. She checks it.
Then she slams her hands on the bed, making you bounce. Brittany squeals. You wince.
“Okay, you better wax that hairy, depressed vaj of yours because we’ve got a frat party to sleep our way through tonight.”
“No,” you groan, already feeling the hangover clouding your mind. “I’m not in a partying mood.”
“That’s too damn bad because you’re coming with me and that’s that.”
Surprisingly strong hands roll you off the bed and drag you into the bathroom, and you know you’re going to walk out of here sore and bruised and in tears.
Terrific.
.
.
.
It’s been a while since you’ve been at a party, and you have missed it — the fun songs that get your hips swaying without permission, the sting of alcohol that burns a clean line down your throat and washes any doubts and stress away, and not to mention the hypnotic gyration of bodies that mutes insecurities and self-consciousness for a moment.
The air is thick with sweat, cheap cologne, something sickly sweet, and it feels like slipping back into a skin you used to live in. This is a damn good party, courtesy of Alpha Alpha Alpha and its president, Sukuna Ryomen — the kind of party people talk about all semester, the kind that makes freshmen reckless and seniors nostalgic for the rest of their lives.
Since you left him on read, he hasn’t texted you; he’s not the type to chase. The fact that he reached out at all to begin with would have won you over if you weren’t so in love with—
“Where have you been, doll?”
You grimace at the term of endearment.
You know, without looking back, that the captain of the hockey team has crept up behind you, whispering loudly in your ear so you can hear him over the blaring bass of the music. His firm hands grip your hips, hauling your ass to his front where he grinds his semi unashamedly.
“Around,” you reply, sipping on your cranberry vodka whilst you feel the music course through your veins, a synthetic courage buzzing under your skin.
Scarred lips graze the shell of your ear. “Yeah? Well, I missed ya. Missed this sexy ass and tight pussy. Wanna let me have my fill upstairs, like old times?”
Elbowing him off with a scowl, you say, “No, Fushiguro. Not after you slept with Jeanette before making me suck your dick the same night — that was freaking disgusting, by the way.”
“It was hot for me.”
His annoying laugh catches the attention of people around. Guys give him a nod of recognition and girls bite their lips, and both look him up and down with desire and envy. When they see the hand he has making its way to grope your tit through your thin shirt, the ones who want him and only him snarl before turning away, and the ones that want you too grin knowingly.
This was your life before…him.
Hated for being pretty and popular, and lusted for exactly the same reasons. A month or two ago, you would’ve been high from the attention, dizzy on it, collecting glances everywhere you go. Now you’re just exhausted.
Despite that, you feel some dull thrill growing from where he touches you — a familiar, shallow spark that promises distraction if nothing else.
Lips murmur kisses up and down your neck, hands squeeze your hip and breast, his body presses insistently against yours. Toji has always been a fun time; he knows exactly what he’s doing and has never left you unsatisfied. He’s easy. Predictable. Safe in the way a bad habit is safe.
But you shouldn’t.
You didn’t even want to be at this party, didn’t want to be freshly waxed all over, all shiny and glittery, didn’t want to be dancing or drinking, or groped by some horny asshole who has no sense of loyalty, and you suspect actually likes causing girl drama.
All you wanted was hi— to be alone.
As you’re about to shove him off for good, you catch a flash of white in the corner of your eyes. Your head snaps in the direction, heart lurching stupidly in your chest. Shoulders slump in disappointment soon after.
It’s just someone taking their shirt off.
Of course he’s not here. This isn’t his scene. Plus, it’s Friday night — he’ll be at the games café with his friends, probably laughing about you and your pathetic confession, or building Lego sets and inside jokes, or making new memories in the toilet stall with his working dick.
And even if he was here, what were you going to do? Beg? Apologise? Roll over and flash him your pussy like it was going to convince him you’re good enough to be loved?
“Come on, ma,” Toji mutters. “Lemme make you feel good. I’ll make you forget all about that guy you’ve been with.”
“What guy?” you weakly ask, suddenly feeling lightheaded, like the room has tilted on its axis.
Toji spins you around, gripping the back of your neck to keep you in place as he grins down at you. “The nerd, doll. The rich one. Nora was telling me all about how smitten you were.”
“You mean when she was bouncing on your dick?” you scoff. Who told him he could call Eleanor by a nickname?
He smacks a wet kiss on your glossy lips, leaving behind the wheaty taste of beer. “Nah, ain’t nobody having full conversations when they’re on my dick — she was on my face, which you could be in ten seconds if you follow me upstairs.”
A harsh smack warms your ass cheek.
“Don’t make me wait long.”
With that, he leaves you.
Coldness wafts over your body that not even the warm bodies around you can fill.
Then, you’re having a moment of clarity — you’re standing in the middle of the room with a drink you didn’t ask for, bass rattling your bones, sweat and cheap perfume clinging to the air in a sickly way. Strobe lights slice everyone into fragments. Laughter sounds warped, metallic.
This was your scene, your thing, your routine. Not Lego’s and fantasy movies, gameboards, Mariokart, and good fucking sex that ends in cuddles and kisses. Not slow mornings and shared blankets and someone looking at you like you were more than a spectacle.
Yet, tonight it all feels wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s skin. Brittany’s off blowing someone’s brains out, you’re sure, and you know she won’t mind if you leave as long as you let her know, and so you keep thinking you’ll leave after one song, after one sip, after one more person tells you how good you look.
You don’t.
Because the moment the beat drops, the ache in your chest dulls just a little. The thoughts that circle his name — his voice, his hands, the way he used to look at you when you laughed like you weren’t performing — get shoved to the back of your skull by flashing lights and bodies pressed too close.
It’s addictive, this numbness. The way strangers’ smiles demand nothing of you. The way dancing lets you pretend you’re still the girl who came here for fun instead of survival. You hate that it works. You hate that you’re already planning the next party, even as you swear this one will be your last.
Because you can pretend as much as you like that you’re no longer the same girl, that you’ve learnt, grown, evolved, but deep down, you know, as much as everyone else does, you will never be more than a cheap thrill.
So, you push your way through the crowd, dumping your drink in some plant that’s probably fake, heading for the wide open door which leads into the night and back home, where it’s safe, where it’s quiet, where he won’t be, and turn right to the stairs.
“Took you long enough,” someone says, smirking and palming his hard-on through his jeans.
Toji’s waiting by the door, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and mouthing at your neck as someone else eyes you up and down.
“Ryomen,” you say. “Did you have to set a trap for me?”
He pushes off the bed, strolling over to you. Tattooed hands grope your ass, pulling you flush to his front. The frat president of Alpha3 licks the seam of your lips, tickling the surface with his tongue piercing. He rasps, “You’re a flighty thing, sue me.”
The other guy slides his hand up your skirt, squeezing your ass and letting a finger push in under your thong, where you’re still not very wet at all. He curses and spits on his fingers, then rubs it on your pussy. Toji huffs and notes, “She’s been distracted by that Gojo kid, too busy to suck our dicks.”
Sukuna tuts. “Bad girl. You know this pussy likes to be passed around.”
“Quit it with the talking,” you drawl, grabbing both of their dicks to hear them groan and shut the fuck up. “Put your honey where your mouth is.”
They laugh.
“God, you’re fucking stupid. It’s almost a turn off.”
“What do I always say? Let your cunt do all the talking, doll, remember? It’s smarter than you, that’s for sure.”
You roll your eyes. “Is someone gonna eat my pussy or what?”
Toji grunts. “We’re gonna get to that, don’t you worry.”
Falling back on the bed, one holds you by your waist as you come to straddle his lap like you’ve done many times before, and the other settles behind, pinning you between them.
Clothes fall to the floor, and the party downstairs becomes a mere hum through the moans and groans of three bodies joining.
And for the night, you do forget all about him.
.
.
.
“Do you believe in love?”
The blond man slides his gaze back to you as though he’d forgotten you’re lying naked on his bed, messy hair creating a halo around your head on his pillow. He’s tucking himself back in his slacks, zipping it, before buckling the belt he hadn’t even fully removed before he thrusted inside you.
He’s a professor of History. A father. Widowed.
You’ve had a sexual relationship with him since first year, when he met you at a bar and you made up some story about being a working woman at some law firm. He’d taken you back to his place, fucked you in a way not many of the boys from your hometown had ever, and was surprised, to say the least, when he saw you at orientation.
Professor Nanami was kinda disgusted with you, and with himself. He refused to see you for weeks, shrugging you off when you’d cozy up to him in the hallways. But he couldn’t resist you for very long.
Of course not.
How could he when you wore the tightest, shortest skirts around him? When you had foregone bras under your basically see-through tops, batting your lashes and bending over his desk ‘to pick something up on the other side?’
Maybe it was because his wife had just died, or was dying —you didn’t think to ask for the details — or maybe he just really liked you, but you’ve had a consistent relationship ever since he caved and ate you out on his desk. Every Monday evening, his least favourite day of the week, you’d pop by his place and get your back blown out.
Always the same position — prone bone. Your face buried in the pillows, ass hiked up, head occasionally banging against the headboard.
First he eats you out, you blow him, and then he’s inside you.
Like clockwork.
No kissing, not much talking, no staying over.
There used to be a time when you’d push it. When you’d pretend he’d fucked you to exhaustion and you couldn’t lift a single muscle, hoping he’d let you stay just this once, but he was insistent; he’d rustle you awake, a stern look on his face, and with painkillers and a glass of water by the bedside table.
He wouldn’t even let you leave a toothbrush at his place.
It was easy to start things back up with him. You showed up at his office, knocking and with a sultry grin. He pushed his chair back, beckoned you over with two fingers, and you thought he might say something like he missed you or ask where you’ve been. He didn’t. He just guided you down to kneel between his legs.
The rest was history, as they say, which is funny because he’s a History professor!
Nanami runs a hand through his hair.
“Yes.”
You roll onto your side, propping your head up on your palm, watching him button his shirt with the kind of care one would reserve for defusing bombs: each button fastened with intention, each cuff aligned, crisp, controlled, contained. It’s almost military. Or maybe militant. What would S—
Nope. Don’t go there.
Happy to get an answer from him, you enquire, “Did you love your wife?”
He stills at that, but recovers quickly. Clasping his watch on his wrist, he wonders, “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, you know,” you reply as casually as you can, prodding the wet spots left on the bedsheets, “just curious. You never really talk about her.”
“Because the dead should be left where they are.”
There’s no bite in it. Just fact.
You sit up, the sheet slipping to your waist. He doesn’t look. Not out of disgust. Not out of desire. Simply discipline. As if you’re another detail in the room to catalogue and move past. Whereas other guys would have greedily drank up your figure to get fired up for another round. You don’t mind it.
Getting to your feet, you tug on your underwear. You remark, “You’re a History prof — isn’t it your whole thing to not let the dead rest?”
That gets a slight quirk of his lips. “I’m a contrarian.”
“Figures.” You huff. Then, you insist. “So? Did ya?”
Nanami meets your eyes through the reflection of the mirror. He doesn’t smile when he answers, “With all my heart.”
That doesn’t make you jealous, doesn’t make you sad or angry. It’s just what it is. But it does make you think. Voice quieter, you ask, “How do you know if you love someone? Like, really love them, and not like just be horny for them?”
“Did you meet someone?”
At surface level, it’s conversational. Polite. However, you know from years of office sex and Monday fuckings that Nanami’s not the kind of person to pry; he’s being cautious, worried that you mean him. It almost makes you laugh.
“No, I was just wondering,” you say, trying to comb through your hair.
He hums, handing you your phone.
So predictable.
Men are always so frightened by the prospect of you falling in love with them, as if you’re so fucking terriblem, as if it means you’ll be baby trapping them. And yeah, maybe you are terrible. You’re shallow, dumb, and mean. Maybe he saw that and that’s why he didn’t want you for more than a wet pussy.
But you can’t change who you are at the very rotten core…
Can you?
Soon, you’re being taken to the door, and just as you’re about to leave you look back at him, watching him already closing the door.
“You never answered my question.”
Nanami doesn’t need to ask for clarification to know what question you’re talking about. He pauses for a second, and it’s a rare moment of hesitation you don’t see him take very often at all. The man’s knowledgeable, wise, older. Whatever’s crossing his mind you probably couldn’t ever hope to understand. Perhaps he won’t answer. Perhaps he’ll even scold you for prying.
But he doesn’t.
Staring down at you, he says, “When every minute of every day without them is like dying a thousand deaths without any of the relief, and you can only hope to forget them for a second.”
And the door’s shut in your face.
.
.
.
“Thank you for meeting me again!”
Yuji sits across from you at a cafe on the top floor of the student union building. He’d asked to meet, to treat you to coffee and cake after helping him get a date with a girl.
You wanted to say no. The idea of hanging out with his friend was weird. And you’d been wondering how much he had told them about everything, if he’d told them you were some psycho, and that he never wants to see you again. You thought that Yuji might cuss you out, might call you a dirty whore or something. But he insisted. Pleaded. And you’re not against free things.
“It’s whatever. I’m just glad she said yes after all the work we put in.”
“No, seriously,” he says, pushing the slice of strawberry shortcake toward you like an offering. “You saved my life.”
“That’s dramatic.” You take a bite, thinking about how a certain someone loves sweet things more than you do and he’d devour this in seconds.
“It’s not! Do you know how many times I almost texted her ‘hey’ with four y’s?” He shudders. “You stopped me from ruining everything.”
You snort despite yourself. “You’re welcome for protecting you from yourself.”
He grins, then softens a little. “She said I seemed…thoughtful. That I actually listened to her.”
“Well,” you shrug, stirring your iced latte a little too hard, “you did. Eventually.”
He laughs. “After you made me rewrite that message six times.”
“Seven, actually.”
“Seven,” he concedes easily. Yuji pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m taking her to an arcade this weekend, then we’ll get some boba, walk around for a bit.”
No one’s ever taken you to an arcade or gotten you boba. Is this how nerds date? Is that what he’s doing with some girl right now? Did he ever think about taking you on a date like that? What kind of boba does he like? Probably something insanely sweet and elaborate, he’d convince you to try it despite your complaining, and it’d turn out to be your most favourite thing in the world.
The third floor is busy — cutlery clinking, espresso machines hissing, students drifting past with backpacks and too-loud laughter. You keep your eyes on the condensation sliding down your cup.
A barista calls out a complicated order. A group of girls squeal over something on a phone screen. A tall figure in white passes near the railing and your spine stiffens before you can stop it.
Not him.
Different build. Different posture.
You take a sip of your drink even though it’s gone watery.
Yuji softly says, “He does that too.”
Your eyes dart to him. He hadn’t said his name, and yet your heart’s pounding as if he had. So fucking pathetic. Shuffling in your seat, you say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He’s always looking around every room, looking at whoever walks in through the door, eyeing the crowds. He even smiles when he thinks he sees you, then frowns when it’s someone else,” Yuji elaborates. There’s a bittersweet expression on his face, and you wonder if he wears one too. You pretend your heart doesn’t skip a beat at the thought that he might be searching for you in every face that passes by. “I think he really misses you.”
“No, he doesn’t,” you reply immediately, before your brain could even process the words. Then you sit up, meeting his eyes for the first time since sitting across from the pink-haired guy, who looks so much like some other guy you know. “Yuji, we were never in a real relationship, did he tell you that?”
That furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”
So he didn’t.
“It was a deal we made. I won’t go into the specifics,” you say, waving a hand. “But we weren’t actually dating. It was just pretend.”
Yuji shakes his head, leaning forward. “But he was always talking about you, about the things you like, the things you don’t. He’d see clothes in stores and say, oh she’d hate that, or that would suit her. He’d text you all the time and well, I’ve never seen him smile at his phone like that before. Even movies we’d rewatch, he’d talk on and on about what you thought about it or how he thinks you’d hate it, and so he can’t wait to watch it with you. None of that seemed like pretend to me.”
Every word builds the pit in your stomach, growing it bigger and bigger until you feel so heavy you think you could create your own gravitational pull, like someone had once explained the Sun does.
Voice trembling more than you want it to, you deny all of that. “It was pretend. He’s just really good at playing his part. But it’s not like we didn’t get along. He just didn’t lo—” Love me, you wanted to say. Instead, you gulp, and continue, “He just didn’t like me like that.”
The guy shakes his head again. He looks so deeply troubled by the news, and wholly unconvinced.
“I think you’re wrong,” he says, then quickly adds, “respectfully. He’s quieter these days, always wanting to go out, stay at our place, and go to every event possible. He’s always super tired now. I thought it was because you two had an argument; I didn’t know it was because you broke up.”
“We didn’t break up,” you tell him, firmer than you intended it to come out. “We just ended our deal. It’s different.”
“Not to him,” Yuji argues. “He’s clearly miserable. I’ve never seen him so down.”
You sip your drink, gaze flitting away so you won’t see the flashes of memories of a man you can’t see right now in his eyes. Numbly, you say, “He’s just missing the routine we had. He’ll get over it.”
“Can’t you two just make up?”
“No, Yuji. It’s not that simple.”
“It can be.”
Tired of where the conversation headed, you stand up, fixing your skirt. “Thanks for the coffee, and you’re welcome for helping you bag your girl. Good luck, and whatever.”
Then you leave before he can say anything else about him.
Inside the elevator, you slump against the mirror. Your face is reflected back all around you. It’s unnerving to see the dark circles under your eyes and the slight shake in your eyeliner. You snatch your gaze away. Can everyone tell you’re grieving something that was never alive?
A ping warns that the elevator is stopping. Someone gets in, but you’re only looking at the buttons.
“Diapers?”
You freeze.
Beat up converse, blue jeans, white shirt under a blue sweater, full lips, glasses, and white hair.
Your heart drops to the ground floor.
He’s really here.
And it’s just the two of you.
The air feels thinner somehow. The elevator suddenly feels too small. The mirrored walls reflect you from every angle — your stiff posture, his towering frame, the space between you that somehow feels charged.
The doors slide shut with a soft, definitive ding.
You’re trapped.
“What are you doing here?” Satoru asks, smiling widely. He takes a step towards you reflexively, arms rising. You step back. His smile falters, but doesn’t disappear altogether.
Steeling your spine, you reply coldly, “Meeting a friend.”
“Oh.” He leans back against the mirror too, arms crossed. “I was studying. Got a big exam to prepare for. It’s gonna be killer.”
“Cool.”
Your voice comes out flat, but your pulse is screaming. The hum of the lights grows louder. The faint scent of his cologne — clean, annoyingly familiar — threads into your lungs and drags memories behind it.
There’s a tremble in your voice you hadn’t shaken off. Can he hear it? Can he tell you’ve been miserable? Is he rejoicing in it? Does he feel victorious? Validated?
Does he look at you and think, See? You were just confused.
Satoru wonders, “How have you been then? What have you been up to?”
Who the hell does he think he is? How can he possibly talk to you so casually, like you’re long time friends passing each other by?
Inhaling deeply, you let out a tense breath. “Look, we don’t have to do this. We don’t have to be all good with each other. We were strangers to each other before and we’re strangers to each other now. No more and less.”
“No more or less,” he corrects automatically.
“Fuck off.”
You can hear the sheepish smile in his voice when he mutters, “Sorry.”
The elevator shudders lightly as it passes another floor. Then his expression shifts. The brightness dims.
“I was genuinely asking,” he says, softer now. “I really am wondering how you’ve been…” Then, even softer, he adds, “I missed you.”
No no no no no.
He can’t talk to you like that, he can’t say shit like that, he can’t weaken your resolve, he can’t pretend he fucking cares. He doesn’t get to miss you after telling you you mistook gratitude for love. After implying you only wanted him because he was the first man who treated you like you mattered.
Hands shaking, you clench them into fists so he won’t see. “Don’t.”
“I do,” he whispers, insistent. “I haven’t been sleeping much since ‘cause I keep thinking about all the things I said.”
You don’t want to hear this.
You can’t.
You’re supposed to be moving on, accepting that what you had wasn’t real, that it was all just some game. He wasn’t supposed to be here; it’s too soon. You wanted to face him properly, completely unaffected so that he’d never know just how hurt you were.
Satoru steps closer. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was flustered, y’know, like you caught me off guard, and—”
“Stop it, Satoru,” you hiss, whipping around.
Your breath gets caught in your throat.
Fuck he really does look terrible, or as terrible as he can possible look — he has dark circles under his eyes too, his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through them, pulling hard, and he looks even paler than usual. His sweater is fluffier than usual, Converse more scuffed, and there’s a quake in his hands as they twitch.
When your eyes meet, through his glasses his gaze softens. “Oh, baby.”
He’s so close all it takes is one step to cross the distance, to hug him tightly, to yank him down for a kiss and wash everything away. Satoru smells the same as you remember, all clean and fresh, and it’s comforting, reassuring.
The door opens.
“There you are,” a voice says. “Did you bring my clothes back from your place?”
Satoru breaks eye contact first, looking at the newcomer. He releases a breath, combing his hair back. “Hey, Sho. Yeah, I’ve got them.”
It’s her again.
She’s sucking on a lollipop, raising a brow at you. A smile plays on her lips. It’s mocking, like she knows something you don’t.
It’s so easy for them to talk like that, isn’t it? So casual, so natural, like they’ve been dating for years. Did you ever sound like that with him to others? Did people feel jealousy ripping them apart from the inside, threatening to bring them to their knees?
“Good for you, Gojo,” you snark. The words taste acidic. Petty. Beneath even you. But you can’t stop them. “You’re finally using your fixed dick to its fullest.”
“What? No, wait, baby—”
You leave, heels clacking on the polished floor.
Someone calls your name, panicked, but you don’t turn around. Not even when the elevator doors slide shut behind you. Not even when the first tear slips down your cheek. Not even when the sob you’ve been choking back finally breaks free in the empty corridor.
That’s really fucking good for him.
Just perfect.
Peachy.
.
.
.
He’s been trying to contact you.
A TheSmartest_1 had followed you on Insta. It had no profile picture, no other friends, no posts, but you knew who it was immediately. He sent a message. It plainly read: I didn’t sleep with her, her washing machine broke. Pls unblock me.
It no longer matters to you if he did or didn’t; you’ve cried over it enough. Plus, it’s not like you’re some blushing virgin. But still, the thought of it didn’t settle right, and even if he denies it, the damage to your heart has been done.
You set your account to private and removed him.
Then you received an email from one of your professors, talking about how someone had interrupted a lecture shouting your name, and that he had to inform this individual you don’t attend your lectures, which was the cue for him to lecture you about the importance of good attendance and full investment in your education.
It confused you.
Not the scolding. Whatever Satoru’s up to.
A lot.
Why was he looking for you? Why was he trying to reach out? What else did he want? Was his dick broken and he wanted you to slap him back to health? Or did you leave something behind in his apartment?
The old you would have confronted him, asked him what the fuck he wanted, maybe blown him as a parting gift. The you now could only curl up in your bed, staring at the message and feeling tempted to hear him out.
You’re curious, that’s all.
Since the elevator, you’d been crying on and off. You ignored Brittany’s attempts to see you, claiming to have mono, and definitely ignored Eleanor and Jeanette’s accusations of you being pregnant.
You wish you were pregnant. At least then he’d have a reason to stick by you.
It’s not too late to fake it, you suppose.
No, that’s stupid.
No one would believe you’re pregnant with your impeccable figure.
Eventually, everyone’s messages stopped, like they had accepted you’re a shut-in now. You didn’t go to see Nanami on Monday, didn’t seek out Choso for some weed and cunnilingus in the backseat, or Geto for an orgy with his groupies. And it was good.
There’s peace and quiet now.
You can do the bare minimum for your studies, don’t have to do your makeup or shave or even wear anything other than some ratty T-shirt from home you never threw out.
But it also means listening to the voices in your head telling you you’re not good enough for anyone. It means having to bask in the dull clenches of your heart every time you’re reminded of him. It means rolling over in bed and reaching out for a warm body that pulls you in and mutters about how good you smell, and being jolted awake when your arm falls through air.
You can’t even doomscroll anymore; your feed’s been corrupted by videos of people building Lego sets, of film analysis, of all the work the Gojo Foundation has been doing. It’s like everywhere you look he’s there, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. Once, you replayed the same video of him attending some event in a suit, with his hair slicked back, and his glasses swapped out for sunglasses, for hours.
When you shut your eyes, the video still played in your mind, like it’d been burnt into your retina.
A ping goes off on your phone.
Lazily, you pick it up and blink through the blur of your eyes, which had gotten used to the darkness of your room. Jeanette sent you a picture, and captioned it: I want the next turn when she’s done with him.
You sit up.
It’s a picture of two people. A man.
Him.
He’s on campus, standing under a veranda as rain pours heavily, holding designer shopping bags — Tiffany, Chanel, Prada — and laughing with a girl.
“No fucking way.”
The covers are thrown on the floor with the speed you jump out of bed, fighting through the sudden lightheadedness that threatens to send you falling, and hurriedly gathering your lipgloss and mini skirt off the floor. The curtains are torn open and the grey sky glares back at you. It’s pouring.
It must have been taken recently, if not just now.
Sheets of rain slam against the windows, blurring the campus into watercolour streaks.
You move fast. Faster than you have in like a month. Shower on. Teeth brushed. Concealer under your eyes to hide the proof that your heart’s been shattered into a million pieces and not even nail glue could fix it back up.
You pick the tightest top you own. The shortest skirt. Something that says you are not the pathetic thing you’ve been rotting into. Lip gloss swiped on. Hair brushed until it shines. Mascara layered thick. You’d rather die than be seen all ugly and disgusting by anyone, least of all him and that skank.
The cold hits instantly when you step outside.
Rain soaks through your clothes within seconds, clinging the fabric to your skin. The mini skirt rides up as wind whips through campus, biting at your thighs. Your shoes splash through puddles with every march you make across the quad.
Students stare, point, laugh. You don’t care.
Your phone is still open to the picture Jeanette sent. You zoom in as you walk. It’s by the Quad, just a little away from the Physics building, where he liked to hang back in his free time to chat to professors in their offices.
The environment starts matching the background of the picture.
You’re here.
And there he is.
Satoru fucking Gojo.
Under the stone veranda outside the humanities building, dry and sheltered, laughing like the world is light. He looks exactly like how he did in the picture, except now that you can see him in all of his glory, you can see there’s even more designer bags hanging off his arms.
You can also see the girl beside him.
It’s Brittany.
Your Brittany.
The girl who held your hair back when you threw up. Who listened to you cry about him. Who promised time will heal all wounds, who said she liked him for you.
It’s really her.
What you’re seeing in front of you, the abomination that it is, is exactly what you expected, yet in your frantic hurry to be near perfect, you’d manage to convince yourself you saw wrong or it looked like her but it wasn’t, or that Jeanette had done something to the picture.
But no, she’s with him. She’s the one he was laughing with, the one that had stopped him from seeking you out. And he’s the reason she stopped texting you to ask if she could see you today or the next day.
The rain pounds down harder, plastering your hair to your face, your mascara threatening to bleed.
He sees you first.
His smile drops instantly. The bags go still in his hand. Brittany follows his gaze, confused. And when she sees you, her eyes widen in panic, in fucking guilt.
“Babe…” she began, but you cut her off.
“What the fuck is this?” you demand. Your hands are shaking. Your entire body’s trembling, whether from the cold or from the delirious fury crackling inside of you, you couldn’t tell.
“Hey—” he starts.
“Shut up.” You don’t even look at him. Your eyes are on her. On your best fucking friend. “How could you?” you scream.
Jeanette, you expected. Eleanor too. But Brittany? Your Brittany, making a man who was never really yours hers?
Were you so unloveable that no one would consider your feelings for even one fucking minute? Was there something genuinely wrong with you? Did you have a corrupting force inside that makes everyone stab their daggers in your back?
Brittany steps forward. “It’s not what you think.”
“Not what I think?” You laugh, hysterical, gesturing wildly at the shopping bags and their general closeness. “You’re on a date. With him. You’re telling me I’m mistaken?”
“It’s not a date,” she insists, exasperated.
Gojo cuts in, “It isn’t.”
“Oh my God, don’t.” Your voice is almost hoarse from how loud you’re shouting over the pounding of the rain, which threatens to send your legs buckling under you from its sheer force. “Do not stand there and pretend like you didn’t ruin me and then move on to her.”
Water drips off your lashes. You’re freezing now, teeth almost chattering, but adrenaline keeps you upright.
Brittany’s hands reach for you. Your glare pins her to where she stands. In spite of that, she sighs and says, “You need to calm down.”
“You listened to me cry about him,” you say, voice cracking completely now. “You told me he was bad for me. You said I deserved better, that I just need therapy. Is this your version of therapy? Sleeping with him?”
Gojo steps forward. “Okay, that’s enough—”
“Stay out of it!” you snap at him. Even now, he’s defending her, choosing to protect her from you, because you’re some big monster in their eyes. You’re the one trampling all over their Happy Ever After.
His jaw tightens.
You’re soaked to the bone. Your fingers are numb. Your arms are goosebumped and aching, legs itchy from the cold. You must look insane — mascara’s running down your face, stinging your eyes.
But you don’t care.
Because they’re dry. Sheltered. Together. And they look so fucking good together, so happy, and it’s you who wiped the smiles off their faces, it’s you who’s disturbing them, ruining their day.
“You’re dead to me,” you say to both of them.
Gojo’s expression shifts at that. Something almost pained flickers there.
But you don’t stay to analyse it. You turn and walk away. No umbrella. No coat. Just the cold and the humiliation and the sound of your own ragged breathing as the sky roars above you.
Marching back the way you came, you pant, rain water dripping inside your mouth. It tastes salty. You don’t see the people looking at you, the phones held up recording everything, and you don’t know if Jeanette had seen everything.
You can’t pretend you don’t care about that, about any of this, because in all the years you’d spent debasing yourself over and over again for a shed of attention from some asshole, you’d never been more hurt, never been more devastated. Whatever was left of your heart has been set on fire, leaving behind ashes. And there were witnesses, videos that’ll remind you of the worst moment of your life.
