🎧

Leia she/her 20s

[itoshiabi]

You never expected Rin to celebrate birthdays seriously.

You expected maybe a kiss. Maybe a quiet wish in his deep, calm voice while kissing your forehead. But you definitely didn't expect waking up to see your phone full of notifications, not from your friends but from RIN'S fan accounts.

Rin has posted a photo of YOU. And in that picture you're asleep on Rin's chest while his hand is curled protectively around your waist.

His caption?

世界で一番愛する人へ、お誕生日おめでとう。

(To the person I love most in the world, happy birthday.)

You choke on air.

Because Rin never posts. He hates social media. His account is mostly managed by PR people.

But this post? It's raw, intimate, untouched by public polish.

And in the picture there's a soft look in his eyes as he was gazing down at you, the corner of his lips was twitching into a  real smile. Into that kind of smile which only you get to see...

You hear the soft knock on your bedroom door before it creaks open and Rin walks in, holding a tray with breakfast. And he immediately freezes seeing you staring at your phone.

You hold it up. "Rin. What... is this?"

He blinks, then calmly sets the tray down. "Happy birthday. It's too early for you to wake up."

You stare harder. "You never post. And now this?"

He doesn't meet your gaze. "It's your birthday."

"That doesn't explain why you decided to break the internet."

Rin stays quiet and instead of answering you he grabs something from the bedside drawer. A small box wrapped in deep blue.

"For you."

You sit up slowly, taking the box with wide eyes. Rin watches, expression unreadable, as you carefully untie the ribbon and open it.Inside is a delicate necklace— a simple silver chain with a small charm, a star and a crescent moon intertwined.

You blink. "It's… beautiful."

"It's supposed to mean balance," Rin mutters, not quite meeting your eyes. "Because that's what you are for me. Even if I'm… not very good at showing it."

You're speechless. All you can do is launch yourself into his arms, wrapping him tight.

He finally looks at you. Sharp ocean-teal eyes filled with something tight, something feral.

"You're mine and I'm tired of hiding it," he says simply, voice low. "The world should know now."

Your heart flips. "But I was asleep."

"You look beautiful when you're asleep."

"WHAT IF I DROOLED?!"

"I don't care. I drool too."

You gape.

Rin exhales he kneels beside you, pushing your hair back with soft fingers, then cups your cheek.

"I didn't know how to make it special," he mutters. "I wanted to book a restaurant, but you hate crowded places. I thought about buying you something expensive, but I didn't want to make you feel awkward. So... I did the only thing I could think of."

"Which is announcing me to your millions of followers?"

He nods. "They needed to know. It was always irritating to me that people thought I'm available."

You laugh and throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into the bed with you. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are," you whisper, kissing his jaw. "Thank you. This is already my best birthday ever."

He tightens his arms around you. "It's not over yet."

He kisses you then, desperately. Hands gripping your hips, your waist like you'll disappear. His breath shaky, movements bolder than usual.

And then you pull away, panting slightly. "Rin. Breakfast."

"I'll feed you later," he mumbles against your neck, voice thick. "Just let me hold you first."

He's under the covers now, dragging you close like a possessive cat curling around his favorite thing. His hands slip under your shirt, but not to touch inappropriately— just to feel your skin, like reassurance.

"I hate this day," he confesses against your shoulder.

You frown. "Why?"

"Because people will try to get your attention. Everyone will call. Everyone will want to see you. And I'll have to share."

You smile softly. "You're jealous, even on my birthday?"

He kisses the corner of your lips. "I'm jealous every day."

"I'm not going anywhere, Rin."

"You better not," he warns lightly. "You're mine today. All day. No one else's."

Your phone buzzes again. Rin immediately grabs it, turns it off and throws it to the other end of the bed.

"Rin—!"

"I don't care who it is. You're busy."

"With what?"

He kisses your throat. "Me."

You let out a helpless laugh, trying to push him away despite smiling from ear to ear.

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the familiar, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I love you, Rin."

His eyes soften in a way only you ever get to witness.

"I know."

You roll your eyes.

"That's not what you're supposed to say."

"...I love you too."

The words come awkwardly, almost as if they don't leave his mouth often enough.

But they're real.

He presses one last lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling the blanket over both of you again.

"Happy birthday," he whispers.

You smile against his heartbeat, closing your eyes.

If every birthday for the rest of your life began and ended like this, safe in his arms, loved without hesitation, and treasured so fiercely—

You wouldn't wish for anything else.

[kayuekou]

꩜ ◞ HOW TO GET A NERD ADDICTED (WITHOUT MEANING TO)

Gojō Satoru, the insufferably disciplined chemistry prodigy tries a harmless experiment that spirals into an unexpected habit. At first it's funny but the jokes fade when you realize he only reaches for it after impossible expectations, disappointing grades, and phone calls from home. Without ever asking him to quit, you start using every excuse God has invented to get him to focus elsewhere. Somewhere between replacing a habit and becoming one herself, the line between friendship and dependence simply disappears. First love sometimes feels like withdrawal.

content n warnings ꩜ 8.3k words ， high school au ， friends to lovers ， slowburn ， humor fluff angst in that order ， emotional hurt comfort ， vaping and nicotine YEAAAAAAAA ， recreational nic use ， typical nerd gojo stuff ， they're both stupid your honor ， not proofread AT ALL n trying out a new prose style

ONE: Drip tip.

Three p.m. breeze hits your arms in fitful sways, residual sweat clinging to your skin slowly dissipating with the wind. Like most days, you’re somehow ruining your health one way or another. Aerosol curls inside your mouth and unfurls into the afternoon air, and with no time left in between, you huff in another inhale of the blueberry-flavored liquid. You turn your head and Satoru is already behind you, one hand, with a plastic bag wrapped around his middle finger, is in his pocket, definitely fiddling and circling the lining, one hand balancing a stack of books poorly.

Satoru’s footsteps stop right at your flank and on cue, you exhale out the vapor coating your throat, more aerosol coming into the air. Satoru clicks his tongue almost condescendingly, but after a year of chemistry with him, you’ve realized it’s simply his normal cadence. "You know, every time I see you with that thing, I lose a little respect.”

You lean harder against the metal guardrail bordering the convenience store's small parking lot, loosening your grip on your newly-bought pod. You spent the remaining pocket money you had on a random Tuesday to impulsively buy it off from Shoko. Tokyo had finally remembered it was autumn, and the wind had no mercy for bare legs. Five minutes before sixth period ended, you'd slipped into the bathroom and rolled your skirt another few centimeters anyway. Your chemistry teacher had looked at you over the rim of his glasses when you walked back in—equal parts disappointed and exhausted—but with ten minutes left before the final bell, neither of you had the energy to make it a discussion. A gush of wind hits the exposed skin of your legs once again.

"Good afternoon to you too,” you murmur, looking up at him. You grimace at his hand and its hold of the stacks of books, briefly wondering why the hell he didn’t just shove them in his comically nerdy, comically large backpack he’s had since tenth grade and for some reason refused to get rid of.

You tuck your pod into your palm, hiding the body from yours and Satoru’s eyes, though the tip is still visible. Satoru deadpans,  “You're inhaling chemicals."

"You're inhaling copier toner every time you print your notes at the school co-op,” you shoot back instantly, one restless knee idly slotting itself between the vertical metal railings. Your foot stretches out into the air through the small space and you look at Satoru expectantly, waiting for an answer. Looking at your playfully used leg, he frowns in faux thought.

Satoru balances his books carefully, taking a moment to respond. "...That's different."

"Because?" you query.

"The copier doesn't taste like strawberry,” he responds completely seriously. Satoru’s hand shifts under his books yet again, and you briefly wonder if his constant book holding—at least an hour since you left school—would give him scoliosis or not. Satoru’s eyes drift to your vape. "...What flavor is it?"

You raise both your eyebrows at this. Satoru huffs, setting down his stack of books on the pavement, no mind to how dirty it could be, or how ridiculous it could look. "I thought you hated it."

"I do,” when he retreats back to his standing position, he deadpans.

"So why're you asking?" scanning the plastic bag in his left hand before beckoning it over. Satoru complies, holding it up and you take out the boring vanilla ice cream you had asked him to get for you minutes ago. You tear off the wrapper and shove the ripped bits into your skirt’s pocket—thank god it’s Friday, no matter with dirty skirt pockets.

For all of the one year you’ve known Satoru, you’ve known him as a certified loser. Not necessarily a loser in your sense, you could care less about how he displays himself, you honestly think he’s pretty cool, granted if he’s not talking about gacha probabilities. But Satoru’s of course your typical nerd. No vaping, not a wince of alcohol, no skipping classes. You can commend him for that. "...Scientific curiosity.”

You bite on the top chocolate layer of your ice cream cone, Satoru watching intensely with his normal accidentally judgy eyes. You lick at your cone and the coldness mixes with the minty parts of your pod’s flavor. Realizing what he just said, you snort. "Oh my God,” holding your pod out, you nudge it towards his face, earning you a much bigger scowl from him. "One hit."

"I don't—"

Cutting him off, you tease. "Scared?"

"I'm not scared,” Satoru, holding his ground, crosses his arms, eyes ripping away from the vape to look at your face. You have the smuggest expression he’s ever seen, usually reserved for when you manage to fool him into buying you something at some dessert parlor (Suguru usually tagging along) or when you somehow manage to outsmart him in maths.

You look at him daringly. "Then?”

It takes one, two, then five seconds for Satoru to click his tongue with the smallest hiss, looking everywhere except your little e-cigarette, then finally settling his eyes on it. He takes it with a low grumble, which only strengthens in sound when he sees the smugness on your face not disappearing, instead becoming more apparent. "...Fine.”

He takes the tiniest inhale imaginable. Nothing comes out. You’re quite sure Satoru’s never hit even once in his life, maybe because nobody approaches him with intentions of corrupting him—unlike you—so you understand the amateurish attempt. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop you from snorting. "You inhaled like you're sipping hot soup."

"I did inhale,” he defends, eyes narrowing at you.

"You absolutely didn't,” you shake your head. Before Satoru could even utter a word out, you cut him off again, just as he says I. You reach over, tapping his shoulder, "Breathe in first."

He tries again, vapor filling his throat. Half a second later, you hear the wretched cough resonating deep beneath his lungs. He doubles over and you can’t help yourself from bursting into laughter. You topple over yourself, smile stretching across yourself with glee from the hilarity of his attempt. Satoru glares at you, "Coughing does not—" another cough settles in his throat, "—indicate quality."

"You look pathetic,” you wipe away little tears almost threatening to stream out.

He glares, pointing an accusatory finger at you for god knows what. "My lungs reject mediocrity."

"That's the nerdiest thing you've ever said,” you state, retrieving your pod back and shoving it in the pocket of your skirt. You watch Satoru grab his books and a wave of secondhand pain washes over you. At least the books are tied but how the hell is he going to commute with that thing.

Snapping you out of your sympathy, Satoru comments. "...I have said much nerdier."

The next day, you’re walking back home—with Satoru of course, because after a month of knowing each other you realized that you lived around the same neighborhood and you boarded the exact same train—and absolutely tarnished after your first physics class. You slump down, and absentmindedly, you dig into your pocket to retrieve your vape and you hit it once, letting the vapor settle in your tongue for quite some time before rushing to a place where you can actually exhale.

Satoru, following behind you and eyeing it, points at you meekly. "...Can I try once more?"

You look over your shoulder, finally letting the aerosol out of your mouth. You hand it over without thinking. He takes another hit and still coughs. "Marginal improvement."

"Barely,” you murmur. Silence engulfs you both for a split second, only being cut by the sound of your grin a moment later. "You know what people do?" you grab your vape back from him, a mischievous glint already present in your eyes, "They kiss while passing the smoke."

Satoru’s eyebrows furrow, blinking. "...Wh?" he continues, "that sounds—inefficient."

"It is,” you laugh, near delighted. You already expect him to roll his eyes at your next suggestion and call you an idiot, sixty percent because you’re friends, forty percent because he’s a snob that won’t kiss anyone and hasn’t kissed anyone. "Wanna try?”

Instead, he shrugs. "Okay."

More silence settles between you two and you stare at him with mild confusion. Your hands fiddle with the vape and you debate whether to tuck it back in safely in your jacket or not.  "...Okay?"

"You asked,” yes, you’ve been friends with Gojō Satoru for quite some time. You can’t really deny that you’ve had a small, insignificant crush on him for… maybe four months now, but that’s about it. Satoru is pretty. Infuriatingly pretty, but again, that’s about it. Shoko thinks he’s pretty, Suguru sure as hell thinks he’s pretty with all the homosexual jokes he keeps throwing around at him. But Satoru is Satoru, and you value your friendship more than a romantic relationship with him anyway. You didn’t expect he’d be the type to casually go along with something like that.

"I was kidding,” you glare.

"Oh,” he pauses. "...Do you not want to?"

Your brain completely stalls and you glare at him, nearly like you’re disgusted. "I—" that couldn’t be more the case. You shake your head, trying to find the correct words—especially ones that don’t make you seem either like you’re rejecting him, or way too desperate. "...No—I mean yes—I mean—" you give up, sighing. “I want to.”

Satoru quirks a questioning brow at you, already leaning in. You jump at his motion but you quickly inhale a deep puff of the blueberry vapor, leaning in just as he does. It's soft, quick, barely there, and entirely too stupid for you to actually count as a kiss. Sure as hell was a kiss to Satoru though. You inhaled half of the aerosol in your mouth and transferred it to Satoru’s—you’re not sure if he caught it though at first, but you were proven he did when he started coughing lightly.

When you pull apart, you clear your throat. So."

"So,” you start, picking at the right words, "that was..."

"...A successful experiment?" Satoru shrugs, the joke landing with a casual cadence. You laugh at the absurdity, not minding that you just kissed one of your closest friends at a random whim mere seconds ago. You nod. Capriciously, Satoru adds, "Wanna do another trial?"

You nearly trip and topple over the curve.

TWO: Atomizer.

It’s only a week later, after grueling nights of studying past materials in your first year because you just had to pick physics as an electives not knowing two shits about physics, that you find Satoru by the vending machines with a blue vape, brand new, and certainly from a brand that Shoko usually carries around to deal with. He’s fidgeting with the thing, squatting while a paper is in his lap, looking concentratedly frustrated. Residual school air clings onto you, and you note that you and him are both still near school grounds. Satoru isn’t one to tamper with the reputation of your school and especially himself.

As if on cue to further your awestruck, Satoru takes a hit of the vape—now you can’t trick yourself into thinking that’s someone else’s and he’s just holding onto it for some reason—and you actually stop in your tracks. Who is this person who possessed one of your closest friends?

"...Satoru,” approaching him, you stand directly in his vision, brown loafers in his vision, shadow casting on top of him.

Looking up he gives you an awkward smile, “Oh,  hi.”

"You bought one,” you say quizzically and if you looked close enough, amusedly. You never took Satoru for someone to have some weird fear or missing out, neither did you think he was the type to become addicted after one singular puff. Nevertheless, the thought of the Gojō Satoru, the guy currently representing your school for regionals in a robotics olympiad, casually vaping after trying it the first time a week ago, is deeply funny to you. “Why do you have one—you hated mine."

"I disliked yours,” he corrects like it’s common sense. "This one is mint."

Your eyes drop down from his eyes, down to his vape, down to his notes, those perfectly color-coded and coordinated notes that you sadly rarely see because all he gives you are his ugly in-class notes instead. You squat down beside him, taking his pod and examining it. In retrospect, you feel quite embarrassed that you’re so worked up over something as common as an e-cigarette, and it shouldn’t and doesn’t bother you. "You bought a vape because... yours tastes better?"

"That was one contributing factor,” he simply replies, hand skimming the pages of his binder once more. The high-pitched and annoying chime of the school bell rings from a couple meters away. You sulk. You came out of school grounds with a permit just for a soda and was hoping to get back immediately but you spent it all on talking with Satoru.

"You are unbelievable,” you mutter, turning your body to the vending machine and putting in your money. You punch in the buttons and soon enough, two peach sodas at the top row drops and clacks against the mouth of the vending machine. You take both and throw one at Satoru, opening the other.

"I've been told,” he smiles, catching the can.

Satoru vaping is a funny thing. All your friends have gathered that. After cornering Shoko and asking if her ass had anything to do with it, and her confessing quite transparently, you quietly deduced that Satoru is just trying things out. New bad boy in training. Several realizations have dawned on you since the first time you caught him carelessly (though knowing him, anything but careless, even if it was only meters away from school) holding a blue mint-flavored pod.

Firstly, vaping doesn’t suit him. Not necessarily because he’s bad at it, he’s gotten quite good in the week he’s spent doing it and being extremely open with your usual table at school—Suguru, Shoko, you, him—but because Satoru simply isn’t the type.

Secondly, Satoru doesn’t talk about it. One day, while you’re at some open-air coffee shop that allowed vaping near school, he just pulled it out while the four of you were sat on the table, laughing about how one of your mutual friends got caught reading a book below the table by your history teacher and lied that she wasn’t when it was completely allowed. One hit, then two, he doesn’t even pay attention to how Suguru’s jaw dropped. None of you were used to it but of course, it was funny nonetheless.

The third, you don’t know yet. But you know that it takes embarrassingly little time for everyone to stop reacting.

Now you’re remembering. The first day, Suguru nearly choked on his melon bread when Satoru casually fished the little blue pod from his blazer pocket between classes, earning himself a solid smack to the shoulder from Shoko because, "Quit acting like he's smoking crack." By the third day, the novelty had worn off entirely. Satoru would take one, maybe two drags while waiting for the train, tuck it neatly back into his pocket, then launch into an entirely unrelated explanation of why your physics teacher's grading rubric disproportionately rewarded memorization over understanding. You'd already stopped laughing at the sight by then. Mostly.

"...You look weird with that thing."

Satoru glanced up from the margins of his notebook, pencil still tucked between his fingers. His brows pinched together in genuine confusion, not even bothering to pocket the vape before answering. Coldness touches your fingertips; the coffee shop here is extraordinarily good facilities-wise, but don’t ask about the coffee itself. "How?"

"You look like you're pretending to be cooler than you are," you reply, reaching over to flick the edge of the pod with your finger. It barely budged in his grip. "Which is saying something, because you're the least cool person I know."

"I wasn't aware coolness was measurable,” he closes his notebook with one hand, expression completely level despite the offense you were very obviously trying to inflict. "...What's the unit?"

You open your mouth, only to realize you don’t actually have an answer. After several deeply contemplative seconds spent staring at the ceiling of the classroom, you settled for a shrug. "I don't know. Vibes?"

One afternoon, Suguru plucked the vape straight out of Satoru's hand before he could take another hit. Satoru stopped mid-motion, eyes following the little blue pod now dangling carelessly between Suguru's fingers. There wasn't even annoyance on his face. Just mild inconvenience, like someone had moved a bookmark he'd been about to use. "...Suguru."

"Hm?" Suguru hums innocently, already inspecting the thing like he'd discovered a strange species of insect. He flips it over once, then twice, lips quirking at the pristine condition. At this point, it’s been in his hands for two weeks, and you've seen him use that thing seven times.

"I was using that,” he frowns, sighing when Suguru simply says he noticed. "Give it back."

Suguru lifts his arm higher the second Satoru reaches for it, grin growing wider with every centimeter the vape traveled farther from his reach. You don’t really think you enjoy bullying your friend, and usually Satoru isn’t the butt of the joke, but it’s amusing either way. "Say please."

Satoru sighs through his nose, sounding deeply inconvenienced by the concept of manners. He glanced at you, perhaps hoping for sympathy, only to find you already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. "...I could just take it."

"You could," Suguru agrees. "But that'd be rude."

Silence helps nobody. Eventually, he resigns. "...Please,” the word left his mouth with all the enthusiasm of someone reading terms and conditions aloud. You laughed so violently your peach soda fizzed up the wrong way, coughing into your sleeve while Shoko looked between the three of you like she'd somehow become responsible for an entire kindergarten class.

You doubled over the cafeteria table, nearly spraying peach soda through your nose while Shoko looked equally unimpressed by the exchange. Satoru accepted the vape back with all the dignity of someone collecting a confiscated calculator, brushing invisible dust off the casing before slipping it between his fingers again. "...You all derive an alarming amount of joy from my suffering."

"Mostly yours," Suguru admits.

The funniest part, at least to you, wasn't that Satoru had started vaping. It was how catastrophically academic he'd become about the entire thing. Not nicotine—not once did he ramble about nicotine—but the device itself. You'd make the mistake of asking one harmless question outside the convenience store and suddenly he'd be explaining coil resistance with the same seriousness he used when tutoring you in chemistry, phone already unlocked to some forum full of people arguing over battery capacity.

"...See, disposable pods are significantly less efficient in the long run,” was what he said three weeks into the whole vaping fiasco. You’ve gotten somewhat used to it. But still, like a monkey fussing over a banana, you were still amazed that you somehow made Satoru into someone who owns a vape. "And because the battery output isn't adjustable—" he continues even when you only hum with a nod, "it compromises flavor consistency."

Satoru lowers his phone. "...Are you even listening?"

You tear your attention away from the crow currently losing a fight to a pigeon over an abandoned onigiri wrapper. You weren’t, of course. YOu know you will probably be interrogated by him and asked to repeat what the hell he just said. You lie anyway which earns a sigh. "...Absolutely."

Eventually, curiosity got the better of you.