Who are you going to turn to now?
Who was going to hug you, give you a pep talk, who was going to make you feel like a real person?
Who do you have?
“Wait!”
You turn around, arms tightly hugging yourself. “What the hell do you want?”
Gojo bends over, hands on his knees and gasping for air. His clothes and hair are soaked. He’s not wearing his glasses, yet he peers up at you like he’s never seen you more clearly. Your spine stiffens. “I want to talk, to explain.”
Disgust deepening on your face, you sneer at him. “Spare me. I don’t want to hear every sorry detail.”
“Sordid,” he says, then shakes his head. “Sorry, sorry. Habit.”
Straightening, he musters a weak smile, trying to look friendly, reassuring. His bright eyes scan your face, then your body, and his smile drops. “You’re cold,” he notes, then grimaces. “I don’t have a jacket on me; my sweater’s soaked. But you can have it, if you want.”
“Stop!” you screech, stomping your foot and sending puddles around your splattering. “Stop pretending you give a shit. Go back to that fucking bitch and die.”
He leaps forward as you make a move to walk away. Gojo cages you in his arms, keeping you there with him. His heat envelopes you.
You gasp, outraged. “How dare you!”
With a grimace, he says, “I know, I know. Sorry. I just need you to listen to me.”
“I don’t want to,” you grit out.
This is the closest to him you’ve been in a long time. You can feel the familiar hardness of his body, the strength in his arms, the pounding of his heart which matches yours in a perfect rhythm and tempo.
Gojo’s brows are furrowed so hard he forms a deep wrinkle that threatens to become a permanent fixture on his face. “I’m not sleeping with her.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, it’s true,” he insists, body a wall against your resistance. “I ran into her on campus this morning, and I saw an opportunity to reach you, to talk to you — I asked her to help me get you back.”
That stops your squirming.
“I asked her what to do, how I can win you back, make you accept my apology. And she said you’re materialistic; you like gifts. Well, she didn’t want to help me at first. In fact, she screamed some pretty horrible things at me when I first asked, which I deserved. But she eventually quietened down when I said I’d do whatever, no matter the cost.”
It’s true. You do like gifts, but who doesn’t?
And you’re not very happy to hear how she’d been talking about you, like liking gifts was some kind of character flaw. Although…a massive part of you has been calmed upon hearing that they’re not sleeping together. Of course, he could be lying, but Gojo’s not the type. He’s honest, a trait he displayed so brutally you’ve been left picking up the pieces in the wake of his truth.
Regardless, you’re on edge.
He continues, speaking quite fast as though he knows your wrath will resurface and he might lose his chance for good if he doesn’t hurry up, “So we went shopping.”
“All those gifts…they were for me?” you ask, blinking.
A small smile graces his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m not good at girl shopping, or shopping for anything that’s not a toy, so I really appreciated her expertise.”
“Those are expensive brands,” you note like an idiot, not really knowing what to say. Slowly, your body succumbs to his embrace, unable to help itself.
“I can afford it,” Gojo says simply.
Sighing, you pat his chest. He gets the memo and carefully places you down on your feet. The rain’s still pouring, not as heavy as it was before, but certainly heavy enough that there’s no one out in the park other than you two.
You mutter, “If this is because of what I said in the closet, then I’m sorry — your whole family thing doesn’t actually interest me very much, no offence. It just came out, because I realised you’d never properly invested in me, in our relationship. I’m not trying to use you for your money.”
“I know,” he replies, cradling your face in his soft, wet hands. “I know. I just wanted to do whatever I could to make you give me a chance, at least to apologise properly and explain myself.”
Gojo wipes the water droplets hanging off your fake lashes, and the mascara dirtying your face.
In spite of the weather, his hands are warm. They almost make you forget about everything.
“You don’t have to explain anything. You’re right. About everything,” you say, avoiding those piercing eyes that felt like they could see everything in the limitless void of yours. “We had an agreement: experimental sex, pretending, and absolutely no falling in love. I ruined all of it. I’m sorry I blew it all up. You must have felt so uncomfortable.”
“I was,” he agrees, sadness lacing his voice. “But not because I was mad ‘you blew it up,’ or whatever you’re thinking. I was uncomfortable because you sprung something on me that I hadn’t been thinking about on purpose.”
“What?”
“I love you,” he says.
You shake your head, breath growing shallower and shallower by the second. You try to pry his hands off you. “No, no, stop it.”
“Yes,” Gojo promises, holding your face still and forcing you to look into his eyes, unobscured. “I love you, but I forced myself not to. I abandoned that idea and squashed it down, wayyy down, because it was wrong, because it would make you uncomfortable, because it would push you away. I mean, I didn’t know it then, that it was love, but I knew what I felt for you far exceeded friendship.”
Blood rushes through your head, threatening to drown his voice out. You gulp a sob building in your throat, fighting the urge to run, to deny this is happening. In all the time you’d spent wallowing, replaying everything and imagining all sorts of future scenarios, this never occurred to you.
You never thought he could actually love you.
“That night, in the diner, I sat across from you, watched you drum your pretty nails, bat your long lashes, scowl at every other patron, and I knew I was in trouble,” Gojo says, thumb brushing your cheek absentmindedly. “And when you begrudgingly admitted that you liked fries with the milkshake, all cute and wanting to pretend you didn’t, my heart was basically yours, and it’s stayed yours throughout this whole thing. And it’s still yours now, even if you don’t want it, even if you have someone else’s, even if you’ll just throw it away. Because I don’t care what you do with it — it’s no good to me if it’s not beating for you.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but you’ve heard enough.
Grabbing him by his sweater, you yank him towards you, smashing your lips against his. As lightning flashes above you and thunder soon follows, you lose yourself in his taste, a taste you’d forgotten.
Satoru melts, hands falling from your face to your waist, clutching you closer until your front’s flushed with his, until not an atom separated you from him.
“I do want your heart,” you tell him. “I want to squeeze it, dig my nails into it, stomp on it, and make you feel everything I felt. And I will do what I want with it, because you’re right, Satoru; your heart’s mine, and I’ll scalp every bitch that tries to take it.”
A great, big smile brightens his entire face. The brightest smile you’ve ever seen, the most genuine, most stunning smile. He pecks your lips, once and twice and again, and says, “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever had anyone tell me.”
“I can be sweet,” you reply, shrugging.
He nods. “The sweetest.”
Then he laughs, combing his drenched hair back. Satoru parts from you, spinning under the rain with his arms wide open, and eyes shut, basking in the darkness of the clouds. Droplets fly off him, some landing on you.
“I feel like screaming Eureka!” he yells so loud the trees rustle.
You laugh, uncaring of the strange looks people give you two, and actually giving an elderly couple a middle finger whilst he isn’t looking.
When he moves to adjust something on his face and then frown, you finally ask the question you’d been wondering since you saw the picture: “Where are your glasses?”
“Oh, um,” he stammers, sheepish. A pink hue grows on his cheeks. “I left it in one of the bags today, after I went to the opticians to get, um, contacts.”
“Contacts?”
“I don’t know. I thought you’d like me better if I didn’t look so…nerdy. It’s stupid, I know. I was just desperate, I guess.” Then he pauses, peering at you through his white flashes. “Do you like it? It’s kinda itchy on my eyes; I can get used to it though.”
Your thumb brushes over his eyelids. “I like you better with your glasses actually. It’s always fun when they get foggy and you just throw them off so you can eat me out better.”
A grin pulls at his lips. He kisses you again, and mumbles a simple, “Noted.”
“Speaking of bags,” you start, looking around and behind him, “what about my gifts? Where did you put them?”
Satoru blinks, then scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. He confesses, “I left them back with Brittany, but I don’t think I actually asked her to wait for me, so there’s a good chance they’ve been taken. I’ll buy it all again. Oh! Wait!”
He fishes in his pocket, fumbling against the soaked and shrunken pockets of his jeans. Metal clings and colourful keychains dangle in the air.
The pink tinting his cheeks darken, as do the tips of his ears. He avoids your eyes. “I had these made when I was out with the guys a while back; I don’t know why I didn’t give it to you sooner — maybe I was just worried you’ll think it’s cringe or something. You can take it as a placeholder in the meantime.”
Snatching it from his hand, you marvel at it with wide eyes.
It’s you two.
No, it’s Toru and his little wife.
Tears well up again.
“No, no,” he says, cradling your face again with a worried expression. “No, baby, I’m sorry. You hate it, don’t you? Of course you do. I mean after what I said, about how they’re just toys—”
You shake your head. “No, Satoru. I love it. I love Toru and his scary wife.”
He smiles, relieved, and whispers against your forehead, “I love them too. I love them so much. And now,” he says, hooking the Lego man on his belt loop and, with your suggestion, hooks the woman on your bra strap because that’s the only place you have to keep her, “they’ll be with us forever.”
“Definitely longer than the end of the school year, right?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.
Satoru kisses you.
“To infinity and beyond, if I can help it.”
Giggling, you point out, “That sounds like a really long time.”
More kisses are peppered on your face, lips, and neck, and basically anywhere he can reach. He mutters on your wet skin, sounding much more serious and solemn, “Not long enough, if you ask me actually.” He whispers. “Never long enough. No amount of time could make up for what we lost, but I’ll try. By Merlin, I’ll try.”
You brush hair away from his face, realising that the rain had basically disappeared as the sun begins warming your skin some time during your conversation.
“Let’s just start with forever, shall we?”
“Good idea, Diapers.”
.
.
.
“Pastel pink or hot pink, Toru?”
His glossy eyes lazily flit up through his foggy glasses. Tongue completely flat against your puffy clit, his words come out muffled when he answers, “What about something blue?”
You pout, brushing his hair back just so you can bunch it in a tight fist, yanking to get a wince out of him and so he’ll bury his face even deeper into your pussy. “But I wanted a pink set.”
Satoru pets your thigh, lapping up your juices. He says, “Get whatever you want, wifey, just get something in blue too.”
Beaming, you gleefully check out the La Perla lingerie sets you’ve picked out, too excited to wait till they arrived. Ahh, you’re going to look so good in the lace. He definitely won’t be allowed to cum on them, which means he’ll have to cum inside.
Sure, you already have loads of fancy clothes and shoes and bags from him, but what you really like are the lingerie sets. You have finer tastes. Scandalous tastes. Which he appreciates, and is always happy to indulge in. His place and yours are packed full of things he’d bought for you on a whim, and you’re running out of space and occasions to wear any of them. You really should tell him to stop spending money on you, but alas, it brings him joy so you shouldn’t rob him of the pleasure of spoiling you.
It’s a Saturday morning, and he’d woken up first. He couldn’t handle being the only one up, so he woke you up with his lips sucking your clit hard. If he was anyone else, you’d have been pissed to miss on valuable beauty sleep, but he’s your Satoru so whatever.
When you cum, he shoves a pillow under your hips and lines his leaking cock to your pulsing hole, far too impatient to wait for the last waves to subside. Mewling, you chastise him, “You’re in too much of a hurry; a pussy like mine needs to be appreciated in all its glory, Toru.”
“You’re right, baby,” he mutters, kissing your neck. “Always right.”
Every inch he pushes in robs you of more and more air, until you’re completely breathless as he fills you up. It’s always so fucking good. Your legs clamp around his hips, ankles hooking behind his ass and pulling him deeper and deeper. Satoru bottoms out with a groan, whole body trembling.
He leisurely thrusts inside, taking his sweet time to reacquaint himself with your gummy walls.
Humming, you wonder, “Did you dust my orchid?”
Satoru nods, rocking his hips inside in short, shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over again with his flushed cockhead. “Yeah. Lego sets tend to collect dust quite quickly. I -hah- made sure to be careful of any loose pieces, don’t worry.”
“Thank you. You know that took me ages to build, and I chipped one of my nails too.
A grin forms on his swollen lips. He replies, “Don’t have to thank me for anything; I’m always careful with your sets.”
“Oh, that’s right,” you coo, pinching his cheeks. “My boyfriend likes to make himself useful, doesn’t he?”
“He does indeed. He loves making his girlfriend happy.”
“As he should.”
You’re gushing around his fat cock, clinging to him tightly. The morning sunlight’s warming your skin, reminding you that there’s a whole day ahead, and as much as you’d love to, you can’t spend it in bed, or in the shower, against the window, on the kitchen island, the sofa, the coffee table, the—
The point’s clear.
Sharp nails run down his back, no doubt leaving marks on his pale skin. “Mm, Satoru, we might be late for the meeting if we don’t hurry up.”
“Can’t we just skip?” he asks, whining on your chest, and licking the beads of sweat forming down the valley of your breasts.
In a blink of an eye, you have him pinned beneath you, cock still lodged firmly inside your cunt. “Now, now, that’s not very good of you.”
“Punish me then,” he retorts quickly. He had that locked and loaded.
You lightly tap his cheek, moaning in satisfaction when he pulses inside of you. “It’s not a punishment if you like it.”
“Hmm, you’re so smart, baby.”
“Thank you,” you say, giggling.
Satoru smiles up at you through his glasses, eyes full of adoration. Your heart beats so loud you think he might hear it. Grinding in circles, you pick his glasses off his face and slide it on your nose bridge.
“Jeez, how do you even live without these?” The prescription’s high. It’s blurry, already giving you a headache. “You’re sure you’re not actually blind?”
His cock throbs, and his hips buck up, cockhead kissing your cervix. You gasp, steadying yourself on his chest.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grits out.
A sly smile creeps up on your lips. Cooing, you draw a line down his chest, watching the red mark form, staking your claim. “Aw, do you think I’m pretty wearing your glasses, Satoru? Does it make you want to cum inside of my pretty pussy so soon?”
“Yes, yes,” Satoru gasps out. His hands clutch your hips, fingers digging into the slippery skin. “You’re so pretty, so fucking pretty.”
“Well of course I—”
A Marina song blares. Your attention darts to the phone on the bedside table. Rolling your eyes, you lean over to pick it up, dropping back down on his cock with an extra force so he’ll whimper and call out your name. You shush him with a glare, which has no real heat to it.
“Hello?”
“The nerve to be late when you’re the one who invited me here,” a snarky voice says, bored and irritated.
Your hips are still circling on his pelvis, wringing out obscene squeeeeelches! that you hope Brittany doesn’t hear, but you don’t really care either way. You replace the glasses back on his face, finding the thick lenses doing more damage to your eyes than the hours you spend looking at your phone.
Satoru’s panicked eyes meet yours. He whispers, “W-we should stop.”
“Shush,” you mouth at him. Then, louder, you say to her, “Relax, we’re on our way. It’s just traffic-y.”
“Right,” she replies, dragging the word. “You really think I’m gonna buy that when I can literally hear your boyfriend straining not to bust a nut in the background.”
Ah, well, that’s fair — Satoru’s not being very quiet even though he’s trying his best; panting to get some air in his brain so he can think clearly, squirming so he won’t start violently thrusting upwards, and biting his lip as his eyes flit about your body, finding any bit of visual stimulation is killing him.
Not the least bit apologetic, you say, “Whoops.”
“Whatever, whore. Just get over here already. Some greasy loser is eyeing me up, and I’m so bored I’m actually considering it.”
You laugh. “Oh, that’s just Ian. Don’t mind him. Although, I think you’d really like Dave, the barista.”
“Ew, he’s ugly,” she screeches.
Desperate to cum already, you hurriedly say, “We’ll talk more later. Byeee.”
Grinning down at your boyfriend, you throw your phone somewhere. The malevolent glint in your eyes makes him gulp, and throb. “You’ve got ten minutes to make me cum two more times. You got it in you, Six Eyes?”
Satoru chuckles, cheeks flushed and hands pulling you down so he can reach your lips. “Hell yeah, baby.”
The ten minutes become thirty, and you end up a whole hour late to the meeting.
The bustle of the cafe on a Saturday morning slams into you in full force. A table full of people sit up straighter when they see you both. Some of them wave, one gives you a finger you reflect right back to her.
“Hey guys!”
Your boyfriend pulls a chair back for you, and you thank him with a kiss to his cheeks that some gush at, and another gags at. That makes you kiss him on his lips to pull another gag out before sitting down and giving them all a fake, apologetic smile.
You pop a gum in your mouth to wash the taste of cum from your mouth lest Brit smells it and gives you hell. “So sorry we’re late. We just had car troubles.”
Satoru nods, arm thrown over the back of your chair, hand resting on your shoulder. “Yeah, was a very bumpy ride. Sorry guys.” You squeeze his thigh, fighting the urge to laugh with him.
Opposite you, Brittany gives a disbelieving look. “You guys are disgusting, I hate you both.”
“Tuna mayo.”
“Why, what happened?” Haibara asks, blinking.
Beside him, Ijichi adjusts his glasses and mumbles, “I believe they’re lying about being late because of traffic.”
“We were having sex and lost track of time,” you confess with no shred of guilt.“Sue us.”
Some of the guys blush.
This isn’t the first time you’ve been late to a meeting with your friends; it happens so often they’ve actually started giving you the wrong time so you’d show up on time, and yet it almost never works. You’ve become one of those repulsive couples in movies that you roll your eyes at, and it’s the greatest thing ever. Because if there’s anything you like more than orgasms, it’s making other people jealous.
Yuji, awkwardly wanting to move on, claps his hands, scanning the big table with a growing glimmer in his competitive eyes. He announces, “Everything’s set up, we’re all here — I think we’re ready to go.”
Unsure, your bestie inspects the little pieces and the board in front of her. She asks, “None of this makes sense to me. What exactly am I supposed to do?”
Satoru proudly boasts, “Since my wifey here won the last game, I think she should do the honours of breaking your virginity.”
“Gross,” the two of you say in unison, fighting back smiles when your eyes meet.
As everyone’s eyes land on you, you pick up your piece, twirling it between manicured fingers. When you sense everyone growing tiresome with the wait, you finally say, “It’s simple. I roll. I pick a card and make a move based on what it says. And then I inevitably get targeted because apparently I’m ‘too strategic’.”
“You are too strategic,” Yuji argues, already narrowing his eyes at you as though he’ll be able to see into your mind and anticipate your next underhanded move. “Last time you built an entire alliance just to wipe me out for no reason.”
“It’s called foresight,” you reply primly.
“It’s called manipulation,” Haibara corrects — not as an insult, on the contrary, it seems like a compliment. “But you’re right, Itadori! We need to stop her reign of terror.”
“I concur.”
“Bonito flakes.”
Jaw dropping, you scoff. “Oh so now it’s okay to gang up on people? Real honourable, you guys.”
“Don’t worry, wifey. I’ll protect you,” the man beside you promises.
“You’re the first one I’m eliminating,” you say, matter-of-factly. Since you learnt the rules of the game, he’s stopped going easy on you, stopped setting things up so you could win. Now, he’s an enemy. “I’d rather lose than let you win.”
Under your hand, something grows. His eyes sparkle when he realises you know, but he’s not ashamed at all. He never is; he’s just happy his dick is working.
Satoru can’t help himself; he pinches your chin and drags you over to give a kiss on your lips. He deepens it despite the playful complaints the whole table gives about ‘not rubbing it in’ and ‘getting a room’. When he parts, he’s chewing and leaning back in his chair like nothing happened.
That sly bastard…
Waving a hand in your face to grab your attention, Brittany asks with a lot of attitude, “Cool, but how do I win?”
You smile, leaning back in your chair too. Head resting on his shoulder and playing with the keychain on his belt, you tell her, “It’s not about winning, Brit, you silly goose.”
Satoru presses a kiss to the top of your head, a smile growing in your hair.
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Chapter THREE: your friends meet your 'boyfriend', they like him and hate that they like him. he's slowly embedding himself in your life, in a way that sets you on edge. are you two still on the same page?
Content: smut (p in v, masochism, femdom), mean girl!reader, sexually promiscuous!reader, mean friends, angst in parts, mostly fluff and smut, not proofread - pls let me know if you spot typos!
Word Count: 9.4k
Chapter TWO - Masterlist - Chapter FOUR
“So,” Jeanette begins, stirring her blueberry iced matcha with a sly grin, “this is your new man.”
You roll your eyes, and refuse to answer. This bitch has seduced three of your boyfriends before just to see if she could, and she probably would have slept with more if you hadn’t warned them all that she had gonorrhea. She doesn’t, as far you know, but she might as well with how disgusting you found her.
Sensing tension, Satoru, who’s sitting beside you, gives his best smile and says, “Yep. I’m Satoru Gojo, third year Physics student. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Eleanor laughs so loudly everyone in the entire cafe turns to look. “Oh my god, she’s dating a nerd. Did you hit your head on the way down to rock bottom?”
Eyes narrowing, you ask, voice razor sharp, “Is there something wrong with nerds?”
Brittany pipes up, attempting to diffuse the tension with a question directed at your boyfriend. “Satoru, tell us what qualities attracted you to our bestie over here.”
She’s the only one who knows of your little challenge with her. The other two only know that you’ve started seeing someone new and it’s more serious than any other relationship you’ve ever had. They probably don’t believe you — you know them well enough to know that they think this is another one of your new phases.
They’re not wrong, but you’re intent on proving them wrong.
The fact that Satoru showed up to meet them at all is already a huge step (most of your exes only got acquainted with their tits and vaj, and behind your back). You lasting a couple more months with him would be miraculous, and they’d never be able to say another thing about your poor tastes in men. Especially since none of them had ever had a boyfriend for longer than one month, at least not without them cheating.
You bet they’re aware of that.
And they’ll try their very best to sabotage you.
‘Keep your wisps about you,’ you warned him before entering the cafe.
‘Wits, babe, and yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ he replied.
The words ‘it’s not you I’m worried about’ almost left your glossy, perfect lips but you kept it in. You didn’t want to frighten him.
Satoru has an arm resting on the back of your chair. He rubs your shoulder, an act they all notice. Casually, he answers, “Boy, where do I begin? She’s really funny. I like that she’s honest and never holds back her thoughts, that she has a great sense of style and isn’t afraid to be adventurous, and she’s sweet and kind. I’m really looking forward to getting to know her even better.”
That was such a good answer, it stuns them all, you included. No guy’s ever had so many nice things to say about you. You give him a grateful smile, one which he returns. Sure, he probably doesn’t mean it, but the fact that he could conjure up any qualities at all meant a lot.
Most guys usually point to your fantastic head game and mean arch.
Brittany gives you a look of approval. He’s won her over already. Now, for the other two.
Eleanor purses her lip, refusing to admit defeat with the first line of attack. And Jeanette scoffs; she’s not the kind to hide her thoughts and opinions at all.
Cue evidence A:
“You mean, she’s blunt and tactless, dresses like a whore, and has nothing going on in her head.” She turns to you, plastering an innocent smile. “No offence, babes. You know I meant that as a compliment.”
She didn’t, but you don’t call her out on it. Instead, you say, “Yeah, maybe he meant that. Doesn’t change the fact that he likes me though.”
Satoru chuckles, sipping on his caramel frappe with extra caramel, which he offers to you and sips some more when you turn it down. “I meant it exactly how I said it. I genuinely like her — she keeps me on my toes. There’s really no one like her.”
That phony ass smile tightens, eyes flicking between you and Satoru as if the bitch’s searching for cracks, for flaws, and weaknesses to exploit. She leans forward, pushing out her cleavage. “Wow,” she says, dragging the word out. “You’re really…articulate.”
You feel your jaw tighten immediately. There it is.
Her gaze lingers on him a second too long, basically eye-fucking him.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as her type. But I guess opposites attract.” A beat, eyes flicking to you, then back to him. “You ever thought about dating someone a little more…low-maintenance?”
Your snort slips out before you can stop it. “Oh my god, Jeanette,” you say, flat. “Do you hear yourself?”
She doesn’t even look at you. Just bats her lashes at Satoru, dismissing you like background noise. “I’m just saying. Some girls can be a lot. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Heat flares sharp and familiar in your chest — anger, yes, but also something uglier.
Sure, maybe he’d like someone who doesn’t take exactly an hour to do their makeup, doesn’t brush their hair exactly a thousand times because you’d seen Barbie do it, and matches her thong to her shoes, but that person isn’t ever going to be her.
The cunt takes a pharmacy-load of vitamins and supplements every morning, and has weekly visits at her ‘dermatologist’, though you all know that’s just code for ‘plastic surgeon’. If she was dropped off in the middle of the sea, she’d float. God, you wish someone would drop her off in the ocean; you’d pay big money.
Eleanor hums in agreement, stirring her drink leisurely. “Yeah. She’s always been…intense.” Her eyes rake over you, sharp and assessing. “I’m surprised you’re handling it so well.” She smiles, all teeth. “Guess miracles do happen.”
“Sorry,” you say coolly, “should I start dimming my personality to make everyone else more comfortable? Is that the new trend? At least, I have one, Eleanor; I don’t make it a habit of following whatever Gwyneth Paltrow and Kylie Jenner are doing.”
Their smiles sharpen, just as Brittany sighs. “Can we cut it with the catty drama? I haven’t had my daily orgasm yet, so this is bad feng shui.”
Satoru’s hand tightens slightly on your shoulder — grounding, reminding you he’s here. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Whereas the few men that had reached this stage usually agree, or excuse themselves to the bathroom, with one of these cunts not-so-discreetly following behind.
He simply looks at Jeanette, calm as still water.
“I actually really appreciate her intensity,” he says evenly, adjusting his glasses so they can all see his eyes clearly. “She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to say it. Most people, on the other hand, hide their intentions behind pretty words. My girlfriend just comes out and says it. That’s not a flaw, not at all.’” His thumb shifts, warm, reassuring. “I think it’s the most refreshing thing ever.”
For half a second, you forget how to breathe.
Not because he defended you — plenty of men have done that, albeit badly, loudly, and in a way that invites you even more scrutiny later. But because he did it like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a favour. Like you were worth defending without theatrics. Like he would do it again and again and again.
Jeanette blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“Well,” she says lightly, recovering fast, laughter brittle at the edges, “if you ever get tired of that, I’m way more chill.” She tilts her head, hair cascading over her shoulder and down her cropped white cardigan that barely clasps. “And I’m always free.”
You feel the familiar surge of anger again, sharpening into something that could kill. Before, she would have the decency to do it behind your back, letting you find out from the lingering scent of her perfume on their skin, or glitter all over their car seats, or more blatant, by her bejewelled thong under their pillow. Now, she’s doing it right to your face, no more subtexts.
Your mouth opens, ready to knock the cunt down a peg or two, or all of them.
But Satoru beats you to it.
“No, thank you,” he replies pleasantly. “And I’m not interested.”
No bite. No edge. Just a fact, delivered like a solved equation.
Jeanette lets out a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes, tapping her acrylic nails on the table to calm the growing sense of humiliation that darkened her eyes. “Relax, I’m joking.”
“I’m not,” he says, smile as pleasant as it’s always been, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. It reminds you of the smile he used to show you, back before he remembered your name.
Eleanor clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes. “Wow. Someone’s whipped.”
Smiling sweetly, slow and deliberate, you drawl, “Jealous, Nora?”
“You’ve changed,” Jeanette says, accusing. “You used to be fun, used to have standards.”
You shrug, unbothered on the surface, though something inside you twists. “I still am. I just don’t tolerate bullshit as much anymore.”
Satoru nods along, cutting in, “It’s one of my favourite things about her.”
Eleanor snarks, “You only say that because she sucks your disgusting, virgin dick.”
“Fuck off, you stupid cunt,” you snap, nails digging into the palms of your hands. “If you say another shitty thing about my man, I’m going to report you to the school for fucking the Dean.”
The whole cafe quietens.
She flinches back like she’d been slapped, and thankfully, she has enough shame to keep her mouth shut. So does the Bitchier to her Bitch.
Finally, Brittany, who’d remained mostly silent and watching, laughs. “I like this one. He’s smart and sweet and a fighter. Good for you, babes.”
Glossy lips stretching into a victorious grin, you press a kiss to his cheek to punctuate your win and declare loud enough for all of them to hear:
“He’s great in bed too.”
The morning meeting in the cafe ends pretty quickly after that, not that you’re remotely upset by the fact. You’d been counting down the seconds till you could get away from those vapid, shallow bitches, which is an unfair assessment, you must admit, because you’re just as vapid and shallow and bitchy. Perhaps more so.
What he must think of you, to be surrounded by hateful mirror copies.
“H-hey, s-slow down — my dick’s not going anywhere.”
“Shush,” you tell him.
Back behind the bike shed no one ever uses, you’d shoved him to the brick walls and torn down his pants so you could mouth at his marvellous cock. Satoru holds your hair back from your face, hips rutting forward despite his words.
His cheeks are flushed. Glasses foggy already. And by god, he looks good enough to eat all mussed up and flustered because of your mouth.
Satoru groans out, “You look positively stunning. Hngh, love this lipgloss on you, makes your lips look so juicy.”
Every vein, every ridge, every drop of pre — you feel it all.
He doesn’t cum in your mouth.
Instead, he brings you up and spins the two of you around. Your cheek presses against the rough surface and you curse the fact that you’re likely to break out from it. The orgasm better be worth it.
“You got this wet from sucking me, Diapers?” he asks, sucking on the skin on the curve of your neck.
Mewling, you reply, “Yes. I’m so wet, so horny. Fuck me good, Toru. Need it so bad.”
Fingers finding your clit from the front as fingers push inside your cunt from behind, you’re immediately prepped for his cock with expert skill. Satoru’s clearly gotten very comfortable with your body; he finds the spot and rhythm you like so quickly, anyone would feel humiliated at how rapidly you start gushing around the long, slender digits.
Soon, he replaces those fingers with his condom-covered cock and your eyes roll to the back of your head at the incredible stretch.
“Always so fucking tight.” His teeth are gritted, fingers digging into your hips and definitely leaving bruises you’ll get wet over when you see them in the mirror later.
“So big,” you breathe out, hips pushing back to speed up the process of filling you up. “You’re so fucking big, Satoru!”
He swears, “You can take it.”
The two of you fuck each other like animals — just pure beastly movements, chasing highs, all while the threat of people stumbling upon you looms over your sweaty, grinding bodies. Maybe that’s what you two like, maybe that’s what gets you so close to the edge so hastily.
Your moans are muffled by his hand, preventing you from screaming his name.
“Hey, you okay?”
You snap out of your thoughts. Satoru is staring down at you, a slight furrow in his brows. The two of you are walking through campus, having gotten out of your system the need to feel each other and get any tension out of your bodies. He has classes, and you have retail therapy to attend.
Without needing to ask, you know he’s referring to how quiet you’ve been since you walked away from the bike shed with your cum dripping down your thigh. There’s no reason to lie to him; he probably guessed it already.
Nodding, you say, “I was just thinking about how shitty my friends are, and how I should be embarrassed and ashamed, I don’t know.”
His friends had been so kind, so patient, and welcoming. They didn’t make you feel small at all, didn’t try to tear you down, or undermine Satoru in front of you. That said a lot about him, and a lot about you.
Cradling your face and stopping you from walking further, he smiles reassuringly. “Hey, I liked them.”
You give him a blank look. He grimaces.
“Okay, fine, I didn’t — they’re mean and catty, and I hated every second we spent with them.” Pausing for a second, he musters a half-hearted, “But Brittany seemed nice!”
Your cheeks are smushed in his hands, and your words come out a little garbled when you say, “They suck, I know. I’m just sorry they made you uncomfortable. They had no right saying horrible things about you.”
Satoru shakes his head. “No, baby, I hated them because they said horrible things about you. I can’t believe anyone would say things like that about their friends. I was so mad for you.”
He really does look mad. Or as mad as you imagine he can get. Mostly, he just has a pout on his lips. Although, he does mimic karate chops like he’d ever actually get violent, towards anyone, much less women. Still, there’s sincerity in his voice, and in his eyes, and it steals your breath.
Getting on your tiptoes, you kiss his pout away.
“Woah,” he says, touching his lips when you part. Satoru blinks at you, disbelieving, and you wonder if he hated it. “That was my first kiss,” he marvels aloud. “That’s our first kiss.”
As you pick at a small ball of lint on his sweater, you ask quietly, “Is it too much? I know we’re not really dating, but I thought it was okay.”
He smacks his lips to yours, and again, then once more. Satoru’s smile brightens his entire face and you have to squint against its luminosity. “Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to kiss you since forever — I thought you didn’t want to.”
Truthfully, you reveal, “I didn’t want to at the start. I thought boundaries would be good, even though we’re fucking. Now, I want to.”
Satoru wonders, “What changed your mind?”
You press close, peering up at him through your false lashes. “You. How you defended me in there, how you kept your cool, and said all those nice things about me. Men don’t tend to do that, not unless they want to get in my pants.”
Wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, he swings you two side by side. People walk past; neither of you care about the looks they give you. Satoru shrugs. “I just told the truth. We haven’t known each other long, but I genuinely think you’re a cool person. Don’t let them get into your head.”
Why is it so easy to be so openly touchy with him, to talk and say how you’re feeling? How is he so casual, so easygoing, like being this close with you comes naturally to him?
It sends your heart racing.
Satoru pecks your lips again, licking the gloss that sticks to him. “Alright, I gotta head to class. Come over tonight? I wanna start the next Lord of the Rings film with you. I’ll talk you through the ingenious cinematography, but also we’ve got a lot of kissing to catch up on. I want to kiss until my temperamental mini me salutes you.”
You smile.
“Sounds fun.”
.
.
.
You fall into a natural routine, coming over to his place after classes every night.
On Monday, you watch the most recent episodes of Star Trek.
“Star Trek’s not Star Wars?” you ask, grinding down on his body.
Satoru’s arms are wrapped around your body, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he peppers wet kisses there. Softly, he mutters, hips rutting upwards, “No, baby, they’re both sci-fi but -hah- completely -ngh so tight- different universes.”
Cockwarming was your condition to watch something nerdy, one which he readily agreed to.
Now, all inches of his cock is lodged tightly in your pulsing pussy. All your clothes are still on, dirtied by your combined juices. It’s hot and humid in the air around you, though neither of you seem to care.
“I don’t get it,” you say, guiding one of his hands to your tit. He gropes reflexively, flicking your nipple through the material of your shirt. “There’s over fifty seasons of this? Why?”
Cock throbbing, he moans right into your ear. “I-I don’t know, but gosh, I love when you ask questions. Your voice is so pretty. I could cum from listening to you.”
You bite back a smile, hips lifting up and up until only his tip remains. “Yeah?” Then you slam your body down, cockhead prodding your g-spot harshly and kissing your cervix.
Satoru gasps. “Fuck!”
His whole body spasms, and searing cum soaks his condom, and you think, it’s a shame that he’s wearing one to begin with.
Weakly, he grumbles, “Meanie.”
“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You love it.”
Satoru kisses your cheek, hand creeping around to rub your clit. “Guilty.”
On Tuesday evening, you’re forced to finally get started on your own Lego set: the orchid set.
You picked it because it looked elegant on the box, pretty petals and delicate stems — something that should have been effortless. The reality, however, is a scatter of tiny plastic pieces across Satoru’s coffee table, each one apparently designed to test your patience, which admittedly has always been very frail.
In your defence however, you’ve never built anything like this before, and your long, glossy nails keep clicking uselessly against the studs instead of gripping them, sending the tiny things scrambling away from your fury.
Satoru helps you — he picks out the pieces you’ll need, organising them into piles as instructed by the booklet. Sitting behind you on the floor, his legs are stretched out on either side of your hips, the instruction booklet open and neatly flattened. He’s maddeningly calm about it, already sorting the pieces into little colour-coded piles, because of course he does.
He looked like you kicked his dog when you just emptied the bags onto the table.
“Okay,” he says, nudging a green piece toward you, “you’ll want this one next.”
You squint at it, pinch it between two fingers, and promptly drop it. “Oh my god,” you groan. “Who are these even made for? Ants?”
His chuckle isn’t condescending, but if it had been, you would have shoved a piece down his dick hole. Satoru reaches around you, his arms encasing yours as he guides your hands. His fingers are warm, steady, and everything yours aren’t.
“No, no,” he murmurs, adjusting your grip. “You’re a space away. If you miss a layer here, you won’t be able to add the leaves later.”
You do as he says, clicking the piece into place at last. The small, stupid satisfaction makes you huff out a breath. It’s probably been hours at this point; your neck is sore from looking down for so long.
“I hate this, Toru,” you complain, letting your weight fall back into him. His chest is solid at your back, familiar already. “My eyes and neck hurt. How can you do this for hours and years and not develop a hunchback?”
“I know, I know,” he coos, immediately brushing the crown of your head with a gentle kiss. One hand stays steadying the base of the orchid whilst the other rubs slow circles into your shoulder, exactly where it hurts. “You’re doing really well though. Let’s get to step ten and take a break, alright? I’ll massage your neck for you.”
And, despite yourself, you go back to building.
But after an important piece is ‘lost’, you two get distracted fucking against the glass of his floor-to-ceiling window, and fogging it up so bad, the only clear bit is the imprint of your bodies joined together.
On Wednesday, he teaches you how to play Mario Kart.
You start off sulking on his sofa, controller heavy and foreign in your hands, legs tucked up beneath you, and bracing for boredom. Naturally, it’d been his suggestion. You wanted to go shopping, but he said shopping is for girls who go to their classes, and girls who skip get to be punished with only the best game in the entire world.
Of course, you thought he meant sex so you agreed.
Nerds never mean sex.
The game boots up with cheerful little chimes that already feel patronising. You tell him, flatly, that you don’t do racing games, that you hate losing, and that if a cartoon turtle shell hits you, you might scream.
Satoru just laughs and settles beside you, thigh warm against yours. “That’s half the fun,” he says, nudging you with his elbow. “Okay. Peach or Daisy?”
“Obviously Peach,” you scoff. “I’m not a peasant.”
“Correct answer,” he nods solemnly. His hands cover yours, adjusting your grip on the controller. “Accelerate with this. Throw with this. We’re on 50cc so things won’t be too fast. Once you finish in the top five, we can move onto the faster versions.”
Rolling your eyes, you shrug him off. “I’m not a baby; I can figure it out on my own.”
Undeterred, he grins and pecks your cheek, like he can’t help but find you cute. “Whatever you say, sweetiepie. Alright, we’re a-go.”
The countdown starts. You immediately panic.
You jerk the controller too hard, veering straight into a wall, and let out a shriek that echoes through his living room.
Satoru doesn’t tease you, not even a little; he reaches over and steadies your hands, his own wrapping around yours again. You pretend tingles don’t explode where he touches. “Okay,” he murmurs, leaning close, his mouth near your ear. “Breathe. Pretend you’re chasing after Jeanette, and once you catch up to her you’re going to turtle her so hard she crashes.”
“Oh, she’s going down.” Glaring at the fat spiky turtle on the screen, you shuffle on your seat, bracing to kill a bitch. It even looks like her.
And then, finally, you get it. You get into a groove, learning to lean into the curves of the track and anticipating the ramps, the attacks from behind, and knowing when to utilise power ups so you can catch her. You drift accidentally, then on purpose. When you overtake the Bowser, your mouth drops open.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes not leaving the screen. “Did you see that?”
You feel his grin rather than see it when he says, “I did. That was perfect — you’re a natural.”
Your chest warms, something smug and pleased unfurling under your ribs. You don’t even realise you’re smiling until your cheeks ache. “Of course I’m perfect. I’m coming for you next, nerd.”
“That’s so hot,” he mumbles before he shakes it off and says, “You’re on!”
On Thursday, you paint your toes on his bed as he taps away on his laptop, doing nerd homework or something. He warned you before you came over that he might be too busy to be very fun, but you told him you didn’t care, you just wanted company.
True to his words, he’s been typing away for two hours now, occasionally getting up to write equations on his whiteboard and kiss you when he figures it out.
It surprised you to find out he does homework shirtless — he says thinking hard overheats him. Somehow, Satoru had made being studious hot, and you often spend much of your time under his desk and between his legs, sucking him to get yourself off. Well, he gets off too, of course, but it’s mostly for yourself.
Unfortunately, you’d already used up your blowjob privileges tonight so you have to leave him to it.
Whatever.
Your phone chimes. You read the message and type a reply. “Hey, Toru?”
“Hmm, baby?”
“Yuji finally got a date with the girl he likes from high school. Pretty cool, right?”
“Yeah,” he replies absentmindedly, keyboard tiptapping. Then he pauses. Turning in his seat, he looks at you through his glasses. “Yuji? Date? Girl? How do you know all of this?”
With a shrug, you blow on the paint on your big toe, being careful not to move too fast or too much, in case your entire progress is lost and you have to start over again. “He ran into me on Monday, when I was skipping class. Asked for my number and we’ve been chatting since. He wanted my advice and insight to bag a girl. And you know me, I’m so charitable I couldn’t say no.”
Satoru spins a pen between his fingers, thinking hard about something else other than equations. “You’ve been helping my friend out?”
“Uhuh — someone had to since you’re all clueless with women.”
He pushes his chair back and strolls over to you. His abs are all you can see as he towers over you. When you peer up, he’s grinning devilishly down at you. That look spells trouble, and orgasms. Your fanny flutters before you can even tell her to start revving her engines.
The nerd’s got awful timing though.
Hand trying to shove him away, you firmly say, “Satoru, no. Wait until my nails are dry first.”
Shaking his head, he kneels down in front of you. “Can’t. I’m thirsty now.”
In a flash, you’re yanked to your back, bouncing slightly. He grips your ankles tightly, throwing them over his broad shoulders all whilst his eyes are fixed on what’s between your legs.
You stare up at the ceiling, defeated. Panties pushed to the side, you can only sigh when you feel his tongue urging your clit out of its hood. “What about your nerd homework?”
Satoru huffs, practically making out with your cunt. “It’s just homework, babe. Don’t worry; I’ll get it done. Worry about cumming on my face and quenching your boyfriend’s thirst — I’m practically dehydrated.”
Another chime on your phone. You read it, growing breathless quickly with how expertly he laps up your growing wetness. “Yuji wants to treat me to lunch, to thank me.” He sucks on your clit, hard. You squeal. “Toru!”
When you glare down at him, you’re surprised to find him glaring right back at you through his glasses. No, at your phone. Petulantly, he mumbles, “Tell him you’re busy.”
“He didn’t even say what day yet.”
“Tell him you’re busy all days, everyday.”
Smiling wryly, you ask, “Busy with what?”
Two fingers worm their way into your pussy, unhesitating as they curl up and prod that gummy spot inside you. The squelches he wrings out brings heat to your cheeks. Satoru’s words vibrate right against your clit, and your back arches: “Busy with your boyfriend.”
You laugh, running your hand through his hair and keeping it out of his face. “I didn’t realise you’re the jealous type.”
He shakes his head, thrusting his fingers faster inside you just to hear your breath stutter and to feel your legs quiver. Satoru kisses your inner thigh. “I’m possessive,” he corrects. “I don’t like to share. Not even with Itadori.”
“Yeah?”
“Hmm. I didn’t like sharing my pens, my dino erasers, Transformer toys, and I definitely don’t want to share my girl and her perfect pussy with anyone.”
SLURRRRP!
When you finally cum minutes later, he climbs up your body, peppering kisses up your torso, spreading your own juices over your skin. Oddly, you don’t mind it.
Glasses removed and thrown to the side, Satoru whispers against your lips right as his cock begins prodding your entrance, “You’re mine. All mine.”
You don’t correct him.
On Friday, he gets a break from school work. Dark circles have begun surfacing under his eyes — courtesy of how you’ve added more things on his plate, you’re sure — and you decide action must be taken to keep your boyfriend’s face looking flawless.
Sitting on his lap, in his bed, you apply one of your clay masks on his skin, making sure to spread it nice and thin. Meanwhile, you have to keep replenishing the cucumber slices on his eyes because Satoru won’t stop eating them.
“Stop,” you whine. “It won’t work if you don’t have the cucumbers.”
Satoru’s chuckle is restrained; the clay’s already hardening, making it hard for his mouth to move. Still, he manages. “The effects cucumbers have are pretty limited to calming puffiness, mostly due to their coolness, so it’s more of a temperature thing than a vegetable thing. You could put ice on my eyes and it’ll do the same job.”
You smack his chest. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
His thumb brushes your hip bone under your panties. He says, “Sorry, baby. Pop one last cucumber into my mouth and I’ll behave.”
Replacing the two missing over his eyes and sliding one onto his tongue, you get back to work, clipping his hair back so it doesn’t stick to the mask.
You’re so focused on coating every inch of his face, you don’t realise sneaky hands are inching you further and further down his body by the second until a hump is bumping against your clit. You moan.
“Ugh, Satoru, you said you’ll behave,” you complain, though your hips are beginning to move on their own.
He stops hiding the control he has over your body and is now openly dragging you back and forth on his clothed, and very hard, cock. His cockhead catches on your panties through the two layers, and already you feel a wet spot forming on your gusset.
“I know, I know,” he says, groaning so loudly the vibrations rushes through your spine and sparks in your clit. “I just couldn’t help myself — I could feel how warm your pussy was on my skin and that was all I could think about. I deserve punishment, I understand. Do what you must — slap me, pinch me, mark me up — I’m all yours.”
Your hand comes up to wrap around his neck, and you squeeze only hard enough to feel his cock throb under you. “Pain whore,” you drawl.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The smile in his voice gives him away. He ruts up into you, hastening the humping. Satoru’s tone shifts quickly, and he pleads, “Faster, baby. Wanna cum in my boxers. Want to make a mess.”
Bracing yourself on his abdomen, you rub yourself on his dick, faster and faster until you’re mewling above him. “And who’ll clean it up?” you ask him.
“Me,” he answers quickly. Frustrated, he snatches the cucumbers and throws them in his mouth. His dazzling eyes find you immediately, and his gaze softens. “You’re so -hngh- pretty,” he breathes out. “So, so pretty.”
“I know.”
The two of you cum together, shuddering and spasming.
The cucumbers are finished before the mask’s ready to wash off.
Saturday starts off with his face between your legs, cleaning up the juices you couldn’t be bothered to clean up when he fucked you to sleep the night before. You’d never been eaten out more by a single guy than when you started dating Satoru, and no one’s gonna find you complaining any time soon.
“Hit me,” he rasps, sleep still coursing through his voice.
“Alright, hotshot. 5-Down. ‘Composer of the “Enigma Variations."’”
Satoru licks a stripe up your slit, humming as he mulls over your taste and the possible answer. “Elgar. Easy.”
He does the NYT crossword every morning, something to wake up his brain, he explained. You like waking your brain up with a pretty outfit, Clueless intro style, but to each their own. He insisted you read it out to him so he could test his multi-tasking skills, and who were you to say no when you’re getting your pussy ate out of the deal?
You scan further down the grid. “23-Across. ‘What might be raised in a toast?’ Eight letters.”
He grins lazily, fucking his fingers into your pulsing entrance so you can hear your own lewd squeeeelching! “Spirits — double meaning. It’s Saturday. They love that.”
“Oh God,” you gasp out, chest caving.
Of course he’d be good at crosswords, and of course he’d be so cocky over it. Ever since he’s learnt just how to make you cum in less than ten minutes, he’s been insufferable. Sometimes he calls himself a sex god, and you have to remind him he’s only fucked one person.
SMACK!
Your hips jolt. Your eyes glare down at him. Where did he learn to slap your clit to get your attention?
“Focus, Diapers; I’m not letting this pretty pussy go until I’ve completed the crossword.”
“Fuck you.”
Satoru leaves a wet kiss on your clit, slobbering all over it and chuckling when it begins to flutter under his obscene touch. “We’ll get to that in a bit,” he promises.
He winks and dives straight into your pussy.
“NGH!”
On Sunday morning, you head down from his room to find him whipping up breakfast. He spots you and beams. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Have I graduated from Diapers now?”
“Never.” Satoru shakes his head, giving you a hug so tight one would think he didn’t spend an hour rutting inside you that morning. “How did you sleep?”
Sitting on the island, you watch him, specifically his back muscles flexing with every movement. Casually, you answer, “Fine. I’d sleep better if you stopped hogging the blanket and kicking me in your sleep though.”
“My bad,” he says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “I’ve always been told I’m an active sleeper.”
A ping on your phone drags your attention away from his perfect body. You frown. Sukuna’s texting you — he never texts first. It’s been two months since you last spoke to him, and all the conversation was just him asking for reimbursement for the singular bite you took of his sandwich, that broke asshole.
He sent you a dick pic and asked if you’re free anytime this week. Wonder what he wants, you think sarcastically. You leave him on read.
Satoru plates the food, serving it up in front of you. His brows are furrowed and he wonders, “Everything okay? You look like you’re going to stab someone with a butter knife; please don’t let it be me.”
You shake your head. “It’s nothing.”
The nerd in front of you has never sent you a dick pic. He rarely ever texts you first to ask to fuck actually; he mostly sends you memes, tiktoks, or simple messages asking how your day was. It’s you who sends him nudes, who gives him your location so he knows where to find and fuck you.
Usually you’d find it offensive if a guy wasn’t being aggressive with his expression of attraction to you, but Satoru is starting to make you think sending nudes unprompted in the middle of the day isn’t normal.
Weird.
As he scarfs down his food, you suddenly ask, “What’re you gonna do after we break up?”
He blinks, then gulps his food down. “Woah, that came out of nowhere — uh, I guess I’ll go back to my usual routine. Haven’t visited the Robotics Society in a while.”
“What about girls? And sex?”
Satoru tilts his head and ponders for a second. “I don’t know; I haven’t really been thinking about it. I’ll probably go with the flow, see what I want when the time comes.”
That’s not quite the answer you wanted. Well, actually, you don’t know what answer you wanted. Maybe you wanted him to confirm that he’s going to be seeing other people so you won’t feel that you’ll jump into someone else’s bed immediately after. Or maybe…you wanted the opposite.
“Why do you ask?”
You shake your head. “No reason. Thanks for the breakfast, Toru.”
.
.
.
You don’t see him for a couple days after that.
Satoru texts everyday — multiple times, actually, practically every hour. He asks if he can see you, maybe after class, for dinner, or at his place. If he’s done something wrong, offended you, if it’s some kind of sex play and if it is then it’s partially working. But you don’t reply. You don’t really know why you won’t respond; it’s not like he said anything wrong.
When your phone chimes again, Brittany groans out, “Text him back already, oh my god.”
Sipping on your matcha, you wave her off. “Mind your own business.”
She fixes you a look. “It is my business when you won’t put your phone on silent.”
So what if you like to know when he’s texting you? Is that a crime?
It was her idea to see you, something about how she was starting to forget what you looked like. And you did want to see her, to hang around someone who understood you because she, more or less, shared the same flaws. You just wanted to be around someone more your speed, someone not so infuriatingly perfect.
“You’re doing it again,” she notes.
“Doing what again?”
Leaning forward to meet your eyes and steal your attention from the window leading into the campus, Brittany explains, “It. Self-sabotage. I thought Gojo was fixing that habit of yours, the one that leads you to make bad decisions.”
Dismissively, you huff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you should be replying to the poor guy.” Then she sighs, leaning back into her seat. A strange look passes on her face, something akin to disappointment and it makes your skin crawl. “He’s different to us, to the guys we date; he’s normal, smart, and sincere. I could tell that much from one look at him. You’re probably breaking his heart every time you don’t reply to him.”
The thought of him sitting around, waiting for you to read his messages, sends a pang through your chest. You swallow it down. “Fine, whatever, I’ll text him back later.”
Brittany rolls her eyes at your tone.
A silence settles over you two, leaving the chaotic mingling of other peoples’ conversations to fill the space between you. Usually, you two would be gossiping about Jeanette and Eleanor, the dumbass guys you let sleep over, or whatever happened at the last frat party you attended. Now, all you want to talk about is Satoru.
About how he drools in his sleep and pretends it’s your pussy juice in the morning with pink cheeks, how he can go from cuddling you so tightly that you think you might pass out to kicking you away as he mumbles about some physics equation, and how he fights sleep to begin with because he wants to stay up as long as he can talking about his day to you.
But you won’t, because she’d question you on it, ask a very important question that you don’t think you can answer right now, or ever.
Not one to stay silent, Brittany pipes up again, musing whilst admiring her new acrylic nails. “You know, I’m surprised you’re leaving this guy on a short leash. Rich kids are always in vogue.”
You frown. “How do you know he’s rich?”
You’ve figured as much — his apartment speaks for itself — but she couldn’t have seen his apartment.
Brittany looks at you like you’re an idiot. “Um, babes, everyone knows. He’s a fucking Gojo.” She sees nothing clicking in your eyes. Exasperated, she groans and explains further. “You know, like the Gojo Foundation. They own hotel chains around the world.”
When you just blankly blinks, she sits up, brows furrowing.
“Girl, his name’s on almost half of the buildings on this damn campus. It’s on the library, for goodness’ sake. Actually, forget it, how could you possibly know what plaque is on buildings you never visit.”
Satoru’s just normal rich, like the other guys on campus who wear designer clothes and live off their parents’ money. He’s not a chair ball or whatever the word is. If he was, you’d know.
“You’re probably mistak––”
“Is that him right now?”
You follow her gaze through the window. A white-haired guy in a sweater and thick-framed glasses stands outside, talking to someone.
A girl.
Before she can stop you, you practically sprint out of the cafe and into the open air.
“Satoru?”
Blue eyes slide over to your approaching figure. It is him; you’d know those eyes anywhere. He straightens up. “Oh, hey.”
“Don’t hey me — who the fuck is this bitch?”
The girl cocks a brow, inhaling her cigarette leisurely and blowing the smoke right into your face. You waft it away, hardening your glare and feeling like clawing her smug face till she’s disfigured. She’s pretty in an alternative way, in a way that said she doesn’t spend hours primping and wearing anything she wasn’t uncomfortable in. And that sets your blood boiling.
She asks, “Satoru, who’s the crazy woman giving me death glares right now?”
“Excuse me?” You’re seething. If this was a cartoon, you’d have smoke fumes leaving your ears. You take a step forward, about to teach her a lesson about who exactly you are.
Satoru beats you to it.
“She’s just a friend, Sho. I’ll explain later. You should probably go; you’ll be late to class.”
They’re standing so closely their hands are practically brushing against each other. Why was he with her to begin with? Since when did he have friends who are girls? Aren’t nerds supposed to be a stumbling, bumbling mess around women? Aren’t you the one exception because you’re just so pure of heart?
‘Sho’ chuckles and waves goodbye to the both of you, though not before she drawls, “Be careful, Satoru. She seems scary.”
Why the fuck did she look you up and down and chuckle? And why didn’t he tell her you’re not scary at all, even though you are because you purposefully chose stiletto shaped nails for clawing?
Panting with anger, you turn your wrathful stare to him. “You did it again.”
Satoru scratches the back of his neck and grimaces. He knows exactly what he did and he doesn’t jump to apologise. Instead, he makes an excuse: “She’s a longtime friend. She’ll have more questions if I say you’re my girlfriend.”
“But I am your girlfriend. What’s wrong with letting that skank know?”
His brows knit together. “Don’t call her that. She’s a good friend of mine.”
“I’ll call her whatever I want, because you’re my boyfriend.”
“Your fake boyfriend,” he reminds you. You step back like he struck you. Satoru sighs and reaches for you. “I’m sorry — this isn’t how I wanted this to go. I missed you. Where have you been?”
He looks just as you remember: perfect skin, gorgeous eyes, muscular but lean frame hidden under bulky sweaters, and beat up converse. His smell is clean, like the detergent that clings to the clothes you bring over to his place, and it’s so distracting.
The tension in your body doesn’t disappear, even as he hugs you to his chest, swaying you side to side and nuzzling the top of your head.
You push back, and say, “Let’s go to the janitor’s closet.”
When the door closes, he’s shoved onto it. Your lips slam into his, not wasting a single second to deepen it. Satoru hadn’t fought you; he just smiled, like it relieved him to know you were still the same.
Tongues wrestle against each other with breathy moans. His hands are all over your body — squeezing your hips, your ass, your tits, holding the back of your head to keep you right where he wants you.
“Missed this,” he groans. “Missed you so bad.”
His knee slides between yours, bumping right up against your pussy. You hump it, delirious with his warmth, the hardness of his body, and the soft texture of his sweater.
Your hands make quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and freeing his cock.
Satoru’s fingers slide into your thong from under your skirt. He gasps. “You’re soaked. Fuck.” He smears your wetness around, using it to glide and ease his sudden rubbing of your clit. Whines leave your lips and he greedily swallows it all.
Overwhelmed, you tell him, “Put it in already.”
“But you’re not prepped enough,” he argues, fingers pushing inside your cunt despite your words.
You pull them out and say, “Now, Satoru. Fuck me already.”
When you use that tone — the one that renders him all stupid and dopey — he can never say no, so he nods.
He lifts you up with ease, your legs wrapping around his hips. With your back pressed against the door now, he pushes inside. You both moan. The stretch stings, bringing tears to your eyes. It’s been a while, and your pussy’s complaining.
“So fucking tight,” he grits out, glasses fogging up. “ I think I might cum early.”
“Don’t you dare, Satoru.”
As soon as he bottoms out, he’s pulling out to ram back inside. You almost scream. He’s fucking you so hard you almost see stars. There’s something unforgiving about his hips, the way they don’t slow down, don’t care about how sore you’re going to be later.
It’s a far cry from how clumsy and uncoordinated he was a couple weeks ago.
Satoru whines, “Feels so good. Missed this so much.”
You missed this too, missed his strong arms carrying you so easily, firm hands holding you like you’re priceless, lips sucking on your neck to taste your skin, clumsily stumbling over to your mouth where you exchange moans.
In this moment, you kick yourself for ever having put a pause in fucking him; it’s a crime to leave this majestic dick unsucked and unfucked. Truly. They should lock you up in his bed to be fucked all day and night, that’ll teach you.
“I don’t like seeing you -hngh- with other -hah fuck!- other girls,” you confess, whispering right into his ears.
Playfully, he asks, “What about when we –mmm loosen up, baby, thaaat’s it- break up?”
The door rattles on its hinges behind you. There’s no doubt that if anyone’s walking down the hall, they’d know what was going on inside, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s filling you up so good after days of not seeing him, not when his fat cockhead’s prodding your g-spot and kissing your cervix with his leaking tip.
There’s nothing classy about this hookup; it’s all grunts, grinding, and groaning. You’re two animals seeking quick and shallow release.
You can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every vein and it’s fucking wonderful.
It takes only a minute or two for you to reach your high.
You pant in each other’s mouths, legs weak and bodies shaking. Satoru kisses you, smiling dopily. Back on your feet, you both fix your clothes up.
He frowns, spotting the milky drop trailing down your thigh and curses under his breath. He grabs the roll of tissue off the shelf and wipes it up. “Fuck, baby, I’m sorry. I forgot to put a condom on. Will you be okay? Do we need to go to a pharmacy?”
“No, it’s okay,” you tell him, yanking him up from between your legs. “I’m on the pill.”
Satoru exhales in relief and leaves a kiss on the inside of your wrist. “Do you want to head back to mine?”
Biting the inside of your cheek, you ignore his question and ask your own, “What if we don’t break up?”
“Huh?”
You pace the length of the floor, which is not very long at all. Hands fiddling with each other, you say, “Earlier, when I said I don’t like you with other girls, and you said, what about after we break up — what if we don’t? What if we just keep doing this, but like for real, and not fake? We just keep dating and break up when we want to? And then there’d be no other girls, just me. Just you and me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, a serious look on his face. “That’s not what we agreed on.”
“I know,” you quickly cut in, scratching the inside of your wrist. “But agreements can change, y’know? Who’s to say ours can’t?”
Leaning against the door, he mulls your words over. He takes too long though, and every second that passes has you itching and itching more. Why is he taking so long to think? Why doesn’t he have an immediate answer? He wants the same thing, right?