You caught up to him after school, right as he was stuffing worksheets into the clear folder he insisted kept them "psychologically organized," the vape balanced absentmindedly between two fingers while he worked. You nudged his shoulder with your own, waiting until he'd actually acknowledged your existence before speaking. "...How much did that thing cost?"

Now you’re a little too accustomed to how much Satoru uses the thing. Not enough for it to be concerning of course because vaping is harmless, in most ways. He answers almost immediately, like he'd anticipated the question sometime in the past week and had rehearsed the answer in his head. He names the price plainly, without a hint of shame or hesitation, before going right back to underlining a formula in fluorescent yellow. Your jaw drops.

"You spent that much?" you ask, voice pitching higher than intended. A couple of students from the neighboring table glance over before immediately deciding your conversation isn't worth eavesdropping on. You point accusingly at the vape, then back at him. "On that?"

Satoru explains—well, he says that he got it from a friend—finally looking up from his notes. He says everything with complete sincerity too, as if that singular fact justifies every financial decision he's ever made. Satoru's eyes drift toward the ceiling with the unmistakable expression of someone deciding whether honesty is worth the consequences. His fingers drum absentmindedly against the edge of his notebook once, twice, before he sighs through his nose.

Suguru lets out a bark of laughter loud enough that someone shushes him from across the cafeteria. You bury your face into your folded arms, shoulders shaking with barely contained amusement, while Satoru simply watches the three of you with mild confusion, as though he genuinely doesn't understand what's so ridiculous. Even Shoko looks vaguely offended.

She finally tears her attention away from her phone, blinking at Satoru with the same expression one reserves for people who microwave fish in shared office kitchens. "...I gave her mine for, like, 3,000 yen."

Satoru's brows furrow almost instantly. "...You overcharged her."

"I absolutely did," Shoko replies without a shred of remorse, slipping her phone into her blazer pocket. "Impulse purchase tax."

"You told me market pricing was dynamic,” you murmur.

"It is."

"...So?"

Shoko shrugs, completely unbothered. "...You're my friend."

For a brief moment, Satoru simply looks between the two of you. His eyes land on Shoko. Then on you. Then on the vape sitting innocently beside his notebook, as though it somehow betrayed him too. "...I think I'm being bullied."

"You are," you and Shoko answer in perfect unison.

Suguru doesn't even bother hiding his grin anymore. He reaches across the table to steal one of your fries, shaking his head at Satoru with something almost pitying in his eyes. "Dude," he says between bites, "you somehow got scammed and became a vaper in the same week."

Then you finally get the third point, which makes you light up with joy. You realize it shouldn’t though, the weeks to come.

The third is that Satoru does it after every minor inconvenience that strikes him and not dramatically. You find it amusing, of course, at first. You’ve known how much his family expects of him since forever, and you certainly know how much of a perfectionist he can be. You don’t comment on it most times, but still, after two weeks of watching him take a hit out of the thing every time he gets a ninety-five instead of a hundred, you start noticing patterns.

You find him after a phone call, right at the vending machines near school that have a better array of fruit sodas compared to the perpetually ‘broken’ vending machines inside school. You wave at him and he grants you a wave back, brows furrowing as he listens to whatever it is the person on the other side of the phone is saying. When he eventually hangs up, he immediately reaches into his pocket. Click. Mint. Exhale.

You swat away the cloud that comes up to your face, stopping right in front of him. "...Everything okay?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "My mother."

"...Ah."

Another puff. Satoru turns his face away, making sure the cloud of aerosol doesn’t hit your face. There’s a slump to his shoulders, no doubt, from studying math until his ears bled because of how many dispensations he had during class because of his competitions and olympiads. "She says I should apply somewhere else."

“Aren’t your grades perfect?” you ask, trying to seem harmless, shoving your hands into your pockets, fiddling with a loose string in the lining. Satoru’s eyes briefly land on yours and he takes several seconds to respond to your question, like it’s the stupidest query to have ever been uttered. To be fair, it technically is. It’s rare for you to not know who Gojō Satoru is; plastered in the school halls as a poster boy for the academics guy. It’s unfortunate he’s also attractive.

"They are,” he replies, and automatically, like it’s something that’s simply a given, he adds," they can always be more perfect."

You don’t know what to say after that. You’re sure Satoru’s parents are demanding—you know they are, one of the rare subjects of your talks during second break—judging from the way he laments in the mornings during report card day, but of course you don’t know the extent of it. You have your own share of demands from your parents, but who can’t shoulder measly hopes and dreams from the people who raised you? But Satoru isn’t you and you aren’t Satoru. You awkwardly shift your footing. Then again, it’s Satoru, he’s full of surprises. You ask, helpfully, "...Mint?"

He raises a brow. Holding out the vape, Satoru watches you and expects you to take it. You’ve said that you liked his flavor before. You flail your hand to decline, now thinking of how many times does he really use that damn thing and how many times has he used it since he got it. “Keep it.”

Putting on a smile, you tug at Satoru’s sleeve. “Come back to class, I wanna show you something.”

THREE: Fire button.

Your classroom was freezing today, heavy with the gushes of air from the newly fixed air conditioning. You were shivering at eighteen degrees and sliding your hands inside your jacket, meanwhile your seatmate, Gojō Satoru of course, was leaning into the table, doodling on the margins of his stoichiometry notes. You’ve spent too many hours thinking of Satoru the past few days and you entirely suspect because you’re still too shocked about his newly found second habit of popping his vape out of his pocket to take a hit whenever the timing suits him.

Because suddenly, you realize the difference between him and you. Mostly that every time you use one, it’s purely recreational, just something you do to either seem cool and not completely wreck your lungs like tobacco does, or something you try to attempt cool tricks with aerosol. And yet with Satoru,  it’s something he does every time he gets a bad grade—when he bombed that one quiz, not really, he didn’t even fail he just got a 92 instead of a 100—or when he gets another phone call. A puff.

You don’t say anything about it though. Haven’t said anything about it. Class ends and everyone’s already packing their bags by the time you get snapped out of your day dream. Even if the CCTV cameras were out in your classroom, you know how stupid it is to inhale in your classroom. And yet, you find Satoru already pulling the damn thing out.

You frown. Grabbing his wrist, you tug on him, not enough to hurt, you’re not sure it could even hurt, Satoru’s too strong of a guy, leading him to wherever you please. The FamilyMart right beside your school. "Come on."

"...Where?" Satoru whines, though he doesn’t make an effort to release from your grip.

"Food."

He complains, already slinging his slowly slipping backpack further on his shoulder into a more comfortable position, digging into the blades of his shoulders. You’re a little bit mad to be honest that your school doesn’t open its west gate after school and you have to go around the main gate. It takes too long. "I'm not hungry.”

"I am,” you counter. Crossing the street and tugging at him very violently, he shakes his head at your antics. Arriving at the FamilyMart, you scan the area for a place to sit and when you do, you state: "You owe me."

"I do?" he asks, befuddled.

"You borrowed my calculator,” you say, completely serious, sitting down and settling your bag on the thoroughly loved outdoor sofa, with rips and bits that you’re sure hold as much bacteria as a yoghurt bottle. Satoru snorts and absentmindedly puts the vape away. 

Sluggishly, Satoru follows suit of the motion, setting his bag on the sofa and getting up from his seat when you do, approaching the FamilyMart. You’re hoping for some ice cream—the FamilyMart cone actually, if the machine isn’t broken—or at least something extremely sweet and extremely cold. Eventually, you settle with a milk tea you’ve made far too sugary. Satoru settles with dumplings despite not really being hungry.

Only a minute later after settling down in your seats again, he's looking for it again. Noticing, you slide the milk tea across the table.

"Drink,” you say, not really an offer, just a command that Satoru responds to far better than he should. Satoru eyes you carefully. You offer him lots of things often, but it’s in the nature of friendship to be suspicious of things your friends do.

He questions. "...Why?"

"Because I bought it,” pushing the plastic cup further to his side, you quickly retract it to take a sip of it yourself, brows furrowing as you try to suck in a particularly stubborn tapioca pearl. Sugar reaches all the way to the roof of your mouth and you slide the cup back to him.

"...Okay,” he drinks instead. You watch the vape from your peripheral and a smile laces your face when you see him pocketing the small device back instead of putting it on the table or taking a swig at it the second he swallows your drink.

Eventually, every interaction with Gojō Satoru, the now vaper turns into you coaxing him to do something. Because you realized Satoru needs something to keep him company. Something to keep him occupied so he’s not drowned with his thoughts. "Wanna walk home?" was the go-to you said, because being neighbors was a fun trick, and you always had stories to share to him because of your much enthusiastically social lifestyle. "Library?" is your second go-to because Satoru loves libraries.

You don't know when grabbing his sleeve became instinct. Maybe sometime between the third phone call and the fourth ninety-five. You stop asking if he's hungry. You just start handing him something to do before his hand can disappear into his pocket.

So the next is "I found a café,” which Satoru sees through. Not the trying to get him to stop vaping part, but the secondary part which he thinks is your main motive, which is just really wanting to get sweet stuff and try a bunch of cookies from different coffee shops. And the coffee. "Movie?" after school when he doesn’t have cram school. "Come quiz me,” when physics comes up and you spend fifteen minutes laughing at something abysmally stupid. "Help me with this,” that somehow makes him feel useful.

The one that you always use, technically, every single day when you have class together. "...Sit with me." How can he complain?

He starts saying yes without asking why, you can’t even begin to talk about the delight you feel.

You’re in the middle of the hallway when you find Satoru languidly walking to his next class, a stack of books in hand. You can understand holding a stack of books on the first day of school, but lockers exist and he doesn’t need to be carrying all of those books in the first place. You laugh with a bell-like jingle, raising a judging brow at Satoru’s occupied hands, the little cloud disappearing into the air. Satoru stares. You whip around, a frown tugging at your own mouth as you stare at the top book, your curriculum’s mathematics book. “Why are you carrying those?”

“Because they’re books,” Satoru blinks.

“You own a backpack,” you mutter simply, finger pointing at the heavy-duty backpack slung only over his left shoulder, probably because Satoru with all his intelligence, fully believes slinging the weight of his backpack will balance out his hand. He nods. At that, you frown at him. “So use it.”

“They wrinkle my notes,” he meekly says as if he knows you’re going to burst out laughing the second he utters his words. You don’t, but you scoff at him ridiculously either way, leg kicking microscopic dirt at him. Silence engulfs the two of you for not as much as an uncomfortable time, but enough for you to ponder. You come to his flank and smile, shoving yourself in his vicinity to the point where he flinches, half (fake) disgust and half-shock, “wanna get coffee later?”

“Uh, sure,” he shrugs one shoulder, careful not to upset the impossible equilibrium of books balanced in his arms. Eventually, after a class you don’t take with him, you meet up with the boy in front of the school gates, with you scrolling to your phone desultorily, the last Instagram reel you see being a niche food parlor near a district not far from you. 

When you see him from your peripheral—his shoes, actually, you shove the phone inside your pocket, nodding at him. You begin walking again, matching his pace automatically after months of taking the same route together. The afternoon sun spills through the gates, warming the pavement beneath your loafers. It isn’t until several steps later that your eyes drift toward the pocket of his blazer.

"...You aren’t touching it," you mention, narrowing your eyes at the lack of motion. Usually by 500 meters from school, he’s toying and fidgeting with it inside of his pocket instead of the seams inside, and by 600, he’s pulling it out and finding the nearest place where smoking’s allowed to take a hit.

"Hm?" Satoru hums absentmindedly.

"Your vape,” you slow your steps, feeling something get caught in your shoe. You check to see whatever it was but nothing is there. You frown, hopping on one leg for just a second, almost comedically.

He instinctively reaches towards his pocket before stopping halfway, looking down as if expecting the device to magically appear in his hand. For a second he simply stares at the outline beneath the fabric, brows knitting together with genuine confusion. Then, almost comically, recognition crossed his face. "...Oh—huh,” he hums, "I didn't even notice."

You slow to a stop without really meaning to, watching him more carefully than you had been lately. The blue disposable sat exactly where it always did, tucked neatly into the pocket he'd reached for dozens of times over the past few weeks. Except this time, he'd walked halfway across campus without touching it. Somehow, that tiny difference lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

"...I feel kinda guilty," you admit after a moment.

Satoru looks over. "For?"

You rub the back of your neck, suddenly finding the scuffed toes of your shoes far more interesting than meeting his eyes. It sounds ridiculous now that you actually have to say it aloud. People tried things all the time. Nobody accidentally turns their best friend into a vaper... probably. Whatever Satoru did after you gave him your vape was his choice and even if you made him do it the first time, it’d be stupid for you to be the reason for a guy to suddenly have a nicotine addiction. "I was the one who let you try it," you mutter.

A quiet laugh escaped him. "You think you corrupted me?"

"I mean..." you gesture vaguely toward the pocket where the vape still rested. "Evidence suggests I might've,” you hiss at the constant, sticky whatever it was stuck to the bottom of your shoe, profoundly more interesting than whatever response you or Satoru could conjure up in this conversation. "You bought your own."

"I bought my own," Satoru agrees, "you didn't make me."

The certainty in his voice makes the conversation stall before it could become an argument and you look at him like he just said two plus two equals five. Satoru slips the little blue vape from his pocket at last, though instead of lifting it to his lips like you expected, he simply rolled it lazily between his fingers. The plastic clicks softly beneath his thumb, catching glints of late afternoon sunlight. A cat passes by you and nuzzles at your leg and you resist the urge to pet it. You’re allergic. He watches it spin with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.

"...I think I just wanted something to do," he said quietly. “Something that shut my brain up."

You look at him without answering. There wasn't much to say to that, not when you'd caught glimpses of the phone calls, the perfect grades that somehow still weren't enough, the expectations he carried as naturally as those ridiculous stacks of books. Satoru doesn’t look at you while he speaks. His attention fixes very stubbornly on the vape that he turns slowly between his fingers.

"I mean, lately," he began before stopping. Satoru nudges the cat wedged between your legs, a carefully balanced toe-box caressing the cat’s chin. Or rather, letting the cat caress his shoe. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "I don't really think about it when you're around."

The words land so softly you almost miss them. Satoru continues walking, though still visibly befuddled. You blink once, then again, waiting for him to elaborate, to tell you he'd misspoken or that there was some perfectly logical explanation waiting just around the corner. There isn’t. He simply stood there looking faintly puzzled by his own admission. You catch up to him, looking up at him to do what you do; joke. “Are you confessing to me?” 

Satoru ignores you. "I keep forgetting it,”  Satoru agrees again, more to himself this time, sounding just as confused as you felt. You shift from his face to the untouched vape still resting loosely in his hand before a grin slowly tugs at the corners of your mouth. It was too funny not to say. The next joke arrives before your brain could stop it.

"So..." you began, trying—and failing—to suppress your smile. "I'm nicotine replacement therapy?"

Satoru considers the question with alarming seriousness, his brows drawing together exactly the way they did whenever he was solving a difficult chemistry problem, or when Miyagi-sensei said something stupid in class that made him want to take his glasses out and rip his eyeballs out of his sockets. For a moment you genuinely wonder whether he was going to start listing reasons why the comparison is scientifically inaccurate. Instead, he gives a tiny nod. "...That's one way to put it."

You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "You are impossible."

FOUR: Aerosol.

After that, catastrophe happens. Because everything you do somehow loops back to Satoru, especially in a place where he’s in. You being in his vicinity, at school, at the library, at anywhere, somehow you end up texting him or talking to him.

It starts with the night of that conversation. Satoru calls you an idiot through the phone because you called him on a whim right after you finished showering to ask about chemistry notes for tomorrow. Of course, he eventually put on his camera and with shaky fingers, pointed the extremely bad-quality video call camera to his notes for you to screenshot, not thinking of the much more efficient thing of simply taking a picture of them and sending them to you. Then the next day you start acting like you like him too much, which includes stealing his favorite hoodie, that one that smells too much like his horrible Axe cologne, but mixed with his own scent that you’ve somehow identified from a mile away.

You’re at the cafeteria, yawning as you drag yourself to your regular table. Shoko isn’t here yet, but Suguru is sleepily buried and engrossed in his sociology textbook and devouring a burger you believe his mother packed for lunch. You ought to think it’s because of his notoriously delusional, a little bit crazy sociology teacher who you’re not even sure actually qualifies to teach.

You throw your books to the table, a crisp smack resonating in the air. A couple of people look at you yet Suguru doesn’t even bother to look at you. You momentarily let yourself linger, hands on the table interrogatively. "Where's Gojō?" 

Suguru looks up, finally, but you’re already scurrying to the drinks vendor and buying yourself a bubblegum drink. Following your figure, he gives you a ridiculing expression. "You text him every morning."

"So?"

"So you know exactly where he is,” he says matter-of-factly. When you finally slide into the bench across from him and process his words, the end of your middle finger’s nail digs into the plastic cup from the force of your grip; Suguru tilts a peculiar head at this. This marks the first person to know that there’s something fishy going on between you two.

The first thought Suguru has is how strange your reaction was, of course, you only tighten your grip on something when you’re about to throw things—which normally happens when something agitates you or embarrasses you, it’s a terrible habit. The second thought is why the mention of you texting Gojō Satoru would get you worked up like that when you haven’t had a single bad interaction with him in four months, not counting when he spilled juice on your shirt three weeks ago after school. The third and final thought is that he wouldn’t mind seeing you and his bestest friend as an item—especially because Satoru has morbidly horrible game.

A small, infuriatingly smug smile plasters itself across Suguru’s face. There’s nothing wrong with the expression though, not exaggeratedly smug, so you have absolutely no ground to physically assault him. You instantly understand what his expression hints at and you hiss. “Fuck off."

The second person who notices is of course, Ieiri Shoko, and still at lunch.

Satoru is already sitting at your usual lunch table when you arrive, two cartons of strawberry milk set neatly beside his lunch, and fries he bought before the recess bell to time it perfectly for when they got here. The open air of the cafeteria is making way for very clammy people to  wiggle through small gaps and the humidity of the entirely too heating air to make you withdraw all your sweat. Suguru, is yet again, buried in his notes. You wonder why all the men in your friend group are intensely obsessed with studying while you and Shoko laugh and giggle around like lunatics during lunch. Suguru doesn’t even take the hard subjects, which he always threatens to punch you for if you say that in front of him. He takes social sciences and he just participates in debate and chess competitions.

Your eyes land on Satoru, already opening up his binder. You resist the gagging sound you want to emit when he does, just to piss him off, but you’re more occupied by the carton of strawberry milk. You, distracted, take a single stick of his fry, shoving it in your mouth. “You bought two."

"I know, [Last Name],” he says impassively, “I’m not blind.”

"...Why?" you say, tugging at his binder until it lands to your side of the table. Ssatoru doesn’t even whine for it, the same way when Suguru took his vape, he looks at you like it’s just a minor inconvenience. Somehow, you don’t notice the upwards curve of his lips as you do. Shoko certainly does; biology makes you incredibly keen on minor details.

He shrugs, taking out a physics worksheet tucked inside his binder and occupying himself with that instead. Leering at the piece of paper, you feel a small betrayal as your attempt to bother him fails. "You usually complain about not wanting to buy them.”

“Huh, thanks,” you're halfway through stealing more fries from Satoru's tray when he quietly slides the ketchup toward you before you even ask. You stop as if you’ve been caught red-handed. “I wasn't gonna—"

"You were looking at it,” he responds, staring up at you like he’s revealed your biggest darkest secrets.

Shoko watches the exchange, stealing a piece of his fries herself, taking a generous amount of sauce from the mini sauce place. Satoru glares at her and to that, she cheekily giggles. Though, it’s cut short by her own question, pointing a finger at him casually.“How did you know?"

Satoru doesn't even hesitate. "She taps her thumb twice on the table whenever she's deciding whether to steal my food."

"...I do not,” you frown.

"You do."

Insistently, you repeat. "I don’t."

"...gods,” Shoko looks at you. Then back at Satoru. Then at Suguru. Suguru’s already pinching the bridge of his nose, but the second he finds Shoko’s eyes, he understands exactly what she’s thinking. Because you aren’t subtle at all, and neither is Gojō Satoru of course. “Suguru,” she murmurs, leaning into his shoulder and whispering her next words, “our boy; he’s gone.”

Suguru sighs, “hopeless.” It would be better if Satoru, their best friend, didn’t have the emotional intelligence of a calculator—a scientific calculator, to be more precise.

So then, the third person to realize is you. You’re walking home again, almost exactly where the first time you kissed Satoru, almost near your neighborhood apartment complex. The pavement that nears the main road has been fixed, and it’s no longer as bumpy as it was around a week ago when some kids threw a damn rock at the spot and dented it. The sun is setting and cascading an orangey, pinkish sky, your bones feel like jelly after another day of school. You have a pork bun in your hand, half-chewn, and Satoru’s shoving a candy wrapper in his uniform jacket.

Eyeing him like a hawk, you see Satoru reach into his pocket. He doesn’t realize you’re noticing, and yet he pauses, then looks at the vape. He quietly slides it back into his pocket. You smirk at him teasingly, taking another bite of your pork bun. You take care to calculate just how many bites left for you to leave with the most satisfying bite. "No experiment today?"

"Hm?" he hums, squinting and pushing his glasses up as you approach your street.

"The vape,” you point and at that second, Satoru stops walking. You follow his motion, technically, lack thereof, and gaze at him quizzically.