Who’d pass you up when so many men would die to have a second with you?
Unable to help yourself, you end up blurting out, “Why don’t you buy me gifts? And not just Legos and takeaway, like proper gifts? Clothes, jewellery, bags.”
Satoru blinks, then he stands taller. “Is that what this is about? My family’s money?”
You shake your head. “No, no, of course not. I’m just asking because that’s what people in real relationships do, right?”
And you weren’t lying. His family’s name didn’t matter to you; you only just found out today, and you’d made up your mind days ago. It’s just been nibbling away since your best friend brought it up — the idea that there’s lines and lines of girls wanting him, that as soon as you let go, he’ll be snatched up because he’s a hot commodity on the dating market.
It’s too late though. Your careless words have hardened something in his gaze. You sense it immediately, the way he doesn’t look at you like you’re his friend, like you’re back to being that stranger following him in the library. Chest clenching, you step forward and no more when Satoru doesn’t immediately open his arms to you.
Slowly, dragging the words out as if you should know this better than he does, he reminds you, “We aren’t in a real relationship. You wanted to show your friends you can be with a ‘nerd’ and I wanted to cum.”
You stumble back.
Weakly, you mutter, “I know, but that’s what I’m saying — let’s make it real.”
“Why?” he immediately asks.
“Because…”
Satoru doesn’t relent. “Why should we make this real? I mean, technically, this should’ve ended as soon as you proved to your friends you can happily date ‘nerds’, right?”
He keeps staring at you, waiting for you to string the words together, even as your eyes dart around. He fills up the closet so much that you think you’re running out of room to breathe. Has he always been that tall?
“Why?” he asks again, placing so much emphasis on the word you can actually feel its weight sinking and causing cracks in the ground.
A little dizzy with the heat of his unblinking attention, you finally admit, “Because I think I’m in love with you.”
His shoulders drop. He takes his glasses off and runs a hand down his face. He makes an exasperated sound, as if you’ve just said the most ridiculous, unserious thing in the world and he can’t fathom what you’re thinking at all.
“What about you?” you find the strength to ask, and cringing immediately when your mind registers the childish, hopeful tone of your voice. “A-aren’t you falling in love with me?”
“Stop, stop, stop,” Satoru begs, hands coming up to maintain the distance, almost like erecting a shield. “You’re not ‘in love’ with me. You’re not. You can’t fall in love with someone you look down on, someone you’re using, someone you would never even talk to if not for all of this.”
Anger sparks inside of you suddenly. You snap, “Don’t speak for me. I know what I feel.”
He asserts, “No, you don’t.”
Then he laughs, but there’s no humour in his voice.
“You’ve never properly let me in — we’re always at my place, I don’t even know where you live, you’ve got me down as ‘Hot Nerd’ in your contacts, and just today, you’ve been ignoring me for days. That’s not love. You just think it is because I’m the only guy you’ve been with that hasn’t been a complete asshole to you.”
“That’s not true,” you mumble.
Satoru continues, “You’re not in a position to be in a real relationship, let’s face it. This whole thing started off as an ego thing; you wanted to prove to your friend that you can bag any man you want, and it happened to be me. It could have been anyone else.”
The way he speaks about you makes you feel dirty, like you’re some cheap whore. It reminds you too much of the way your exes have looked at you, have talked about you to their friends, most of whom would then grin at you like they were next. Your knees wobble.
You feel chastised, and you hate the feeling so much you feel bile rising in your throat. Voice trembling, you ask, “You don’t want a real relationship with me?”
“We do have a real relationship,” Satoru starts, taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts, or maybe to get a good grasp of patience. “We’re good friends, besides all the sex.”
“But don’t you want to be more than friends? Don’t you want to date me for real?”
Satoru’s shoulder drops in disappointment, and you know it’s because he was hoping you’d see where he’s coming from and drop all of this already. You wish you could too, but something about the tight confines of this closet makes you feel brave, makes you feel like it’s now or never.
Honestly, he answers, “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
“What about Toru? A-and his strict wife, and their movie theatre?”
You don’t know why you bring them up, and he doesn’t either.
Blinking, he says, “They’re toys. What do they have to do with anything?”
You’re grasping at straws, you know it, and maybe later, when this is all over, you’ll think about walking into oncoming traffic in shame at how low you’ve sunk. Even at the very worst relationships you’ve had, with the most toxic men that you somehow wanted the approval of, you’ve never laid it all out on the table, never admitted weakness so quickly. What happened to you?
“Do you think…” your voice trails off with a crack, and there’s a rash forming on your skin now from where you’ve been subconsciously scratching. “Do you think you can fall in love with me? Like I’ve fallen for you?”
He sees your skin and he reaches for your wrist, but you snatch it away. You don’t want his pity, you want his answer, you want his love.
“You can’t be in love with someone you look down on,” Satoru repeats, voice barely above a whisper now, like it was advice he wanted you to desperately take.
He turns around and opens the door. Cool air rushes in and you have to hug yourself for warmth.
Uncaring to hide the bitterness in your voice, you spit out, “Are you talking to me or to yourself?”
i am absolutely in love of this development LOL i mean i hope they end up together but i do think this is 1) true to their characters and 2) important for mc’s character development. CANT WAIT TO FINISH
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Chapter TWO: now that you've, somehow, reeled him in, the game begins as any relationship does: with a date. and sex. and another date. and more sex. but also something a little more?
Content: smut (bj, first times/p in v, masochism, femdom, hair pulling, public sex, hidden sex, the works), mean girl!reader, sexually promiscuous!reader, not proofread - pls let me know if you spot typos!
Word Count : 13.2k
Chapter ONE - Masterlist - Chapter THREE
“When you said we should go on an official date,” you start, deadpan and a second away from sighing, “I didn’t think you’d take me to one of your nerd gatherings.”
Satoru slings an arm around your shoulder, not to display possession over you but to keep you from turning and leaving. Smart, you think.
He says, “I want you to meet my friends. Consider it a trial run before we meet yours.”
This is your first outing with him. Indeed the first time you’re seeing him since he agreed to play along a couple nights before. You’d exchanged numbers (he doesn’t have any social media, naturally), and you waited for him to text; you would rather die than text a man first. Fortunately, he didn’t keep you waiting too long because he reached out this morning asking to see you.
Unfortunately, he kept the nature of the ‘date’ from you until it was too late.
Now, you’re stuck in a games cafe with a circular table of his so-called friends — campus’ outcasts and society’s future pioneers, you’re sure — staring at you.
Actually, the whole cafe’s staring at you, which isn’t a surprise at all; you’re dressed in a tight dress that barely covers your ass under a tiny fur coat that does nothing against the chill of the night, and stilettos. There’s probably more glitter on your nails alone than they expected to ever see in their lives, much less on a Thursday night in this part of town.
“Is there a problem, freaks?”
At your sharp tone and scowl, people quickly turn back to their board games and pick up conversation.
Your ‘boyfriend’ laughs at that. He rubs your shoulder. “People really do stare too much, don’t they?”
Excitedly, Satoru steers you to his friends’ table, introducing your name before saying, “And these are my best buddies: Haibara, Ijichi, Yuji, and Inumaki!”
They all wave at you, all but Inumaki smiling, his face half-covered by his loose turtleneck sweater.
This is probably the first time they’ve ever spoken to a woman, much less a woman as hot as you. You should put on the Nice Girl act again, even if it kills a part of you, you decide. So, with a smile — the kind that makes your nose scrunch in a cute way that no guy could defend against — you purr, “Pleasure to meet you boys. Please take care of me.”
“Nice to meet you!” The guy you just learnt is called Yuji chirps. “We were wondering who Satoru was bringing, we didn’t know it’d be the girl from the library.”
Hands collide when you reach for your chair at the same time Satoru pulls it out for you. You give him a look before sliding into your seat. You turn your attention back to Yuji. “You remember me?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Of course! You’re hard to miss.”
“That’s right,” Haibara pipes up, as enthusiastic as his pink-haired friend. “I can’t believe Gojo actually took an interest in girls.”
Satoru chuckles. “You’re feeding the ‘I’m gay’ rumours again, Hai.”
Bashfully, he shuffles in his seat. “Sorry. That wasn’t what I meant.”
The guy with glasses and a loose fitting sweater nervously laughs, spine ramrod and eyes flitting all over the table. What a nervous little guy. “What my good friends here means is, Gojo has never dated anyone before, even though lots of the girls in his department have asked him out. The prettiest, smartest girls, and each one he turned down. It’s something of a miracle that he’s finally let someone in.”
“Are you saying I’m punching? That he’s too good for me? That I’m not nearly as pretty or as smart as all the other girls?”
They jolt at your cutting voice. Frantically, they all shake their heads, stuttering a response to deny your accusations.
What was the point of telling you so many girls want your man? Who the hell are they?
The relationship might not be the realest one out there, but it’s still a relationship, and damn it all if you’ll let someone suggest that you’re not good enough for your boyfriend; you’ve had enough of that kind of judgement from your previous relationships.
A placating hand rubs your back.
Your hard eyes dart to gorgeous blue ones. He gives you a look — not a scolding nor angry look, but rather comforting and soothing. Satoru says, “That’s not what they meant. They’re just talking about how I never really thought about dating, until now that is.” He turns to his friends. “I know it’s quite sudden and out of nowhere, but I don’t know. I just kept running into her, and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. So we’re taking it slow and seeing how it goes. Your support would mean a lot to me.”
Their shoulders relax, as does yours.
It’s impressive how quickly he rattled the lie off; you almost believed him. Does lying come naturally to men, or is Satoru just comfortable stretching the truth? You never thought an upstanding nerd like him would betray codes of honour so easily for someone he just met. It’s kinda hot.
Smiles slowly return to their faces.
“Sorry we weren’t very considerate with our words,” one says.
“Yeah, that wasn’t cool of us.”
“I do apologise. Please don’t think badly of us.”
“Salmon.”
Your head snaps to Satoru, a confused look on your face. He blinks, then laughs. “Oh, sorry. I forgot — Inumaki here is a singer; he protects his vocal chords by limiting his speech. We’ve known each other a while so we’ve gotten used to it. I’ll translate for you: ‘my bad, big bro.’”
That’s new, you think. Not that weird though, you suppose. You once knew a guy who didn’t speak at all, just for the fun of it. He could order a pizza with ease, but when it came to being vocal in bed, he was quieter than a monk.
Forcing the defensive stance you’ve taken to soften, you smack your lips together, feigning nonchalance. “Well, you’re forgiven, I guess. I’ll make sure not to jump to conclusions next time…or whatever.”
“Great!” Satoru claps his hands together. He looks delighted that everything's worked out. “Now that introductions are out of the way, let’s play!”
Yuji is already smirking, sleeves pushed up like he’s been waiting for weeks for this. Ijichi is carefully aligning pieces with so much care you wonder if these things are expensive. Haibara is cheerfully explaining the rules, though it seems unnecessary for them so perhaps it’s for your own benefit. And Inumaki, meanwhile, is eyeing everyone down with sudden determination.
Wow, they take this seriously.
The only time you’ve ever been half as serious as them is when there’s a sale at your favourite stores.
Around you, towering shelves are stacked floor to ceiling with board games with names that sound fake and whose boxes are covered in dragons, spaceships, or aggressively serious-looking cartoon men. It feels less like a café and more like some kind of shrine. Who knew these kinds of places get so much business?
You lean forward, chin in your hand, not really listening as Satoru launches into an explanation that makes absolutely no sense to you. Something about resource management. Turns. Victory points. You nod along, occasionally making encouraging noises, whilst wondering how they could tell the difference between any one of these little cardboard tokens; they all look the same.
The only thing you truly register is Satoru himself, animated and bright, eyes lit up in a way you’ve only seen once before: back in the library when he was deep in his element and completely unreachable.
It’s annoying.
And kind of entertaining.
He looks completely in his element like this, fingers deft as he sets the board. He laughs when Yuji interrupts him, rolling his eyes fondly, and you feel a flicker of something sharp and possessive twist in your chest.
Fake or not, you don’t love how easy this is for him, how natural. Your presence right beside him doesn’t make him nervous and anxious, like you’d expected it to. Instead, it’s like you’ve always been here beside him.
How is it possible that he’s never had a girlfriend, even with his condition, when being a boyfriend comes so easily to him?
Despite that, it doesn’t take very long at all for you to grow bored out of your mind. You’re acutely aware that the bathroom is right there, down the hall, private and quiet and infinitely more interesting than pretending to care about whose turn it is.
You try.
You really do — you pick up a piece, move it when you’re told, ask one clarifying question you immediately regret because it leads to a five-minute explanation and a small debate between Haibara and Ijichi. And you, more or less, even keep your hands to yourself.
Satoru ends up playing for you most rounds, which is fine with you. It’s not like you want to win, though it does seem like he’s setting you up for victory over his own piece. Or maybe you’re not understanding the game a little more than you originally thought.
The nerds, you decide, are…nice. Earnest. Harmless.
They smile at you like you’re more than welcome here, like you’re already their best friend, and that almost throws you off more than if they’d been rude.
Still, your attention keeps drifting back to Satoru’s mouth when he talks, the way his hands move, the way he leans closer to point something out on the board and doesn’t move away right away, and how he adjusts those stupid glasses here and there.
A knee nudges his under the table.
He glances at you, eyebrows lifting in quiet question, and you flash him a smile that very clearly does not have anything to do with dice or cards or whatever the hell this game is. You tilt your head toward the hallway, subtle but not subtle enough, and watch understanding dawn slowly, followed by a soft huff of laughter.
“Give me a minute,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it, eyes flicking back to the board even as his knee bumps yours in warning.
You roll your eyes but settle back, pretending to pay attention again whilst mentally counting the seconds. When Satoru finally takes his turn, he’s fully in it now, excitement sharpening his focus, voice animated as he strategizes, and something in your chest tightens at the sight.
Fine. You can wait. Watching him like this is almost worth the boredom.
Almost.
About an hour later, or maybe only five minutes have passed — time doesn’t seem to exist inside the cafe — you lean close, lips near his ear this time. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to the bathroom, and you’re following. Don’t take too long,” you whisper. “If you keep me waiting, I think I’ll have to punish you.”
His hand falters just a little, a flush appearing at the tips of his ears, before he straightens, clears his throat, and finishes his move like a man desperately pretending he isn’t already thinking about following you wherever you want to go.
“Time for a break,” he announces, getting up and flagging a waitress down for the table. “Order something for the table, I just need a breather. I’ll be back in a bit, and the board better be exactly how I left it. I’ve taken a mental picture so don’t even try. I’m looking at you, Yuji.”
The man in question raises his hand in surrender. “No promises.”
People have quickly gotten comfortable with your presence because no one even glances at the two of you when you both slip away into the toilets. Or maybe it never occurs in their loser, virgin minds that a couple could do anything remotely illegal or immoral in a place so sacred.
There’s the men’s and the women’s.
You drag him into the cleaner one, the one that smells less like piss and disease. Thankfully, there’s no one inside — you expected as much; there’s only two other women out there and one of them is a server.
“Are you sure now is a good time?” he whispers conspiratorially though no one’s around.
Shoving him into a stall, you lock the door behind you and say, “Any time is a good time to have a good time.”
Satoru whistles low, impressed. “Very well put.”
That’s not a phrase you came up — one of your exes, a real sleazy horndog who only wanted sex on his own terms, did — but you don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know that you used to hate that phrase.
Instead, you inquire, “Are you hard?”
He glances down at his own pants. His brows furrow, and replies, “Not sure. Kinda?” You grab his crotch to test it for yourself. Satoru grunts. “Hey, careful with the goods.”
“You have a semi,” you conclude. He looks somewhat confused by the term, so you explain, “It’s when you’re a little turned on, but need more simulation to get fully hard.”
“Stimulation. And that’s a good sign, right? It means that time in the janitor’s closet wasn’t a one-off.” He looks so pleased with himself, with you, and with his dick that you almost smile at his excitement. Then, he glances around the cramped space and notes, “The girls’ toilets are so nice. I’m so jealous. ”
Far too conversational for your liking, you decide to turn up the vibe a notch. You press close to him, spinning the two of you around so he’s leaning against the door. Your adept hands begin unbuckling his belt.
Satoru grabs your shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this here? It’s cleaner than the men’s but it’s still a toilet stall.”
You shrug him off and focus on unzipping his jeans to reveal his boxers. “I’ve done it in worse places, don’t worry.”
He frowns and halts your hands from pulling the band of his Calvin Klein underwear down. “That’s not cool at all.” Brushing an errant strand of hair from your forehead, he whispers, “I can wait, really. I wasn’t planning on testing anything out tonight; I was always going to meet them here, but I wanted to see you too, just to hang out. Maybe we can do this another day, or we can go to my place after?”
A weird sensation throbs in your heart. You reel a little. “N-no, we’re doing this now. I want to. I want to see what I’m working with at least.”
And when you drop to your knees and free his dick, he doesn’t oppose. Your jaw drops.
“No way,” you breathe out. “Are you kidding me?”
Sensing your panic, he stares at his dick. “What? What’s wrong?”
“You’re fucking huge, Satoru!”
He groans, head smacking back against the door. “Don’t do that. Jeez, I thought my dick was broken for good, or, like, super ugly.”
Not a single part of you was lying, not this time — he really is big. It’s also not ugly. Alright, no dick is gorgeous, but as far as dicks go, his is quite nice. And he’s not even fully hard yet. Are nerds supposed to be packing?
It’s actually kind of a crime that he’d gone so long without ever dicking another woman down. This kind of dick deserves to be felt, to be worshipped, to be wrung dry on a daily.
Well, don’t mind if you do.
Too self-conscious now, he asks, “Is it too big? I know some girls have a prob—WOAH!”
Unable to resist any longer, your hands have wrapped around the length, warming it up. He keeps it nice and clean down here, which is more than you can say for most guys. Slowly, he grows harder and bigger, until it’s at full mast. The entire length stretches the length of your face and a little beyond. It’s a beast of a cock, truly.
Your pussy drools.
You waste no more time; you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his cockhead and making sure he sees everything — from the way you have to open really wide to how your lipgloss is rubbing on his skin, and to the hand fondling his heavy balls.
Satoru groans above you. “I didn’t know blowjobs feel this -hah- good. Is it supposed to feel this good?”
Gripping the base and suckling on the tip, you send him a wink. “Blowjobs from me do.”
You know what men like. You know that when you flick your tongue over the slit, they hiss, just as Satoru does. You know that when you start taking him deeper and deeper down your throat, his hand will fly to the back of your head.
And right on cue, it does.
Partly undecided between pushing you away and yanking you down on his length, he holds you with shaking hands. The strain must be hard on him. Poor thing.
Inch by inch, you take him. Soon your lips graze his base, his cockhead bumping into the back of your throat. It’s not easy at all. It’s actually in the top three hardest dicks you’ve ever deepthroated. You thank the dating gods that you won’t have to swallow the shame of being with a small-dicked loser at least.
“O-oh, fuck, that feels so good. Your mouth’s so warm -ngh- a-and your throat’s so tight. I don’t know what to do.”
Acrylic nails digging into his clothed thigh, you draw a hiss from his lips. Pulling off to suck his balls, you’re free to retort, “Cum, duh.”
“Where?”
“Down my throat, obviously, idiot.”
“You -hngh! slow down, I can’t think!- y-you sure?”
To show him how sure you are, you take him back in your mouth, expertly swallowing as much of him as you can. You bite back your gag reflex and bob your head rapidly. He proves weak to that attack. With a cry of your name, he spurts down your throat.
“Fuck,” he gasps out. His hips stutter, bruising your walls without meaning to.
Mmm, salty. A little sweet too — he keeps a healthy diet at least. No Mountain Dew, battery-acid spunk. Great!
Lips making a pop! sound when you slide him out, you smirk proudly at his dazed look. Yeah, you’ve still got it.
His knees quiver, threatening to bring him to a slump on the floor. You hold him up with a roll of your eyes. Gently patting his cheek, you say, “Venus to Satoru. Hello? We’ve still got a game to finish, don’t pass out on me now.”
Index finger weakly lifted up, his head falls onto your shoulder. Your own legs threaten to buckle from his sudden weight. He mutters into your fur coat, “Earth to Satoru, and be noted, Houston, Satoru is completely shattered.”
“I don’t know who Houston is, but you need to get your shit together.”
Satoru chuckles.
“Yes, Command.”
.
.
.
Your second date has been arranged by you.
Well, it’s not exactly a date. Not in the traditional sense. It’s more of an excuse to be fucked.
You’ve never waited so long to be ‘bedded’ before — it’s been over a week since you’ve started ‘dating’ Satoru.
Being college students mean that schedules don’t often align. Satoru, for example, has an internship at the Limitless Foundation that he attends twice a week on top of his usual workload. He’s, no doubt, doing sciencey stuff at his internship that means working long hours, not that you cared to ask more about it.
And even though you’re studying an already rather easy subject, Business — a degree everyone knows is a waste of time — you don’t actually attend most of your classes. They aren’t very mandatory. As long as your assignments are completed in time, you’ll pass just fine. So, you’ve been busy with other things. Namely shopping, getting waxed, massaged and whatnot.
It’s a full time job to maintain your appearance.
It’s as hard as whatever he’s doing, honest!
Anyway, when he texted you, talking about how he finally has time to see you during the weekend, you jumped to take the lead. No more nerd cafes, no more board games, and toilet blowjobs.
You’re going to be fucked on a bed or on a sofa, like a real lady, even if it killed you both.
You’ve invited yourself over to his place. He didn’t seem opposed at all, whereas most guys tend to be quite skittish about that sort of thing. In fact, he replied, Okiedokie I’ll send you my address. See you soon, ‘babe’ ;)
Who the hell says ‘okiedokie’?
The area’s not too far from campus, so the walk from your dorm was rather short. It’s a nice neighbourhood. Very nice, actually. You’re rather thankful you don’t have to hold your keys between your knuckles as you wait for him to buzz you into the apartment building.
“That my fake-real girlfriend?” His voice is static-y when it reaches you through the box.
You inspect your nails and drawl, “Not for long if you keep me waiting.”
Satoru laughs. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He buzzes you in but not before giving you a set of instructions: enter the elevator to your left, not the one to your right, press the button that says P, and the doors will be open when you reach the top.
The doors are, in fact, open when the elevator stops. You have no idea what P means, or why the door would lead straight to his place, and thinking about it anymore hurts your head.
You step inside, the wheels of your suitcase rattling on the porcelain floor. His place is massive. It’s two flipping floors. The first is an open-spaced studio with the living room marked by large sofas, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the neighbourhood, a grand piano in the corner, and a spacious kitchen to your left.
Passing by the balcony of the second floor, where you assume the bathroom and bedrooms are, he spies your shocked figure and rushes down the stairs.
“Hey! Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.”
Somewhat bewildered by the idea that any college student could be living somewhere so fancy, you numbly mutter, “Mi casa es Sue’s casa, huh.”
He takes your coat, pats your head, and corrects you all in one go, “Su casa, Diapers. And yes, it is. I mean it. Honestly throw your things wherever you want. Don’t ask me for permission for anything. Just relax.”
That’s all you need.
Breaking into a run, your heels click and clack on the floor. You stop at the windows, leaving marks on the pristine glass as your fingers press on the transparent surface. “Everyone looks tiny! You can see everything.”
Satoru laughs. “I hear that often. My friends like to say that it’s like I’ve got eyes everywhere. Six Eyes, they call me ‘cause, y’know—”
“You’re four eyes with glasses, add two more for this view, I got it,” you finish for him, unable to resist beaming ear to ear.
Suitcase inspected, he wonders, “What’ve you got in here? You’re only staying the weekend, not a whole month.”
You turn to look at him, lashes fluttering as you look at him blankly. “I know. I just brought my weekend necessities. Believe it or not, I actually cut down a little since the dorms are just a hop and a skip away.”
He whistles. “Must be hard being a girl; my friends only need their toothbrush and underwear, and sometimes not even that.”
“Ew.”
Satoru’s lips twitch. “Yeah, it is kinda ew.”
Through the reflection, you watch him carry the suitcase up the stairs with ease, despite his earlier remark. Through his plain white shirt, you see his back muscles flex and his biceps bulge. What a pity that he hides his impressive stature in frumpy sweaters. He’d get all the hoes, and not just the nerdy ones on the anti-bullying brochures, if he showed off a little.
Moments later, he finds you in the living room, reclining on his stupidly comfortable sofa and scrolling on your phone.
Teasing, he leans over and asks, “Not gonna snoop around my place?”
“Nope,” you reply. “I’ve learnt my lesson after being told off many a-times — guys are kinda sensitive to the idea that someone might find their porn stash or crusty sock, I guess.”
He shakes his head, laughing. “You won’t find any of that here. Broken dick, remember?” Not so broken now, you want to tell him but you keep it to yourself. Jerking his chin, he continues, “I’ll show you around; food’s thirty minutes away. Sorry I didn’t make something from scratch. I’m not very good at cooking unfortunately.”
On your feet, you follow him up the stairs. “That’s fine with me.” At least he’s feeding you something, and not just his dick. You can’t recall a time you’ve stayed over for dinner at a guy’s place. Most of the time, you get kicked out right after they cum if they’re dickheads, or you leave ASAP if they’re clingy.
“There’s five rooms up here,” he says, putting on a professional tone like he’s a tour guide. “On your left, there’s my study room. Very boring, very often visited, unfortunately.”
You take a peek. There’s a wooden desk with a blue iMac, and an array of papers sprawled over it. Pushed against a wall, stands a whiteboard with numbers and letters making up things that make you nauseous just to look at. Apart from those, it’s more or less bare in there.
“On the right is the bathroom. Pretty straightforward. And down here,” he begins, leading you down the hall where three doors await, “are the two bedrooms. Mine, and the guest room, which is yours for tonight.”
A frown graces your glossy lips. “I’m not staying with you?”
Satoru adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit it would seem. “I thought you’d like your own space.”
Shoving him aside, you grouch, “Fuck that,” and barge into his room. What you see brings out a, “Seriously?” from your mouth.
His room is as nerdy as it gets — glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars on his ceiling, posters of famous scientists littering his walls, shelves full of little figurines from shows and movies you’ve never watched, and a bed with Star Wars themed bedsheets. He has a telescope stationed by his window, and a solar system chandelier hanging above his bed like a dreamcatcher.
On a desk are a couple of display cases with painted miniatures posed mid-battle, clearly the result of hours of patience you don’t have. You lean closer to one, squinting. “You paint these?”
“Sometimes,” he says lightly from behind you, like it’s no big deal. “Helps me unwind. I don’t have much time these days though.”
You scoff as you straighten. Of course this man relaxes by painting tiny warriors with microscopic precision. You suppose it’s his version of painting your nails when you’re stressed or didn’t get to cum after a disappointing hook-up.
It’s ridiculous. You don’t care about any of this. He’s just revealed the extent of his childish and dorky interest.
And yet, standing in the middle of his space, surrounded by proof of his obsessions and his focus and his stupid, attractive competence, you feel that familiar spark flare hotter in your freaking womb.
God, are you actually finding his nerd museum hot?
He seems a little embarrassed for the first time ever, shuffling on the floor and avoiding your eye. Forcing nonchalance, he says, “You won’t want to stay in here. The guest room is a lot less…me, I guess.”
“Satoru.” His head perks up, looking at you like he’s waiting for an order. “Come here.”
The man doesn’t hesitate. He comes to stand before you, head tilting a little. You don’t break eye contact as you sit on his bed, then lie on your back completely.
Your dress rides up. He notices.
What an idiot, you think. As if you’d spend a night at his place by yourself. He’s really clueless. All girls want to snuggle somewhere warm. Preferably in the arms of their boyfriend. You’ll teach him well tonight.
He scrunches his face up, thinking hard. “Sorry, what do I do?”
Ravish me.
Fuck me into next week.
Lose your virginity to me on your geeky sheets.
Slam your huge fucking cock into my tight pussy until I’m squirting all over your bed.
You don’t say any of that though. No, instead, you say a line that drives all men wild:
“Anything you want.”
He runs a hand through his hair, releasing a tense breath. Of course he’s not immune to it either. All men are the same at the very core.
Satoru takes a brave step forward, admiring your body all sprawled out where he sleeps. Something’s been switched on inside him — his pupils are growing bigger, a pink hue creeping in on his cheeks, and his hands flex by his sides.
“Anything?” he asks, voice dropping an octave.
“Mhm.” Your smiles curl up into sharp points, beyond satisfied that he’s walking willingly into your trap. Heeled foot resting on his thigh, you part your legs so he can see your pretty, pink thong. His eyes immediately zero in on them. Classic. “Just wear a condom, alright? I’m on the pill but your first time shouldn’t be so extreme.”
Raw’s reserved for long term boyfriends, for men you’re sure don’t have STDs and won’t run off if they find out that they’re a father. Maybe you can give him the privilege on your last tryst, a goodbye present of sorts.
He shakes his head, muttering, “Don’t need one.”
Your smile drops. Leaning on your arms, you glare at him. “Listen here, mister. I say if we need one or not. You’re not going to talk me into forwarding protection; I’m not an idiot.”
His lips twitch at the corners. “Foregoing protection.”
“Whatever — bottom line is, wear one or I step on your dick.”
He falls to his knees, slotting perfectly between yours. Smooth hands tentatively grasp your thighs, squeezing experimentally once, then twice and a third time when he realises how good it is to feel a female body. “We won’t need one because what I want is a step or two before that. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”
Satoru hooks his hands under your knees, thumbs rubbing your smooth skin. He wet his lips.
You begin to panic. “What are you talking about? Go get a condom and fuck me already, dumbass.”
“You’d need to be properly lubricated for that, no? I may be a virgin but I’m not clueless,” he says, yanking you down slightly so he can get even closer.
The tip of his nose grazes the material. You jolt. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go — you’re supposed to be bent over and ploughed, supposed to be consoling him for cumming too early. You were going to tell him it happens and that it doesn’t make him any less of a man all whilst thinking the exact opposite!
But he doesn’t seem to care about your plans.
With a glance that asks for permission, he pulls your thong aside. Then he whistles.
“Don’t do that,” you snap. “It’s rude.”
A thumb brushes your thigh in apology, though he does utter one too.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he mutters. “I mean, I’ve seen vaginas before. In class, anyway. And in porn, not that I watch any. It’s just hard to avoid any kind of pornographic content when you’re a guy, I suppose and—”
“Satoru, you’re rambling,” you groan, eyes rolling in annoyance and not pleasure. You throw a leg over his shoulder, heel digging into his back. Though, there is a part of you that’s relieved by his chattering; it burst the sudden fright you felt at him going off-script. He’s still Satoru, still a nerd, and a virgin. You’ve got the upperhand. “If you’re gonna eat it, eat it with haste. And don’t call it a vagina; it’s unsexy. Call it a pussy.”
He nods, adjusting his glasses and licking his lips. “Right, sorry. I’ll be eating this p…,” he clears his throat, “this p-pussy. Thank you for the food.”
“Ugh, you’re so cheesy, god, just—NGH!”
Ignoring your insults, he dove straight in.
Your eyes spring wide open, hands clutching his hair for purchase out of reflex. There’s no more teasing, no hesitant exploration, or reluctance the way most men feel giving head to a woman is routine or obligatory.
His tongue’s clumsy. It pokes and prods nowhere in particular. The man seems to know where your clit and hole are, which is a great start already, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. You stifle a laugh, finding his eagerness adorable.
Eyes with the vastness of the sky flicker up to meet yours. You feel his lips twitch. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” you say.
Satoru shakes his head with a disbelieving chuckle. “No, you totally are. Don’t think you have to be polite to me; I already know how brutally honest you can be. Guide me. Tell me how you like it. Train me to know how to make you feel good. I’m a quick learner, promise.”
“Fine. Circle my clit. Rub it with your tongue. Not too fast, not too hard. Not yet. You have to build up, ‘kay?”
Invigorated by the instructions, your little nerd does as you say. The change in his actions makes all the difference — you’re growing breathless at the attentive ministrations. Every rub, every flick, is intentional and careful.
“Like this?” he asks, voice muffled.
“Hmm, keep going.”
You can feel his eyes on you, watching your movements and the way your chest caves in and out. The skin where his heated gaze skims tingles. You fight the urge to hide for the first time ever; he sees too much.
Slowly, his glasses become fogged up, and he pushes them up over his head once he realises they’re not making a difference. With no barrier between his hot mouth and your hotter pussy, he draws even closer.
Satoru begins using his own common sense and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard and harder when you gasp, thighs tightening around his head.
“I didn’t realise p-pussies can get this wet,” he remarks absentmindedly, practically talking to himself. “I meant to say your pussy’s really –mmm- pretty earlier, by the way. I just panicked.” The pads of his fingers follow the outline of your lips, feeling the swollen folds, dipping in your wetness to make squelching noises. “Guys always talk about how ugly pussies are, but I think yours is too pretty, if anything. Doesn’t taste bad either. People always say it tastes like pennies; yours doesn—”
Groaning, you grab a handful of his hair and pull his mouth back to your clit. “Yeah, yeah, my kitty’s gorgeous, I know. Instead of waltzing poetic about it, why don’t you make me cum?”
He hisses and then moans at the sting at his scalp. Not a word of complaint is voiced though. On the contrary, he seems rather dazed at the pain. Halfheartedly, he corrects you, “Waxing. It’s waxing poetic.”
“Potato, tomato.”
“Potato, po-ta-to.”
“Shut up.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Oh my fucking go—YES! Right there!”
Loud, wet noises reverberate around the room.
Satoru is a messy eater. He really puts his all into it, rubbing his nose and cheeks carelessly, and lapping the entirety of your cunt with no reservations. Whilst he has a long way to come, it’s somehow working well enough for you that minutes later your back arches and you cum with a long moan.
“Hngh! Fuuuuuckk, that’s good,” you groan out when the final waves of your orgasm are washed away.
Satoru marvels at the translucent webs he makes between his fingers. He licks his lips. Glasses sliding back over his nose bridge, he beams at you. “How did I do?”
You sit up, ripping a pillowcase off his pillow and cleaning yourself up, and then throw the dirty thing at him to do whatever with. Fixing your hair, you say with a shrug, “Not bad for a virgin. Don’t worry; by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be known as the university’s pride and joy munch.”
Wiping his face and fingers clean with the case, he chuckles. “That’ll be a dream come true.”
“You didn’t show me the last room,” you note after a minute, wanting a distraction from the pulsing of your clit and the desire to bounce on his dick right here and right now.
Satoru gathers his thoughts for a second, still in that haze of pleasure but he quickly shakes it off and pushes himself up. He has a raging boner. You raise your brow at it. He angles his hips away from you, as though he thinks you’re going to bite it.
Extending a hand to you, he brings you to your feet, rearranging your clothes for you even though your hands keep smacking his away.
“It’s my favourite room,” he remarks contemplatively. “I can’t believe I forgot.”
“Good pussy does that to you,” you say, flicking your hair with a grin.
He grins too, brushing the hairs sticking to the sweat on your forehead away. “You’re right. I better be careful.”
The last room is right across from the guestroom, where you were supposed to be stationed. He pushes the door open, revealing a room all men would kill for, you’re sure.
It’s a game room.
There are retro arcade games lining the walls. A desk with three screens standing next to each other to create one long one. There’s a seat on the floor with pedals at the foot and a massive TV towering over it, which flashes the words Formula 1. DVDs fill up a whole bookshelf. You can’t tell if they’re movie ones or video games. On your left, there’s even a popcorn machine and a slushie maker.
And at the very centre is a large table. It’s a familiar sight. You saw tables like this in the nerd cafe.
Seeing where your gaze has landed, Satoru leans against the doorframe, proud. “That’s our D&D setup. Ongoing campaign,” he says. “We’ve been running it for a few months now. Paused it mid-arc, though. Party’s getting back together next week to pick it up again.”
“Games can last that long?” you ask, actually a little amazed. You walk around the table, having enough tact and sense not to touch anything. It’s been drilled inside your pussy and your head that men will throw a fit if you touch their precious things.
Satoru nods, strolling leisurely to your side, chest brushing your shoulder. “Heck yeah. Longest one I did was half a year. This one seems like it’ll enter into the next academic year.”
A little childishly, you wonder, “Are you winning?”
“No,” he answers with a reflective smile, seemingly not upset at all, “but it’s not really about winning. As we like to say, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. Good storytelling trumps all!”
You frown. “But winning’s good. It’s fun. It’s the whole point of anything.”
He brushes your hair from your shoulder, and lays a kiss there. You shiver. “We can play one day, and I’ll show you that there’s more to life, to games, than winning. That even if you lose, you’ll never regret playing.”
The doorbell rings.
“Ah, that’ll be the food.” Satoru makes a move for the door. “Look around as much as you’d like, just be careful in case you trip over something. I’ll set up the table. Hope you’re hungry!”
Why the hell did he kiss your shoulder?
No one’s ever done that before. The closest you’ve gotten is being bit there by some freak masquerading as a respectable lawyer.
Weirdo.
But why did you kinda like it?
Suddenly feeling colder, you run a finger down the length of the table. You can’t make out a single thing that’s happening on the board. There’s cards and figurines of monsters and people, and all sorts of different shapes.
You head down, joining him for dinner, feeling somewhat troubled by his words, and wholly unconvinced by his belief.
Journey. Storytelling. Never regret playing?
Bullshit — winning’s the only thing worth fighting for in life.
.
.
.
In a lacy negligee, you wander into his bedroom, fresh out of the bathroom. Satoru reclines on the bed, reading a comic book about Batman or another superhero, you don’t know. He smiles when you slide into bed.
“I knew it was going to be weird having a girl sleeping in my bed, but I didn’t realise just how weird it’d be,” he notes, putting his comic book down on his bedside drawer. He’s wearing some old anime-themed matching set pyjamas, a sleeping mask to pair it with prepared beside him, and you have to resist the grimace setting on your face; he looks like an idiot incel.
“Uhuh,” you reply, applying lip balm because you’d rather die than have chapped lips.
Satoru continues. “It feels like I’m having a sleepover, but we’re allowed to snuggle and grope. I’m worried I’ll be drooling and talking in my sleep. Maybe I’ll accidentally push you off the bed too. Are you sure you’re okay here?”
“Yes, for the last time. And if you push me off the bed in the middle of the night, I’ll rip your dick off, then you’ll really have a broken dick.”
He laughs.
Dinner had gone by as normally as any other dinner — he talked your ear off about the development of Chinatown in the city, starting from the very first restaurant and the boom of boba tea, which apparently isn’t even a Chinese invention. You weren’t really listening, too peeved off with how he didn’t seem the least bit affected by your attempt to play footsie with him under the table.
Now, it’s time to sleep, but you have no interest in sleeping.
It’s been over two weeks since you’d last been fucked good and hard, and you’re beginning to twitch and scratch at your skin like someone going through withdrawal.
You need dick inside of you or you might die.
Satoru’s surprised when you climb onto his lap. His hands instinctively hold your hips. “Woah, uh, I thought we were gonna sleep,” he says.
He can’t seem to decide where to set his eyes: off your body to be respectful or on your body because you clearly want him to look. You grab his face and make sure he can’t look anywhere but the tits in front of him.
Lips curling into something sinful, you inform him, “No, Satoru baby. You’re gonna suck my tits, I’m gonna rub my pussy on your dick until you’re hard again, and then you’re going to lose your virginity. That okay with you?”
There’s no way he’s going to reject your offer; his pupils are blown out. He’s also obviously fixated on the faint promise of your nipples he spies through the thin material of your lingerie. All men are weak to lace and satin, like cats and catnip. Gulping, he nods. “Y-yeah, if you’re sure.”
Beneath you, something grows bigger.
“Perfect,” you purr. “Now suck.”
You shove your tits forward so he’s buried between them. He inhales deeply, groaning. And, almost as if puppetted by lust, his hands come up to grope you. Satoru doesn’t squeeze hard. He doesn’t squeeze at all. In fact, he’s merely feeling the weight and shape.
“So soft,” he whispers.
Nails scraping his scalp, you mutter encouragingly, “I said ‘suck’, Satoru. Are we going to have problems?”
“No, ma’am.” Carefully, wise enough to know not to ruin your expensive lingerie, he pulls down the cups. At the sight of your breasts bared to him, he makes a noise of amazement. “Wow. They’re so spherical.”
Fed up with his gentlemanly act, you flick your nipple and show him how they harden. “Suck, squeeze, be a little rougher, and get me nice and wet again. I don’t want to have to tell you another time.”
Satoru nods, putting more force in how he holds your tits. After a harder grope which elicits a pleased hum from you, he’s emboldened. Over and over again, he squeezes and jiggles the fats. He mouths at one, kissing skin before venturing to your nipple.
His warmth covers you. You sigh. “That’s it. More. Be rougher with me, Satoru.”
Like he had done with your clit, he flicks the hardened bud, then rolls it on his tongue. One hand keeps you steady by holding your waist whilst the other plays with your other tit. The little nerd looks parched as he sucks on your tit. One would think he’d been doing this forever. Guess it’s something that’s just innate to men.
Your hips begin rolling too. His cock has hardened under your ass. With a little shuffling, the length of it lines up with your pussy through his pants. The cockhead kisses your clit, though separated by layers. You bite your lips.
Being fucked is incredible, but dryhumping can be just as.
The friction, the warmth, the constant bumping of sensitive points — there’s nothing like it. You won’t deny to anyone that you’re soaking through your thong right now.
He gasps, leaving a string of spit from your nipple to his lips. “I can feel you. It’s like a hotdog bun. Go faster.”
Smacking the back of his head, you scold him, “Don’t describe it like that. It’s so unattractive. Do you not know how to dirty talk? Do I have to teach you that too? Or are you purposely trying to make me dry?”
A pulse makes your hips jolt.
Satoru shakes his head. He dives for your other tit, giving it equal attention, in apology. “S-sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Just…please go faster.”
You roll your eyes. “I was going to. God, you’re so impatient.” The pleasure was building before he’d spoken. Now, you have to build it back up again.
Faster and faster, you rub your pussy all over his cock, rotating your hips right where his tip is so your clit can get what she needs.
Groans and moans and hisses fill the humid space between you. His glasses are being knocked into a wonky angle. He doesn’t seem to mind; his eyes are closed anyway, too consumed by the sensations he’s feeling to care about anything else.
Soon, your hips stutter, juices soaking through. “Mmm, that’s good.”
Dryhumping never fails to make you cum.
You suddenly push off him so he can’t rut up into you and ruin everything. You lick your lips at the wet spot you leave on his pants.
Satoru reaches for you. “Hey…” he complains, pouting. “I wasn’t done, and I haven’t cum yet.”
“Shush. Do you have condoms?”
“Top drawer,” Satoru replies, sulking a little. You open it and frown at the massive mess of condoms you see. He scratches the back of his neck. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t know which one to get, so I got all of them.”
Warming. Ribbed. Extra Small. Extra Extra Large. Glow-in-the-dark. Flavoured.
You should have known he couldn’t do something as simple as buying condoms. Snatching the plain XL, you swat the hands attempting to reconnect with your tits away and situate yourself on his lap again. Pants and boxers pulled down, his cock springs out. You poke it to watch it bounce.
“Y’know, I’ve been trying to get myself hard since that time in the bathroom, but nothing works,” Satoru confesses, thoroughly bothered by his dick’s refusal to listen to him. “It’s not fair that I can only get hard with you; I really want to play with it too.”
“I bet,” you reply, rolling it down on his length. Damn, he’s even bigger than you remembered.
He watches you lift yourself up on your knees, aiming his tip just right. You slide down his length impatiently. At the tightness that meets him, he hisses, hands flying to grip your hips once more. This time, they’re not gentle — they dig into the meat, fighting the urge to tug you down.
Shaking his head, he whimpers. “No, no, I can’t do this. You’re too tight!”
“Shh, Satoru,” you whisper, stroking his cheek to comfort him. “You can take it, promise. It’s going to feel so good once you’re fully inside, trust me, ‘kay?”
Satoru takes multiple deep breaths, throwing his head back and gritting his teeth. “Okay, okay. Fuck.”
It isn’t easy on you either; he’s far too big to take with as little prep as you’d done, but your pussy’s a pro. She’s magical. Capable of anything. So, you push through, sucking him inches at a time until you’re more or less at the base. Breathless yourself, you say, “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Somehow, he musters a half-nod, but the flush on his face suggests otherwise.
“I’m going to start moving, alright? Hold on to me and let me know if it’s too much. I won’t get mad.” That’s more than most men have said to you, but the words leave your lips so easily you wonder why so few have ever given you that mercy.
He nods, panting. “Yes, yes, move. Please.”
Up and down your hips move, slowly and gently. Each rise and fall sends his eyelashes fluttering and his head rolling. It’s as if every sense is heightened and he’s already overwhelmed to the max. Despite that, he doesn’t quit. He wants this just as bad.
Anything to prove he’s not weak, that he’s not a failure.
“Such a good boy, Satoru,” you drawl.
His cock throbs. “T-thank you.”
The stretch is insane — it stung at first. But now, you’re so eager to feel his cockhead pressing against your g-spot, kissing your cervix, and wringing out a deep orgasm, that you fight the complaints of your inner walls. Honestly, you can’t remember the last time you’ve ever been so full.
What a waste that his wonderful cock had gone so long without being ridden.
All the bouncing makes the bed creak pitifully. It’s a subtle sound under his loud moaning. The rasp of his whines and groans sends vibrations rattling your bones, tickling you from the inside.
Oh, how you love a vocal man.
“So tight,” he gasps out. “You’re so fucking tight. I can’t think straight. I never knew -hah- sex felt this h-heavenly.”
“This is just the tip of the iceberg, Satoru. Imma show you a whole new world.”
Through the overstimulation and the dizzying pleasure, he finds it in himself to smile. “Shining, shimmering, splendid, huh?” At your eye roll, he moans, distracted once again. “Use me to make yourself cum; I’m not sure I h-have it in me to do anything but not -hah fuuuck- cum early.”
You snort. “That was always the plan, dummy.”
Unrestrained, you bounce on his cock like it’s a trampoline. Just as he said, you use him for your own pleasure. Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. He throbs inside of you. When you grind your hips, your eyes roll back, and when his cockhead prods that gummy spot inside you, wetness floods out.
It’s so fucking good. You can’t tell if it’s because it’s been so long, because he’s so big, or if your body chemistry is really that fucking good — whatever the case may be though, it’s certain that you’re in for a great time with this nerd.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine out, back arching, tits shoved right into his face.
Spasms wrack your body at the massive orgasm that consumes you. You screech with the strength of it, hips stuttering once again.
Three orgasms in one day is fan-fucking-tastic.
Satisfied, you droop over his chest. “Thank god you have a big dick.”
Satoru makes a tortured noise. Hands clutching you with an iron-clad intensity, you find yourself shoved backward. Your back hits the mattress. Above you, he stares at your body. He’s flushed. Manic. Practically deranged-looking.
You frown. “Hey, are you okay? Did I go too fast?”
Hastily, he shakes his head, throwing his glasses carelessly behind him when it begins creeping down his nose bridge. “No. Fuck no. You were perfect. You felt so perfect. I want more. I want to feel good too. Can I? Please?”
“Yeah, of cour—”
That’s all he needs.
He finds your pussy with a little fumbling and help from you, pushing his still-hard cock in. Satoru gasps, outstretched arms he uses to hold himself up shaking. The slide back in is easier this time, and he doesn’t wait till he bottoms out before pulling out just to shove himself back in a second later.
There’s no rhythm to his thrusting; he’s simply doing what feels good. He swings his hips like his biological instincts have taken over. It’s fast, jostling you around. You’re being inched backwards.
Your head hangs over the bed. Satoru buries his face in your tits, slobbering all over them. “So good,” he repeats like a mantra. “So good, so -hngh- fucking good. I don’t ever want to stop. Fuckfuckfuck, I think I’m gonna pee.”
“No, Satoru,” you say, being jostled further and further down the bed with the force of his thrusting. “You’re gonna -hah- cum. Just like in the toilet stall, remember? Let it happen.”
“Yes,” he says, licking a stripe between the valley of your breast, tasting the salt on your skin. “I’m gonna cum. Mm, your nails — dig them into my back. I like it. I think. Fuck, I don’t -hic!- know anymore!”
Through his shirt, you scratch his back up, digging enough to make his hips speed up, ramming his cock inside you now. You moan with him. His energy and enthusiasm is making up for his lack of experience. The rubbing of his pelvis against your clit quickly brings you to the edge again.
You cum with a scream.
He cums with your name on his lips.
Then he completely slumps onto you, dead to the world and threatening to suffocate you with his weight.
Delirious with your surprise fourth orgasm, you weakly mutter, “Virgins.”
After that night, something awakens in him.
As you brush your teeth, he comes up behind you, eyes bleary with sleep and mumbling a good morning. Satoru rubs his morning wood against your ass, holding you tight and nuzzling the crook of your neck.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I woke up like this, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Condom?”
Satoru holds one between his fingers, ready and smiling into your skin, proud he’d anticipated that.
Rolling your eyes, you bend over the sink a little, pushing your panties to the side — good thing you woke up wet yourself. He sinks his cock inside, stealing your breath once more.
“Oh fuuuuuck.”
You each get another orgasm that way.
And when you wash up after in his spacious shower, he joins, nimble fingers parting your folds and rubbing that spot inside you he finds quite easily. The nerd’s good with his fingers, which is great because it’s such a waste to have long digits like his otherwise. Under the stream of water, you’re pressed up to the tiles, panting in his mouth. Dizziness makes you feel lightheaded; the steam isn’t helping at all.
When you cum, he fucks his already-hard and protected cock inside you. You cling to him as he holds you up, and you warn, “If you slip and drop me, you’re dead meat, do you hear me?”
He nods, groaning and rutting with wet slaps against your hips. “I won’t. Won’t -hah- drop you.”
True to his words, he doesn’t drop you, but he does get a nosebleed from the intensity of his second orgasm of the day and the humidity. You scold him thoroughly for getting blood on you. He apologises with his face between your legs.
Whilst you get ready for the day, he cooks breakfast.
Sitting on the island opposite him, you two eat the food together. Satoru talks on and on about how he got some Pokemon cards graded recently, and that they’ll go up in resale value by some percentage every year. You’re hardly listening, just nodding here and there. He doesn’t seem to mind.
Satoru finishes his breakfast first, and when you look up, he’s gone from his seat. Hands push your thighs apart. You peek under the table, and there he is, smiling up at you all innocently. Sighing, you hook your legs over his shoulder and give him free rein once more.
“Don’t jostle me too much,” you order. “If I drop sauce on my new top, you’re going to pay for it.”
He mouths against your panties, “I’ll be good.”
You cum ten minutes later.
And again when he fucks you as you’re bent over the counter. It seems like the man’s catching up on all the orgasms he’s missed out on throughout the years.
Satoru whines behind you, hips stuttering when your pussy clamps down on his throbbing cock. “So good…so fucking good. I’m gonna cum again, oh fuck.”
Fingers digging into the fat of your ass, he yanks you back to him, making fwop fwop sounds with the force of his desperate thrusting. Then he spurts inside you, body shuddering in waves.
Drooling on the marble surface, you groan at the slumping of his body over yours. “Ugh, Satoru, you’re heavy and sweaty, get the fuck off me.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, mumbling, “Don’t be mean to me — it’s getting me hard again.”
You don’t let being on campus stop you from fucking like rabbits either.
At least twice a day, you’ll text him which room you’re in — janitor’s closet in the Psychology building, Studio 3 in the atrium, Masamichi lecture hall between the 9am and 11am slot — and he comes as soon as he can.
Satoru eats you out from under your skirt whenever he has to be quick, to get back to his responsibilities, whatever they are. He fucks you from the back, rolls of toilet paper rattling off the shelves, and from the front on desks, when you have longer time to mess around.
He fucks you with his fingers whilst you jerk him off if you run out of condoms.
The two of you do it whenever and wherever you please.
Like now, as you’re in the Music storage room. Dusty violins, keyboards and instruments you don’t even know the name of surround you. A quick text had him sprinting from one end of campus to the other. As soon as you heard his footsteps outside, you dragged him in.
Shrugging off his backpack, he groped your tits through your top, flicking and pinching your nipples. “I was just thinking about this,” he confessed, breathless.
You were unzipping his jeans, pulling it down enough to stroke his half-hard cock. “Yeah? Were you thinking about fucking me as I pull your hair?”
He moaned, fingers finding your cunt soaked. “Y-yeah, want you to pull it hard.”
So you do — every time you yank on his scalp, he throbs inside you, whimpering so loudly you worry that someone will hear him outside.
“Harder,” he begs. “I can take it.”
His pelvis rubs your clit so perfectly that you feel your own juices oozing out of you, leaving a mess all over your inner thighs you’ll have to clean up. The friction, inside and out, the slamming of bodies, the tightness in which you’re holding each other, it’s all fucking good.
To his credit, he’s quickly learnt all your weak spots, the way you like to build your orgasm up, how you don’t want to be treated too roughly nor too softly. Maybe it’s because he’s a smart guy, maybe it’s because he wants to impress — whatever the case may be, it’s working pretty damn well for you.
Your orgasm explodes, and you lose control over your own hand; you pull so forcefully and suddenly with the force of your orgasm that his head yanks back sharply. Satoru’s eyes roll back, and he cums so hard his knees buckle.
He takes you down with him, falling to the floor in a loud clatter.
“Satoru! Someone could have heard us,” you hiss against his chest.
But he doesn’t hear you, not over the sound of his own moaning at the residuals of his orgasm. Glasses foggy, you can’t tell if he’s passed out beneath you or not. You smack him awake regardless.
Stammering, he says, “Huh? Oh, right. Yes, yes, we should fix ourselves up and get out of here as soon as possible…after another round.”
This happens often.
This, as in a general disregard for the law and campus policy.
You fuck behind the bike shed, on teachers’ desks, in the gym shed, cafeteria kitchen after hours, on all fours, from behind, against the wall, on your back, on his back. Anywhere there aren’t any cameras, you’ve fucked. If someone were to take a blacklight to the whole university, they’d think a series of murders had been committed.
All in the span of a week.
And you guys aren’t showing a sign of stopping.
.
.
.
When Satoru texts you, asking to meet him at a store, you’re confused but go anyway. He’s waiting outside, hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.
“You want to fuck here?”
He beams when he sees you. “Heyyyy, thanks for coming. And no, Diapers,” Satoru says, eyes sparkling with humour, “we’re not defiling a toy store. We’re here ‘cause I have some things I want to get.”
“And I have to be here?” You don’t even bother hiding the unimpressed tone of your voice. God, if you had known he’s just running errands, you wouldn’t have come all this way wearing a cute, blue thong and matching lacey bra. What a waste.
Satoru fixes you a look. “Now, now, fake-real girlfriend, if you want to violate my poor, fragile body later, you’re going to keep me company as I pick out new Lego sets, m’kay?”
Holding onto your shoulders and ushering you in before you can sashay away, he leaves you no choice but to walk in with him. The automatic doors slide open with a cheerful chime, and you’re immediately assaulted by colour.
Bright plastic aisles stretch on forever. Shelves packed with dolls, puzzles, plushies staring vacantly into the void. The air smells faintly of cardboard and sugar, like childhood and disappointment. Somewhere nearby, a kid shrieks with joy, and you physically cringe.
He pushes a cart — how much is he planning to buy?
You slow your steps, heels clicking against the floor. “I cannot believe,” you say flatly, “that I waxed my entire body for this.”
Satoru laughs, unbothered, already scanning the store like a man on a mission. “You say that now,” he replies, “but give it ten minutes and you’ll be like a child in a candy store.”
“I will not,” you say, crossing your arms. “I don’t even like children’s toys.”
“That’s because you’re thinking of them wrong.”
You shoot him a look.
He grins and drifts toward the Lego aisle, long strides unhurried, like he’s completely at home here. You trail after him, already bored, eyes glazing over at the endless boxes stacked floor to ceiling.
“Okay,” he says, stopping in front of a massive display. “See this?” He gestures broadly. “This is basically world-building — like I showed you in my apartment, remember?”
“It’s plastic.”
Of course you remembered. That moment was tolerable. Spending an hour strolling through aisle after aisle under fluorescent lights that do nothing for your complexion?
Totally not.
“It’s control,” Satoru corrects lightly. “You get to decide how things look. Who goes where. What story they’re telling.” He picks up a box, studying the front. “You ever notice how much thought goes into presentation? Colour palettes, silhouettes, themes?”
“…Obviously,” you say. “If the outfit’s ugly, no one cares if it’s designer.”
“Exactly,” he says, delighted, like you’ve just passed a pop quiz. “Same principle. You don’t just slap pieces together. You curate. Pick things that reflect you, that tell your story.”
You glance at the box again. It’s a pastel-heavy set — café-themed. Tiny tables. Little cups. Fairy lights printed on the cardboard. “That one’s cute,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
His head snaps toward you. “See?”
“I said cute, not interesting,” you argue weakly.
He plucks the box from the shelf and turns it around, pointing at the figures on the back. “Look at her outfit. Layered textures. Colour coordination. She’s a diva — you can tell from just one glance. It tells a whole story about her character.”
Leaning in despite yourself, your eyes tracing the tiny details. “She needs better shoes.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s less bite now. As you move down the aisle, he keeps talking — not at you, but with you, connecting everything back to things you actually care about. This set has drama, he says. That one’s about legacy. This one’s all optics — looks impressive, but structurally weak if you don’t reinforce it properly.
You find yourself stopping in front of a display without realising it, fingers brushing over a box with sleek black-and-gold accents. “This looks expensive.”
Satoru hums approvingly. “Ahh, you’ve got great tastes, babe.”
“Obviously.”
A beat passes. You realise you’re standing closer now, shoulder nearly touching his arm. You’re not thinking about how stupid this is anymore, or how you’d normally never be caught dead here. Instead, you’re imagining it — building something with him. Sitting on the floor. Choosing pieces. Arguing over aesthetics.
The thought unsettles you.
“Don’t get smug,” you warn, narrowing your eyes. “This is still kind of lame.”
He smiles like he’s already won. “Yeah. But you’re having fun.”
You open your mouth to deny it, and fail. “…Shut up,” you mutter, reaching for another box.
A bunch piles up in the shopping cart; he doesn’t blink at the rising costs. You don’t think he even looks at the price tag. Wow, he’s irresponsible. More so than you probably. That makes you feel a little better about how often you max out your credit cards.
In a far corner, he browses through the nerf guns. “Inumaki out-nerfed me with his recent purchase; I need to one-up him,” Satoru explains.
No one’s around.
Slinking up behind him, you rub his crotch as he shops. He stiffens. “No. Bad girl. I do not want to get banned from this place.”
“And we won’t,” you reply, humming. He’s steadily growing under your touch despite his words, and you don’t hesitate to grope him to full-hardness. “Just keep it lowkey. Can you do that?”
His gaze flits left and right, trying to make sure no one can see what you’re doing. The camera’s behind you, and you know from experience that it’ll only look like you’re hugging him. He groans, box in his hands shaking.
“Shush, Satoru — or maybe,” you mewl, “you want to be caught. Are you a dirty little exhibitionist, Toru? Do you want to show everyone how well your dick works, is that it?”
Satoru’s hips rut forward, chasing your grip even though he definitely wants to fight against your bad influence. His hand comes down, clutching your wrist. “No,” he insists, “I’m not that depraved. Not like you, Diapers.”
Gracefully, he spins the two of you around. You face the shelves and he embraces you from behind. Long fingers slide under your skirt, pressing upwards on your clothed slit. You gasp.