"...Nah,” he steps closer and you’re forced to look up at him.

You swallow the last remains of the sweet meat in your mouth, suddenly very acutely aware of how Satoru smells; vaguely of sweat, the nice kind, and now citrusy cologne which you can’t deny you like. "Then what?"

A couple moments of silence wedges between you two like some unwanted guest. Though, even if you thought it was extraordinarily awkward and awaiting, it was bearable. Largely due to the fact that you didn’t wanna hear whatever could come out of Satoru’s mouth in a situation like this. And you didn’t want him to say something that would ruin you both.

You didn’t say anything about what he can do though. So instead of answering, he leans down. You curse him for his stupidly lanky frame in your head. Eventually, his lips reach yours and you physically feel the hair on your arms jolt awake, the muscles spasming as they press against yours. It’s longer than the first kiss you shared, and it’s certainly more impulsive. There’s no joke, neither smoke. Just warm lips and a smile he tries—and fails—to hide as if he’s been waiting to do that. When you separate, your face feels hot, and his feels too.

Satoru, of course, tastes like the jelly candy he just swallowed, strawberry coating his tongue. One of the main reasons you hang out with each other so much is because you’re one of the only people who can keep up with his sweet tooth. He once lied straight to your face that it was to mentally stimulate him. You taste like pork bun. It's rather disgusting when you think about it for more than a second.

“What did you do?” you rasp, voice coming out uneven, embarrassment fully draping itself on top of your form.

“Totally didn’t mean to do that,” he stammers out, reaching down to his pocket, tugging at the fabric inside and stretching it to his hand. You know he’s playing with the lining right now. “Sorry.”

You take a step back, laughing into her sleeve because you don’t know what else to do, hopelessly flustered. You take your time to gather yourself. You’ve been close to guys before. You’ve kissed guys before. You still didn’t know what the hell to respond with. “You're an idiot!”

"I've been told,” he agrees, stepping back too, fidgeting with his pocket.

"By me."

He agrees again, nodding. By now, a smile tugs at his face; you aren’t withdrawing, and you certainly aren’t showing any signs of being creeped out. Instead, you’re laughing nervously and looking anywhere but him, and even if Satoru apparently had the emotional intelligence of a—scientific—calculator, he understood from this that you liked him at the very least. "Mostly by you.”

He decides to go for it, "...Can I kiss you again?"

You’re appalled by the question. But the answer isn’t no. You pretend to think about it, shifting your weight from one leg to another. You still refuse to look him in the eye and Satoru is looking at you expectantly, though funnily enough, he can’t look at you either. “Only if you stop making everything sound like a research proposal."

"So that's a yes?" he asks. Giddiness laces the final syllable of his words.

“Go away,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss him first. Again, the disgusting pairing of food mushes in your mouth, and still, you don’t care. Satoru smiles into your lips again. So therefore; the final person to realize what’s been going on between you two probably isn’t Satoru. It could be you.

◟ ㅤ© kayuekou, 2026 𖥻 do not copy, reconstruct, or upload on other platform nor feed my works into generative AI.

notes ꩜ i think everyone knows what types of stories i like writing ugh. sorry 4 not posting for so long. making a longfic and i have school fucking me anal style. um. enjoy. anyway, i have a taglist, i have an ao3. comments and reblogs appreciated. byebye 𖹭

taglist ꩜ @raeraynata ， @tiffi26 ， @teaspecifically ， @v4mpyyb4tzz ， @nightmarenyxx ， @spectranix | typical taglist form

[allroadstobeatopia]

.✦ ݁˖ Is this what I think or is it just me? ⤷ 3 times Megumi Fushiguro made it kinda obvious he likes you (wc 2.2k)

"Oh yea Fushiguro is definitely into you."

Yuji looked over to Nobara for confirmation, to which she nodded without hesitation.

"I don't think so, he's like giving me mixed signals." You thought back to all the times you interacted with Megumi, you were even starting to doubt whether you two were close enough for you to call him that.

"Dude have you not seen how he's always making heart eyes at you? He looks at you like this."

Yuji tried demonstrating by resting his eyes and staring off into the distance but it looked more like he was constipated (Nobaras words not yours.) It took a good five seconds before he finally went back to normal.

(Probably would've went on longer if nobara didn't smack him)

"Hey! What was that for?"

"This is why girls don't like you."

"Are you even popular enough to talk-?"

Now it was your turn to hit them both. "Focus guys, please."

Nobara sighed and turned back to you. She couldn't believe how oblivious you were. "Remember that time we all went to get sushi with Gojo?"

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

After a particularly rough mission, your sensei was kind enough to take the four of you out to get something as a reward. Unfortunately it was pretty late so the only place left was a run down one hidden in the side of an alleyway.

The first sign to get out probably should've been the smell of rust the moment the door opened. But of course Gojo insisted it was okay (it was not).

You ordered a hand roll and sashimi, and Megumi ordered the same. You two shared a look when the food came out, but he reassured that if you took a bite, he would too.

So when the salmon touched your lips, everything was okay-or at least that's what you thought.

The texture was akin to overcooked noodles, way too mushy and exactly how salmon shouldn't taste. Before you knew it, your feet carried you to the bathroom and you were doubling over the toilet in no time.

By the time you got back, everyone was still there except for Megumi, his spot was empty

Apparently he had stepped out when he noticed you were heading towards the bathroom with a hand clamped over your mouth. Minutes later he came back with a bottle of fresh water.

"Drink. I don't trust the water here." He said as he nudged the bottle against your lips.

"Thanks Megu- ah I mean thanks Fushiguro" You lowered your head and took a sip, not noticing the slight tint of red appearing on his face when your fingers brushed.

"Megumi is fine."

You giggled, still ignorant to the stares of your sensei and your two friends, jaws all wide open.

Is Megumi Fushiguro blushing!?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"Well that was only one time!" you snapped out of it and turned back to the present. Well at least now you know he's okay with getting called by his first name.

You turned back to your bickering friends, now that you think about it, it didn't make sense how Yuji and Nobara bicker so much, they basically share the same brain cell.

"One time? No way! Remember when that barista tried hitting on you at the coffee shop?" The pink boy's eyebrow raised up in a hint hint wink wink way and then he tried to actually wink. yikes

"Never do that again. But Itadori has a point. That barista was scared so badly I heard he quit like right after," Nobara added

Was Megumi that scary? He never came off as scary to you though.

"Well yea cause he's like obsessed with you."

Shoot did you say that out loud? anyways..

"I thought the barista got fired cause he made all of our drinks wrong."

"Because Fushiguro scared him half to death!!!"

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

It was the hottest day of the year, summer meant your teacher was able to get the students to have less missions so you had some free time. Currently you were standing next to Megumi after Yuji had screamed for you all when he thought his friend got hit on. A bruise was forming from where Megumi had smacked him, ouch!

Nobara and Gojo had walked off somewhere, you were thinking of going with them to cool off in your dorm until Megumi pointed out there was a coffee shop nearby with decent drinks.

It sounded perfect so you texted all of them to meet you both there.

Naturally, being there early meant you went up to order while Megumi secured a table for the five of you. The line wasn't too long so you were able to get to the front quickly.

Your hand reached for your pocket to pay but the cute barista looked up from writing his number on your cup and told you it was on the house.

"Really? Thanks so much!"

"Yea of course! Hey actually do you have a boyfriend? I think you're really pretty and.." his words trailed off when he noticed dark eyes burning holes into his soul.

"Huh? What's wrong?" You turned around but found nothing except Megumi's normal resting face. He was so focused on stopping you from getting hit on that he didn't even notice his two friends and teacher staring from afar.

They had came in and looked for the two of you before Yuji pointed out where you were at the front.

There was a silence between the three until Nobara spoke up.

"So we all saw that?"

"Yeah." "Definitely."

The three turned back to the situation and noticed the barista still smiling nervously while holding your cups. You noticed it was a bit awkward and chuckled nervously.

"Oh hey they're here! Let's go-"

Say less, Megumi thought and dragged you away.

Moments later the same barista came over with all five drinks, when he noticed the same dark pair of eyes glaring at him, there was a visible nervousness on his face as he gulped.

"Here are your d - drinks, enjoy..!"

The moment he turned to walk away, the barista felt his heart drop when Megumi called out to him.

"Hey dude, these drinks are all wrong."

You leaned over Megumi and took a closer look at the drinks that were set down, the tint on Megumi's face didn't go unnoticed by your friends across from you, your teacher was already giggling.

"Yeah he's right, these aren't what we ordered at all."

The barista mumbled a quick apology and sprinted back to the machines behind the counter. You sighed and sat back down in your seat.

"Well that was weird, hey why are you all looking at me like that?"

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

"Y'know that was kinda hilarious, who knew Megumi could get all flustered like that"

You, Yuji, and Nobara all turned at the new voice joining the conversation. Looks like your sensei Gojo is here, how long has he been standing there?

He took a seat next to Yuji, across from you and Nobara. Seems like he was quite a gossip too, it didn't help when he agreed with your friends that Megumi was definitely down bad for you.

"Once I caught him staring at his phone for 10 minutes after he got a goodnight text with a heart from you."

"Hey I text him that every night!"

"Bingo."

#whatdatmean

At this point you were still in denial, there was no way the guy that's reticent towards others would be doting on you this much.

"Guys Megumi isn't into me, he's just a very good friend, a friend that I see as a friend because he's a close friend of mine and he's just a friend because he's a friend that I really like and-"

oh.

Nobara was smirking at you, "Are you trying to convince us or yourself?

Yuji was about to speak up, but he paused when he noticed a shadowy figure walking past the classroom window. A figure that seems oddly resemblant to his dark haired close friend. The four of you turned towards the window. It wasn't too hard to make out who it was by the spiky hair, for some reason the figure had his collar up.

Now you broke the silence, "Hey when was the last time we saw Megumi with his collar down? Is he not overheating like that?"

Yuji laughed and brushed it off, "He'll be fine, of course you're worried about him."

You felt your face heating up in embarrassment when the others started laughing too, so maybe you did like him. He really was an altruistic person, and a sweetheart especially to you: even if he wasn't great at sharing his feelings.

If only your friends would quit making their points more clear than it already is.

"Hey remember that time he started stuttering at movie night after you started laying on his shoulder?"

Too busy being engrossed in his story telling, Yuji didn't notice the door opening behind and a very irritated fushiguro walking in.

"Hey why'd you guys stop talking-?" SMACK

"Quit talking about me."

Nobara muttered something about stupid boys and going to bed as she walked away. Gojo then suddenly decided annoying Nanami sounded like a great idea and left the room. Yuji said he was heading to shoko because he felt a bump growing where Megumi had smacked him, making it so only the two of you left in the room.

Was this by chance or fate? (Or your friends' evil plan all along? as they snickered outside)

"Did you just get back from a mission? I haven't seen you all day."

Without thinking you had reached out and pulled his collar down, revealing the lower half of his face. He let out a noise of surprise but let it stay down.

Gosh he looked adorable like this.

"Yeah, second grade just outside the city. I picked something up for you too,"

so cute

"That's sweet, walk me back to my dorm Megumi?"

"Oh I- uhm sure"

The walk back was a bit awkward, he was so close next to you he didn't know what to do. His eyes drifted all around the place before finding its spot on your face. It was nice that it was so dark, means it'd be less obvious the fact he was staring.

Though it definitely caught him off guard when he found you already staring at him, lips curled up at corners. He should feel embarrassed, but why did it feel so great when your eyes met out of the blue?

You were feeling happier now, finally listening to the he likes you allegations. You could ask him out right now, it's worth a shot right?

Though you did wanna hear him say the love that he is feeling is true. Maybe you could make plans right now! There's lots of things you could do: go on a picnic, relax at the beach, go out for good quality sushi, there's only so many! And what would your friends say?

"Wow who knew Fushiguro had a heart!!" or "Ugh finally took you too long enough" or-

"We're here."

The sound of Megumi's voice made you jump, you blinked and suddenly the two of you arrived at your dorm, tsk some more time to daydream would've been nice.

"Thanks for walking me back Megumi...wait hey are you free on Tuesday, we could go out? You can pick the place, or I can, whatever you want!"

There was a slight pause until he slowly nodded his head, "Yea...yeah that sounds nice."

"Great! It's a date!"

....

Another awkward silence, geez.

Suddenly Megumi reached in his pocket and pulled out a hair clip-the gift he mentioned earlier. His fingers softly brushed your front pieces to the side as he clipped the little pompompurin onto your hair.

"You look pretty with it."

It took everything inside you not to explode right that instant, if your face wasn't red before it definitely is now. You opened your mouth and thanked him, and just when you thought it couldn't get any better

His finger lifted up and pointed behind you. You turned around expectantly but found nothing, only when you felt a light peck on your cheek did you finally understand.

You giggled, "Megu-" and he was already speed walking down the hall.

"Goodnight Megumi!" you yelled after the faint of his shadow as it disappeared.

You kinda wished you got to kiss him back, but on the bright side your friends were probably right,

Megumi Fushiguro does indeed like you.

Now the only thing left is to do is wonder when he'll officially ask you to be his girlfriend...!

this was so fun to write 🥹🥳 prolly one of my favs out of my pile of drafts !!

sorry if this is ooc!

[torupng]

❝ HOW TO BA(N)G A NERD IN 10 DAYS ❞ .ᐟ ‘ 呪術廻戦 .

゛★ nerd ! satoru gojo is your best friend’s older brother.

# NERDJO AU ⋆ 14k words ⋆ 3 years younger!reader ⋆ not your typical nerdjo ⋆ toru has nipple piercings ⋆ smut, p in v the whole shtick ⋆ reader is a HORNDOG ⋆ side character: lia, gojo’s sister & reader’s best friend ⋆ uni setting ⋆ skip to day 9 if ur just here for the smut you perv ⋆ 18+ MDNI NSFW . art by zeilorene0

HOW TO BA(N)G A NERD IN 10 DAYS

(or: your completely unhinged, totally foolproof plan to make Satoru Gojo fall in love with you and hopefully rail you into next semester)

DAY ONE

You’re not proud of yourself.

Okay, that’s a filthy lie. You’re extremely proud of yourself. The kind of proud that has you smirking at your own reflection in the spoon like a gremlin who just discovered the cheat code to the hottest man alive.

Because you’ve just cooked up the single greatest idea of your horny little life.

It started with a text from Lia—your roommate, your ride-or-die (who you’ve known for less than a year), and the biological sister of the man who has been living rent-free in your ovaries for three straight months.

Lia: do you want to come over this weekend? my brother’s gonna be home and he’s making his famous carbonara. i swear to god it’ll change your life

Your thumbs betrayed you instantly.

You: i’ll be there with bells on

Lia: please don’t actually wear bells i live in an apartment

You: no promises

You sat there, chopsticks frozen halfway to your mouth, and the realization hit you like a freight train made of pure, throbbing lust.

Satoru Gojo.

Fourth-year genetics god. Certified nerd. Unholy levels of hot.

The man who wears wire-rimmed glasses while buried in textbooks but also has fucking nipple piercings. You know this because you’d accidentally walked in on him shirtless that one time and your brain blue-screened so hard you saw the pearly gates. Silver bars through both pink nipples, perfect lean muscle, that stupidly narrow waist, and a happy trail that made your mouth water like a Pavlovian whore.

He’d just looked at you with those glowing blue eyes, raised one eyebrow, and said, “Wrong room, kid.”

Kid.

He called you kid while you were having a religious experience over his pierced tits. Rude. And devastatingly… attractive.

You’d immediately fled, texted Lia YOUR BROTHER IS JACKED AND HAS HIS NIPPLES PIERCED WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!?!?!? and she’d replied lol yeah he works out. it’s the autism.

To which you’d replied ??? and she’d elaborated with: he’s not actually autistic he’s just psychotic about his routines. anyway don’t be weird about it

Too late. You were very weird about it. You’d spent the rest of the night with your hand between your thighs imagining what those pierced nipples would feel like against your tongue.

So here you are at 2 AM, eating sad instant ramen, and you’ve finally accepted the truth: Satoru Gojo is not a normal man. He’s a nerd. And normal flirting bounces right off his beautiful, dense skull.

You need a plan. A filthy, calculated, 10-day siege on that man’s self-control.

You snatch your phone and start hammering into your notes app like a woman possessed (a very horny possession.)

HOW TO BA(n)G A NERD IN 10 DAYS

Step 1: Research

• Find out every single one of his nerdy interests

• Learn what makes his brain (and hopefully his dick) tick

• Memorize his schedule so i can “accidentally” keep appearing in his line of sight

Step 2: Infiltrate

• Become a permanent fixture at Lia’s apartment

• Force him to notice me in increasingly slutty outfits

• Make it impossible for him to ignore the horny roommate-shaped problem in his house

Step 3: Engage

• Talk to him about genetics like i give a fuck (i don’t, i just want to watch his mouth move)

• Drop strategic nerdy compliments that slowly transition into “I want you to bend me over your genetics textbook”

• Deploy feminine wiles at maximum power (respectfully. kinda?)

Step 4: Execute

• Confess (horribly so. who the fuck’s good at confessions??)

• Kiss him

• Let him destroy you in every position known to man (and maybe a few new ones he can genetically engineer)

• ???

• Profit (multiple orgasms)

You lean back, cackling quietly to yourself in the dark kitchen like a madwoman. This was an inexplicably terrible plan.

Ten days. That’s all you need. Ten days to turn Satoru Gojo from “Lia’s hot jacked nerd brother with nipple piercings” to “the man who folds you in half and calls you a good girl while those pierced nipples drag across your skin.”

You swipe out of notes and into messages, fingers already typing out a message to Lia.

You: what time should i come over on saturday

Lia: are you okay ?? since when do you need a timeframe

You: i've never been better. i need one today. now. what time

Lia: idk like 6?? he usually starts cooking around then

You: i'll be there at 5

Lia: why?

You: no reason

Lia: you're going to be weird around my brother again aren't you

You: i'm never weird around your brother

Lia: you literally stood in our kitchen staring at him for 10 minutes last week while he was making a sandwich

You: i was admiring his sandwich making technique

Lia: i don’t think you blinked once

You: that's just how i show respect

Lia: you're going to marry my brother aren't you

You: i'm going to do a lot more than marry him

Lia: ew shut up, i'm telling mom.

You: don't you dare

Lia: i’m afraid she’d love you actually

You: i know. it’s perfect for when she’s watching us walk down the aisle

Lia: you’re insane. like actually crazy

You throw your phone on the bed and grin at the ceiling.

Saturday can't come soon enough.

DAY TWO

You’re not stalking him.

You’re conducting reconnaissance. Big difference. Stalking is creepy. Reconnaissance is strategic, horny, and completely justified when the target has arms like that.

So when you “casually” plant yourself at the library on Thursday afternoon—perfectly positioned with a direct line of sight to the returns desk—it’s not because you memorized his genetics lab schedule (2-4 PM) and know he always swings by here afterward. No, you’re simply a dedicated scholar who loves knowledge.

And penguins. Apparently.

You’ve been pretending to read an article on penguin mating habits for thirty minutes when he finally shows up. Gray henley stretched across that stupidly broad chest, white hair looking like it was styled by sex itself, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose while he carries a textbook that probably weighs more than you do.

Your cunt clenches so hard you nearly drop your phone.

Get it together, you thirsty gremlin.

He returns his books, flashes that devastating smile at the elderly librarian (who actually blushes—same, grandma), and starts to leave. Then he pauses like he’s trying to look for somewhere to sit.

His eyes find you. Mission successful.

And he walks straight over.

“You’re Lia’s friend, right?” His voice is low and smooth, like warm sin sliding down your spine. You want it whispering filthy things against your neck while he’s—jesus, stop.

“Yep… that’s me,” you manage.

“Lia talks about you constantly.” He nods at the empty chair across from you. “Mind if I sit? Got a break before my next class. Need to review some stuff.”

Your brain short-circuits. Your ovaries throw a full-on rave. The logical part of you that still exists is screaming say yes, you idiot.

“Sure,” you squeak. That was not cool. That was the opposite of cool. “Go ahead.”

He doesn’t seem to notice (thank fuck) as he drops into the seat and you catch a hit of his cologne—clean, masculine, expensive. It makes you want to crawl across the table and bury your face in his neck.

“You’re reading about penguins?” he asks, glancing at your book. The one you forgot you even had opened. Penguins pale terribly in comparison to the specimen who just sat across you.

“Uh, yeah. Just… curious.” You’re not even pretending to be normal anymore.

He nods seriously, completely unaware he’s two seconds away from being mentally undressed. Two seconds passed. “Emperor penguins are fascinating. The males can hold their breath for up to twenty minutes underwater. Females lay one egg, then the males incubate it for two months while the females hunt. They huddle together for warmth, rotating positions so no one freezes. It’s actually pretty efficient.”

You’re nodding like you give a damn about penguins when all you can think about is how those long fingers would feel stretching you open, how that deep voice would sound groaning your name while he fucks you slow and deep.

“That’s really sweet,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s evolutionary. Not about being sweet—it’s mostly just survival.”

“Can’t it be both?”

He looks at you then, like he’s studying you, and something flickers behind those ridiculous blue eyes. You wonder if he can tell you’re soaking through your panties just from listening to him talk about bird foreplay. Ugh, you’re pathetically horny.

The conversation shifts easily after that. You tell him your major is undeclared (true) but you’re leaning toward psychology (also true, specifically the psychology of why you want this man to ruin you). He talks about genetics like it’s the hottest thing on earth, and honestly? The passion in his voice is doing more for you than most guys’ entire bodies.

By the time he checks the clock and sighs, you’ve collected vital intelligence:

Favorite color is a very specific sky blue (you’re already planning outfits).

Morning person (disgusting, but you’d wake up at 5 AM if it meant getting him to screw you eventually).

Thinks The Expanse is the best show ever (you’re downloading it tonight).

Has a rigid morning routine and gets genuinely cranky if it’s disrupted (noted—do not fuck with his routine until he’s addicted to waking up next to you).

Looks even better up close. Unfairly so. The kind of hot that makes you want to climb him in public.

“I should head out,” he says, gathering his stuff. “But it was nice talking to you. You’re not nearly as annoying as Lia described.”

He’s grinning. Teasing. That smile should be illegal.

“I’m telling her you said that,” you shoot back.

“Please don’t. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Too late. Phone’s already out.”

“Damn.” He laughs, low and warm, and your brain immediately files it under sounds to masturbate to later.

He stands up and you let yourself stare as he walks away—those long legs, that perfect ass, the way his shoulders fill out the henley. You want to sink your teeth into his back while he fucks you from behind. You want to watch those pierced nipples tighten when you ride him. You want him to lose that calm, nerdy composure and absolutely wreck you.

You’re in deep.

So fucking deep it’s embarrassing.

DAY THREE

You’re lying on Lia’s floor in her childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling and trying (and failing) not to think about the fact that Satoru Gojo is sleeping just down the hall.

It’s Friday night. You’d texted Lia I’m bored, come over and she’d hit you with I’m at my parents’ house? so you’d immediately replied cool I’ll come there like a completely normal, non-desperate person. Now here you are, in the Gojo family home, wearing tiny sleep shorts and a thin tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide how your nipples are already perked up just from knowing he’s nearby.

Lia is sprawled on her bed, scrolling on her phone. “So,” she says without looking up, “you gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been extra unhinged all week.”

“I’m always unhinged.”

“Weirder than usual. You got all slutted up to go to the library yesterday. You hate the library.”

“I was expanding my horizons.”

“You were stalking my brother.”

You sit up so fast you almost concuss yourself on her bed frame. “I was not stalking him.”

“Uh-huh.” She gives you a flat look. “So you just happened to be at the exact table with the perfect view of the returns desk where he always goes?”

“It’s a public library. Lots of people study there.”

“And you just happened to be wearing lip gloss and a low-cut top?”

You deflate. “Fine. Maybe I was strategically positioning myself. It’s not stalking, it’s… tactical thirst.”

“Tactical thirst,” Lia repeats, deadpan. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug. “I want him to notice me, okay?”

Lia puts her phone down. “Why? Because you want to bang him?”

“I don’t just want to bang him,” you protest.

“Oh? So you want to date him? Marry him? Have his kids?”

Your brain immediately supplies a vivid image of Satoru behind you, big hands gripping your hips, those long fingers digging in while he fucks you deep and growls about breeding you. You squeeze your thighs together.

“…Maybe eventually,” you mutter.

Lia starts laughing so hard she nearly rolls off the bed. “Oh my god. You’re actually down bad. You want to date my brother.”

“Is that so weird?”

“Yes! He’s the biggest nerd on planet Earth. He has a beaker collection. He watches hour-long documentaries for fun. He once spent an entire dinner arguing with Dad about the ethics of gene editing.”

“That sounds hot, actually.”

“You have issues.”

“I have a crush. Big difference.”

Lia sits up, suddenly serious. “Look, I love him, but he’s… a lot. He hyperfixates. He forgets to eat when he’s in research mode. He’s obsessive about his routines. He’s not exactly easy boyfriend material.”

“Maybe not for most people.” You grin. “But I like the weird. I like how passionate he gets when he talks. I like that he’s smart as hell. And I really like that he’s jacked.”

“Okay, that part is fair,” Lia admits. “He’s got an insane body. I hate saying it because he’s my brother, but yeah… he works out like a maniac.”

“I know. I’ve seen it.”

Lia’s eyes widen. “Have you seen him shirtless?”

Your face burns. “Lia—”

“That’s a yes. When?!”

“It was an accident! I opened the wrong door in the dorms when i was trying to get to yours and he was changing. Shirt off. Just… standing there.”

“And?”

You bite your lip. “I saw them… the piercings.”

Lia loses it again, cackling like a hyena. “You saw his nip piercings and now you’re feral. That explains everything. No wonder you’re trying to move in.”

“I’m not obsessed—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“Name three reasons you want him that aren’t the piercings.”

You pause. “He’s smart. He’s really tall. And he has huge hands. Like… long fingers. You know what those could do—”

“OKAY STOP!” Lia slaps her hands over her ears. “I get it. You want to bang my brother. Congratulations, you’re the first girl who’s ever shown genuine interest after realizing how weird he is.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously. A couple girls have tried, but they bail when they realize he’d rather talk DNA than make out.”

“Their loss,” you say, already imagining pushing him against a wall and shutting him up with your mouth on his.

Lia sighs. “If you’re really doing this, you’re gonna need my help. He’s dense as hell when it comes to flirting. You’re going to have to be obvious. Like, ‘I like you please marry me ’ obvious.”

“I can do obvious.”

“You’re going to be so weird about this, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

She groans but smiles. “Fine. I’m in. Let’s make a plan before you embarrass both of us.”

You launch yourself onto her bed and tackle her in a hug. “You’re the best.”

“I know. Now stop fantasizing about my brother while you’re in my room, you whore.”

Too late. You already are.

Hours pass and you can’t sleep.

Lia passed out an hour ago, snoring softly with her phone still glowing on her chest. But you’re wide awake, mind racing with dirty strategies and the knowledge that Satoru is sleeping just down the hall. Shirtless, probably. Maybe in nothing but those ridiculous novelty boxers he seems to own.

Your throat is dry. Your brain is horny. So you slip out of Lia’s room in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts that could double as underwear because of how little they hide anything, tiptoeing toward the kitchen like a woman on a mission for water… and maybe a glimpse of the nerd who’s been ruining your sleep.

The house is dark except for the soft glow of the fridge light when you round the corner.

And there he is.

Satoru Gojo, standing in front of the open refrigerator in low-slung gray sweatpants and no shirt, the silver bars through his nipples catching the light like a fucking invitation to grope him. His hair is messy from sleep, glasses nowhere in sight, and the way those sweatpants hang on his hips shouldn’t even be allowed.

He’s reaching for something on the top shelf, back muscles flexing, that narrow waist tapering into the most biteable ass you’ve ever seen.

Your brain short-circuits so violently you make a small, embarrassing noise that was supposed to be you clearing your throat.

He turns, blue eyes landing on you instantly.

“Oh. Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep. It goes straight between your legs. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

You try to play it cool. You really do. But your eyes keep dropping to his pierced nipples, then lower, following the faint happy trail disappearing into those sweatpants. You can see the outline of his dick through the fabric and your mouth actually waters.

“Water,” you croak. “Just… needed water.”

He steps aside, gesturing lazily at the fridge. “Help yourself.”

You move past him, hyper-aware of how close he is. His body heat. That clean, masculine scent. The way his arm brushes yours when you reach for a bottle.

You turn around too fast and suddenly you’re chest-to-chest with him. Well, chest-to-stomach. He’s so fucking tall.

“Sorry—” you start, but the word dies when you look up and realize he’s staring down at you.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says quietly.

You glance down. The oversized tee has some faded genetics pun on it. You stole it from Lia’s laundry pile earlier without realizing.

“Shit. I didn’t— I can change—”

“Looks better on you,” he murmurs, and the low timbre of his voice makes your nipples tighten against the fabric.

Your brain supplies a very vivid image of him bending you over the kitchen island, yanking your shorts down, and fucking you until you can’t remember your own name. Those big hands gripping your hips. Those pierced nipples dragging against your back while he rails you from behind.

You swallow hard.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

He leans in just a fraction, eyes dark. For one electric second you think he might kiss you.

Then he straightens up, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Night, Lia’s friend.”

No no no no don’t go… you were having such a good time just staring at him.

“I have a name, you know,” you blurt out and you’re not sure where that came from.

He pauses, turns to face you with that subtle smile on his face—the one that does terrible things to you.

“I know.”

He walks out, sweatpants riding low enough that you get a perfect view of the dimples at the base of his spine.

You stand there clutching your water bottle like a lifeline, thighs pressed together, heart hammering.

Yeah.

This sleepover is definitely a sleepover. And you are so screwed.

DAY FOUR

You wake up stupidly early—barely past 6 AM—because your bladder has no respect for your sleepover plans. The house is dead quiet. Lia is still snoring softly on the bed. You slip out from under the blanket in your shorts and his shirt, hair messy, eyes half-closed, and shuffle down the hall toward the bathroom.

You push the door open without knocking (big mistake) and freeze.

Satoru is already in there.

Fresh out of the shower.

A towel slung dangerously low around his hips, water still dripping down his bare chest. Those silver nipple piercings catch the light like fucking bait. His white hair is wet and pushed back, glasses off, and the steam in the air makes everything feel way too intimate.

Your brain short-circuits so hard you can hear the dial-up tone.

He turns his head, blue eyes meeting yours in the mirror. For a second he looks surprised, then that lazy, amused smirk slides onto his face.

“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. “Didn’t know I had company this early.”

You’re standing there like an idiot, thighs pressed together, suddenly very aware that your nipples are visible through your thin shirt and your shorts are barely covering anything. Your gaze keeps betraying you—dropping to the defined lines of his abs, the sharp V disappearing under the towel, the way the fabric clings to his hips.

You want to drop to your knees right here on the bathroom tile and see what’s under that towel. You want to tug on those pierced nipples with your teeth while he fucks your throat. You want him to bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror while he ruins you.

Instead you squeak out, “Sorry— I didn’t— I’ll just—”

You start backing up but he chuckles, low and warm, and reaches for his toothbrush like this is completely normal.

“You’re fine. I’m almost done.” He glances at you again, eyes flicking down your body for half a second before returning to the mirror. “Sleep well?”

Your face is burning. Your down there is throbbing. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. You?”

“Same.” He starts brushing his teeth, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s mostly naked and you’re two feet away looking like you want to devour him. “You sticking around today?”

“Uh-huh.” You can’t stop staring at the water droplet sliding down his chest, right toward one of those fucking piercings. “Dinner. Carbonara.”

He rinses his mouth, turns around fully, and now you’re getting the full frontal view—broad shoulders, lean muscle, happy trail, and that towel that looks like it’s one deep breath away from falling.

“Good,” he says simply. “See you then.”

He steps past you in the doorway, close enough that his bare arm brushes yours and you catch the clean scent of his body wash. Your knees nearly give out.

He disappears down the hall toward his room, leaving you standing there like a horny statue.

You close the bathroom door behind you, lock it, and immediately lean against it, pressing your thighs together.

Holy fuck.

You’re never going to survive ten days if every morning starts like this.

Later that morning, after you’ve (barely) recovered and Lia has woken up, the two of you are sprawled across her bed with snacks, turning this into full war council mode.

You and Lia spend most of Saturday morning working on what you’re calling “Operation Bag and Bang the Nerd.”

“Well, first we need to figure out what he likes,” Lia says, scrolling through her phone. “He’s got a lot of interests.”

“I already know some of them. Genetics, The Expanse, the gym…”

“Okay, but you need specifics. What kind of genetics? Favorite episode? Gym routine?”

You shrug helplessly.

“Exactly. Research time.” She pulls up a document titled Satoru Intel like the unhinged best friend she is. “I’ve been collecting this for years. It’s a little creepy but extremely useful. I do it for my parents too.”

“You’re a good sister.”

“I’m the best. Okay—population genetics, especially the genetics of blue eyes for his thesis. Favorite He’s a big fan of those self help books, has a bunch. Gym at 6 AM sharp every day.”

“6 AM? Gross.”

“Right? But it means he crashes early. Evenings are prime territory for you.”

“Can I just… come over whenever?”

“Obviously. But you need to make him want you around. He’s not exactly Mr. Social.”

“So I make him want to spend time with me.”

“Bingo.”

“How?”

“Pretend to be interested in his research.”

“I am interested. I want him to explain it while I sit on his lap.”

Lia snorts. “Then ask him about his thesis. Let him nerd out. That’s the fastest way to his heart.”

You grin. “And his dick?”

She smacks your shoulder and you giggle shamelessly, “gross, woman!”

“Also, get physically close. He’s oblivious as hell. Touch his arm. Sit right next to him. Brush against him. Wear something slutty.”

“Revealing clothing?”

“Obviously. He’s dense but he’s not blind. Weaponize the tits.”

“Already planning on it.”

“And be patient,” she warns. “He’s not going to fold overnight.”

“Ten days,” you say, dead serious. “I’m getting him in ten days.”

Lia raises an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”

“I’m an ambitious slut.”

She laughs and holds out her hand. “Ten days. Starting now.”

You shake it. “Oh, I’m on day four already.”

“What?!—“ she blurts out, confused as hell. “You think you can do this in six days?”

“Just trust me, okay. I have my ways.”

Lia shrugs and lets out a chuckle, “alright then. If it doesn’t work you owe me coffee every day for a whole month.”

“That’s not fair!”

“You were so confident a second ago?”

“Fine... you’ll see.”

“One day you’re gonna get that ego checked.”

“Not today.”

You’re already mentally picking out your outfit for dinner—something tight, low-cut, and guaranteed to make those blue eyes linger.

After this morning’s bathroom encounter, you have a feeling he’s at the very least noticed your sexual appeal. You just need to keep pushing.

DAY FIVE

You spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready.

Four outfit changes, two complete hair redos, and so much makeup reapplication that you’re starting to look like a different person which you start to hate and then remove entirely and settle on mascara and lipgloss. You settle on pants that make your ass look great and a tight black top with a plunging neckline (per Lia’s very helpful suggestion).

Your phone buzzes as you’re leaving the dorm.

Lia: are you coming or what

You: omw

Lia: good bc satoru is already cooking and if you miss his carbonara i will personally end you

You: you’d fight me for missing pasta??

Lia: it’s that good

You: fair

The second you step into the Gojo house the smell of carbonara hits you like heaven. Creamy, garlicky, sinful. Lia lets you in with a wicked little grin.

“He’s in a good mood,” she whispers. “Thesis breakthrough. He’s feeling generous.”

“Perfect timing.”

“Just… don’t be too obvious. He gets weird about it.”

“I’ll be subtle.”

“You’ve never been subtle in your life.”

“I’ll be my version of subtle.”

“That’s what terrifies me.”

You walk into the kitchen and there he is—Satoru Gojo in a “Kiss the Cook” apron, looking unfairly domestic and hot as hell. The apron strings are tied around that stupidly narrow waist, and you immediately picture untying them with your teeth.

“Hey, Lia’s friend,” he says.

“Hey, Lia’s brother,” you fire back.

He glances up with a smirk. “Satoru. You can call me Satoru.”

“You know my name and you still call me Lia’s friend.”

“Good point.” He stirs the pasta, muscles flexing under the apron. “Staying for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. I made enough for a small army. Lia always invites strays.”

“I do not,” Lia protests.

“You literally just did.”

The carbonara is obscene—rich, silky, perfectly cheesy. You moan around your first bite and don’t even care how it sounds. Satoru’s eyes flick to your mouth for a second.

“Holy shit,” you say. “This is better than sex.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “High praise.”

You spend the rest of dinner complimenting him shamelessly and then steering the conversation to his thesis. The second you ask about the genetics of blue eyes, his whole face lights up. He launches into a passionate ramble about OCA2, HERC2, melanin production, and ancient mutations while his hands gesture wildly.

You don’t understand half of it, but you’re riveted anyway—mostly because watching him get excited makes you want to climb him like a tree and ride him while he keeps talking nerd shit in your ear.

“Most people zone out when I talk about this,” he admits at the end, looking almost shy.

“Nope. I could listen to you talk about genetics all night.”

He blinks, then gives you a real, soft smile. “You’re weird.”

“Good weird, I hope.”

“Very good weird.”

Lia watches the whole exchange like a proud mother.

After dinner she claps her hands. “Movie time. The Expanse. Season one, episode one. No skipping.”

Satoru perks up immediately. “You haven’t seen it?” he asks you.

“Nope.”

“We’re fixing that right now.”

The carbonara plates are cleared and dropped into the sink, compliments thoroughly given, and the three of you migrate to the living room. Satoru takes his usual spot on the big sectional couch while Lia claims the armchair so you two can sit together. You deliberately sit right next to him instead of leaving a polite gap—close enough that your thigh almost brushes his.

He doesn’t comment on it. Just queues up The Expanse and starts explaining the premise, talking with his hands the way he always does when he’s excited. You watch him more than the screen.

Lia lasts about twenty minutes before she fakes the world’s most obvious yawn.

“God, I’m wiped. All that science talk drained me. You two keep going—I’m tapping out early.” She shoots you a quick little smirk behind Satoru’s back and vanishes down the hallway before either of you can protest.

Now it’s just the two of you.

The episode plays on, but you’re barely paying attention to the plot. You’re too busy watching Satoru’s face light up every time something interesting happens on screen. He keeps pausing to explain details—Belter culture, the physics of space travel, the political tensions—and you find yourself actually leaning in, not just because you want his hands on you, but because the way he gets lost in it is weirdly endearing. Cute, even. This giant, jacked nerd with nip piercings rambling about fictional solar system politics like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

It’s hot. And sort of adorable.

You shift closer under the pretense of getting comfortable, letting your shoulder press against his. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he relaxes a little, arm stretching along the back of the couch behind you.

“So the Belters,” you say, genuinely curious, “they’re basically space miners who got screwed by Earth and Mars, right? That whole ‘we were born in space, you were born with gravity’ thing?”

His eyes flick to you, surprised you actually seem into this. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s this whole class and resource struggle layered on top of incredible sci-fi worldbuilding. Most shows would make it black and white, but this one actually shows how everyone’s kind of right and kind of wrong at the same time.”

You nod, letting your knee rest against his thigh now—body slightly tilted towards his on the couch. “That’s cool. I like when stories don’t treat the audience like idiots.”

He turns his head to look at you properly. Those ridiculous blue eyes are softer in the dim TV light. “Most people just nod and wait for me to shut up when I start explaining stuff like this.”

“I’d like to think I’m not most people.” You tilt your head, letting your shoulder settle more firmly against his chest—he stiffens for a second before relaxing, letting out a soft breath he thought you wouldn’t notice. “Keep going. What happens after that scene?”

He launches back into it, voice dropping into that low, enthusiastic register that does terrible things to your insides. You listen, asking real questions, but your mind keeps wandering to filthier places—imagining that mouth against your neck while he explains genetics, those long fingers sliding under your top, pinning you down while he rambles about melanin between thrusts.

At one point he laughs at something on screen and the sound vibrates through his chest into your shoulder. You have to press your thighs together.

“You’re actually paying attention,” he says after a while, sounding almost impressed. There’s a flirty little edge to his voice now, playful. It’s so hot and so distracting. “Most girls pretend to be interested for about five minutes before they start checking their phones.”

“I am interested,” you say honestly. “It’s well-written. And I like how passionate you get about it. It’s… cute.”

The second the word leaves your mouth his eyebrows shoot up. “Cute?”

“Shut up. You heard me.” You nudge his side with your elbow, but you don’t pull away. If anything you sink in closer, letting your head tilt toward his shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head, nerd.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “I’ll think about it.” His arm shifts slightly behind you—not quite around you, but close enough that his fingers could brush your arm if he wanted. “You’re weird, you know that?”

You look up at him through your lashes. “You’ve mentioned, but weird how?”

“You listen. Ask surprisingly good questions. Wear tops like that.” His gaze drops to your cleavage for half a second before flicking back to your face, a little guilty, a little heated. SCORE!! He noticed your tits this is going beautifully. “And you smell really good. It’s distracting.”

Your pulse spikes. Heat pools low in your stomach. You want to straddle him right here on the couch and see how fast that nerdy composure cracks. Instead you smirk.

“Good. I like distracting you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind those eyes. Then he turns back to the TV, but his arm settles more deliberately along the back of the couch, fingers lightly grazing your shoulder.

The episode keeps playing. You keep leaning into him. And for the first time, it feels like he’s actually seeing you—not just as Lia’s friend, but as something a lot more interesting.

You’re still going to fuck his brains out the second you get the chance.

But damn if the nerdy rambling isn’t growing on you too.

DAY SIX

You wake up at 5:30 in the morning like a masochist.

Your phone alarm is blaring. Your body is begging for mercy. But you drag yourself out of bed anyway because the mission demands it.

Satoru Gojo works out at 6 AM sharp every single day. And today, you’re going to “coincidentally” be there too.

You spend way too long picking an outfit: black leggings that hug your ass, a matching padded sports bra that gives excellent lift and cleavage, and a loose tank top that keeps slipping off one shoulder. Your ponytail is artfully messy. You look like the kind of girl who lives at the gym.

In reality, the last time you ran was to catch the bus in high-school.

You walk into the gym at 5:55 AM and immediately spot him.

Shirtless.

On the bench press.

Holy fuck. You might be here every day from now on if it means getting front row seats to him in all of his glory.