“You’re wet already,” he notes, amused. “I think you’re the one who wants to be caught. You want everyone to know you’ve got me all wrapped around your pretty finger? Or maybe you just want to show everyone your cute, little panties.”
When he creeps inside, rubbing your clit, you confess, “I just thought your nerd lecture about plastic toys was adorable, is that so bad?”
He kisses your cheek, and coos, “You’re so stinkin’ sweet. Makes me want to taste this greedy pussy right here.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“The law,” he retorts quickly. “That and the thought of having to pay years of therapy for some kid.”
Voices sound out at the end of the aisle. The two of you quickly part.
A family walks by, not really paying much attention to either of you. Though the husband does look you up and down, snatching his leer away when Satoru steps in. As they admire a toy a metre or two away from you, you watch him suck his fingers and wink.
At the till, you end up with two Lego sets for yourself, and him with five, and the biggest Nerf gun they had in stock. His Lego sets are movie-based, and yours are a cutesy cafe and an orchid. Oddly, you find yourself itching to get started.
“Good afternoon, Gojo, how are you, dear?” the old lady cashier asks, looking fondly at him.
Satoru grins. “Good. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Back for your monthly shop I see. Great choices.” She spots you behind him. “And who might this be?”
“Oh, just a friend from school,” he says, pulling out his wallet. “I’m paying for hers too.”
You hand him the two you picked out. She smiles at you like you’re a little girl holding hands with her son, and you hate it. It’s so clearly fake. Who the fuck is she to look down at you? Does she think you’re dressed like a whore?
He waves goodbye to her as he walks out with you, bags bumping lightly against his legs. The bell above the door chimes, too cheerful for the mood settling in your chest. A frown hardens your face before you can stop it.
You don’t say anything at first. Pride won’t let you. You walk beside him in silence, the late afternoon air cool against your bare legs, the parking lot humming with distant traffic. He unlocks his car and pops the trunk, carefully arranging the bags like they’re fragile.
Sliding into the passenger seat, you cross your arms as soon as the door shuts. The interior smells faintly like clean laundry and coffee. There’s no trashy fluffy pink dice, trash littering the seats, or other girls’ earrings and scrunchies. It’s nice, and electric, because he cares about the environment probably. Nerd car.
Predictable.
He starts the engine, pulling out smoothly, humming under his breath like nothing’s wrong.
You last three minutes.
“So,” you say, voice light in that dangerous way, staring out the window. “I’m a friend now?”
Satoru glances over, immediately picking up on the edge. “Hey,” he says gently, easing off the accelerator at a red light. “That wasn’t—”
“Because I could’ve sworn,” you cut in, nails tapping against your knee, “that we were doing this whole fake-dating thing. You said, it’s as real as anything else, remember? Or did I hallucinate that part?”
The light turns green. He drives on, unhurried, jaw working like he’s choosing his next words carefully. A heavy air settles inside.
“I didn’t tell her you’re my girlfriend because I didn’t want to lie to her,” he says finally. Satoru keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. “Calling you that to her, to someone who’s known me since I was a fresher felt wrong. Sorry.”
You scoff. “So you have no problem lying to your friends, but you won’t cross the line with a cashier?”
“Yeah, I know it sounds stupid. It’s just, she’s nice, y’know? She reminds me of my granny. It feels weird to lie to someone who’s so sweet,” he explains. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, promise. I tell everyone else, people who matter on campus, that you’re my girlfriend. No one’s gonna find us out, don’t worry.”
That shuts you up.
You look back out the window, watching buildings blur past, irritation knotting with something more confusing. You know this isn’t real. You know it’s convenient, mutually beneficial, temporary. You’re not stupid. So why does it sting?
Why does the idea of him introducing you as just a friend make your stomach twist like you’ve swallowed something sour?
“You could’ve warned me,” you mutter eventually.
He nods. “Yeah. I should’ve. I’m sorry.”
Silence settles again, thicker this time. You pick at the hem of your skirt, annoyed at yourself more than him. This shouldn’t matter. You’ve never cared before. You’ve always been someone’s arm candy, someone’s secret, someone’s placeholder — and you never blinked. But Satoru doesn’t treat you like any of those things. Maybe it upsets you so much because in that moment he felt like everyone else you had dated.
Satoru parks outside his building and turns the engine off. The quiet rings in your ears. For a moment, neither of you moves.
“I really didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “If it bothered you, I’m sorry.”
You swallow, hating how sincere he sounds. How easy it would be to forgive him. How stupidly warm that feels. “…It’s fine,” you say, even though it isn’t. You don’t know what it is, just that it’s there. “But don’t make a habit of it. It’ll be bad if you slip up to people that matter. As real as all other relationships, remember? At least until the end of the year.”
He smiles, relieved. “You’re right.” He squeezes your thigh.
You grab your bags and step out of the car, telling yourself it’s nothing.
In his apartment, you lounge on his sofa, rewatching Princess Diaries on his massive TV whilst he builds one of his Lego sets on the coffee table. You’re in no mood to build anything anymore. He, on the other hand, is as he always is — happy and excited.
Neither of you try to remove the other’s clothes. The mood seems to have passed. You don’t mind. The movie’s pretty good.
He turns around and shows you his progress once in a while, and won’t turn back around until you pat him on the head.
Now, you’re not an expert on Lego at all, but there doesn’t seem to be a reason why anything needed such a thick booklet of instructions and over a thousand pieces. He seems to enjoy it though. There’s so many Lego things on display around his apartment that you’re scared to walk around and touch anything in case you destroyed something that took him hours to complete.
“Look, look,” he says, showing you a Lego girl and boy inside a brick building. “When I put the roof over it, we’ll never see them again. Say bye to mini us.”
“Those things represent us?” Leaning closer, you inspected the yellow things. “She doesn’t look anything like me. I’d never wear something so plain and without glitter. What happened to the cute one with ugly shoes?”
Satoru chuckles. “She’s waiting for a rainy day — gosh, I really have to ask them to make a new line based on you for next time, don’t I?”
Carefully, he angles the roof he built on the side just right, making sure everything lines up. You come down beside him, inspecting all the different pieces he had organised in separate plastic containers by colour.
“What’s their story?”
“Hmm?”
“Their story,” you repeat, trying to figure out what exactly you’re looking at. “You said you’re all about storytelling; I’m assuming this has a plot line too.”
He looks at you for a second, hands halting, then he breaks out into a wide smile. “They run a movie theatre! Toru over here mortgaged his house to fulfill his longtime dream of owning the theater his dad used to take him to all the time as a child, before he died from an airplane crash. His pretty wifey here was against it at first, because she didn’t think it was a good financial investment, since his last business endeavour landed them in a lot of debt.”
A giggle escapes you. “Sounds like she’s the only one who has any brain in the relationship. She must drive him mad, being the constant partypooper.”
“You’d think that, but she’s actually very supportive — she just doesn’t like seeing him disappointed,” Satoru says, making space for you when you make yourself comfortable on the rug beside him.
You nod. “So they’re in a very happy relationship?”
Satoru hums. “They’re madly in love. At night, when the theatre’s closed and everyone’s gone home, they play their wedding video on their best screen and dance together just like they did for their first dance.”
Burying your face between your knees, you ask, “How did they meet?”
“He kept bumping into her,” he says, scouring through one of the boxes for the pieces he needs. “And one day, she cornered him and asked why he hasn’t asked her out on a date yet. She basically threatened him into a relationship, and he was too scared of her to say no. Still is to this day.”
A full laugh fills up the room when you elbow him, totally catching on.
“He doesn’t regret it, does he? Never saying no, I mean?” you wonder, a little quietly.
With a small smile, he makes the two Lego people kiss, and he says, “No, I don’t think so. He only regrets the times when he disappoints her; he doesn’t like seeing her frown.”
“Then he should just keep making her happy.” Your head falls on his shoulder, too tired to keep it up yourself.
His own bumps yours. He says, “He’ll make a note of that.”
You’re so caught up in the moment that you forget why this whole thing started in the first place. That is until you get a text message from the girls’ group chat asking why you’ve been MIA.
Smile vanishing, your nails begin tapping on the screen. You say, you’ve been busy with things, and they immediately take that as you having a new man. You don’t deny it, only sending a middle finger emoji.
The chat explodes.
And you’re bombarded with messages asking who he is and how big his dick is. They irritate you so much you pause the movie to focus on letting the annoyance build. It’s not any of those fake bitches’ business who you date.
Oh, but it is though.
This is what you wanted, right? The opportunity to prove you can get a good man and you’re not obsessed with drama?
Brittany texts you separately: so you actually bagged him? why didn’t you tell me sooner?
It’s early days, you reply.
She says, you know Bitch and Bitchier aren’t going to make this easy for you or him, right? If this is about what I said before, you don’t need to go this far and subject him to their judgment. I’m happy to admit that you won.
You haven’t though — if you don’t make your relationship public, does it even exist?
Your final message to her is, I can handle them.
You let them know to meet you at a cafe on Tuesday morning, when Satoru has an open slot. Then you turn to him.
He sees the determined look in your eyes and slowly puts his bricks down.
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Chapter ONE: when your bestie challenges you to find a nerd to date to prove you can bag a good guy, you take her up on it. problem is, the one nerd you want isn't taking the bait. you need to figure out to reel him in
Content: mean girl!reader, sexually promiscuous!reader, reader is shallow, kinda sexually harasses gojo, reader gets harassed by some guys (nothing happens), no smut, not proofread - pls let me know if you spot typos!
Word Count: 7.9k
Masterlist - Chapter TWO
“Have you ever actually dated a decent guy?”
Your jaw drops. Putting down your nail file, you glare at your so-called friend. “Excuse me? Are you victim-blaming me right now?”
Brittany rolls her eyes, popping a bubble with her gum. “I’m just saying, babe, you’ve tried the airhead athletes, the stuck up DILFs, the tattooed bad boys, brooding emos, and guys with serious mental issues always talking about racial supremacy or whatever. And every time, they’ve been major disappointments. Why don’t you try dating a nice guy? The kind of guy that’s the complete opposite of all those other losers.”
Sitting on the marble of the campus fountain, it’s clear you made the wrong choice of complaining to your no-shit-taking bestie one too many times about the recent asshole who’s broken your heart. You should have brushed it under the rug, like a healthy person.
Whatever it is that you wanted on a random Tuesday — a shoulder to bitch on, validation, a pat on the back — it sure wasn’t a rude awakening.
“They weren’t that bad, don’t be ridiculous,” you say, scoffing.
“Are you serious?” Her sudden rise in volume catches the attention of passing students, who either glare at her impoliteness or ogle her spilling cleavage. If she notices, she doesn’t say.
You, on the other hand, don’t even flinch; you’ve long been desensitised. Or deafened. Hard to tell.
“Babes, you’ve been cheated on, belittled, psychologically fucked with, neglected, and gaslit like a motherfucking stove. How many times have you come crying to me? How many times have I had to dye your hair or bankrupt myself so you could reinvent yourself?”
“Only a couple times…” you grumble under your breath, pouting a little.
With a sigh, she adds, “I love you, like so freaking much. And I’m not blaming you — those guys were genuine assholes, and no one deserves the shit they put you through. But, let’s not pretend you have the best taste in men. Let’s not pretend you didn’t get pretty fucking crazy with them too, and liked it. The others know it too.”
“Jeanette and Eleanor don’t know shit,” you spit out. Those skanks have been talking shit about you behind your back, commenting on your relationships, when they themselves don’t have healthy ones? The fucking nerve.
They’re half the reason why you’ve had bad experiences with guys!
Sighing, she adds, “Look, all I’m saying is, why don’t you try something new? Maybe go for the opposite of what you usually like. Go for a… a nice guy! Yeah, go for the complete opposite of you.”
“Wow,” you say, unoffended by the insult but registering it regardless. “And what would you have me go for? A nerd? As if.”
Specks of invisible dirt brushed off her skirt, she smiles, in the creepy way you hate. “Ah, you’re right. Forget it.” Brittany stands up, and you have to crane up to glare at her. “Even if you set your mind on it, no one with an actual working brain would go for girls who are all tits and lipgloss.”
“What makes you think that a nerd will treat me right? You actually think a virgin could fuck me half as good as jock who literally trains to maximise their stamina? Do nerds even know what a clit is?”
She shrugs, adjusting her bag over her shoulder and eyeing her reflection in her handheld mirror. “Who knows? No guy’s perfect — I guess I’m just curious to see if you’re simply super unlucky, or if you have some kind of quality that makes you turn decent men into psychos.”
Rising to your full height, you meet her amused stare with a determined one. “You’re on, bitch.”
And so begins your search for a nerd to prove her wrong.
You part ways — one girl totally smug and overjoyed at having baited the other, and one stomping her Prada heels like she could make the ground hurt.
There’s no time to waste; the sooner you can find a man that fits the criteria, the sooner you can make her eat her words. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s men. They just suck.
Nerds included.
Naturally, you march inside the number one place to find a smartypants: the library.
You haven’t been inside here since, well, ever. It’s a wonder you even found the place at all. Granted, you did have to ask three people on the way for directions, but you’ve arrived regardless.
The air in here smells like paper, dust, and a distinct nerdy odour. The ceiling feels too high, the lights too soft, everything hushed and reverent. There’s a stifling silence that everyone’s basking in, and you’ve just clomped in wearing shoes that were absolutely not designed for their sacred ground.
Whispers begin making waves around the hall. Eyes follow you as your heels click tip tap tip tap. You’re used to having people stop and stare — you’re gorgeous, so of course people will gawk. Men, women, husbands, wives, teens, old men, parents, teachers, pastors. It comes with the territory of having a tight miniskirt that’s barely the size of a belt and a shirt that shows the outline of your nipples if someone stares long enough, and people do.
But it’s different this time. Most of the stares are still out of attraction and desire, you can tell, just lined with a fat drop of moral judgment.
Whatever.
You pause inside, hands on hips, eyes narrowing as you begin your search.
Okay. Criteria: you are here on a mission. This is not recreational. You are not here to ‘broaden your horizons.’ You’re here to find a nerd. A good one. A safe one. One you can parade in front of your best friends like a laminated receipt that says, see, I can pick decent men.
Your brain flips open the checklist automatically.
Too loud? No.
Too greasy-looking? Absolutely not.
Weird smell? Immediate disqualification.
The guy with glasses typing away on his laptop is kind of cute, but he has a long ponytail. No, thank you. There’s another with broad shoulders you can cry on, but he’s basically your height and who actually wants a short king.
“Are there no hot nerds?” you mutter under your breath. Must you sacrifice physical attraction for intelligence? Is this your version of Sophie’s Choice?
Someone asleep over a textbook gets a maybe until you get closer and hear the faintest snore. Off the list.
You wander deeper, past the obvious study zones and into the back, where the shelves grow narrower and the lighting dims. And then you hear it.
Dice.
The soft clatter of them, unmistakable, followed by muted but intense arguing. You round the end of a shelf and there it is: a table tucked away, littered with notebooks, graph paper, little figurines, snacks that definitely violate several library rules, and a screen propped up with a digital map glowing faintly.
At the centre of it all sits a guy with pristine white hair. Is that natural?
Wearing thick-framed glasses, he leans back in his chair like he owns the place, long legs stretched out, one hand idly spinning a die whilst the other gestures animatedly as he talks. He’s wearing that look of total focus mixed with complete unseriousness, arguing using terms you don’t recognise with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted himself.
His friends are clustered around him, equally absorbed, throwing numbers and terminology back and forth. This is life or death for them, instead of a fantasy campaign involving dragons and emotional backstories.
You stop dead.
This is…interesting.
You peer at him from behind the shelf, checklist already reshuffling itself. Clearly a nerd with a geeky hobby to pair with it. Social circle that doesn’t involve club promoters or mysterious men who ‘can’t text right now.’ He laughs, loud and bright, and a few heads from nearby tables snap up again, scandalised. A librarian looks over sharply. The guy lowers his voice by exactly half a notch and keeps going anyway.
He’s super cute. Like, hot — if you’re into men who probably cry after sex because he thinks he just insulted feminism.
From a couple metres away, you don’t smell an immediate bubble of B.O, which is a good sign. There’s no body pillow of a thirteen year old ‘waifu’ full of suspicious stains sitting in the empty next chair to him. Stretching your neck out closer, you look for toes poking out of leather sandals.
None.
Just a beat up Converse.
You smile to yourself.
Found you.
With the clock nearing 2pm, they start packing up, getting ready for their next classes. You rush out of the library, careful not to be seen by your target, and hastily lay your trap. First, by snatching some random book off a shelf.
Standing by the doors, you wait impatiently for that white hair to exit. When he does, laughing with his nerd friend, you make your move.
“Oh— I’m so sorry.”
Your forehead bumps into a hard chest, much harder and filled out than you expected. The book clatters to the floor. You stumble back a couple steps, he grabs you by your elbow.
Sparkling blue eyes meet yours. You stop breathing for a second.
He says something. You don’t hear it. Blinking, you say, “Huh?”
“Are you okay?” he asks again, brows furrowed in concern.
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
The stranger smiles widely. You flinch with its brightness. Politely, he says, “Good. Sorry I didn’t see you there. I can be a bit careless when I walk. Here, lemme grab that for you.”
He picks up your book, stepping to the side to let people walk past. He glances at it and makes a face of surprise. “Adult Diapers and Their History, huh? Was it any good?”
Fuck.
You really should have looked at the book and judged it by its cover first. Plastering a glossy smile, you lean close and purr, “I’d love to tell you all about it over a cup of coffee. Are you free anytime today?”
Sucking in a breath, he runs a hand through his hair. “Ooof, no, sorry. I’ll be sure to check it out after you though. See ya!”
And then he’s leaving, doing a half-jog to catch up to his friends who wait at the bottom of the stairs, staring at you. They ask him a question. He looks back at you, and shrugs.
Jaw hanging, you stand there, holding a book no one would ever want to be caught reading, and wondering what the fuck just happened.
Did you just get rejected?
You stay there for a full three seconds, smile still frozen on your face, before it slowly cracks.
Fine. Whatever.
One encounter means nothing.
You’re playing the long game now.
Over the next few days, you become a regular.
You ‘accidentally’ wander back into the library at the exact times his D&D group tends to meet, hovering near enough to be seen but far enough to look coincidental. You pretend to browse shelves you clearly don’t recognise, pulling books at random and flipping them upside down, occasionally knocking something over just to create noise. Each time, you catch flashes of him laughing, leaning back in his chair, gesturing wildly. Once, your eyes meet across the aisle. Your heart jumps.
He squints at you.
Then he looks away.
The next time, you make it much more obvious. You pass right by his table, smile sweet, slow, practiced. “Heyyy…”
He glances up. “Sorry,” he says automatically, scooting his chair in. “We’re kinda in the middle of something.”
You blink. “It’s me. From the stairs. The book?”
His brows knit together. You can practically see the wheel spinning behind his eyes. Then, “Ohhh,” he says, stretching the word out. “Right. Diapers.”
Your smile twitches.
“Anyway,” he adds cheerfully, already turning back to his friends, “good luck with… whatever you’re looking for.”
Strike two.
By day four, you’re irritated enough to escalate.
That’s how you end up in the physics department, a place you definitely do not belong in, holding a student ID between two manicured fingers like it might bite you. You’d stolen it from the floor when he’d accidentally swiped his arm out in anger at his friend’s retaliation to something or the other and knocked it off the table. You snatched that shit up faster than birth control.
Satoru Gojo. Physics Dept. Third Year.
“Nice to meet you, Satoru,” you said.
Inside, the department feels even stranger than the library. Less quiet and more intense. There are whirring machines, exposed wiring, half-built robots sitting on tables with exposed wires. Whiteboards covered in incomprehensible equations are everywhere. It’s horrifying. Where are the pictures? The motivational posters all over the walls? The frat guys handing out condoms?
You drift past projects that blink, beep, and move on their own, marveling like you’ve wandered into a sci-fi movie.
Nerd heaven.
Absolute jackpot.
Still, not a single nerd hottie around. You’ve been hoping you’d find another. At least then you could stop humiliating yourself with Satoru Gojo. No such luck though.
You spot him near the back, sleeves rolled up, talking to someone while gesturing at a mechanical arm. You straighten instantly, smoothing your expression into Nice Girl Mode. Steps soft. Smile gentle. Non-threatening. The epitome of grace and kindness, the kind of girl that would be approachable to him.
Hell, you’ve even dressed down in jeans and a pink cardigan.
Approaching, you cordially cut into his conversation. “Hey, I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Satoru jolts when he hears your voice, like you’re a robot he didn’t turn on. His eyes fall not to your great tits or amazing smile but to the ID you hold in your hand. “Hey! That’s mine.”
“Yep!” you chirp, handing it over to him. “I was looking for you. Wanted to return it to its rightful owner personally. How would you get around without it, right?”
“I didn’t even notice I dropped it.” He pauses. Looks at you. Really looks this time. “Wait, do I…know you?”
Your eye twitches. “The library? We’ve bumped into each other a few times…” When that doesn’t seem to spark anything, you grit out, “Diapers?”
Satoru laughs suddenly, scratching the back of his neck. “Ohhhh, heyyy. Thanks for coming all this way. That’s super cool of you.”
You nod, gracious, forgiving, absolutely seething. “Of course, what are friends over? Actually, I was thinking, maybe we could get coffee while I’m here?”
Glancing over your shoulder at the robot arm, which immediately drops a bolt and sparks, he says, “Ah. Rain check? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
Then he zooms past you without another glance.
Strike three.
After that, it becomes a pattern. You run into him in hallways, outside lecture theatres, near vending machines. Each time, you light up, sweet as sugar, voice gentle, eyes doe-like. Each time, he hesitates just a beat too long before recognition dawns, and sometimes it doesn’t dawn at all.
“Hey,” he says once, smiling apologetically. “Remind me where we met again?”
Something inside you snaps.
You start counting his rejections like capital crimes. Library. Stairs. Physics lab. Courtyard. Café. Always polite. Always friendly. Always fucking unavailable. And every time he forgets you, it feels personal, like he’s rejecting not just you but the concept of you.
His eyes never run down your body, you never feel it linger on your ass when you walk away, he doesn’t ask for your number, or even your fucking name. It’s always, hey, hey, hey, and never fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.
By the end of the week, your Nice Girl smile is starting to hurt.
You watch him laugh with his friends, easy and unbothered, and think, with mounting irritation, that you are going to get this man if it kills you. Not because you want him specifically anymore. But because you have to. You don’t even remember why.
Perched on the edge of the water fountain in the courtyard — the very same one you were sitting on a week ago — legs crossed, phone face-down beside you, you replay Brittany’s voice in your head like a curse you can’t shake: “no one with an actual working brain would go for girls who are all tits and lipgloss.”
Yeah?
Well, maybe this Satoru Gojo doesn’t have a working brain, maybe he’s just visually impaired and looks like a nerd. Maybe he’s failing Physics and he’s the laughing stock of his entire nerd department.
The water laps and sparkles in front of you, sunlight catching on the surface, and you stare at it as if answers might rise up from the stone basin if you glare hard enough. What did the Disney princesses you used to be obsessed with do? Throw money and make a wish? Do you have a coin to throw in? Does the fountain take Apple Pay?
“Why is he so fucking annoying?” you groan aloud, and sneering at cunts who look at you.
So far, the strategy of being sweet, approachable, and vaguely mysterious has achieved absolutely nothing. He forgets you every single time, like you’re a ‘MILF 5 miles from you’ pop-up his brain automatically closes without reading. You run through the past week in your head with growing irritation, every almost-moment, every polite smile that went nowhere, every rejection wrapped so gently it barely counted as one.
Clearly, escalation is required.
Being nice is overrated anyway.
Your gaze flicks down your outfit as you start mentally workshopping new plans, jaw tightening as ideas pile up — maybe tighter skirts, higher heels, more lipgloss. Maybe an engineered accident where you both fall and somehow gravity does the flirting for you, your body positioned just right so he has no choice but to notice your tits.
The fact that you’re thinking this hard at all makes you scowl; men are usually easy. Half a smile, a little attention, and they fold. Why is this one immune?
Sighing, you resort to calling your friend. She picks up after a couple rings.
Breathless, Brittany asks, “What the hell do you want— nope. That’s rude. Sorry, I’m with my boyfriend right now. Hey, bae, you good?”
“You’re having sex, aren’t you?”
Which boyfriend’s this one now? The barista at her favourite coffee shop? The pizza delivery boy? Her neighbour’s son?
You can hear her sheepish smile through the screen. “Yeah, whoops. You’d understand if I cut this call short though, right?”
Lucky her.
“Wait, wait,” you hurriedly say. “I need your help. With the nerd boyfriend search, I think I’ve found a good one. Do you know anything about a Satoru Gojo?”
A moment of silence passes. Then immediate laughter. No, chortling. With a couple snorts dotted along. Rolling your eyes, you check your nails, seeing they’ve grown out quite a bit. Finally, she comes back to the phone, amusement still lingering in her voice. “Babe, you’re so fucking funny, I can’t even.”
“Do you or do you not know him?” Your heels tap on the floor impatiently. What was so fucking funny?
“Wait. You’re serious.” She takes your momentary silence as the answer. “Oh, um, I know of him. Mostly rumours.” Shuffling on the other side suggests she’s swapped ears. “I think you’re better off setting your sights on someone else. Someone more…accessible.”
Offended, you say, “Excuse me?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. What I was trying to say is that the rumours say he’s like the hottest ticket in the nerd department. All the girls have the hots for him. But he doesn’t entertain any of them. No one really knows why. I thought it was ‘cause he’s gay, but my cousin, who’s super gay, tried to hit on him last month and got rejected hard.”
“Maybe your cousin isn’t his type.”
“That’s what I thought too! But then I heard something else super interesting: word on the streets is, he’s got…erectile dysfunction, and that’s why he isn’t with anyone.”
Fed up, you groan. “That’s obviously bullshit — he’s our age. Guys our age don’t get erectile dysfunction. The problem is getting them to stop being hard.”
She snorts. “Look, I’m just sharing what I’ve heard. It’s up to you to decide what to do with the information.” Suddenly her voice becomes more serious, more determined. “Just…just be careful, okay? Our little experiment is mostly a joke. Don’t put yourself in a position you don’t want to be in just to prove a point, alright? I know you, and I know you always have to be right.”
“I do not!”
“Uhuh.” Her voice becomes distant from the speaker, likely talking to her boyfriend. She returns, sighing. “Gotta go, babe. His balls aren’t gonna empty themselves. Talk to you later. Love ya!”
Frowning, you say, “Bye.”
Erectile dysfunction. Gay. Doesn’t entertain women. Those possibilities make you feel a lot better about yourself; the chances that the problem is him and not you have increased. But you’re not satisfied. You can’t give up just because of some rumours. You’ll need to find out for yourself if he really is gay, perpetually flaccid, or women-hating. Then, and only then, will you call it quits. Guess you’re going to have to forge another fake ‘meet-cute’ tomorrow.
“Hey,” a voice says right as you pocket your phone away, too confident and too close for comfort. “You look bored.”
A shadow falls across you, cutting through your thoughts. You don’t even bother looking up at first, eyes still on the water. “I’m busy,” you reply flatly.
When a second guy joins him, grinning like this is some kind of group activity, you finally lift your gaze and assess them properly. Too smug. Too loud. Cologne doing most of the work. Immediate no.
“C’mon,” one of them says, undeterred, “we’re just talking.”
“Talk to someone else,” you say, crisp and unimpressed, already done with this interaction.
“Damn, you’ve got an attitude.”
“Yeah,” you shoot back, eyes narrowing, “and standards. Shocking, I know.”
“Oh, come on, baby. Don’t be a bitch. Let’s get to know each other.”
Ugh, you hate the faux confidence, the sleazy way he forces himself to drawl. It’s obvious he’s seen it in a couple Chad movies and thought he could replicate it to maximise pussy grabbing. Disgusting. And pathetic.
They step closer and you inch further away, ass nearly dipping itself into the water.
“She’s not interested.”
The voice is light, almost lazy, but there’s a firmness under it that makes both guys pause. You look up and there he is again. Satoru. He steps fully between you and them, shoulders broad, stance casual but solid, planting himself to completely cover you from their gaze.
When one of the guys scoffs and puffs up, Gojo doesn’t move an inch. He just rolls his shoulders slightly. The fabric of his shirt pulls in a way that makes your brain stutter.
Oh.
Oh.
He’s not just built. He’s built built. The kind of strength that doesn’t come from mirrors and flexing but from actual use, from carrying heavy things and not making a show of it. You almost have to tell your pussy to calm down.
Your irritation evaporates into something warm and dizzy as you stare, entirely distracted by the sudden, undeniable fact that he could absolutely pick someone up if he wanted to. You almost have to tell your pussy to calm down.
You barely register the way the guys’ expressions change, bravado leaking out as recognition sets in.
“Wait,” one of them mutters, squinting. “That’s…Gojo.” The other swears under his breath. They straighten instantly, tone shifting from cocky to cautious, muttering apologies that aren’t really meant for you. They back off quickly, suddenly very busy with not being here anymore.
When they disappear completely from sight, entering a building, Gojo turns to you, concern softening his expression again, like he hasn’t just made two guys rethink their life choices. “Hey. Are you okay?”
There it is. That pause. That tiny hitch in his gaze as he searches your face, clearly trying to place you. Your jaw tightens as recognition crawls in late, slow as ever. “Are you fucking with me?”
“Oh,” Satoru adds, a second later. “It’s…you. From earlier this week.”
You stare at him, chest rising, the spark of attraction fizzling dangerously into rage. “Wow,” you say flatly. “You almost remembered me. Gold star.”
He winces, sheepish but still courteous, still distant in that infuriating way. “Sorry. I’m not great with—”
“Faces, names, women throwing themselves at you, yeah, I know,” you cut in, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack your teeth. You inhale, regroup, and try again, sweet as sugar. “Look. You helped me out. Let me thank you. Dinner. My treat.”