Sweat is already glistening across his broad chest and down those ridiculous abs. His arms flex with every rep, veins popping out, and those silver nipple piercings catch the harsh lights like they’re kindly asking you to stare. You nearly walk straight into a weight rack.

He racks the bar and sits up, towel around his neck, catching sight of you.

“You?” He blinks, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

You try to sound casual. “Working out. New fitness journey and all that.”

“Since when?” He wipes sweat from his forehead, muscles shifting in a way that should be illegal before breakfast.

“Uh… since recently. I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming a morning person.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused by your new goal. “You told me two days ago you hate mornings.”

“I’m evolving,” you deadpan. “It’s a process but hey, I managed to get out of bed and come here. Good progress.”

He nods, studying you for a second, eyes drifting down your body—leggings, sports bra, the way your tank top clings to your skin—before flicking back to your face. “Alright. Treadmills are over there if you’re running. Good view of the TVs.”

“Thanks.”

You climb onto a treadmill and start at a light jog, trying not to look like a complete and utter fraud. Your heart is already racing and it has nothing to do with the speed—okay it has some to do with the speed.

A couple minutes later he appears beside your machine, still beautifully shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder.

“Your form’s off,” he says without preamble.

“My what?”

“You’re heel-striking. It’s gonna wreck your knees long-term.” He steps onto the side rail of the treadmill. “Can I fix it?”

“Please.” You slow the treadmill to a stop and stand there with your heart beating against your chest as he reaches down and taps your ankle, guiding your foot placement. His fingers are warm and firm against your skin through the thin legging material. You clench involuntarily.

“Land on the ball of your foot,” he instructs, voice low. “Like this.”

Then his hands move to your hips, adjusting your posture with gentle pressure. He’s so close you can smell his sweat mixed with that clean cologne, feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. Your brain floods with vivid images: those big hands gripping your hips harder while he fucks you from behind, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours. Maybe those biceps putting you in a chokehold. You have to snap yourself out of it before you forget where you are.

“Lean forward just a little,” he murmurs, right next to your ear. “Not too much. There… yeah. That’s it.”

Fuck, you’re pretty sure you’re soaking through your leggings.

“Better?” he asks, stepping back but not far.

“Much better,” you manage, voice a little breathless. “Thanks, Satoru.”

“No problem.” He gives you that crooked, flirty smirk. “Always happy to help pretty girls with their form.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Pretty girls?”

He shrugs, casual, but there’s a spark in those blue eyes. “What? You look good. The outfit works. Just… don’t push too hard if you’re new to this. I don’t want you sore tomorrow.”

Too late, pretty boy. I’m already sore in all the right places.

“I can handle it,” you say, turning up the speed a notch. “But if I die, you’re carrying me home.”

He laughs—low, warm, genuine—and the sound shoots straight down in between your legs. “Deal. I’ll spot you on the weights after if you want.”

You spend the rest of your (very short) workout stealing glances at him. Watching him load plates onto the bar, muscles bulging, sweat dripping down that perfect V-line into his shorts. You want to lick the sweat off his chest. You want to see how sensitive those nips are. You want him to pin you against the mirror and fuck the “morning person” energy right out of you. Or into you. Whatever, potato potahto.

But underneath all the raging lust, you’re also weirdly into how focused and disciplined he is. The way he tracks his reps, the quiet intensity on his face—it’s hot. And impressive.

When you finally step off the treadmill on shaky legs, he wanders over again, handing you a spare towel.

“Not bad for a new morning person,” he teases.

“You watching? High praise from the 6 AM regular.”

He lingers for a second, eyes flicking over you again. “Making sure you don’t fall over and hurt yourself. You coming back tomorrow?”

“Maybe. If my legs don’t fall off.”

“I’ll be here.” He gives you one last slow smile. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Hard to when I’m basically a resident at Lia’s.”

You watch him chuckle and walk back to the weights, that glorious back and shoulders on full display, and feel a rush of triumph mixed with pure, aching want.

Day six is a huge success. You’re sweaty, exhausted, and hornier than ever. But he noticed you. He touched you. God you’ll be thinking about that all day.

DAY SEVEN

You’re at the Gojo family home again. At this point you basically live here. Lia has started making jokes about charging you rent, and you’re starting to worry she’s only half-kidding.

You’re sprawled on the couch with her, pretending to watch some trashy reality show while mostly scrolling on your phone, when Satoru walks in from the hallway looking annoyingly good in just a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats.

“I’m making coffee,” he announces casually. “Anyone want some?”

“I’ll take one,” Lia says lazily.

“I’m good, thanks,” you reply.

He nods and disappears into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returns with two mugs. He hands one to Lia, then turns to you and holds out the second.

“I made you one anyway.”

You blink. “I said I was good.”

“I know.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “But it’s got hazelnut creamer. You mentioned you like it that one time.”

You freeze mid-reach.

He remembered. Not just that you drink coffee, but the specific creamer you like. From a passing comment days ago.

You take the mug, fingers brushing his, and feel a stupid little flutter in your chest. “Thanks. That’s… pretty thoughtful.”

“It’s just coffee,” he says, but there’s a small, pleased smirk playing on his lips.

“It’s not just coffee. It’s thoughtful coffee.”

He leans against the doorway, studying you with those oh so pretty blue eyes. “I pay attention to things. Especially people. I like figuring out what makes them tick.”

Your pulse kicks up. You take a sip to hide how much that affects you. The hazelnut is perfect.

“And what makes me tick?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

He holds your gaze for a long moment. “Still working on that one. But I’m getting there.”

Then he pushes off the doorframe and heads back toward his room, leaving you staring after him like an idiot.

The second he’s out of earshot, Lia whips around on the couch, eyes wide.

“Oh my god.”

“Shut up.”

“He’s so into you.”

“He’s not. He was just… being nice.”

Lia snorts so hard she nearly chokes on her coffee. “Nice? My brother doesn’t do ‘nice’ like that. He forgot my birthday three years in a row. He barely remembers to make himself coffee most days. But he made you one with your favorite creamer? Unprompted?”

You look down at the mug in your hands, the steam still curling up sweetly. “Maybe he’s just trying to be a good host.”

“Please. He doesn’t give a shit about being a good host. Half the time he ignores people who come over. But he remembered your creamer preference and brought it to you anyway?” She pokes your arm. “That’s practically a confession for him.”

You laugh, but your face feels hot. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right. And the way he looked at you when he said he’s ‘figuring you out’? That was flirty as hell.”

You shift on the couch, thighs pressing together as your mind immediately goes to images of him figuring you out in much more hands-on ways—those long fingers between your legs while he murmurs nerdy observations about what makes you tick.

“He does have a habit of paying attention to details,” you admit.

“Exactly. And right now all his attention is on you.” Lia grins excitedly. “Operation Bag and Bang is working. My brother wants you.”

You take another sip of the perfect hazelnut coffee, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the drink.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe he really is starting to like you back.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re not only in this for the filthy fantasies anymore. The way he listens when you talk, the way he remembers little things, the look he gets in his eyes when he looks at you… it’s doing something stupid to you. Makes your heart flutter, makes you blush like a lovesick girl.

Doesn’t mean you aren’t going to still absolutely fuck him senseless the second you get the chance, though.

DAY EIGHT

You’re in Satoru’s room.

His room.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, physics notes, textbooks, and crumpled practice problems scattered everywhere. He’s leaning against the headboard looking unfairly hot in a loose black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, glasses perched on his nose as he flips through your messy notes.

You’d asked him yesterday to help you study because you’re genuinely shit at physics and the test is in two days and you’re sure you’re going to flunk. He’d agreed immediately, telling you to bring everything over. You told Lia and she encouraged you and said she’ll leave the house so you two can be alone (best wingwoman and best friend ever btw) Now here you are—surrounded by his nerd clutter of books, beakers, and posters—trying (and horribly failing) to focus while the sexual tension threatens to burn the room down.

“Alright, pay attention,” he says, voice casual but firm as he taps your paper. “This free body diagram is still fucked. You keep forgetting the normal force direction. If you do this on the test you’re gonna lose a ton of points.”

You nod, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest, the faint outline of those nipple piercings visible through the fabric. You want to push him back on this bed and ride him until he forgets every equation he’s ever learned. Maybe you’ll make him solve some while he’s buried inside you just to see him struggle. God you’re getting horny just thinking about it. That’s until he rudely interrupts your fantasies.

“Hey.” He snaps his fingers lightly in front of your face, smirking. “Focus. This test actually matters. I’m not letting you bomb it because you’re too busy staring at me.”

“Sorry,” you say, not sorry at all. “You’re distracting.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it. We’re staying here until you can do these problems without thinking.” He scoots closer, large muscular thigh pressing firmly against yours as he leans in to redraw the diagram. His arm brushes your chest and you have to bite your lip. “See? The force arrow goes this way. Not that way. Mess this up on the real test and you’re pretty much screwed.”

You try again. He checks your work, nodding when it’s better but immediately pointing out the next mistake.

“Better, but still not perfect. Come on, you’re smarter than this. I know you are.” His tone is light, but there’s real concern underneath it. And fuck if that doesn’t turn you on because what the hell’s hotter than a dude actually caring? “I don’t want you stressing out the night before because you half-assed it. Let’s do the next one.”

The tension is unbearable. Every time he leans in to correct something, his knee stays glued to yours. Every explanation comes with casual touches—his fingers brushing your hand when he passes the pen, his shoulder pressed against yours, his breath warm against your ear as he talks through equilibrium problems. You swear he’s doing it on purpose just to torture you.

You keep getting distracted by your uncontrollable filthy thoughts—his hands gripping your hips, that deep voice in your ear explaining exactly how he wants you to move while he fucks you.

“Focus,” he says again, gently flicking your forehead. “I’m serious. This shit builds on itself. If you don’t get the fundamentals now you’re gonna be fucked for the rest of the semester.”

“You’re really invested in my grade, huh?” you tease, shifting so your thigh slides more firmly against his.

“Yeah, I am.” He looks at you directly. “I like when people actually learn stuff. Especially you. So stop looking at my tits and solve the damn problem.”

You laugh but actually try this time. When you get it right he gives you a pleased little smirk and ruffles your hair.

“There we go. See? You’ve got this. Just need to stop getting distracted by how hot your tutor is.”

“Impossible,” you mutter.

He chuckles, low and warm, but immediately dives back into the next concept. “Torque next. This one trips a lot of people up. Pay attention— I’m not explaining it three times.”

You spend the next couple hours like that: bodies pressed close on his bed, heavy tension crackling between every word, while he stays surprisingly focused on making sure you actually understand the material. He’s casual and flirty, throwing in teasing comments and lingering touches, but he never lets you derail the session for too long.

“Last set,” he says eventually, handing you more practice problems. “Nail these and I’ll be impressed. And maybe… reward you somehow.” His eyes drag slowly down your body before flicking back up, heated. Holy shit. Is he implying what you think he’s implying? “But only if you actually get a decent grade. Deal?”

You swallow, already thinking about everything. “Deal.”

He leans back against the headboard, arm stretched behind you, fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt while you work. The concern for your success is weirdly attractive—mixed with all that casual confidence and the constant undercurrent of want.

You’re definitely passing this test.

And you’re definitely going to fuck your tutor senseless the second it’s over.

DAY NINE

(except it’s actually day eleven because the last two days were just non-stop tutoring and you finally crushed that physics test)

You don’t mean to confess.

It just slips out.

It’s late. The house is quiet. Lia passed out on the couch an hour ago, and Satoru suggested the two of you keep watching The Expanse in the living room. Now you’re alone with him on the big sectional, sitting so close your thighs are pressed together and your shoulders keep brushing.

The show is on, but neither of you is really watching anymore.

Your heart is hammering. His hand rests on the cushion between you, fingers twitching like they want to close the last inch of space between yours and his. The tension has been building for days—those long study sessions where he’d scold you to focus while his eyes lingered on your mouth and legs.

“So,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “I got my physics grade back today.”

He turns his head, blue eyes sparkling with interest. “And?”

You smirk. “A solid B+. Would’ve been an A if someone hadn’t kept distracting me with his hands and voice the whole time.”

Satoru lets out a low laugh, but there’s heat in it. “Told you to focus. I take my tutoring duties seriously.”

“You also promised me a reward if I did well.” You shift closer, letting your hand rest on his thigh. “I did well, Satoru.”

His breath catches. The tension snaps tighter. He looks down at your hand, then back up at your face, eyes darker now.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” His voice is rougher. “What kind of reward were you thinking?”

You lean in until your lips are inches from his. “I think you know exactly what kind I want. I think you’ve known for a while now. Unless you’re just… super dense. Which Lia told me you are, but I think you’re smarter than that.”

He swallows hard. The air between you feels electric. “You’re really not subtle anymore, huh?”

“Nope. I’ve been trying to be subtle for a while now.” Your fingers trace slow circles on his thigh, teasingly high. “So… about that reward.”

He exhales sharply, hand finally moving to cover yours, squeezing. “You’re killing me here.”

“Good.” You tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw. “Because I’ve been dying for days. Sitting in your room, letting you play teacher while all I could think about was climbing onto your lap and shutting you up with my mouth.”

His grip on your hand tightens. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. That’s the idea.”

He turns fully toward you, free hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. The show is completely forgotten. “You really want this?”

“I’ve wanted this since I walked in on you shirtless that first time.” Your voice drops and you bite your lip. “Since I saw those piercings. You’re gonna need to tell me the story behind those someday. Preferably after I’ve had them in my mouth.”

His eyes flare and he chuckles nervously—breathlessly. The tension is so thick it’s suffocating in the best way. He’s breathing harder now, thumb stroking your neck.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he mutters. “Trying to make sure you actually passed that test instead of just thinking about bending you over my desk every time you leaned over your notes.”

You grin against his mouth. “And now?”

“Now?” He leans in, lips hovering just above yours. “Now I’m thinking about collecting on that reward too.”

You close the distance first.

The kiss starts hungry—three months of built-up tension exploding all at once. His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding against yours as he pulls you closer. You moan into it, and he swallows the sound greedily, hand sliding into your hair.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard.

“Well,” he says, voice hoarse, “that was a long time coming.”

“Too long.” You nip at his bottom lip. “And we’re nowhere near done. I still want my full reward, tutor.”

He laughs, low and filthy, forehead resting against yours. “Greedy.”

“You have no idea.”

He kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, hands roaming your sides like he’s been dying to touch you. The living room feels too small, too public, but neither of you cares enough to stop.

Satoru pulls back from the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. “We can’t do this here,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “Parents are upstairs. Lia’s literally passed out on the couch. If anyone hears—”

“Then take me to your room,” you whisper against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. “Now, please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He stands up, grabs your hand, and practically drags you down the hallway, both of you moving as quietly as possible. The second his bedroom door clicks shut behind you, he pushes you up against it, kissing you hard again. This time there’s no hesitation—his hands roam down your sides, gripping your ass as he grinds against you.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groans quietly against your neck. “You have no idea how many times I had to stop myself from bending you over my desk during those study sessions.”

You laugh breathlessly, hands already sliding under his shirt like you’ve imagined a thousand times over the course of the past ten days. “Then stop stalling and show me, nerd.”

He tugs your shirt off first, then his own, and there they are—those perfect, lean pecs with the silver bars through both pink nipples, already hard from the cool air and the tension. You stare like a woman starved.

“God, I’ve been so fucking obsessed with these,” you admit, running your palms over his chest, thumbs brushing right over the piercings.

Satoru hisses sharply, hips jerking against you while his abs clench abruptly. “Sensitive— fuck— they’ve been extra sensitive since I got them done.”

“That’s to my advantage.” You push him back toward the bed, watching him sit on the edge as you climb onto his lap. “I’ve honestly wanted to play with them for months.”

You lean down and drag your tongue over one pierced nipple, flicking the bar lightly. Satoru’s head falls back with a choked groan, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, teeth digging into his fingers.

“Shit— easy,” he hisses, voice strained. “Parents are right upstairs. You’re gonna get us caught.”

You smirk and suck the other nipple into your mouth, tugging gently on the piercing with your teeth. His cock twitches hard against your thigh through his sweatpants.

“Fuck, you’re so evil,” he pants, trying to sound cocky but sounding wrecked instead. “I’m trying to be all cool and collected here and you’re— ah— sucking on my tits like you’re trying to milk me.”

“I wish i could,” you murmur, switching sides and rolling the other bar between your fingers while you lick and suck. His chest is flushed, nipples puffy and oversensitive from the attention. Every tug and flick makes him shudder underneath you. “They’re so pretty. Look at how they get all hard for me.”

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he groans, chest heaving, biting his fist to stay quiet. His face is so red he’s hard to recognize. You’ve never seen him lose his composure this hard but damn if you’re not getting off on it. “I’m supposed to be the one ruining you, not the other way around.”

You grind down on the very obvious bulge in his sweatpants, still lavishing attention on his chest. “Who says we can’t do both?”

He finally snaps, flipping you onto your back on the bed with surprising strength. He hovers over you, sweat dripping down his chest, hair messy. “My turn. Shorts off, baby… please.”

You obey, shimmying out of your shorts and panties while he kicks off his sweatpants. His cock springs free—long, thick, and already leaking. You gasp—audibly so—at the sheer size of him. You knew he was big because you’d seen him in those sinful grey sweats but you never could picture it in your head. But now it’s right here… fuck, you’re soaking. You reach for it but he catches your wrist.

“Not yet,” he says, voice cocky but with that nervous edge underneath. “I’ve spent too many nights jerking off thinking about this. I’m not rushing it.”

He kisses down your body, mouth hot and eager, but you pull him back up by his hair. “You’ve jerked off to me?” You ask breathlessly, a little cocky smile on your lips. “I’m flattered.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes right at you, licking his lips. “Don’t act like you haven’t done the same, pervert.”

“Never acted like anything.”

“Good.” He’s about to go down on you, his lips finding your neck and then gradually moving lower but you can’t help but want to toy with his nips again. Your fingers gently coax him up to your face again by his hair and he groans. “C’mon…gimme’ a chance to make you feel good.”

“No. I want these again.” You cup his chest, thumbs circling his swollen nipples. “They’re so fucking sensitive. Look at you—shaking just from me playing with them.”

Satoru buries his face in your neck to muffle a moan as you pinch and tug on the bars. “You’re— fuck— such a brat. I’m trying to be a good tutor-turned-lover here and you’re using my piercings against me.”

You laugh softly and lick over one again, sucking harder while your hand strokes his cock slowly. “They’re pretty much mine now. I’ve earned them after all that studying.”

He shudders, hips bucking into your fist. “Yeah? Then keep earning them. Just— quiet, baby. I swear if my mom hears us I’m so dead.”

You keep teasing his chest relentlessly—licking, sucking, tugging on the piercings while your hand works his cock in long, slow strokes. He’s panting into your shoulder, trying so hard to stay quiet, occasionally letting out these choked little whimpers whenever you twist the bars just right or squeeze him a little tighter on the upstroke.

“God, you’re so hard,” you whisper. “All this from me playing with your tits?”

“Shut up,” he groans, embarrassed but clearly loving it. “They’ve always been sensitive but you’re making it so much worse. Or better. Fuck, I don’t know anymore.”

You push him onto his back again and straddle him, rubbing your soaked pussy along his length while you continue lavishing attention on his chest. He grips your hips hard, biting his lip bloody trying to stay silent.

“You gonna fuck me now, sir?” you tease, grinding down. “Or do I need to keep playing with these until you beg?”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “Don’t—don’t call me that, it does things to me,” he groans, cock twitching against you. “Come here— I need to be inside you before I lose my mind.”

He reaches over to his nightstand, grabs a condom with trembling hands (still nerdy enough to be prepared), and rolls it on. Then he pulls you down onto him in one slow, deep thrust.

Both of you moan—his muffled against your shoulder, yours against his neck.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “So tight. Been thinking about this for days.”

“Try three months,” you groaned into his neck, breathing heavily. You start riding him slowly, still playing with his oversensitive nipples, tugging and rolling the bars while you bounce on his cock. Every time you pinch them he thrusts up harder, trying desperately to stay quiet.

“Quiet, Satoru,” you tease breathlessly, echoing his earlier words. “Wouldn’t want your parents knowing their genius son is getting his pierced nips played with while he fucks his sister’s best friend.”

He groans, hips snapping up. “You’re evil. Absolutely evil. I’m never— shit— gonna recover from this.”

You don’t let him recover. You keep the pace torturously slow and deep, spoiling his chest with attention while the pleasure builds and builds for both of you. His cock fills you perfectly, stretching you with every downward grind. The room is thick with the sound of skin on skin and muffled breathing and held back moans.

Satoru’s hands slide up your waist and cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples with deliberate pressure. He’s not gentle about it—pinching and rolling them between his fingers while he thrusts up to meet you.

“Fuck, these are perfect,” he mutters, voice low and rough. His eyes are dark, needy, but there’s that cocky edge as he watches your face. “Been wanting to get my hands on them since you kept leaning over my notes in that tank top.”

You moan softly and he immediately covers your mouth with one hand, the other still tugging on your nipple.

“Shh,” he whispers, a little smirk playing on his lips even as his hips snap up harder. “Parents are literally right upstairs. You want to get caught, hmm?”

You shake your head, but the way he’s playing with your tits makes it hard to stay quiet. You lean down and take one of his pierced nipples into your mouth again, sucking hard while you roll your hips.

He groans into your hair, the sound needy and broken. “God— you’re like an addict.”

You pull off with a wet pop, still riding him slow and deep. “Why’d you get them pierced?” you ask breathlessly, fingers tracing the silver bars. “They’re so sensitive. Was it for pleasure purposes?”

Satoru’s hands tighten on your hips, guiding you faster for a few strokes before he forces himself to slow down again. Dominant and needy all at once. “Got them after I lost a bet in second year. Didn’t realize how fucking sensitive they’d make me.” He thrusts up sharply, making you gasp. “Now every time you touch them it’s like they’re wired to my dick. It’s torture. I fucking love it.”

You clench around him at that, riding him a little harder. “What about your cock?” you tease, voice low. “Ever think about getting that pierced too?”

He laughs, the sound shaky and turned on. One hand leaves your hip to slap your ass lightly—playful, teasing—before gripping it again and pulling you down with a soft whine. “Thought about it. A lot, actually. Prince Albert maybe. But I chickened out. Figured I’d rather have someone else decide if they want to decorate it.” His eyes lock on yours, needy but cocky. “You offering to help pick one out?”

You moan at the image, grinding down harder. “Maybe.”

His hands are back on your tits, squeezing and playing while he fucks up into you with controlled, deep thrusts. He’s the perfect switch—letting you ride and tease him one second, then taking over the pace the next, pulling you down onto his cock like he owns your pussy.

“What about you?” he asks, voice husky as he pinches both your nipples at once causing you to moan. “You ever think about getting these pierced?”

You arch into his touch, riding him faster now. “Thought about it. Especially after I saw yours. Thought it’d be hot to have you play with them the way I play with yours.”

Satoru groans, the sound muffled against your shoulder as he buries his face there. “Fuck, don’t say shit like that while I’m inside you. I’m trying not to lose it.” He flips you suddenly—smooth, easy—putting you on your back without pulling out. He hooks your legs over his arms and starts fucking you deep and steady, eyes locked on yours.

“I’d love it,” he admits, voice rough and needy again as he leans down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. “Love watching you get all sensitive and shaky for me. Love marking you up.” He bites gently, then soothes it with his tongue. “We could match.”

You’re close—both of you are—but he keeps the pace deliberate, drawing it out. His mouth moves between your tits while he fucks you, occasionally lifting his head to kiss you hard, swallowing your moans.

“You feel so good,” he pants against your lips. “This is insane… I’m so into you.”

You tug on his nipple piercings again and he shudders, stomach clenching and hips stuttering. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna come,” he warns, but he doesn’t stop you. He just fucks you harder, switching between needy groans and cocky little comments.

“Yeah? Gonna come from me playing with your tits while I ride your cock?” you whisper.

“Shut up, you brat,” he laughs breathlessly as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and keeps pounding into you. “You’re gonna come first. That’s an order from your tutor.”

He keeps you right on the edge—slowing down when you get too close, speeding up when you beg, all while his mouth and hands stay on your tits and his cock stays buried deep inside you. Every thrust drags his cock against that perfect spot inside you, but he’s not letting you race to the finish. He’s controlling the pace—slow and grinding one moment, sharp and punishing the next.

His mouth is on your tits again, sucking one nipple while his fingers pinch and tug the other. You’re arching up into him, one hand fisted in his white hair, the other still toying with his nipples.

“Fuck— pull harder,” he groans against your chest, voice muffled but needy. “Yeah, like that. God, you’re gonna make me lose it.”

You yank on his hair and he moans, hips stuttering. At the same time you scratch your nails down his back—hard enough to leave marks. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that makes his cock twitch inside you.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, doing it again. “You like that? You little masochist.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy but still cocky. “Yeah. I like it when you mark me up. Pull my hair, scratch me, bite me— fuck, I’m into all of it.”

You laugh softly and bite his shoulder, then suck a mark right next to it. “So the nerd’s a little pain slut, huh?”

“Shut up,” he laughs breathlessly, thrusting harder to shut you up. “You’re the one obsessed with my chest. I’ve been edging you for ten minutes and you’re still playing with my nips.”

He suddenly pulls out completely. You whine at the loss and he smirks, kneeling between your spread thighs. He takes his cock in one hand and slaps it against your soaked pussy—wet, obscene sounds filling the room as the head smacks your clit, your folds, dragging through your slick.

“Look at this mess,” he murmurs, voice low and dominant again. “Dripping all over my cock. You were so cocky earlier about your reward. Where’s that energy now?”

You reach down and spread yourself open for him. “Still cocky. Just desperate. Put it back in.”

He slaps his cock against your clit again, harder this time, then rubs the head up and down your slit without pushing inside. “Ask nicely.”

“Satoru—”

He pushes just the tip in, then pulls out again, teasing. “Nuh-uh. Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”

You glare up at him, pouting. “I want you to stop being a tease and fuck me properly. Or I’m gonna flip us and ride you with my hands on your tits until you’re the one begging.”

He chuckles, low and filthy, and finally sinks back into you in one smooth thrust. “There she is, atta-girl.”

He fucks you harder now, one hand braced by your head, the other sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.

“Been thinking about this every night after tutoring,” he admits between thrusts, voice rough. “You leaning over my desk in those shorts, asking me about torque while I was imagining bending you over it. You have no idea how many times I had to adjust myself because you kept playing with your hair and biting your lip.”

You moan and pull his hair again, making him curse. “I knew. Why do you think I kept doing it?”

“So mean,” he pants, but he’s grinning. He pulls out again, flips you onto your stomach, and yanks your hips up. Doggy this time—deeper, rougher, nastier and so fucking hot. One hand grips your hip while the other reaches around to play with your pussy, two fingers rubbing your clit while his cock slides back in. He lifts one arm and pulls you upward so his chest’s pressing right up against your back. He puts you in a chokehold, bicep against your jaw as he leans in to nibble on your ears.

“Touch your tits for me,” he orders, voice strained. “Play with them while I fuck you. I wanna hear you.”

You do as he says, pinching your own nipples while he pounds into you from behind. Every time you clench around him he groans and fucks harder. When you start getting too close—thighs shaking, moans getting louder—he slows down dramatically, almost stopping, just grinding deep and circling your clit lazily.

“Not yet,” he whispers against your ear, chest pressed to your back. “I’m not done with you. I edged myself for hours thinking about you. Turnabout’s fair play.”

You whimper into his arm, hands coming up to grab onto it for support while he fucks you so torturously slow from behind. “Satoru, please—”

He bites the back of your shoulder, then soothes it with his tongue. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.”

“Please let me come. I’ll be good. I’ll stop teasing your nipples— for five minutes.”

He laughs, the sound warm and wrecked, and starts fucking you properly again. “Five whole minutes? That’s generous of you.”

He keeps you right on the edge for what feels like forever—changing angles, pulling out to slap his cock against your cunt again, fingering you open while you’re empty, then slamming back in. Every time you get close he eases off, kissing your spine, murmuring filthy praise.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he says, voice husky. “All desperate and dripping. My smart girl who aced her test and now can’t even form sentences because my cock’s inside her.”

You reach back and scratch down his thigh, then up to his ass. “And you’re the one who gets hard from having your hair pulled and your back scratched.”

“That makes us a perfect match,” he agrees, flipping you onto your back again so he can see your face. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and folds you in half, fucking you deep and slow while his thumb circles your clit.

“Come for me,” he finally says, voice cracking with need. “I’ve got you, baby. Come for this nerd.”

You do—hard. so hard it’s life changing—clenching around him with a muffled cry into his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck and fingers tightening in his hair. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he comes with a low, broken groan followed by a few shorter ones. Your insides grow warm with the weight of his load-filled condom.

For a long moment neither of you moves, just breathing hard, sweat-slick and tangled.

Satoru lifts his head, hair messy, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked out but still smug.

“So,” he chuckles breathlessly, voice hoarse. “Same time tomorrow for round two? I still have more physics notes to go over.”

You laugh weakly and tug his hair one more time. “Only if you let me play with your tits again.”

“Deal,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and sweet. “Brat.”

“Pain whore.”

He grins against your mouth. “Sure, but I’m your pain whore.”

DAY TEN

You wake up tangled around Satoru like you’re trying to fuse with him.

Legs hooked around his waist. One arm slung across his chest. Face buried in the warm curve of his neck, breathing him in—skin, faint sweat, that clean scent that still makes your brain lag. Your other hand rests on his narrow waist, thumb brushing the sharp cut of his hip bone, resisting the urge to slip underneath his pants and squeeze that gorgeous ass.

Holy fuck. You actually fucked Satoru.

And it was filthy. Perfect. The kind of night that ruins you for anyone else. The way he’d switched between pinning you down and letting you play with his oversensitive nips until he was shaking. The way he’d edged you for what felt like hours, cocky and needy at the same time. You’re sore in all the right places and already thinking about round… whatever number you’re on now.

You squeeze your thighs around him tighter, pressing your body closer. God, you’re obsessed with how he feels. All that lean muscle, the way his skin is stupidly soft over hard lines, the little shivers he gives when you accidentally brush his piercings.

Satoru stirs, letting out a low, sleepy groan. His arm tightens around your back, hand sliding down to palm your ass possessively.

“Morning, clingy,” he mumbles, voice rough from sleep. “You gonna let me breathe anytime soon?”

“No,” you answer without hesitation, lips brushing his neck. “I earned this. Ten days of plotting and I finally got the nerd in bed. I’m collecting my trophy.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. One hand comes up to scratch lazily at your scalp. “Trophy, huh? That what I am now?”

“Yep. Property of me.” You drag your nails lightly down his back, right over the very obvious scratches you left last night. “These marks are cute, by the way. Very ‘I got banged’ esque.”

Satoru hisses softly but presses into your touch. “You’re such a shit. I told you my back was sensitive and you still went crazy on it.”

“Ehh.. you liked it.” You nip at his neck, then soothe it with your tongue. “You liked it so much you almost came just from me tugging your hair and playing with your piercings.”

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s a grin in his voice. He shifts his hips, letting you feel that he’s already half-hard against your thigh. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop sucking on them. Thought you were gonna give me a hickey on my fucking nipple.”

You laugh quietly and flick one of the bars with your thumb, making him twitch. “They’re too pretty not to. I’ve been obsessed with these things since the first time I saw them. Still can’t believe you let some random person stab metal through them.”

“Regret nothing,” he says casually. His hand slides between your bodies, cupping one of your tits and lazily playing with your nipple. “Especially not after last night. You were real into it.”

You hum happily and press closer, face still tucked into his neck. “Best decision of my life. The sex was insane. You’re surprisingly flexible for a nerd.”

“Surprisingly?” He squeezes your ass. “Rude. I’ll have you know I’m very coordinated.”

“Yeah, yeah. Big talk from the guy who almost dropped me when we switched positions.”

He snorts. “That was your fault. You started playing with the piercings again and my brain shorted out.”

You smile against his skin, inhaling him again. The realization hits you somewhere deep in your chest when his fingers card through your hair—this isn’t just about how hot he is or how good the sex was. You actually like him. Him. The rambling, the routines, the way he remembers stupid little things, the way he looks at you like you’re entertaining as hell even when you’re being annoying.

You’re catching real feelings. You’re definitely going to marry this guy.

“Ten days,” you murmur. “Took me ten days to get you here.”

Satoru’s hand strokes down your spine. “Took me about three to realize I was screwed. You kept showing up everywhere looking like that and asking me questions about my thesis. You sure knew the way to my heart.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, eyes half-lidded, that lazy smirk on his face. He looks stupidly good in the morning light.

“You’re not mad I basically stalked you into liking me?” you ask, half-teasing.

“Nah.” He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy. “Worked out pretty well for me.”

You settle back against his neck, legs still locked around him, arms holding him close. “Good. Because I’m not moving for at least another hour.”

“Fine by me,” he says, voice already drifting back toward sleep. His hand keeps stroking your back in lazy circles. “Just don’t fall asleep with your hand on my nipple again. Last night you almost twisted it off when you came.”

You giggle softly. “No promises.”

He squeezes your ass in warning, but he’s smiling.

You stay wrapped around him for a while longer, trading lazy kisses and occasional teasing touches, until your stomach starts growling loud enough for both of you to hear it.

Satoru huffs a laugh against your hair. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” you admit, finally untangling your legs from around his waist. “We did burn a lot of calories last night.”

He smirks, sitting up and stretching. The morning light hits the scratches you left down his back and the faint hickeys on his neck and chest. You didn’t exactly do a great job hiding them. Neither did he—there’s a very obvious bite mark on your shoulder and bruises on your hips that ache in a weirdly pleasuring way.

You both throw on clothes quickly—him in fresh sweatpants and a t-shirt, you in one of his hoodies that swallows you and a pair of his huge sweats you had to tie really tightly because they kept falling.

As you’re about to head out the door, you pause.

“So…” you say casually, leaning against his doorframe. “What are we doing here? Like, are we actually a thing now? Or do we just keep doing… whatever this is and see where it goes?”

Satoru turns, one eyebrow raised. He looks a little rumpled and stupidly hot. “I mean, I’m down to make it official. If you want. I’m not really into the casual thing if it’s with you.”

You nod, keeping it light. “Yeah. Same. Boyfriend, then?”

He grins, walking over to pull you in for a quick kiss. “Boyfriend. Sounds good.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

The conversation ends as easily as it started. Wow. It really is that easy huh.

You head downstairs together.

The second you step into the kitchen, it’s immediate. His mom is at the counter cutting fruit. His dad is scrolling on his phone at the table. Lia is already stuffing her face with toast.

All three of them look up at the exact same time.

The silence is deafening. Terribly so. You want to sink into the ground.

You’re pretty sure the bite mark on your neck is visible even with the hoodie. Satoru has fresh scratches peeking out from under his collar and his hair is doing that freshly-fucked thing. You both tried to look normal. You failed miserably.

Lia’s eyes flick between the two of you, then she smirks around her toast like she just won the lottery. She doesn’t say anything—just goes back to chewing with this shit-eating grin.

His mom raises an eyebrow. His dad just stares for a second before clearing his throat.

Satoru, cool as ever, walks straight to the coffee machine like nothing’s weird.

“Morning,” he says casually, grabbing two mugs. “Oh yeah, we’re dating now, by the way.”

He says it like he’s announcing the weather. Like he’s making small talk. Like he didn’t just announce a relationship.

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide. Wait—right now? Just like that? You were still processing the conversation upstairs and now he’s dropping it on his entire family like it’s no big deal. Your face heats up but… you don’t really mind though. It’s very… him.

Lia snorts so hard she has to set her toast down. His mom pauses mid-slice, then just nods slowly like she’s processing. His dad blinks twice.

“…Since when?” his mom finally asks, fighting a smile.

“Since last night,” Satoru answers, pouring coffee like this is the most normal conversation in the world. “Pass the hazelnut creamer?”

You stand there awkwardly for a second, still a little stunned he just launched it like that, before grabbing a piece of toast and sitting down quickly. You take a big bite to give yourself something to do.

His dad clears his throat again. “Congrats. Try to keep it down next time. The walls aren’t that thick.”

You nearly choke on your toast. You start coughing hard, face flushing bright red as you reach for water. The memories of last night—moaning into Satoru’s shoulder, him telling you to stay quiet, the headboard—flash through your head at full volume.

Satoru just smirks like that didn’t even fucking faze him at all, sliding the creamer your way like nothing happened. “Noted.”

Lia is openly grinning at you now, kicking your foot under the table. His mom is pretending to be very focused on the fruit again, but her shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

You’re mortified. His dad heard you?! THE WHOLE—

“Relax,” Satoru chuckles like it’s no biggie as he slides in next to you, arm resting on the back of your chair as he hands you your coffee.

“I told you be quiet,” he teases, whispering against your ear like he was sharing some sort of secret. Which technically he is—but now they all know so is it really a fucking secret????He lets out a low groan followed by a laugh when you jab at his side with your elbow, your mouth stuffed with said toast because you’ve been trying not to choke it down.

But despite it all, sitting here in his oversized hoodie, with your crush who’s now your boyfriend and having dinner with his family like he didn’t just fuck your brains out for hours last night, you can’t help but grin through the embarrassment.

This family is never going to let either of you live this down.

But… that’s not too bad, is it?

Because the plan worked and in the span of ten days (technically eleven but that’s not the point), you’ve managed to bang and bag the nerd you’ve been pining after for three months.

well that was fun and took ridiculously long to write this is my longest fic yet but yk what hell yeah. consider this a 1k special because i can’t get anything else out on time LMFAO. i will be continuing this as a mini series that isn’t really a series it’s just oneshots of this gojo x reader and some drabbles and shit idk anyway yeah i hope u guys enjoyed this !!! took me pretty much two days to write and i was writing like nonstop LOL <3 !! side note i had to do so much stupid ass research abt blue eyes and fucking genetics for this shit i am SICK

tag list : @limitlesweets @haniipie @white-camellia-kois @xhslvt @neotoru @gaytron3000 @winniethepoohjusttookapooh @dreamieeesposts @mayhemi @ilymooongo @snowlepod @lewlz @scarletreigns @darkphantommagazine @bangtannnnn @chanpoo @tharunnihaa @miyahluvsjjk @poopynono @mx-mekla @horndogfornerdjo @skeletaldynamolegion

[mooncyb3r]

bsf!satoru finally shooting his shot? you both have to bleed now... ˙𐃷˙

it’s late in the way apartment nights get late—lamp throwing a honey circle over the coffee table, fridge humming like it’s singing to itself, the paused movie on the tv screen stuck on an actor mid-blink.

the floor is the only place that feels honest, so you’re both down there, backs to the couch, knees up, socks nearly touching. your living room has known satoru since before it was your living room; by now it behaves around him, breathes differently when he wanders in and sprawls like he owns gravity.

there’s a bowl of candy between you. he’s not eating any, but he keeps turning a strawberry wrapper over in his fingers like he’s learning it the same way he learned the shape of your handwriting—slow, careful, a little reverent.

every so often he reaches for your hand and fiddles with your rings, rolling one to your knuckle and back again without thinking about it. your fingers know the route to his hair by muscle memory; you sweep his bangs aside, smooth them down, and two seconds later they spring right back up like a stubborn plant determined to catch light.

it’s comfortable. the kind of quiet that only exists between people who grew up listening to each other breathe. the kind of quiet with no edges.

“i think i’m broken,” you say into it, deadpan, because this is how you do heavy things: you drop them in the middle of the room and see if anyone trips.

satoru tips his head toward you, cheek finding the couch cushion, eyes a ridiculous crystal even in low light. “uh-huh. define ‘broken,’” he murmurs, thumb still worrying your middle ring. “you mean.. unlucky?”

“worse,” you say, pulling at a loose thread on your sweatpants. “i mean i'm romantically defective, the only ‘thing’ i ever had lasted two days. two. days. that's—” the words tangle. you make yourself say them anyway. “i haven’t even… like, had a real kiss.”

his hand, still caught around your rings, slows. something minute flicks behind his eyes—something sharp you can’t read—then he smooths it into a drawl that’s all bite without teeth. “weird. i can’t imagine why.”

you shoot him a look.

“what?” he chuckles quietly.

“say it. i know you’re dying to.”

he goes still the way he gets still before he says something he can’t unsay. then his mouth curves—careful, teasing on the surface, protective underneath. “plenty of people make it through their twenties without letting an idiot put his mouth on them,” he says lightly, but his eyes do the real talking. his eyes say don’t you dare call this a flaw.

“but why am i single?” you press, because you never learned how to leave a bruise alone. “is it the personality? the face? what the hell is wrong? do i smell? be honest.” he’s the worst person to ask this; his honesty would ruin you. he’s addicted to your scent—your hoodie’s afterscent, the shampoo on your pillow, the skin-warm sweetness you carry like a secret.

satoru’s grin breaks out, automatic. “honesty you want, honesty you get. you're too loud, too stubborn, so stupid, so—”

your fist lands, muted, in his ribs. it’s a soft punch; he performs a dramatic death. “ow,” he wheezes, delighted. “violent too.”

“cry about it.” you lean back on your palms. he’s still rolling your ring, thumb warm against the web of your hand, so you tug lightly. he resists just enough to annoy you. “you’re the idiot here.”

he mutters, almost to himself, a pantomimed stage-whisper like he forgot the volume knob exists. “right, i’m the real idiot for arguing with you… for sticking around this long.”

sticky words. they catch like honey in your chest. you ignore them. you’re practiced at that.

“i’m not holding you hostage,” you say, sharper than intended. “if anything, you clinging to me is why i can't get a boyfriend. you scare them away.”

“oh, so your tragic love life is my fault now?” he deadpans, but he looks delighted.

“yes, totally.” you mutter, your cheeks are hot. it’s the heat of being seen too well, not the bad kind. he keeps rolling your ring; you’re going to be left with a ghost of silver on your skin.

“you’re complicated,” he says, gentle now, like he’s listing symptoms he’s grateful for. “and you hate small talk unless it’s with old women. and if you think someone’s lying, your face breaks into itty-bitty pieces because you haven’t learned how to pretend. and—” he pauses, something catching in his throat, “yeah, you’re not easy.”

your eyebrows hike. “wow, cool. thanks. truly uplifting.”