Satoru blinks, clearly surprised, then shakes his head with a small apologetic smile. “That’s nice of you, but I’m good. Really.”
Something in you cracks so hard it’s almost audible.
“Are you serious?” you hiss, stepping closer before he can retreat again. You don’t give him time to answer. You grab his wrist, fingers curling around warm skin and muscle, and drag him toward the nearest building, heels clicking sharply against the pavement. He sputters in surprise, but he follows, too polite to yank away, too confused to stop you before you shove open a door marked JANITOR and pull him inside.
The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. You spin on him, chest heaving, eyes bright with frustration and something close to mania. “What is your problem?” you demand. “Do you just enjoy rejecting me? Or do you genuinely not see what’s right in front of you?”
Satoru stares at you for a second, clearly taken aback, then exhales slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to mess with you,” he says gently. “I just… don’t want to lead you on.”
“Lead…me…on…”
You can’t process what you just heard. He thinks he’s leading you on? He thinks he’s better than you, that he’s out of your league, and you’re punching hard? The nerve. The delusion. The stupid fucking asshole.
Poking his chest with a manicured finger, you glare at him. “Listen here, buddy. I’m hot. Like unbelievably so. I’ve had literal politicians chase after me. I’m modern day Hellen of Tron—”
“It’s Troy, pretty sure,” he interjects, backing up with every jab of your sharp nail. “Tron’s the video game world. Super retro, but highly recommend, by the way.”
“—and you’re lucky to even be anywhere near me. So hurry the fuck up and whip your dick out; I know your loser ass is a fucking virgin.”
Satoru pushes his glasses higher up his nose bridge. He stammers, as if he’s trying to push away the urge to laugh, “This is sexual harassment, but forgive me this time and I won’t say a word.”
Screeching, you say, “Ugh, shut up! Just shut up! Date me already. I can’t keep chasing you and humbling myself. It’s bad for the soul and for my skin — I’m getting premature wrinkles because of you.”
Back up against the wall in the tight space, he has no choice but to take your lashings. His eyes flicker to the door, then down at you. His hands keep to his side. “Sorry about the wrinkles. Not so sorry about the not dating part. I really think you’re great, um, whoever you are. I just think I’m not ready for a relationship.”
“Because you can’t get it up?”
His jaw slacks.
A look passes his dazzling blue eyes. He looks away, stumbling for a response, and finding none. Pink tinges the tips of his ears.
Your jaw drops too. “Oh, my god! It’s true! You can’t get it up!”
Satoru’s eyes, which look even bigger through his glasses, look at the door again, panicking. His hands scramble to shush you, but you shove them away, laughing hysterically.
“This is perfect! I thought I was the problem, like you don’t think I’m pretty enough — obviously that’s not the case because I’m a walking wet dream, duh.” You pace back and forth, ecstatic. “Turns out, you’ve got a limp dick and you’re super insecure about it. Amazing!”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair at the same time he adjusts his glasses. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Doesn’t change anything. We still can’t date.”
You shake your head, jumping over to him with a wide smile. Satoru eyes your grin with caution. “No, it changes everything. I won’t tell anyone, I won’t judge. I have plenty of sex toys so we can incorporate that into our future sex life, don’t worry. I’ll help you quit your porn addiction and throw out your hentai mangas or whatever you use.”
His brows furrow. “Porn addiction? Hentai? What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t that why you’re like this? I heard it’s pretty common in our generation, especially shut-ins and nerds like you. The extreme porn’s rewired your brain and makes it so that you can’t cum without seeing tentacle tits.”
Satoru bangs his head against the wall, staring up at the light. “No, that’s not me. Like, at all. I’ve been like this since I was a child, before I knew porn existed, by the way. My parents took me to the doctors and everything. I just can’t get it up. Simple.” He suddenly straightens up with a twitch to his lips. “Tentacle tits? That I’d like to see.”
“Perv.”
“Guilty,” he says with a bigger smile.
This is the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him, or anyone in a closet. Most interactions with guys in janitors’ closets have involved much less talking and much less clothes, so it’s a little weird for you.
After a moment’s thought, you confess, “I’m surprised you have any kind of interest in sex at all.”
“Hey now, just because I can’t get it up doesn’t mean I don’t want to make it get up.”
Humming, you try something. You wrap your arms around his neck, taking him aback with your tits against his chest. You have to get on your tiptoes to reach his neck, and when you make it, you leave an open-mouthed kiss, huskily whispering, “Is this doing anything for you?”
Satoru chuckles, patting your back. “Appreciate the effort, but I promise you nothing you do can fix me.”
That’s never failed you before. It’s how you got a Birkin, and a yacht trip around the Maldives for a summer.
He separates from you and makes his way around your body, heading for the door. “Look, sorry again about this whole thing. I’m sure I won’t forget you now, Diapers. Thanks for understanding, and I’ll, uh, see you around.”
You grab his wrist.
“I don’t fucking think so.”
Whipped around, he’s forced to face you.
Your face hardens again, humour gone. “Why don’t you want to date me? What’s the problem? And don’t say it’s your penis, because I already said I don’t mind.”
He groans, polite mask cracking. Satoru looks close to tearing his hair out with his impatience. “Are you still on this? Can’t you just take no for an answer?”
“No, obviously not!” you fire back, hands waving around like a crazy person. “I’ve never been rejected by anyone before, and I won’t let some nerd change that.”
“There!” He thrusts a hand out, gesturing to your entire body. “That’s why. Because you think you’re better than me, better than my friends, and, like, literally everyone I know.”
Unable to help yourself, you stomp your foot. “I do not!” You probably do. No, you definitely do, but you have enough tact to know not to tell him that right now.
Satoru makes a noise of disbelief. “You do, I can tell. It’s probably why my brain keeps wiping you out; you think you’re doing me a favour by giving me some kind of attention. I know I’m not an athlete or a rockstar, but it’s not like I’m a loser, despite what you think. I like things you don’t like, that’s it. Sorry I don’t want to date a vapid, shallow bimbo.”
SMACK!
A strange look overwhelms his eyes, a darkness that you don’t notice. A mark forms on his perfect skin. His head reeled, not from the strength of your slap, but from the shock of it.
He blinks, processing the feel of your palm colliding with his face.
A tongue pokes his cheek, testing the sting. A small smile grows on his lips, a pleasant surprise you don’t decipher in time, because you’re too busy fuming.
“How fucking dare you! Yeah, I think I’m better than the people in that library, the people who haven’t showered in days for ‘environmental reasons’, people who exclusively watch anime because it’s ‘superior’ to any other forms of media and who idolises Japan because they think they’re going to be immediately worshipped over them by virtue of being foreigners—”
“Be quiet for second.”
“Don’t tell me to be quiet! I’m not done,” you all but screech at him. “I’m totally better than the people who founded 4chan and stay in their parents’ basement, or people who have blue checkmarks on Twitter—”
“No, I’m serious. Shush.”
You shriek even louder, “You shush!”
Satoru rolls his eyes before slapping a hand over your mouth. He nods with your muffled words, waiting for the fight in your body to die out. It does, but the wrath in your eyes doesn't.
His hand better be clean. If your skin breaks out tomorrow, you’re going to freak out and stomp on his glasses whilst he’s wearing them.
“All done?” He sends you a pointed look. You huff. Releasing you, he smiles. It’s so much more dazzling than the polite ones he’s been giving you; it’s genuine, as real as your diamond earrings. He could blind you with it. “What I was gonna say is, I think I’m hard.”
“Huh?”
He laughs, staring down at his pants. You follow his gaze. Oh.
A tent has formed under his zipper, stretching the material out like it’s never been stretched before, which is totally the case. Satoru pokes it, watching it bounce, before meeting your eyes with a, did you see that?
“I’m not insane, right? That’s totally a boner, right?”
You bend over to get a closer look, marvelling at the thing. You poke it too. He hisses. It’s 100% a boner, if you’ve ever seen one. Teasing, you say, “Well, it’s not Mount Evernest, that’s for sure.”
“Mount Everest,” he mutters, before wriggling his hips a little to watch it sway. “It feels so weird. Is it supposed to feel so swollen and heavy?”
Thinking for a second, you hum. “I’ve never had one myself, but I think so. That’s how it’s always felt on my end anyway.” Then you blink. “Wow, did I just fix you?”
You said it as a joke, mostly — in truth, you have no idea what you did to make it like that — but he doesn’t correct you, doesn’t dismiss your ego. Wow, maybe you really did fix him. You’re feeling pretty proud of yourself now. Somehow, you played a part in fixing what doctors couldn’t. Or at the very least, witnessed a miracle.
It’s the new Christmas.
Satoru lifts his glasses up and down, trying to see if he’s seeing right. The thing bobs. He releases an impressed breath, like a damnnn. Absentmindedly, he asks, “What’s that about dinner?”
.
.
.
“So, tell me why you want to date me.”
You purse your shimmery lips, eyeing the interior of the retro diner he brought you to. It’s not so far from campus, a short walk away, which felt much longer in heels when the street turned cobble. The seats, like the booth you’re sitting on, are made up of red leather. The floors are black and white checkmarks. There’s even a jukebox playing a song you don’t recognise.
Nails tapping on the table, you shrug. “Does it matter?”
Satoru tilts his head, a small smile on his lips appearing at your response. “I think it does — girls like you don’t suddenly appear in guys like me’s life.”
At least he’s self-aware, you dryly think.
He’s eating loaded fries and a well-stacked, greasy burger with a tall, sickly-sweet-looking strawberry milkshake topped with whipped cream and a cherry. When he asked what you wanted, you couldn’t come up with an answer; the menu was packed, but not with anything you could eat. It was full of carbs, things that’ll make you bloat and break out like crazy. Not to mention the fact that you have a rule not to eat anything more than a salad on dates.
Guys like girls who are demure and low maintenance, after all.
The leather creaks under you, making an embarrassing peeling sound when you cross your legs. This is so not where you wanted to be. First dates are meant for upscale restaurants, not places that probably defrosts their old meat in the microwave.
“Well, this girl has, so count your blessings.”
Mouth full, he presses on. “No, no, you can’t just leave it at that. I’m asking seriously. You’ve been quite persistent. There must be a reason you want me specifically.”
You grin, batting your fake lashes at him. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Satoru?”
“I’m fishing for the truth,” he corrects you, waving a fry in your face, which washes away your grin. Frowning slightly at your empty side of the table, he adds, “Are you sure you don’t want food? It’s on me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He’s already doing better than half the guys you date, you think wryly. Grimacing at the thought of popping the buttons of your skirt, you shake your head. “No, I’m good.”
“Come on,” he drags the words out petulantly. “At least take some of my fries and dip it in the milkshake. It’s tradition at a diner.”
That brings another grimace to your face. “Ew, why would I do that? That sounds disgusting.”
“It’s the greatest thing ever, actually.” To prove his point, he submerges a fry into the pink liquid, swirling it around nice and good before consuming it all. He moans so loudly and so pornographically people turn to look at you, thinking you did it.
You sigh, wanting to get back on track. “Isn’t it enough that I just want to date you? Do I have to make up a grand story about love at first sight?”
Satoru takes a big bite of his burger, leaving you to wait for him to swallow it down. Then he groans. “This is so good — you sure you don’t want any?” You shake your head. “Alright, your loss. Where were we?” He thinks for a second. “Oh, right. Okay, look, I’ll be completely upfront with you.”
You lean forward just as he does.
“Earlier, when you slapped me,” he begins, and you nod. “I liked it.”
Not a hint of shame is on his face or in his voice, only excitement. It makes you draw back from how maniacal he seems.
“I’ve never been slapped before. I don’t even really know why it gave me a boner. But it did, and it felt good. Made me feel things,” he says ‘things’ with jazz hands. “I mean clearly, since I popped a boner and all. You basically cured my condition.”
There aren’t very many people in the diner, thankfully — no one’s close enough to hear the vulgar things he says. Although, if someone did, you wouldn’t really care. God knows you’ve said and done worse things. “Okay,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this.
He continues. “This is a huge deal for me! It means I’m not completely doomed, just particular about what I like. I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Yeah, you’re super welcome. I’ll happily slap you again if you like it that much.”
Satoru’s eyes sparkle. “That’s precisely what I was thinking. I think this is a sign.” Sensing you don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, he explains, “I should see this through, should see if the boner incident was a one off or if being with you is the answer.”
This really wasn’t how you expected the conversation to go. Getting him to agree was supposed to come from him being unable to resist your perfect body and gorgeous face. Your target wasn’t supposed to have erectile dysfunction, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be treating the relationship like a science experiment. He’s supposed to be smitten with your feminine wiles, to bend over backwards wanting to please you, worship the ground you walk on because he knows he’ll never find anyone better.
He’s doing it all wrong.
But does it matter?
The challenge wasn’t to get married to a forgetful nerd; it was to bag a nice guy and prove you can have a happy and healthy relationship, that you’re not solely attracted to guys who’ll break your heart and smoke it.
“So,” you begin, nails tapping once more, “you want me to slap you around and abuse you?”
Satoru nods eagerly. “Obviously I won’t force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I’m sure an inexperienced guy like me isn’t your thing. And I can’t promise I’ll be very good at sex, or even be a good boyfriend. But in exchange for helping me ‘overcome my condition,’ I’ll try my very best. It’s kinda why I wanted to know why exactly you wanted to date me — if I know what you want to get out of this, I’ll be better placed to serve you, don’t you think?”
That makes enough sense.
Sighing, you finally admit, “It’s a little bet my friend and I have: find a nerd to date. I’ve had a bad run with boyfriends, you see. It’s just shitty assholes after shitty assholes. I guess she had enough of me complaining because she basically told me the assholes don’t find me, I find them.”
He doesn’t seem to take any offence to finding out he was an unknowing and unwilling participant to a bet, almost as if he expected half as much. Shoving a bunch of fries into his mouth, he asks with his mouth full, “So you want to prove her wrong?”
“Yep,” you say, popping the p.
“Alright! That’s great — I mean, sorry about the bad people you’ve been with.” Satoru scratches the back of his neck, grimacing at his own tactlessness. He clarifies further, “It’s great that we’re on the same page.”
Uncertain, you frown. “We are?”
“Yep!” He pops the p too. “You want to be treated with respect and be cared for, and I want to be used and abused. We’re a match made in heaven.”
You can’t help but laugh. He smiles.
“Okay, but we gotta set some ground rules.” You’re on board now, feeling energised by his enthusiasm and easy-to-talk-to personality. He doesn’t seem like someone who minces his words or hides behind passive aggression, which makes him better than most people you associate with. “Like, how long are we going to do this for?”
He thinks for a second as he takes another bite of his burger — god, his mouth is massive; one bite for him is like three for a normal person. After his brain gets to work and he’s cleared his mouth with a gulp of his milkshake, he suggests, “Time limit maybe? Our respective goals don’t require our whole life to accomplish. All you need is your friend to believe you, so once she sees how loveydovey we are, she’ll admit defeat, right?”
You nod.
“And I only want to see if I can sustain erections through intercourse, and if what I’ve been missing this entire time was the right kind of stimulus. That only requires us having coitus a couple times.”
The nerd’s starting to lose you. The sciency words are entering one ear and exiting through the other. But you get the gist. Satisfied, you sum up, “Okay, so should we say till the end of the school year? We can tell our friends we broke up during summer or something.”
“Sounds good to me. We’ll go all out, make the experience as real as possible. We’ll go on dates, get to know each other, have sex of course, but we’ll probably not want to introduce each other to our families — I think it’ll be counterproductive if we dig a hole too deep. And it goes without saying,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially and making his brows dance, “we really, really shouldn’t fall in love.”
That brings a scoff out of you.
You were never going to introduce him to your family anyway. As far as you’re concerned, you only need to flex how obsessed a nerd is with you to your best friends. And love was never, ever on the table.
It’s good to be clear though, you suppose. The last thing you need is a clingy stalker, who can’t bear to part with you, ruining your life and future relationships. You just hope you don’t break the poor guy’s heart too badly when it’s all over; you’ll end up being the ex he’ll cry to his friends about, and unlike the dirtbags, you’re not so cruel that you could sleep peacefully at night knowing you ruined someone’s life.
“Perfect,” you conclude. “Apart from that, we’ll be as real a couple as any college ones. Dates, sex, no falling in love, and max two months.” That’s a lot more than you’ve gotten from any of your previous boyfriends so this is already going great.
Satoru grins, adjusting his glasses to hide the sudden mischievous glint in his eyes. “I think we should seal the deal with a fry dipped in milkshake, don’t you?”
“Oh no, no no no.” You shake your head frantically. “I’m not doing that.”
Burger obliterated, and fries almost depleted, the food stares at you mockingly. You love food like anyone else, but fries dipped in a strawberry milkshake sounds downright repulsive. It’s like putting ketchup on ice cream. It’s weird. You couldn’t do it.
He wipes his hands clean with some tissues, sighing deeply. “Guess you don’t want this bad enough. Sucks. Thought we had something. I’ll see you around then, Diapers. Good luck with proving you’re not mean-boyfriendsexual.
You grab him by the sleeve of his sweater before he can get up and leave. Gritting your teeth, you say, “Fine, I’ll do it. And by the way, I really don’t appreciate you pretending you don’t want this just as bad.”
His grin widens. “You got me.”
Snatching the smallest fry you can find, you dip just the tip into the milkshake. Satoru tuts, giving you a pointed look. You grumble under your breath. Dipping almost the entire thing, you take a tentative bite.
The flavours hit your tongue. Saltiness and sweetness blending into one.
“So,” he asks, watching your face intently, “how is it?”
You gulp, anger simmering below the surface. “Actually…really…fucking…good.”
Satoru laughs, throwing his head back. “I told you!”
Then, he flags down a server and orders more of what he ordered more, for himself and for you, and this time, you don’t fight him on it.
He sends you a wink that you fight not to smile at. “We’re already improving each other’s lives, Diapers. I think we’re on the right track.”
Your lips curl, resolve to remain stoic failing. “I think you mean, ‘we’re already improving each other’s lives, girlfriend.’”
“Oh, yes. You’re right. As of right here, right now, we’re girlfriend-boyfriend. Lovers. Sweethearts. Better start acting like it, right…”
His smile reflects your own, sitting across from each other, like two accomplices to the perfect crime.
HOLD UP I LOVE THIS ALREADY. i usually don’t love reading mean girl x nerd boy, but THIS. the characters are .. perfect for each other. the mc is the right amount of mean— i usually don’t like reading mean/toxic characters but i have a feeling this character has a certain depth to her meanness.
AND GOJO’S CHARACTER OMG. i love that his nerd character is very realistic and not just a caricature of nerds you see in 2000s media. i love that he knows what he wants and makes sure he doesn’t get taken advantage of! go off king!!!
Synopsis: abandoned at the beach by your potentially-cheating husband, you're left up for grabs for two young men who don't seem to care that you're older, a mother, and married. in fact, that only seems to excite them more as they seduce you to abandon your morals.
Warnings: porn with the tiniest plot, reader cheats on her husband, SatoSugu action wink, threesome, public/trying not to get caught sex, milf!reader, hinted to be chubby!reader, age gap (reader is late 30s/early 40s and SatoSugu is in their 20s), reader's husband is mean (he's barely in this but I hope it's not triggering to anyone), double penetration, creampie, thighjob, fingering, unethical behaviour all around, mommy kink heavy, spit roasting, blowjob/deepthroating, face slapping, masochist!gojo, subby!gojo, femdom in parts, pússy inspection, hair pulling, cunnilingus, a little anal play, SatoSugu art by @/wacuoms on X, not proofread
Word Count: 8.4k
“Did you really have to wear that?”
You scan your eyes down your own body, more specifically the bikini you’re wearing. A little reluctant to know, you ask, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
To your right, your husband gives you a disgusted scoff. “You’re dressed like a whore without the body for it. You’re a mother, for Christ’s sake. Must you embarrass yourself and me?”
Ah.
So that’s why he regarded you so coldly, after you stepped out of the bathroom to get changed, back in the hotel. But if he thought you were dressed inappropriately for your age and size, why didn’t he say anything before? Why did he have to wait until you’re all situated on the beach, when you’ve already walked five minutes, when you’ve been laying here for almost an hour, and when people can hear him?
Self-conscious, you wrap your beach cover-up tighter around your body. You felt good before he opened his mouth. You were energised by the wonderful weather, the excitement of your children, and the thrill of wearing something revealing in a place where people won’t bat an eye. Now, you just feel like a beached whale.
“Mommy! Mommy! Look, I’m making a sand castle!” your youngest calls out.
You give him a shaky smile. “Very good, sweetheart.”
Around you, the beach hums with life.
The air is thick with salt and sunscreen, warm and golden under a sky so blue it almost hurts to look at. Palm trees lean lazily in the distance, leaves whispering whenever the breeze rolls in from the water. The ocean itself glitters, waves folding over one another in soft, rhythmic sighs as people wade in and out.
There are bodies everywhere.
Girls in tiny bikinis stretched out on towels, skin oiled and glowing, sunglasses perched perfectly on their noses as they giggle at something on a phone screen. Groups of boys toss a volleyball back and forth, all tanned shoulders and easy confidence, shouting over each other when someone misses. Couples lie tangled together, limbs draped carelessly, as if the heat has melted them into one another.
You feel…out of place.
Not because anyone’s looking. Not really. Most people are too absorbed in themselves. But it’s in the contrast. The flat stomachs, unwrinkled skin, the couples on honeymoons or anniversary holidays flaunting their undying love.
In comparison, you’ve aged. Your body’s turned curvier from the children you’ve birthed, you’ve got pudge everywhere, and it’s why your husband hasn’t touched you in months.
No.
Years.
He’s probably cheating, you think. All the signs are there — keeping his phone on him at all times, working overtime very frequently, a feminine scent lingering on his clothes that doesn’t belong to you, never pestering you for sex that lasts three seconds, if you’re lucky.
Oddly enough, you don’t really mind. Sex with him has never really felt very good for you and you’ve long stopped finding him very interesting. The love that was there, that resulted in your three beautiful children, has faded. You’ve become that couple that only stays together for the children.
A tale as old as time.
What bothers you most is how he can’t at least pretend to stomach your presence; he always has to make some snide comments to you, as if he’s a spring chicken, as if he has abs and a head full of hair.
The nerve.
When you glance over at him, you see he’s typing on his phone. Again. No doubt talking shit about your audacity to wear a two-piece swimsuit at your age to his mistress, whoever she is. He even has a tent growing in his swim shorts. Whatever she sent him must be good.
Clearing his throat, he sits up from his loungechair. “I have to go back to the hotel room. Um, a work thing popped up. I’ll see you later, honey.”
He doesn’t even wait for your reply before he skedaddles.
You sigh.
“Mommy,” one of your children says just metres away from you, “Granddad and Grammy are gonna take us for a walk. Is that okay?”
Your parents, despite their age, are much more active than someone your age. They came with you on this holiday. Perhaps because they know how your relationship with your husband is. You’re grateful for their company and for their help.
They smile at you, holding your children’s hands. Thank god for them because three children by yourself in this heat and in this crowd would be overwhelming as hell.
With a nod, you reply, “Yes, of course, sweeties. You go easy on them, okay? Do as they say and don’t go running off on your own.”
The three of them cheer.
Taking one of the bags with their goggles, armbands, water bottles, and children-friendly sunscreens, they go off on a little adventure. At least your kids are happy. That’s everything.
You’re left on your own on the lounge chair, partially shaded by the parasol.
Maybe you’ll read for a bit, nap, listen to some beach music — anything’s possible now it’s just you. A little peace and quiet will be nice. Yeah, it’ll be nice. That’s all a housewife like you can do anyway. You certainly can’t go parasailing or rent a speedboat, can you?
The thought has you chuckling to yourself.
“What’s funny, gorgeous?”
You jolt.
On the lounge chair beside you, the one your husband was occupying, is no longer vacant.
One man, with long hair tied up in a bun, is sitting facing you. There’s another behind him, one with white hair and pure black sunglasses, lying under the umbrella. When had they gotten here? Where did they come from? And how long have they been there?
The white haired man tilts his head to look at you over the rim of his sunglasses. “I’m in the mood to laugh, so please, share with the class.”
Confused, you sit up. “Excuse me?”
Man-bun gives you a small smile. “Where are our manners?” He gestures to himself. “I’m Suguru.” He gestures behind him. “This is Satoru.”
You introduce yourself, though you know you shouldn’t.
They’re much younger than you are, you can tell. They have abs, which anyone can see through the sliver of the opening of their hoodie and tropical shirt; mischievous smiles that say they’re no strangers to trouble; and hungry eyes that are scanning your body up and down.
What do they want?
Satoru yawns, long limbs stretching. “We overheard your shitty husband running his mouth. He always like that? Y’know, spewing lies?”
God, you knew people could hear him berating you. It’s one thing behind closed doors, but it’s another to be perceived by outsiders. These two young men must have felt so bad for you they came over to make you feel better. How humiliating.
Cheeks heating up, you try to shoo them away. “I’m not sure what you want from me, but there’s nothing I can give you.”
Suguru tries to hide his smile between his hand. He muses, “Oh, I’m not sure about that — you look like you’re more than an expert in wrangling two unruly boys.”
There’s an undertone in his words that has you on edge.
Are they flirting with you?
You struggle for words, unsure of what to say. On one hand, it’s inappropriate for someone your age to be entertaining men younger than you, especially when you’re married and a mother. On the other hand, the attention is nice. You haven’t had men expressing their interest in you in a while. And they’re very good looking boys.
Drop dead gorgeous, actually.
Maybe you’ll let them stay, converse for a bit until they get bored and leave. It’s not like your husband will be coming back any time soon. And he’s doing much worse right now. A little harmless fun won’t be so bad, right?
“So you’re here with family?” Suguru, the more polite of the two, asks.
“Yeah,” you answer, sipping some water from your bottle, “just a little family holiday before the start of school. And you two?”
Satoru waves the question off with a lazy hand. “No, no, we live here. You can say this is our domain and you’re all trespassing, but we’re more than happy to have a beauty like you wandering around.”
The compliment has you flushing. “Oh, hush you.”
“No, we’re serious,” Suguru says, gesturing over your body. “Every part of you looks too good to eat.”
“We’ll certainly still do though,” his friend adds, laughing.
Despite how awkward you feel talking to two people out of your age range, you find yourself laughing along too. Yeah, this is completely harmless, you think. They’re just boys finding it funny to mess around with the tourists. Boys their age want a romp, anything exciting to brag to their friends about.
And you’re surrounded by strangers you’ll likely never see again.
Let’s see how far this can go.
Playing along, you sultrily ask, “Oh, and you think you can handle a woman like me? I’d eat you for dinner.”
“Promise?” they respond in unison.
They’re eager, that’s for sure.
Practically drooling at the sight of you. They even lick their lips when you sit up straighter, tits bouncing with the movement.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea…
Maybe they think you’re being serious, that you’ll actually let them have a taste.
Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you give them understanding smiles. “Look, boys, I appreciate your interest. Really. But I’m too old for you. There’s plenty of young girls around thou—”
“Blergh.”
Satoru picks up the sunscreen from the little table between your two seats. He throws his sunglasses off and eyes the ingredients on the label. “When was the last time you reapplied?” he asks suddenly.
“I can’t remember,” you respond honestly, blinking at how they ignored your rejection.
Suguru shakes his head, tutting. “That’s not good enough. Very bad, actually. Very, very bad.”
Your skin’s just fine, you want to say, but any reassurance dies out on your tongue when they stand and circle you like wolves. From down here, they look so much taller. You can see their flawless skin more clearly now, can see the hard ridges of their tight body, and the softness.
Whereas your husband is flabby, hairy, and rough everywhere.
From your youth, you remember how wonderful it was to feel softness weighing you down, the energy only young men have, and their eagerness to please. It’s a life in the past come back to the present. Your thighs press together.
They notice.
The two exchange knowing looks, punctuated by victorious smiles.
You just gave them the go-ahead they’ve been looking for.
They both come to kneel beside you. You’re blocked from either side. Trapped. Landlocked. Prey to their hunt.
“Wait a minute,” you say, panicked, when your covering is yanked off your body. You try to cover yourself with the towel from under you but they’re not giving you any room to move. “What’re you two doing!”
Suguru pinches the strings of your bikini bottoms, not pulling, just twirling the flimsy thing as though aware of how easily he could bare you to him. He casually says, “Oh, we’re just doing our duty and preventing skin cancer; the sun’s a killer, haven’t you heard, pretty?”
Meanwhile, Satoru squirts a fat dollop of sunscreen into his palm. He grins down at you. “Maybe that’s what he’s doing — I’m gonna feel you up.”
“I’d turn over very quickly if you don’t want him groping your tits…yet,” Suguru warns, amused.
Right as those pale hands are about to make contact on your skin, you flop onto your belly like a fish. They land on your back with an, “Awww.”
You wince.
His hands are cold. They rove over your back with no hesitation. Satoru whistles. “You’re so soft! I wanna just gobble you up.”
This isn’t so bad, right? After all, you’ve always had trouble getting sunscreen on your back. Gulping nervously, you mutter, “Let’s keep this cute, you two. You’re only reapplying sunscreen. That’s it, alright? No, coping a feel.”
Behind you, someone snorts.
“Sure,” they say in unison with no real conviction behind the syllable.
Another pair of hands joins you. They’re cold too. It massages the oily thing on your back, taking over for the other pair which has ventured to your legs. They’re good at this — they’re pushing knots away, untightening the tension in your body, and applying just the right amount of texture to have you releasing low, satisfied moans.
People must be looking at you weirdly; you were just with your family five minutes ago. Now you’re being touched up by men probably half your age.
But, for all their teasing, they are respecting your boundary.
Until they aren’t.
It starts off slow at first, very light and almost not there. For a minute, you can actually convince yourself they’re just being helpful. Although, you’re vaguely conscious of hands coming under the bow of your bikini top with the excuse of needing to get even the areas that won’t see the sun. The other pair climb up to your thighs, delving into the inner parts, forcing your legs apart.