“not like that.” he scoots a little closer until your knees are really touching, his hoodie sleeve brushing your arm. “i mean you’re not easy to… manage. you’re not easy to contain. you’re not easy to put in a box and slap a label on. you’re the complicated puzzle with pieces from a different set and i think that’s—” he shuts up, teeth catching his bottom lip.

you stare at the paused movie because looking at him directly feels like touching an exposed wire. “so... not easy to love,” you whisper, and it comes out softer than you wanted. you try to make it flippant. it fails. “good to know.”

his hand, still wrapped around your finger, squeezes like he’s catching a falling glass before it hits tile. “i didn’t say that,” he answers, voice low, careful, like you’re on a thin ice lake and he’s trying not to crack anything. “don’t twist my words.”

“how is ‘not easy to deal with’ different from ‘not easy to love’?” you ask, obstinate because it’s safer to be stubborn than to be hopeful.

he huffs, small and frustrated and fond. his thumb sketches circles into your palm, tiny galaxies. “because dealing is a choice and love isn’t,” he mutters finally. “you can treat someone right even when they’re difficult. you can want someone even when they drive you insane. you can love someone without them making sense.”

“so love isn’t a choice,” you say, and you aim for a joke but miss and hit the soft meat of it, “and i’m still not chosen.”

the tiny flinch in his eyes would be invisible if you didn’t know every version of him—toddler with a scraped knee, twelve-year-old with a bad haircut, sixteen-year-old pretending he didn’t cry at that movie. “shut up,” he groans, not unkind. “you know that’s not true.”

“do i?” you poke, because you can’t stop yourself. “who would bother? i’m so difficult and—”

“so difficult to understand,” he murmurs, the words cutting through your noise with an ease that’s unfair. his voice flips a switch you didn’t know was in the room. “which is exactly why the right people can’t look away.”

your chest does a weird, painful balloon thing.

“also difficult to have,” he goes on, a crooked smile tugging, “which is exactly why idiots line up anyway, because they think they can be the exception.”

“and?” you whisper, because you want him to keep talking forever, because your mouth tastes like sugar and static.

“and difficult to forget,” he says, and that one lands like a hand on the back of your neck, grounding. his smile is gone. something else is in its place. “i’ve tried, trust me. it’s impossible.”

silence pools under the coffee table, heavy and bright.

you blink at him. your body forgets how to do simple things like breathe and play it cool and be your own worst critic. your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

he’s still talking, like he broke a dam and is trying to build it back with words. “difficult to be mad at for more than five minutes. difficult to keep my hands off when you laugh. difficult to watch other guys text you because i want to break their damn phones. difficult to pretend we’re just—” the words lurch, then steady, “just best friends.”

“are you high, satoru?” you ask, almost not a voice.

he looks at your mouth like he wants to put his hand over it to stop you from ruining yourself with words, then laughs softly, wrecked. “nah,” he says, a whisper, and leans in to do something stupider than finishing a sentence.

the kiss is tiny. barely a tap. a press so quick it might be a misfire, a little mistake people pretend didn’t happen. except your entire body rings like he just struck crystal with the softest part of his knuckle.

you stare at him, eyes wide and pupils probably too dilated. he’s closer than he should be. he stares back like he’s halfway through a long fall and only just realized the ground exists.

you don’t think. what a relief. your hand’s already in his hair and his is already tightening around your fingers, and you’re meeting him again, mouths making a new shape, sweet and tentative and ridiculous because he tastes like soda and a memory of the strawberry candies he refuses to admit he steals only because they somehow hold the taste of his childhood with you.

he feels you fumble, not the kiss itself—your mouth picks it up too fast, as if your heart’s had the choreography forever—but your hands, not knowing where to go like they’ve forgotten anatomy. his fingers glide along your wrist, your forearm, guiding you because he knows this is your first, settling you behind his neck like it’s a cradle built for you. there, he tells you without words. anchor there.

“okay?” he breathes into the space between your lips, his nose bumping yours.

“yeah,” you say back, a little stunned, a little laughing, because somehow the room has stayed exactly the same while every single thing in it has tilted five degrees.

he kisses you like he’s trying to teach you a soft language through your mouth—slow vowels, patient consonants. he pulls back half an inch to see if you’ll chase and you do, you do without thinking, the sound he makes shouldn't be so soft. your rings clicks off his collarbone; later you’ll find a tiny half-moon on his skin and feel smug.

his mouth is gentler than you expected and more demanding in flashes—like he’s toeing a line and the line keeps moving. when he breaks for air, he doesn’t go far. he presses a peck to the corner of your mouth. then another. then one to your jaw, a little smile in it because he knows it drives you nuts, these almost-kisses. his fingers flex around your hand, squeezing—there, good, breathe—then releasing like waves.

“stop it,” you giggle, mortified by the sound of it; but you don’t really care. “you’re so annoying.”

he hums against your skin, pleased. “mm, i know.” another tiny peck, to your cheekbone. you grab both sides of his face on instinct—cheeks, smooth and warm under your palms—so you can direct him like you’re done playing this game. he blushes. actual color, high on the cheekbones, faintly stunned. you try to act like you don’t notice as you pull him down to kiss you properly.

it snowballs. of course it does. of course it’s messy. there’s laughter in it, and breathlessness, and the familiar cadence of two people who’ve been talking forever—only now you speak like this.

his hands bracket your waist and you think, absurdly, about the way his palms are bigger than you remember, how he used to stick stickers on your notebook and write his name like it was shorthand for comfort. when he noses your cheek and you tilt your head, his mouth slots deeper, the kind of kiss that steals time and makes it manageable, as if it softens just for you.

“full disclosure,” you mumble, clinging to humor like a ledge, “this is my first kiss. like actual first, so if i’m doing anything weird just—”

“you’re doing perfect,” he says, immediate, fervent in a way that breaks your knees from the inside. “you’re doing so perfect i’m—”

he doesn’t finish that thought either because your sleep shirt is suddenly the most annoying shirt in the world. you find yourself tugging at your shirt, dragging it up your ribs in a way that feels both graceless and necessary. when the cotton gets stuck around your head, arms trapped up like a caught sweater puppet, you flail, mortified heat stinging your ears.

“oh my god,” you squeak into fabric, trying to wriggle free. you squirm. the hem rides up, exposing a stomach that registers cold air and his gaze at the same time. “help me—”

he’s laughing, the bastard, but it’s so fond it makes something fizzy go off in your chest. “hold on, hold on.” deft, careful, he unhooks you from your own clothing, peeling it off like a skin, stealing a kiss to your forehead as your face emerges, like he’s unwrapping a present he’s been pretending wasn’t under the tree for years. “hey,” he says, eyes taking you in with a slow awe that scrapes your lungs. “there you are.”

air hits your skin; embarrassment hits your face. getting stuck when taking off your shirt is such a good way to ruin the moment, right? “i swear i’m not trying to ruin this,” you mutter from inside the shirt before it pops free of your ears, “but the shirt was fighting for its life—”

his fingers are careful at your wrists, guiding the cotton up and over like you’re something precious—and then it’s off, tossed somewhere near the couch graveyard, and you’re just sitting there in your bra with your face hot enough to heat the kettle back up.

“you’re not ruining anything,” he repeats, and then he looks, really looks.

you’re in your bra. you’re in your bra in satoru’s lap. satoru who you once threw up on in second grade after a bad juice box. satoru whose house you’ve been climbing into since before you were allowed to be out past sunset. satoru whose palm is still holding your hand like it’s a habit no one taught him how to break.

you watch his throat move. you watch his ears go a tiny bit pink. he tries to be normal about it and fails miserably.

he can’t stop. he keeps pressing small soft pecks to your lips like he’s taste-testing, smiling into them, teasing. it’s stupidly sweet. it’s also absolutely annoying. “give me the full thing,” you complain, breathless. “commit to the bit.”

“oh? full thing?” his voice drops as if that’s a switch. “okay, princess.”

you mean to flip him off for that. you don’t get the chance. he guides you when he needs to, little murmurs that don’t need words: here, less, there. you accommodate. he watches you get it right and looks proud. he opens your mouth with his mouth and you forget how to do anything except cling.

you forget until your tongue tastes iron.

you go cold, it's the bitter taste of blood—oh god. you did that. did you bite him? did your teeth do something terrible? are you the world’s worst kisser with documented evidence now? your mind sprints: you’re so bad at this, you ruin everything, you’re about to apologize for the rest of your life—you pull back to assess damages and see it: not your lip, not his. his nose. bleeding. spectacularly.

panic flares dumb and immediate. you jerk back, wide-eyed, touching your lip, convinced you bit him. “oh god—i didn’t—did i—” you start spiraling out loud, the way you do when you stub your toe and narrate your own demise.

a slow, warm spread of red starts under his nose like a sunrise that decided to be brave. he blinks once, twice, goes faintly cross-eyed in a way you will bully him for until you’re both ninety because of veins of red already blooming under his nose. you both watch the first drop form with the concern of two people witnessing a catastrophe unfold in slow motion.

“no way,” you whisper, reverent, and the sight is objectively hilarious. his nose starts bleeding in earnest. you stare at his face, then down at your bra, then back.

“okay,” he says around a laugh that’s trying not to be a laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose, tipping his head forward like he’s done this enough to know the drill. “i’m good.. i think.”

there is a beat of absurd silence. then you snort. then he tries not to laugh. but you absolutely lose it, doubling over, forehead bumping his shoulder, cackling like a witch at a bonfire.

“it’s not—” he gestures with the arrogance of a person trying to maintain dignity while pinching his own nose, “it’s a dry air thing.”

you’re still wheezing. you reach blindly for the tissue box on the coffee table and nearly throw it at him. “uh-huh. totally the humidity. not because you saw boobs for the first time in your entire life.”

“wow,” he says, absolutely wounded. “as if i haven’t seen you—” he cuts himself off, eyes flicking anywhere but your chest like he’s trying to prove a point that’s already bleeding down his face. the tissue soaks through instantly. he fumbles another.

“pinch the soft part,” you instruct, which is what you remember from the times he’s come home from basketball with a busted nose and you’ve played nurse. “lean slightly forward, not back.”

he obeys. you sit cross-legged in front of him and try to stop laughing. you fail. “i’m sorry,” you gasp, not sorry at all. “it’s just—you’re bleeding because of me.”

"shut up, don’t be dramatic about it," he huffs, “and don’t make me laugh right now,” he begs around his own laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose, head tipped forward like a pro. “i will bleed to death on your rug.”

“it's already so dirty,” you chuckle, scrambling for tissues again. “and if you die on it i can finally throw it away with a clear conscience.”

he muffles a grin behind the tissue wad, eyes squeezed shut. he looks stupidly happy for a man hemorrhaging from the face. “not my most dignified moment.”

“you got a nosebleed because you saw me in a bra,” you say, still halfway to feral with laughter. “that’s… that’s cute.”

“correction,” he says smugly, voice all stuffed cotton, “you in a bra on my lap.”

you try to look offended and end up pink. he watches it happen like it’s sunrise number two. you press fresh tissues into his hand; he takes them without letting go of your fingers. the room is bright with ridiculousness, everything edged in this giddy light. the candy bowl watches you like it knows you’re both doomed.

“don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles once the bleeding slows, eyes soft, tissue still clamped, and you hate that your pulse can hear what his voice won’t say.

“but you look good,” you whisper, he groans. you wipe a red smear off his upper lip with exaggerated care and then catch yourself staring. it’s awful how pretty he is under bad lighting with blood on his face. unfair. he’s flushed, a ridiculous soft pink across cheekbones and ears. the curve of his mouth is bitten-wet.

the word hangs in the air and opens a door you’ve both been pretending isn’t in this apartment.

you toss the tissues in the trash, wash your hands, come back, sit the same as before—backs to the couch, knees up, shoulders touching—and somehow everything inside the shape has been re-labeled: familiar, familiar, familiar, new.

“satoru,” you say, and he swallows hard like his name in your mouth is the first drink of water after a long run.

“yeah?”

“you sure?” you ask, trying to sound normal and failing, because normal flew out the window with your shirt.

he nods. the kind that starts in his chest. “i’ve been sure since second grade,” he says, very quiet, like he’s confessing to stealing a holy book. then he catches himself, rolls his shoulders, puts a grin on like a mask, snaps the elastic at the back of it. “obviously,” he adds, cocky, “i have exquisite taste.”

you smack his thigh. his fingers catch your wrist and draw little circles on your pulse like he’s coaxing your heart to stop sprinting.

“the boyfriend thing,” you say, because the argument fluttered away from you but you want it back on the table where it belongs, like a cat dragging a toy back to your feet. “do you… do you scare them off?”

“no,” he says, without hesitation, still playing with your ring, “they scare themselves off. they realize they’re out of their depth. they realize they’d have to learn you like a language and keep learning forever.”

“you just said i was difficult to deal with,” you pout.

“yeah but i'm not complaining,” his smile tips. he leans in, barely there, hovering. “you stay difficult to live without.” he whispers, and that’s the one that breaks you.

you pull him in.

he meets you like he’s been rehearsing this hit his whole life—gentle, greedy, careful in the way that makes greedy feel like a prayer. he kisses you until you’re stupid and your hands get bold and then clumsy again because apparently elbow articulation is advanced physics. you end up half in his lap without remembering how, knees outside his hips, ribs brushing his hoodie’s hem each time you breathe.

“tell me if it’s too fast,” he whispers, and maps you patient as low tide, mouth skimming your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your smile, the small hollow by your ear where your pulse hides. he collects places like seashells and keeps them gentle in his palms. “tell me anything and i’ll listen.”

“okay,” you whisper, and for once you mean it, and something in his chest unclenches so audibly you feel it against your ribs, a little door unlatching

he gets obnoxiously gentle for a while, and you get obnoxiously soft about it. he kisses you like he’s pressing stickers into a memory book. every peck makes you giggle, which makes him grin like a spring day, which makes you drag him in by the cheeks, and it makes him pink all the way to the tips of his ears. you try to act normal about it but you absolutely do not manage it. it’s stupidly sweet. it’s wrecking you clean.

“we don’t have to—” he begins, pauses. his voice is velvet with caution. “we can just make out and call it a spiritual experience.”

“are you chickening out?” you murmur, rolling your eyes because it’s easier than saying please don’t stop.

“oh, suddenly you’re brave?” he grumbles, but it’s fond, and he nips your cheek like a warning that’s really a kiss-in-disguise. you laugh into his mouth, the sound wobbling between you like a loose bead of light.

it takes him half a second to fish a foil wrapper from his wallet—sleight of hand neat as a magician palming a coin, eyes flicking up to yours for permission like a question tucked inside a trick. “i come prepared,” he says, sheepish, a little proud and a lot pink. then, softer still, thumb tracing tiny circles on your wrist, “guess i gotta make you bleed, now.” he whispers, cocky, giving you a stupid little brow wiggle.

you pinch his cheek but he's right, yeah—you want your first time to be with satoru, don’t you?

[mooncyb3r]

error 404: self control .ᐟ

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : your custom PC keeps crashing at the worst possible times. after one too many blue screens, you’re forced to call the quiet but ridiculously talented tech nerd from your coding class to come fix it in your dorm. satoru shows up, gets to work, and accidentally stumbles across your very organized, very specific collection of porn. instead of pretending he didn’t see anything, he starts coming back. again and again. every visit the teasing gets heavier, the tension thicker, and it becomes harder to pretend you don’t want him to do something about it.

wc 7.1k ★ tags college au, tech nerd satoru gojo, slow burn, sexual tension, accidental discovery (porn/history), teasing, banter, café shift from hell, enemies-to-lovers energy, forced proximity (self-inflicted, by him), masturbation (f solo), voyeurism, secret surveillance, non-consensual watching, mutual pining. mdni, 18+.

from mara ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ hiiii sorry i procrastinated so bad on this one 😭😭 but i really hope yall will like it !! art by inkyck on ig.

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the saturday afternoon shift wants you dead, and it isn’t interested in mercy.

it’s a slow-burn execution, the kind that gnaws at your bones from the inside out—a drip-feed of iced caramel lattes and tragic custom matchas, every ticket a new scar carved in patience. you lose little pieces of yourself to each person who slides up to the counter and starts with, “this might sound complicated, but—”

it always sounds complicated. it’s always worse.

the campus café is packed, overstuffed, bodies jammed at every table, a sea of laptops and students slouched and hollow-eyed, faces lit by screens and the cold realization that nothing in the syllabus was ever optional. the air is thick, suffocating, a churn of espresso, scorched milk, the ghost of cinnamon powder still hanging from a spill no one ever cleaned. grinders scream; cups clatter; the printer spits out order after order, little coiled paper threats stacking up, curling at the corners like they’re about to bare teeth.

your apron’s wrecked. no clean spot left.

chocolate syrup streaks your wrist, your hair slipping out of its clip in tired, sticky strands, a few more every hour. your left shoe squeaks when you pivot, sharp and plaintive, like some wounded, exhausted dog toy warning everyone you’re coming through.

there’s nothing in your system but four hours of sleep and half a granola bar.

and somehow, even now, you’re still thinking about satoru.

not on purpose. never on purpose.

you would like that noted for the record.

you’re not standing behind the counter sighing wistfully into the milk pitcher or drawing hearts around his name on discarded receipts. you’re not wondering what he is doing. you’re not replaying the night he appeared at your dorm in the rain, dripping and smug and apparently willing to cross campus at six in the morning for the privilege of annoying you in person.

you are merely experiencing a recurring neurological malfunction.

that is different.

every so often, usually while your hands are busy and your defenses are down, a piece of him surfaces without permission. wet white hair stuck to his forehead. blue eyes in the ugly hallway light. the flash drive held between his fingers. the way he had looked past you into your room and said your pc stayed on all night like the sentence contained some joke you had not been given access to.

sweet dreams. don’t think about me too hard.

the memory hits out of nowhere, right as you’re guiding steamed milk into a paper cup, and your hand jolts, just enough to collapse the foam—a shimmering cloud, ruined in one quick spasm.

“shit,” you hiss under your breath.

the customer lifts his gaze, slow, blinking sleep from his eyes as if the noise yanked him to shore. all hunched over his phone, until now.

“not you,” you blurt, heartbeat spiking, “the milk.”

his eyes drop to the cup. waiting.

yours follow. the foam has gone wild, whorled and furious, like a weather map on the verge of warning.

you push the cup across the counter, steady. “abstract art,” you say, mouth curling around the words. “people pay a lot for this in the right gallery.”

for a second, it’s just your hands, the cup, the dazed flecks of foam. then he laughs, sudden and sharp, and you catch his smile and toss it back, because that’s what you do here. you smile; you make sorrys bloom like flowers in winter. you wish a good day on people who wouldn’t know one if it knocked their teeth loose. exhaustion gets sugared into charm, caffeine pulverized into rent money, and the whole thing runs on the fragile, splintering scaffold of your last unbroken nerve.

the bell over the café door rings again.

you do not look up.

“welcome in,” you call automatically, reaching for the next ticket. “i’ll be with you in just a second.”

“take your time.”

your fingers stop.

not dramatically. not enough for anyone else to notice. just a tiny pause in the motion of reaching for a cup, the kind of interruption that lasts less than a heartbeat but somehow contains an entire systems failure inside it.

you know that voice.

you look up.

satoru stands just inside the doorway with his hands buried in the pocket of a black hoodie, because apparently he owns no other kind of clothing and has committed to making that everyone else’s problem. his hair is dry today, soft and disordered around his forehead like he has been pushing his hands through it. a pair of thin-framed glasses sits low on his nose, catching the pale afternoon light from the windows and briefly hiding his eyes until he tilts his head.

there they are.

bright. blue. already amused.

he looks completely at ease, as though he has always spent his saturday afternoons standing in your workplace watching you struggle with industrial coffee equipment. as though this is a normal place for him to be. as though the universe has not spent the last week rearranging itself around his increasingly inconvenient presence.

your stomach drops.

then lifts.

then, apparently unable to choose a direction, folds in on itself.

you narrow your eyes. “what are you doing here?”

his eyebrows rise.

“wow,” he says. “and here i thought customer service was your passion.”

“it ended ten minutes ago.”

“tragic.” he steps forward as the line shuffles forward, gaze dragging over you with the deliberate patience of someone letting themselves linger, not in any hurry to hide it, though his face stays the same easy tilt. your apron’s askew. sleeves shoved up. hair stuck to your cheek where you can’t see it, and a sticky smear of syrup dark against your wrist. “you look busy.”

“very observant.”

“one of my many gifts.”

you reach for a new cup, grab it harder than you need to, hoping he notices. “what do you want?”

“coffee.”

“there are seven cafés on campus.”

“this one has the best atmosphere.”

behind him, somebody drops a fork, the metal clatter cutting through the constant drone. a blender screams. your coworker is fighting with a customer, voice sharp, arguing about oat milk and nut allergies. it all swirls together, background noise, but you keep staring at him.

he just smiles, shameless, hands tucked in his coat like he owns the place.

“right,” you say, flat. “the atmosphere.”

“and the service.” his gaze stays locked on your face, eyes dark and unblinking, like he’s been waiting all day just to get this close. “i’ve heard good things.”

heat crawls up the back of your neck, sharp and immediate—a flush that prickles under your collar, threatening to burn all the way to your cheeks.

you drop your eyes to the register, fingers stiff on the buttons, refusing to give him more than you have to. “order.”

“you’re not going to ask about my day?”

“no.”

“what if it’s been really hard?”

“then caffeine won’t fix your personality,” you shoot back, voice flat.

his smile sharpens, teeth catching on the inside of his lip, almost like he’s savoring it.

and there it is, again—the spark; that flash of satisfaction in his eyes, bright and hungry, feeding on every ounce of irritation you throw at him. like your pushback is the whole reason he shows up here, again and again, as if your annoyance is something he wants to wear home.

you hate that you see it. hate more that it’s starting to feel good, giving it to him.