You’re on edge, unable to let the tempting sleep take you.
At every second, you’re aware of exactly where they’re touching, of who is. You can tell the difference: Satoru is more rushed, more excited. He wants to feel all of you all at once. Whereas, Suguru is more languid, more leisurely. He takes his time. He wants you to feel him.
“Feel good?” one of them asks.
“Mmm.”
“Yeah, of course you’re feeling good. Who doesn’t like to be massaged?” the other says, arrogant. “You know, we’re good at internal massages too.”
Biting your lip, cheek smushed on the towel, you say, “Behave, Satoru.”
He groans, hands gripping your thighs tight. “That’s so fucking hot.”
“Careful,” Suguru drawls. “Your mommy kink is showing.”
“Mind your own business, Suguru.”
That’s when they start growing bolder — the hands at your thighs creep up higher, gripping you in pulses, whilst the hands on your back slide down the sides, fingertips grazing the plumpness of your breasts which have spilt out. You tense, anticipating their next moves.
A thumb brushes the gusset of your bottoms. You jolt.
In a flash, you push yourself up.
They stare up at you, pupils blown out and eyes tracking your every move. Both of them look annoyed that you’d pulled away just when it was getting good. But you had to. They were about to do something very, very wrong in a very, very public setting.
“I’m going to get in the water,” you tell them, inching away. Your feet sink in the sand. Out of the shade, the sun’s heat engulfs you. Now that you’re free from their broad chests, you notice how the beach isn’t all that crowded. There’s definitely people out and about — families, kids, old people and vendors — just not so many that you can’t breathe.
You could have sworn there were more people minutes ago. Are you relieved that there are less witnesses to your inappropriate indulgement or frightened by the fact there are less witnesses to their hunger?
Suguru nods, rolling a shoulder back. “Yes, good idea. We’ll join you.”
“What?” you nearly shriek. Then, trying to compose yourself, you argue, “No, no. No need. Go and enjoy your day. Do whatever it is kids do these days.”
Satoru’s the first to stand. First to stroll over to you. He throws his jacket behind him. It lands right where you had been lying down. With a shit-eating grin, he spins you around and slings an arm over your shoulders. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re right where we wanna be.”
His friend slinks to your side, also shirtless.
You dig your heels in the sand, tugging yourself away. “On second thoughts, maybe I should go back to my hotel and see how my husband’s doing.”
They share a look.
Then they’re both dragging you to the water.
Maybe they’re strong and you can do nothing against their insistence. Maybe you don’t fight that hard. Whatever the case may be, you end up stepping inside the water regardless.
The small waves lap at your ankles, and soon, with their guiding hands, at your shin, knees, then thighs, hips, waist, and in a blink, you’re mostly submerged. The sea really is all-consuming.
Their chiselled shoulders and chests are all you can see as they circle you in the water like sharks. There are a few people in the water too, but they’re spread out. No one close enough to hear you thankfully.
“We’ve been eyeing you since you got here,” Suguru confesses, lips grazing the shell of your ear as he presses close behind you. He grips your waist, inching up a little.
You’re even closer to them than before — they’re tall, strong, carved by the heavens, truly blessed. So why are they here, with you? Why you when there are so many younger, prettier girls?
Satoru’s hands find your hips under the water, he yanks himself to you. “Couldn’t stop looking at you in this sexy bikini. We’ve been hard since. Like, really, really hard.”
They sandwich you between them, between two men who are young enough to be your friends’ children. Or your own. With a shake of your head, you attempt to scold them: “Now, boys, this is very bad of you. I’ll overlook this just once so you can go on your way and your parents won’t have to know.”
One of them snickers. He looks over your head to talk to his friend. “Parents? She thinks we’re kids.”
Suguru leaves a scalding kiss on your bare shoulder. You gasp. He says, “We’re grown men, pretty. We’re all adults here. What are you so worried about?”
The three of you are swaying in the water. The salty scent of the sea is hitting your nose, dizzying. In the distance, you hear people’s laughter and their light conversation. The world is turning, though it feels like it’s paused for you.
“Maybe I’m worried about the boners you’re grinding against me,” you retort, flustered. You’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to pretend you can’t feel two hot and heavy things poking your back and your stomach. But they make it impossible to when they’re grinding it against your body so shamelessly.
To make a point, Satoru moves your hips on his body. He’s rubbing you up on his boner, face buried in his chest with the water tickling your collarbone. He makes a pornographic moan, partly to tease you and partly because it’s helping his boner.
In a panic, you scan the area for anyone who might have heard.
No one’s looking.
He says, “I wanna feel good. Don’t you wanna feel good? Wanna do something about the boners you’ve given us? Y’know, take responsibility and all that?”
At first, you wanted to dispute his second question; you did not give anyone anything, let that be clear. But his main question echoes in your head.
You do want to feel good.
By god, do you.
You haven’t felt good in years. You’ve forgotten what it even means to feel good. Still, this is wrong. It’s all shades of wrong, and you can’t let yourself get swept up. So you weakly reply, “I’m a mother.”
“Mmm, that makes no difference to us,” Suguru says. His hands are right under your heavy breasts now, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the fat that can’t be contained by the flimsy material. He weighs them in his palms, bouncing them up and down. Above the water, the tops emerge, all wet and shiny. Satoru can’t tear his eyes away. His friend continues, "Though, between you and me, he might actually really like that fact.”
Satoru doesn’t deny that. He only ruts his cock harder against your stomach through the thin layer of his shorts.
“I’m much older than you,” you say, reaching for anything that might dissuade them.
The man in front of you snorts. “Duh. We can tell that much.”
You don’t know why that offends you. But it does.
Before you can process what you’re doing, your palm makes contact with his cheek. Redness blossoms on the pale surface. Satoru’s face has whipped to the side. He blinks, processing what just happens, as you do. A tongue pokes through the injured cheek. He tests the sting, the corner of his lip twitching.
Someone laughs behind you. “You’ve done it now, pretty girl.”
When bright blue eyes pierce you — an almost deranged smirk warping his face into something older, something more authoritative than you — you realise the truth behind Suguru’s remark.
You really have done it now.
“You’ve given me a booboo,” he says, putting on a baby voice to mock how you hide between the age difference. “You should make me feel better, right, mom-my?”
“Oh goodness…”
His hands leave your hips, fumbling for something in the water. Though the water’s clear, you can’t bring yourself to look down. So it comes as a surprise to you when a long, hot thing slots itself right between your thighs, with the help of Suguru who lifts you up with ease in the water.
Satoru smushes his face right in between your tits which are drying under the sun now. He thrusts his cock back and forth, rubbing your clothed pussy. A fat cockhead nudges your clit on every return.
You’re panting, holding onto any part of them for purchase. “Wait,” you breathe out. “I’m married! I’m married!”
Too busy mouthing at the salt on your skin, Suguru instead has to reply, “We don’t care. We really. Fucking. Don’t.”
“Yeah,” his friend says, resurfacing from your tits to throw his head back with a groan. The water’s lapping more aggressively, disrupted by his thrusting and your squirming. “Your husband’s an ass who can’t appreciate when he has a great one right in front of him. If he won’t make you feel good, we will.”
“That’s right,” Suguru adds. He grips your chin and brings you to look at him. His lips touch your lips. He whispers against them, “You just have to let us.”
One of his arms is wrapped under your breasts, pushing them up for Satoru to rest his face on as he keeps rubbing his cock between your thighs. The other releases your chin to grope one tit. His blunt nail scratches a hard bud through the material.
You moan.
It’s too late to pretend you’re not soaked, that you’re not manically pleased with their attraction, with the feel of their hard bodies pinning you between them, that you don’t want this so bad.
No one will know.
No one has to.
It’ll be your dirty, little secret that you’ll pull whenever you’re at your very lowest.
With that decision made, you surge to kiss Suguru, who wastes no time in deepening the kiss. His tongue pushes in, licking and tasting. He’s readily groping your tit under the top, pinching and flicking your nipples. Satoru squeezes the other, lifting it out of the water to suck at it, uncaring of the taste of sea water.
Too much is happening at once.
It’s crazy.
Insane.
And so fucking good.
Suguru shoves Satoru back so he can slide his hand inside your bottom. He finds your clit with ease, spreading your puffy lips with two fingers and rubbing the bundle of nerves with the middle. All while, his lips haven’t left yours. He’s sucking all your oxygen out, threatening to drown you in his taste.
Somewhat aggrieved, Satoru complains, “Hey! Don’t monopolise her. You have to share, Suguru!”
You pull away a little to say, “Yes, Suguru. You have to share. Be my good boys, won’t you?”
Both of them groan.
He lets Satoru’s fingers join him in playing with your pussy. Satoru hooks the bikini to the side. His fingers bump into his friend’s before it finds your entrance.
“Ngh! Please! Harder. Deeper,” you mewl.
Satoru’s fingers are so long. They’re stretching your pussy out, inch by inch, till they’re buried at the hilt and curling up against that gummy spot inside you that has you seeing starfishes in your hazy vision.
In tandem, they finger you — one massaging your g-spot and making good on his promise at being skilled at internal massages, and the other rubbing your clit so expertly you can’t do anything but throw your head back and wail wantonly.
One of them, at this point you don’t care who, sucks and licks at the length of your neck.
Where did you get the courage to be so whorish, to boss them around like you’re their mother?
It hardly makes sense to you.
Neither does the searching your hands do under the water.
You find their cocks. One is already out, bobbing. The other you have to maneuver out of its confines in his swim trunks. They both whine your name out when they feel you wrap your hands around their length.
Now, you’re no stranger to dicks.
These two may be bolder and more shameless, but you know how to please a man. You know that you gotta squeeze their cocks just right, gotta rub your palm over their tips, thumb the slit and spread their pre-cum under their cockhead. You know how to toe the fine line between pain and pleasure, and which of them prefers to lean towards the other.
“Oh s-shit,” Satoru stutters.
The other sucks in a sharp breath.
Satoru’s nose pushes your bikini cover off one of your tits. He wastes no time sucking your nipple, but it’s not like how your husband used to suck on your breast. It’s more eager, more feral, as though he’s sure if he sucks hard enough milk will actually come out.
“That’s it, baby,” you mutter, arching your chest out to feed him your breast. “Suck mommy’s titty. Such a good boy.”
In your grip, his cock throbs. So does the other.
Seems like it’s not just Satoru who has a mommy kink.
Despite your relentless attacks on their cocks, their fingers don’t quit. They keep teasing your pussy just right. You ride their wrists. Your moans melt with theirs under the sun’s watchful gaze, and who knows how many other people’s.
If only your husband can see how desired you are, can see your face scrunch up in pleasure he’s never given you, how easily men half his age can find your clit.
“Cum, pretty,” Suguru groans out.
“Yeah,” Satoru says. “Wanna feel you -hah- tighten around my fingers. Wanna know how you’ll feel on my cock.”
Almost as though their voices carry a special power, your body listens.
The orgasm takes you by surprise, not from its suddenness — it’s been building for a while now — but from the sensation itself. It’s been years since your back’s arched, since your toes have curled, your lower belly has cramped, bolts of electricity ran through your veins, and your clit’s throbbed. You hardly recognise the maddening gloriousness. And yet, when it washes over you, it’s a very welcome return.
“T-that’s it,” someone says. “Such a good girl.”
“Mm, bet your husband’s never touched you as good, has he? Bet he’s scared of pussies, which is ironic because he is one,” the other boy snickers.
If they expect you to come to your husband’s defence, then you only disappoint them.
Meanwhile, your hands haven’t stopped. They only jerk them off faster and harder, till their snarky words die out and turn into whimpery moans.
Soon, they cum at the same time.
Ropes of pearlescent cum jet out into the water, dissipating.
The three of you stumble onto a massive rock in the water you hadn’t even realised you’d been hiding behind. How long ago did you get pushed over here, far from the rest of the beach where it’s most crowded? Does it matter?
Here, seemingly a mile away from where you started, the water’s at thigh level.
You’re so heated everywhere you can’t even tell the difference between the warm water and the warm air. It’s all the same to you now, especially when you’re distracted by the unceasing roving of their hands which touch you everywhere they can reach.
“Where are your manners, boys? Didn’t anyone tell you to buy a girl dinner first?”
Satoru bites his smiling lip.
Suguru chuckles.
“You are our dinner.” The former smashes his face into yours, robbing you of breath. “You’re absolutely stunning. The literal woman of my dreams,” he says in between kisses, when you need to gulp for air. “Knew as soon as I saw you from afar that I wanted you to spank me, to ruin my life.”
That’s a real nice thought…
With an innate rhythm, they swap places — Suguru’s now in front of you, pressing gentle kisses on your cheeks and on your jawline, whilst Satoru’s groping your tits from behind. He rubs his already-growing-hard cock on your ass.
Oh, the wonder of youth.
Suguru rests his big hand on the back of your head. “Down, pretty. Put your ass out for me.” You allow him to push you down. You hold onto Satoru’s thigh, addicted to how you’re being bossed around by men younger than you, bent into place for their use. When satisfied, he says, “Such a well-behaved mother you are. I’m sure your kids take after you, huh?”
He palms the globes of your ass, thumbs tucking under your bikini bottom as he appreciates the roundness of your behind.
In front of you, Satoru’s jerking himself off. A bead of pre pools out from his bubblegum pink tip. He taps the cockhead on your lips. You kitten lick his slit, making sure to really get in here. He lets out a, “Jeez, your husband’s an idiot. He’s missing out on a special grade woman here.” He peers down at you, grinning. “Is your mouth as talented as the rest of you, mama? Gonna suck my dick, hmm?”
What choice do you have other than to take that impressive cock down your throat?
Opening your mouth nice and wide, you try to swallow as much of his length as you can. Satoru holds your face in place so he can push himself in little by little. He tastes salty, but you can’t tell if it’s because of his skin, his pre-cum, or because of the sea. Maybe all three.
Behind you, Suguru’s breath blows on your sensitive skin. “Gonna let me taste you, pretty girl?”
“Tell me how hot MILF pussy is, Suguru,” his friend demands, pale abs contracting with the fight not to cum too soon. His muscular thighs help keep your balance, and when you accidentally dig your nails too hard after he hits the back of your throat by accident, you’re surprised to hear him whimper, “Ngh, mommy!” Then he groans. “Fuck, that’s embarrassing.”
Suguru laughs. “Embrace the kink, Satoru. You’re not fooling anyone.”
“Shut up.”
It’s weird, now that you think about it, that someone other than your children is calling you mommy. Even weirder than it’s not a child at all. Though oddly, you don’t mind it. Perhaps you’d even go as far as to say that it’s turning you on.
What can only be Suguru’s nose traces your slit through the swimsuit. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing the ample flesh there like it’s a stress toy. A drop of trepidation clutches your chest; what if you smell bad? What if they find the pussy that’s birthed three children unattractive?
When he gets his fill of your scent, and lets out an, “Oh god,” your worries evaporate in the scorching heat of his undeniable desire for you.
You expect him to pull the gusset to the side, just as Satoru had done earlier, but he surprises you instead by untying, with far too much ease, your bottoms entirely. Cool air wafts through your heated folds. Your whole body shakes.
What if someone wanders over to where you three are?
There’ll be no hiding, no explaining why you’re bare down there.
Suguru parts your lips for his eyes and you forget all about the law. He says, “Her pussy’s as pretty as the rest of her, Satoru. So wet and needy. And look at her adorable clit, pulsing my name.”
“You mean, my name,” Satoru counters, hips rutting inside your hot mouth. He pets your hair and coos down at you, “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Loves Young Dick? Mrs. Hates Her Husband’s Tiny, Wrinkled Dick?”
He’s having too much fun lording his power over you. He needs to be punished — you massage his balls with one hand, rolling the heavy sack in your palm, and allowing your fingers to brush over the puckering hole hidden away.
“S-shit!”
Satoru’s knees quiver, threatening to buckle from under him. An attack on his tip with your swirling tongue, on his balls, and his asshole is too much for anyone, no matter how virile. But you don’t want him to cum yet. It’d be too early so you let his balls go and focus on staying balanced behind the big rock that covers all three of you from view of the whole beach.
A tongue licks a stripe from your clit to your entrance, scooping a mouthful of your overflowing wetness.
Suguru groans.
His whole face is buried between your cheeks, lapping up your juices as though he’s dehydrated. That skillful tongue of his rubs your clit in tight circles just how you like it, giving enough pressure for you to feel already close to cumming.
It flicks up and down, pushing the nerves there to their limits.
Your legs quiver. You shuffle on your feet, undecided between pushing back so he’d get even deeper or pulling away from the unbearable bliss. Your moans come out muffled. The vibrations have Satoru’s hips jolting deeper inside you, bruising your throat.
Suguru worms the wet appendage in your cunt, licking your pillowy walls. He moans straight inside you. You feel the vibrations there shoot through your body, up your spine, and go straight to your head.
Someone, or both of them, plays with your swinging tits. You don’t have it in you to feel any embarrassment at how they’re saggier than the breasts women their age have. Not when they make no mention of it. Only the sounds of their pleased groans at the feel of every part of you reaches your ears.
They pull both of your tits out of the confines of the bikini top, allowing them easy access to your nipples, which they rub and pull and flick as they please.
Distantly, you can still hear the thrum of life on the beach, of people playing in the water, of waves crashing on the rocks. Under you, the mid-thigh level water gently laps at your body, grazing your nipples delectably.
“She tastes like the finest wine, Satoru,” Suguru says. His hand has rounded your belly, pressing up at your pelvis. You gasp around his friend’s cock. The urge to pee has arisen, and it’s making you delirious.
Above you, he makes a disgusted sound. “Ugh, don’t describe her pussy juice with alcohol. Describe it in terms of candy. How sweet is she, Sugu?”
“The sweetest,” he answers, unbothered by Satoru’s peculiar demands. “Here, taste her.” Suguru stands, rubbing his bare cock over your drenched pussy lips. His cockhead catches on your clit and you find your hips grinding back, seeking out that incredible hardness.
You don’t know what happens above you. But you can imagine, from the sudden wet smacking sounds and the dirty groans they both make, that Suguru’s giving Satoru a taste of your pussy which he had collected on his tongue. Somehow, that has you clenching on air.
“Sweet,” Satoru gasps. “So sweet. Fuck, Suguru, I can’t take any more of this. I wanna feel her. Wanna be inside her.”
“Me too,” Suguru says, grabbing his cock and tapping it up against your clit. You feel wet strings form and break, splashing a little onto your skin. Or maybe it’s just the sea.
Satoru pulls himself from your throat, jerking his cock at the sight of your swollen, glossy lips which the tip is bumping. Finally, you get a reprieve for your sore throat. You greedily gulp air down, overwhelmed by the devastating emptiness you find inside you now.
The other man gathers your wet hair and tugs you up, back flushed against hard chest. Satoru squeezes your heaving tits, bending down to blow raspberries between. He’s motorboating you. Like an idiot.
Just as Suguru had done to you, you yank him by his hair and drag his face to yours. You kiss him. He quickly reacts, moaning into your mouth. It’s a sloppy kiss. All tongue, saliva dripping down chins, and at one point, he even sucks your outstretched tongue like it’s a cock.
It’s obvious these boys must have been playing with themselves when they don’t have a woman to torture.
Lucky.
“Up,” Suguru says.
You jump into Satoru’s arms, legs wrapping around his narrow hips. Wet tits get squashed against his chest. Hard nipples scrape slippery skin.
Someone cock prods your pulsing entrance. You pant for it, desperate to feel full, to feel cock that isn’t your husband’s, cock that you know will reach the deepest parts of you and will have you feeling it for days.
But then…
Another cock prods your entrance too.
“Oh my god,” you breathe out. “You can’t both fit inside me!”
“Shhh, pretty girl. Don’t worry about anything. We’ve got you. We’ll make it fit,” Suguru says, leaving a kiss on the crook of your neck.
“You’re a champ,” Satoru adds, with a shit-eating grin. He licks a stripe up your cheek, as though it’s revenge for what you had done to his no-longer-pink-from-the-slap-only-from-arousal-cheek. “You can take us, can’t you?” he asks. He’s put on that baby voice again. “Mommy won’t disappoint us, will she?”
Swallowing a moan down, you say, “I-I can try.”
“Atta girl,” they say in unison.
Together, they push in.
Your nails dig into Satoru's back, no doubt leaving pink crescents. You grit your teeth. The pressure is intense. It’s nothing you’ve ever felt before. It’s far too much too fast. You cry out, “I can’t do it!”
Suguru mumbles into your ear, though he’s struggling too, “It’s a-alright. Just breathe.”
You’ve already gone this far, already done things you would have never thought to do before you left the hotel room an hour or two ago. This can’t be where you give up. You want everything they have to offer, and if your boys want to feel you at the same time, then that’s what you’ll give them.
It seems like another hour passes under the blaring sun before they stop pushing in. When you peer down between your body and Satoru’s, you’re bewildered at the sight of his cock not even being half way in.
Yet, they’re satisfied.
For now.
Slowly, they both start rocking in. Gently. Carefully. Testing the waters.
It’s not an easy fit.
Still, nothing could hurt as much as labour, so this isn’t too bad for you. Somewhere beyond the sting, there’s a blooming pleasure. Perhaps born from the depravity of having cocks that aren’t your husband inside you, cocks belonging to men much younger than you, and from being fucked by two men somewhere you could be caught.
Satoru kisses you to distract you from the slight pain at having two cocks impossibly lodged inside you. And as quick as his lips arrived, Suguru’s stealing yours. Then Satoru’s again. Suguru’s. Satoru’s. Back and forth, you alternate between them, becoming lightheaded at the constant twisting and turning and from the sensation of great pressure pushing deeper inside your belly.
Your eyes, which you hadn’t realised had closed, open to find the two boys liplocked. This is what you didn’t get to see though you so badly wanted to earlier — their pink lips wrapping around each other, the glimpses of tongues tangling together, of passionate moans mingling.
They kiss like they’ve been doing this for years.
Their cocks pulse inside you.
You lean close, joining in their makeout. Resembling puzzle pieces, you three slot together perfectly. Tongue meeting each other and you don’t know who’s where and what, only that everything everywhere feels good.
With final groans, they bury themselves to the hilt.
“Oh fuck,” the three of you moan in unison.
Quickly, a rhythm’s built up. They thrusts in turns, as though sawing your gummy walls. With how far they’ve stretched you, you feel your anal walls stimulated by their ploughing, and it’s incredible.
Maybe you should care that they’re not wearing condoms. But you don’t. Because feeling them bare is wonderful — their veins, the ridges, the flared out cockheads that scrape your walls. It’s all so fucking good.
Your clit grinds at Satoru’s pelvis whenever he rams his cock into the very base.
Lips suck your neck, your nape, your tongue, your lips, everywhere they can reach. And you’re pulling hair, scratching backs, bouncing down on cocks in their arms.
“Take a picture of me on this rock.”
The three of you still.
There’s people on the other side.
You can hear them splashing around as they adjust themselves. There’s also laughter. Voices from people their age. They don’t know you’re behind the rock, do they? They haven’t seen a glimpse of you three? Didn’t hear your lewd moaning and the squelching and fwop! fwop! fwopping! of wet skin against wet skin?
In your chest, your heart pounds so loudly you think it might give you away.
“Don’t make a sound,” Satoru mouths. Though as he says that, his hips are still rocking inside you, barely perceptible but definitely there.
Behind you, Suguru’s no better. His hands are playing with your tits, pulling the buds till they stretch out obscenely, till you’re writhing on their dicks and having to bite down on your lip to stop the whines escaping and blowing your cover.
They’re more badly behaved than your kids.
But you’re no rational adult either; you keep bouncing in their arms, riding their cocks as you chase your high. “Don’t -hngh!- stop,” you plead. “It’s so good. So, so, so good!”
Conversations continue on on the other side, as do the clicking of the camera. If they decide to step around the rock, they’re going to get a photo-ful of bare skin, more than what any beach-goers are currently showing.
None of you care.
All the three of you want is to cum.
“D-don’t -fuck- clench down so hard,” Suguru quietly grits out, teeth skimming your shoulder in his effort not to be too loud.
Satoru agrees, long, white lashes fluttering, “Y-yeah, you’re too –hic!– tight already.”
You can’t help it, you wanna say, but what you can only manage is a garbled apology.
In a matter of a couple seconds, your grinding and their thrusting and the moaning and the bouncing speed up to an irregular, erratic rhythm. You’re just doing whatever feels good now, fuck the other people near you.
Their cockheads keep bumping your g-spot, pushing in so deep inside you you swear you can feel them in your lungs. Their lips suck, their tongues lick, teeth bite, fingers pinch and pull, and rub, hands squeezing and groping and yanking, with pleasure building and building and building until it bursts!
Your orgasm hits you like a tempest.
Spasms wrack your body, as do theirs.
The three of you tremble against each other, moaning and groaning under your breaths.
Your toes curl so hard you almost get a cramp. Your back arches till you’re shoving your tits in Satoru’s face, not that he complains — he can smother his high-pitched whimper in the mounds of your breasts. Your pussy pulses in time with their throbbing.
“So tight!” one gasps.
“Can’t -hah- breathe. Can’t -hngh- think!”
Hot cum spurts inside you, in double the serving. They paint your walls white, flooding your cunt, tickling your inside. It drives a mini orgasm out of you. Something just as hot splashes all over your skin and theirs. Is it you, Satoru, the sea?
You lose yourself in them, in their bodies, their taste lingering on your tongue, in the cursed bliss they gifted you.
The very best orgasm of your entire life has pulled you under water, sinking deeper and deeper into the depths of the sea.
No more sound is made from the other side. Maybe they were scared off by the sounds you three made, maybe they left long ago, maybe they’re still there. At least, no one’s come to bust you face-to-face. No lifeguard yelling and telling you the police is coming, no unfortunate family scarred for life.
It all worked out for itself.
There’s a smile on your face when you’re gently placed back on your feet. It widens after every kiss they leave on your lips in gratitude.
Suguru rakes a hand through his hair, pushing unruly strands back. He mirrors your expression as he touches between your legs. He feels the searing cum dripping out of you, and fucks it back inside with his thick fingers. “Told you we’d make it fit.”
“Yes, you did,” you say, laughing and moaning simultaneously with the last thrums of pleasure left inside you.
Satoru yanks that hand out and shoves it into his own mouth, heartily sucking on the mixed juices. “Mmm. Salty.”
You’re flushed, entranced by the sight.
They’re filthier than any other man you’ve met.
And more gentlemanly too — they find your bottoms for you, putting back it in place, the same with your bikini top, before they tuck themselves back in their shorts. Within minutes, any evidence of your wrongdoings is swept away by the current, with only the sun as your witness.
“Thank you,” you tell them. Sincerity coats the words.
They brought to life something you thought had been dead a long time ago, something that maybe was never alive inside you, something that a loveless marriage had buried. They reminded you you are a woman, not just a wife or a mother.
You have worth.
You have value.
You can start over again.
When wetness clings to your lashes, their gazes soften.
Suguru tucks your hair behind your ear. “You’re going to be alright, pretty girl.”
“The whole world’s your oyster,” Satoru adds, nodding proudly. “Always was.”
At the same time, they brush away the tears about to fall. They suck the wetness coating their skin, releasing satisfied sounds at your saltiest taste.
Everything that happens after that is a blur.
Maybe you continued playing in the water with them for another couple hours. Maybe you fucked them in turns. And at the same time again. Maybe you went back to your lounge chair straight away and napped the rest of the time.
It’s hard to tell.
The only thing you remember after is being woken up by your three children shaking you.
You stand, stretching your weary limbs, cover-up forgone. Your parents look tired, the kind of tired a long day taking care of children creates, which you know all too well. You give them an apologetic smile. They reject it with a shake of their heads, as though saying, ‘you never need to thank us.’
“Mommy, mommy, we collected sea shells and got ice cream and buried granddad in the sand!” one of them tells you, pulling at your arm. “We had the greatest day ever!”
You smile down at him. “Oh, very good, sweetheart.”
“It was awesome!” the middle child chimes. “A seagull tried to take my sandwich but I shooed it away, mommy!”
“How brave,” you say, pinching his chubby cheek.
The oldest gives you a disappointed look. “Were you just sleeping, mommy? That’s not good. You wasted a whole day at the beach!”
Ruffling her hair, you say, “You got me. But I don’t think it was a waste.”
Though you feel thoroughly spent, you’re pleased to discover a renewed energy inside you. You pack up faster than you thought you would, you chat with your kids and catch up with your parents, and look forward to dinner, musing what it’d be.
To all three of them, and to your parents, you ask, “Okay, ready to go back to the hotel?”
Their simultaneous yawns are your answer.
Your family makes its way to the road back, trudging, exhausted, through the heavy sand with the sun about to set and people staying back to watch the sky explode in orange and pink.
Bags in your arms, you look back, unable to resist the allure.
The two of them are already looking at you. They’re dressed in the same clothes they had been when they first introduced themselves — hoodie adorned, hair tied up, and sunglasses on. They lift the coconut cups they were sipping high up in the air in what you know to be both a salute and a goodbye.
One of your kids grabs your attention.
Something calls you to look back one more, only seconds later. When you do, you’re not very shocked to find them gone from their place at the hut. Disappeared. As though they were never there in the first place.
In the distance, on the water which reflects the sun’s warm glow back, you see two sparkles, like stars that guide lost souls in the dark.
You face forward, smiling.
You can’t explain what happened today to anyone. Not when you can’t even explain it to yourself. It can just remain as a precious memory, one that might fade into a thing that you’ll convince yourself was real when it starts to feel like a dream. After all, there’s a beauty in forgetting the details, of the hows and the whos and the where and whens, but not the why.
Because the why will forever be engrained in your very soul.
Safe to say, then, you won’t be forgetting about your day at the beach any time soon.
You can mark it as the day you decided to file for divorce.
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