“large vanilla latte,” he says, smirk curling at the edges. “extra shot.”

“hot or iced?”

he leans in, lowering his voice just enough for the words to touch your skin. “which one do you think suits me?”

you look him over, deliberately this time. let your gaze travel from the pale hair to the dark hoodie to the long frame taking up too much space at the front of your line. his expression shifts by less than an inch, but you catch it—the way his shoulders settle, the way his eyes sharpen behind the glasses when he realizes you are actually looking.

good. let him wonder.

you tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “depends.”

he grins, a slow, liquid thing that fills every inch of space between you. “on?”

“some people are iced coffee on the outside, hot on the inside. some people are the reverse.” you say it flat, like you’re reading off a label, but it lands heavy. “others just melt when you watch them long enough.”

his smile splits wider, teeth catching his lower lip. “and which one am i?”

“room temperature tap water,” you decide.

he laughs, low and out of nowhere—it rakes right through you, humiliatingly efficient.

“hot,” he says. “make it sweet.”

“of course.”

he squints, not quite suspicion, but close enough. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” you say, deadpan. “okay, so hot it is.”

he laughs, low and delighted, and it slides straight into your bones, fraying your last nerve. “you think it’s a bold choice?”

“not really,” you shoot back. “you’re the least subtle person alive.”

he shrugs, all easy confidence, but there’s an edge to his voice now, a flinty glint that wasn’t there before. “sometimes it works.”

“sometimes it’s pathetic.”

“but memorable,” he says, and it shouldn’t sound like a threat, but it does.

you slide the cup under the espresso spout and punch in the order, trying to keep your fingers from shaking. it’s stupid—he’s just a guy in a hoodie with a too-bright laugh and a face like a hand grenade. you work with caffeine. you know how to handle volatile substances. but every time you check, he’s there, eyes locked on you, smiling like he just figured something out.

you look up, and he’s resting his chin on his hands, staring with all the patience of someone who has nothing better to do than watch you work for the rest of the day.

“don’t you have, like, somewhere to be?” you mutter.

“i’m exactly where i want to be,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as if he isn’t escalating this on purpose, as if you can’t feel your own pulse where the words hit.

behind him, the line grows, but it’s full of regulars and stragglers, people who take one look at satoru and decide they can wait. maybe they don’t want to get in the middle of whatever this is, or maybe they’re just afraid of the way he takes up space, folds the whole room toward him with nothing but a gaze.

“hm.” you tap the order into the register, not missing a beat. “name?”

he leans in, elbow braced against the counter. like he owns the space. like you’re supposed to know.

“you forgot it already?”

you hold his gaze, smile sharp and customer-service bright.

“sorry,” you say, soft as whipped cream. “have we met?”

for a second, everything stalls. a split-second freeze, like a system choking on bad input. the kind of glitch nobody else would notice, but you do.

then he grins—the kind of slow curve that means trouble.

“satoru,” he says. quieter. “but you can write whatever you want.”

you take the marker.

you spell nuisance in brutal block letters, each stroke an accusation across the smooth white of his cup. his eyes track the marker, hungry, waiting for the reveal.

“cute,” he murmurs, like he means it. like he’s already decided you are.

“four seventy-five.”

he taps his phone to the reader, never blinking. the machine sings its approval—a sound too eager—and you turn to the espresso machine to break the stare, but his voice doesn’t let go.

“we should talk about the project too.”

you glance back, sharp, like you missed a trick. “what project?”

“the systems architecture assignment.” his voice is low, almost intimate, threading right through the hum of the café, slicing through the noise like it’s all just white static. you freeze, your hands dumb against the espresso spout, the entire line fading to grayscale, the only color left the electric, recursive blue of satoru’s eyes behind the glass.

“we’re not partners.” you spit the words out, flat. desperate. you don’t mean to sound that wrecked, but it’s like the syllables catch on his name, on the unavoidable memory of how it sounds at six a.m. in your doorway, his hair dripping, a deranged smile pixelating the whole hallway.

he doesn’t even flinch. just tips his head, smiling, like this is all running perfectly according to some fucked-up operating system only he can see.

“not yet.”

the cup in your hand nearly slips. you grip it harder, the cardboard digging into your palm, a little bit of heat bleeding through. your brain executes a hard pause, freezes the frame. there’s zero chance he did this without scheming. not with that look on his face—the look of a tab open in the background, chewing up all your RAM, refusing to close.

“what did you do?”

he shrugs. “nothing.”

liar. if you had a virus scanner for this conversation, it’d be screaming.

you glare. “satoru.”

he looks so happy it’s nearly obscene. “i merely pointed out to professor yaga that both of our current partners are statistically likely to tank our grades.”

the words linger, sticky as syrup. you can tell he’s rehearsed this, deadpan with a twist, like he’s talking to a camera, not you. you imagine him typing the email, eyes narrowed at his screen, composing and deleting sentences with surgical precision. you kind of want to see his drafts. you kind of want to smash his phone.

“you’re lying.”

he’s not, though. you can see it in the way his lips twitch, almost like he’s trying not to laugh. he wants you to ask. he wants you to care.

you don’t. you absolutely don’t.

(you do.)

“i don’t work well with idiots,” he says, voice pitched for you alone, though the line is moving, and people are watching, and your coworker is already glaring, and you should care, you should, but all you can see is the way he’s leaning just a little closer, crowding the space across the counter as if there’s only two people here and everyone else is just noise on a corrupted zoom call. “and neither do you.”

“i’m fine.” you hiss it, softer than you mean to. “my partner’s not that bad.”

“she hasn’t answered your last three dms,” he says, and the words hit like a privacy breach, slicing right through your firewall. “or your email. or your follow-up, which was honestly a little desperate.”

you want to die. you want to delete this moment and empty the recycle bin.

“were you checking my messages?”

his smile sharpens. “nah, i’d never do something like that.”

he says it like he wasn’t actively harvesting everything you did, like he wasn’t logging your every move, like his own obsession is just passive observation, some screen recording set to auto-run.

“that’s not normal.”

he shrugs, casual, like stalking you is just another app running in the background. “no one on this campus is normal.”

“oh, and you’re so special.” you whisper, rolling your eyes.

“you noticed.” the words slick right off his tongue. “anyway, i fixed it. i’m your problem now.”

your head spins. you want to argue but you can’t even get the words to buffer, not with the way he’s looking at you. it’s not just that he’s pretty. it’s the focus. the intensity. like he’s running a process in the background, a recursive function, eating up cycles and memory until there’s nothing left but him.

you hate it. you crave it.

the cup in your hand is half-finished. you realize you’ve been holding it too long, steam curling up to vanish in the brutal overhead lighting. it’s waiting for you to do something.

you line it up under the nozzle and pull the shot, hands moving automatically, like you’re running a macro on muscle memory. satoru watches, unblinking, as if you’re typing passwords in plain sight, as if he already knows every shortcut you’re about to use.

“you’re staring,” you say, not looking up.

“so are you.”

you don’t respond. you fill the cup, careful, a perfect meniscus of chemical tan and white; you even nail the foam this time, a spiral that doesn’t collapse, a subtle flex you hope he notices. you cap it. slide it across the counter. it nearly brushes his fingers.

he doesn’t move, not yet. just leaves it there, like he wants you to touch first. like he likes the idea of your hands on the same object, your fingerprints overlapping, invisible and sticky.

“room temperature tap water,” he murmurs, reading the label under his breath. “cold.”

“it’s hot,” you snap, a little mean, because he’s annoying, because he’s right.

he grins. “i thought you liked it that way too.”

someone in line coughs. the girl behind him pretends not to hear, but you know she’s listening, you know the whole café is registering this as drama, file saved, ready to get gossiped in the group chat before you even clock out. you ignore them. you only have bandwidth for satoru, anyway.

“i’m pretty sure you don’t even like sweet coffee,” you say, shifting the focus. “you take your drinks black.”

he lifts the cup, brings it to his mouth but pauses, eyes flicking up. “but you’re the one making it.”

the words are a direct connection, a local area network right to your nervous system.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

he smiles, slow. “means i trust your hands.”

the heat in your chest spikes, a cpu-fan whine that drowns out every other sensation. you wish someone would unplug you and put you to sleep.

“this is harassment,” you say, flat.

“is i?,” he smiles, looking right back at you.

you almost choke. “you’re deranged.”

“but effective, c’mon don’t deny it.”

he takes a sip, lips brushing the lid, and he doesn’t break eye contact. doesn’t even blink. like he wants you to watch him taste it, like he’s waiting for your reaction.

“it’s good,” he says, and the approval in his voice is a fucking software patch for your brain.

you’re not grateful. you feel nothing. you hate him.

you love that he noticed.

you reach for the next ticket, try to process the line, but all you can see is the curve of his mouth around the lid, the way his hand cradles the cup, fingers long and precise, like he could break it in a second if he wanted. you imagine him doing that, just snapping the cardboard, letting the coffee pour down his wrist.

you hate that you want to see it happen.

you push out two more orders, fast, not even bothering with microfoam or latte art, just raw execution, get it done, get him out of your system. but he doesn’t move. just slides over to the end of the bar, settles in beside the hand-off area, and watches you work.

his eyes track every motion, every time you reach and pivot, every time you bite down on a smile and force something like customer service through your teeth. he watches you like a fucking stream, face illuminated by the blue light of your exhaustion, his own drink untouched, cooling.

the silence between orders is full of static, his gaze a constant ping on your network. you want to block him. you want to trace the route and find out what server he’s logged into.

finally, when the line is down to one, the café a little emptier, he speaks.

“so, the project.”

you scowl. “i’m not working with you.”

“professor yaga says otherwise,” he says, smug. “he replied to my email at, like, 1 a.m. guy is a machine.”

you shouldn’t care. you shouldn’t even be surprised. yaga hates low-effort partnerships, hates groups that drag down the curve. if satoru made it look like you were suffering, like you were getting sabotage’d by your last partner… 

you narrow your eyes. “you faked evidence, didn’t you.”

“not faked. just…highlighted.”

“satoru.”

he raises his hands, mock-innocent, but the edge to his smirk is lethal. “i cc’d you on the thread, check your inbox.”

you do, immediately, even though you know you shouldn’t. even though it’s pathetic. you pop the gmail tab open on your phone, thumb hovering. sure enough, right at the top, flagged urgent: satoru gojo, professor yaga, and you.

the subject line is a war crime.

“urgent: partner reassignment - group 7 / systems architecture.”

your last desperate attempt to get your old partner to do literally anything.

satoru highlighted every typo, every ghosted message, every missed deadline.

he included a chart.

you want to die. you want to crawl through the ethernet and throttle him.

but you can’t argue with the data set. it’s brutal. it’s honest. it’s… almost caring.

your insides twist.

he leans in, voice dipping, so it’s just for you. “see? told you i could fix it.”

“you made me look desperate,” you hiss, cheeks burning.

“you are desperate,” he shoots back, not even sorry. “for a good grade. for a competent partner. for someone who actually shows up.”

he doesn’t say for me, but you hear it, threaded in the source code of his tone.

your throat is tight. you look down at your phone, pretend to be angry, but mostly you’re just floored by how thorough he was. how obsessed.

a digital stalker. a data fiend. you shouldn’t be flattered but you are, a little. nobody’s ever cared about your fucking project management skills before.

“you’re a freak,” you mutter.

his grin is blinding. “so you keep telling me.”

you should focus on your job. you should ignore him. but he’s like a push notification you can’t mute, a banner ad that follows you across every site, no matter how many times you click close.

you’re halfway through making a matcha for some girl in a “girlboss” tote when he pipes up again.

“so, when do you want to start?”

“never.”

“tonight?”

you nearly drop the pitcher. “no.”

he shrugs, like he expected that. “monday, then.”

you don’t answer. you’re not going to reward him. you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.

(but you already know you’ll be there. you already know you’ll show up. you already know you’ve lost.)

you finish the matcha, hands shaking, and slide it across to the next customer. you can feel satoru watching, cataloguing every fumble, every spill, every time your lips twist like you’re fighting not to smile.

he eats it up. you can see it on his face. his brain is running a process called “watch her malfunction,” and it’s all green lights, no errors, full speed ahead.

his own drink is half gone. you didn’t even see him take another sip.

you wonder if he even wanted the coffee, or if all he wanted was to see you make it.

the clock above the register ticks. you’re almost done. almost free. just a handful of orders left before you can go home and log off and maybe, maybe, erase the memory of this conversation.

but you know you won’t. you already know you’ll replay it a thousand times, every line, every stutter in the feed, every time he looked at you like you were the only thing worth watching.

and the worst part is—you are. you’re worth watching. it’s hell. it’s dopamine and dread, spiking and crashing, never enough. you feel him even when he’s not there, a notification ping in your nervous system, a background process you can’t kill.

he leaves after you clock out, like he’s synced to your schedule, like he only exists when you do. you catch him in the glass door, a reflection layered over the ruined counter, his hoodie catching on the light, eyes cut sharp and blue even from thirty feet away.

you wonder if it’s a glitch. you wonder if you’re hallucinating, running low on power, rendering him where he shouldn’t be.

but it’s not a bug. it’s just him.

he doesn’t look away. not even when your hands shake, not even when you punch out, not even when you duck behind the espresso bar and try to fix your hair, scrubbing at your face, trying to wipe some of the day off.

he stands there until you step outside, like he’s waiting for an update, like your presence is the last patch that’ll make his day run.

“i’m not walking you home,” he says, voice dry, but he falls into step beside you anyway, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie, like he’s got something to hide.

“never said you would.”

“i’m kidding.”

— ⋆˚꩜｡ּ —

you want to ignore him, but he’s not ignorable. he takes up bandwidth just by existing beside you. it’s not the way he walks, either. it’s something else, some kind of field, like a magnetic force that fucks with your operating system. your steps sync up. you lag behind; he slows to match. you pick up the pace; he pretends he’s not matching you, but you know he is.

the walk back should be awkward, but it’s not. not really. it’s just a hum of anticipation, the question of what happens next hanging in the air, a cursor blinking, waiting for input.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

but you feel it.

the whole way up the stairs, the whole way down your hallway, his presence compressing everything, shrinking the world down to just the two of you, the way it always does.

he almost follows you to your door. almost, but not quite. he pauses, just a meter away, like he’s hit a digital fence, like this is the part where he’s supposed to say goodnight.

he does, but it’s not that simple.

“don’t stay up all night,” satoru murmurs, voice low, private, a direct message straight to your core. “you’ll ruin your eyes.”

“maybe i like it that way.”

he grins, sharp and glitchy. “figures.”

there’s a beat where he just stands there, watching you type in your door code, like he’s memorizing the movement, like he could brute-force your password if he wanted. you don’t doubt it. you don’t doubt anything about him, not anymore.

you shut the door in his face.

it doesn’t help.

he’s still there, in your head, in the way your fingers tremble when you boot your pc, in the way your notifications display his name at the top of the thread, blue and relentless. every time you refresh, he’s right there, like he’s watching your screen from the other side.

the night drags on, all static and jittery energy. you eat cold leftovers, scroll through memes, pretend you’re not waiting for him to ping you. you queue up your favorite playlist, shuffle it for chaos, but every song just makes you think of him, the way he crowd-controls every room, the way he says your name like it’s a command prompt.

you try to sleep.

you can’t.

your dreams are a feed, endless, recursive, blue eyes and glitching smiles and the memory of his fingers tracing the smooth cardboard curve of the cup you made for him. your brain replays it, over and over, a highlight reel of every time he looked at you like you were the only thing on the screen.

you wake up sticky with sweat, your heart hammering, your phone lighting up with a new notification.

it’s him.

of course it is.

a link, no context, just a timestamped highlight from a systems architecture thread. you’re not even awake enough to process it, but you click anyway, because you always do. the video loads—a screen recording, a bug report about the project.

you can’t tell if it’s sweet or psychotic.

maybe it’s both.

you leave him on read for five minutes, just to punish him, just to prove you’re not as desperate as he is.

it doesn’t work. the urge to reply chews through your resolve like malware.

you: are you stalking me

satoru: what if i am?

you: stop being weird

satoru: okay satoru: you looked cute yesterday

there’s a photo attached this time.

not of your face, not even really of you, just your hand on the espresso machine, chocolate syrup streaked across your knuckles, a sharp blur of movement as you jam the lever down. the focus is fucked—it’s obvious he was trying to be subtle, but the implication is brutal.

he’s always watching.

your pulse stutters. you type, then delete, then type again.

you: you’re a freak

satoru: not denying it satoru: if you want me to stop, tell me

like he’s giving you an opt-out button, like you’re in control, even though you both know you aren’t. the idea that you could tell him to stop is a joke, a punchline with teeth.

you don’t reply.

you last until midnight.

it’s pathetic, really. you tell yourself you’re just tired, overcaffeinated, brain fried from too many back-to-back shifts and too many group chat notifications. but the second you hit the lights and let your laptop flicker to life, you know there’s no one to blame but you.

the screen washes your body in ice-blue, flattening all your edges. the text on your syllabus blurs. you don’t retain a single word. you refresh your inbox, you load up a new tab and open your favorite trashy forum, like you’re just going through the motions, like you’re not hoping to see something that’ll short out your nerves.

it’s not enough. nothing is.

your body’s a mess of static and anticipation, overloaded from a day of him watching, talking, bantering like some fucked-up mating ritual you didn’t know you’d signed up for. it lingers under your skin, nestles in the marrow of your bones, that memory of his gaze spiking your dopamine all shift long.

you can’t stop replaying it. the way he looked at you. the way his voice tuned itself to your frequency, low, private, making the world narrow to just the two of you. the way you wanted him to notice your hands, your hair, the syrup dripping down your wrist, even the way you fumbled his drink.

— ⋆˚꩜｡ּ —

satoru stares at the cursor. it blinks once, twice, a steady pulse inside the empty search bar—the only sign of life in a wasteland of blue light and cluttered tabs, windows layered over each other like lost intentions. nothing moves, nothing breathes, except that tiny vertical line, flickering, demanding input.

you curl in front of the screen, one knee tight to your chest, that loose shirt drooping off your shoulder, like you can’t be bothered to pull it back up. tired, restless, body language spelling out a silent agitation you don’t seem to notice. but he does. every twitch, every little fidget, satoru takes it in, turning them over in his head like evidence for a case only he understands.

the hidden window is open on his monitor. again. he’s staring at it, the guilt sharp as teeth, but his finger hovers over the red X anyway, pretending this time he’ll actually stop. pretending it’s that easy. just one click and he’s the kind of guy who messed up, not the kind still fucking up in real time.

he almost does it. cursor right there, mouse tensed, like a breath held in his lungs. he should close it. simple. neat. forgettable.

then you shift in your chair.

your thighs press together.

his whole body freezes, hand going slack on the mouse.

“fuck,” he breathes, so quiet it barely stirs the air.

the word barely exists. just breath shaped into something ugly.

his room is dark except for the pale light bleeding off his screens, carving sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones and turning his hair silver-blue at the edges. three monitors glow across his desk. lines of code on one. the architecture assignment on another.

you on the third.

you rub at your eyes, frustrated, then let your head fall back against the chair. your throat stretches. your lips part around a quiet sigh he cannot hear because he disabled the microphone access after the first night.

as though that makes any of this better.

as though taking away the sound transforms surveillance into restraint.

satoru leans closer.

his glasses have started slipping down his nose. he pushes them back with one finger, gaze never leaving the feed.

you open another tab.

his hand drops from the mouse to his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants. the pressure is immediate, grounding for less than a second before it becomes the opposite. every nerve catches. every thought narrows.

you.

your hands around the coffee cup.

your glare across the counter.

the chocolate syrup streaked over your knuckles.

the picture saved in his phone.

the folders he found the first night.

the things you watched.

the things you wanted.

information reorganizes itself inside his head, no longer harmless data but a blueprint, every search and pause and restless shift filling in another line.

his palm moves once over the fabric.

on-screen, you have no idea anything has changed. you are still staring at the blank search bar, chewing absently at the inside of your cheek, one hand disappearing beneath the desk only to tug your shirt lower over your thighs.

satoru’s breath catches.

his fingers tighten.

one version of him still believes there is a difference between watching and touching. between wanting and taking. between a private thought and a violation.

the other version knows he erased that difference the moment he installed the access point.

you do not know how close he is to becoming exactly the kind of person you already accuse him of being.

a freak.

a stalker.

your problem.

the last one should not make heat crawl down his spine.

it does.

satoru closes his eyes. this time, he’s told himself he’s not gonna run away.

for a beat, the imprint lingers: your face washed in monitor-glow, mouth slack with exhaustion, thighs pressed tight beneath the desk—a snapshot pinned behind his eyelids, clear and illicit as raw data.

his body moves before his mind can catch up.

his eyes snap open.

his hand leaves. not gently; the motion sharp, almost punishing, a severed circuit. he clamps onto the desk instead, knuckles gone pale, breath leaking out between his teeth in a hiss. restraint doesn’t feel clean or noble; it’s more like wrenching a live wire from a socket, the muscles in his forearm jumping with the effort.

you don’t know you’re being watched.

that fact alone should make him feel better, safer, more in control of the situation—but it doesn’t. not really. not with the way his body hums, static stuck beneath his skin, every nerve ending spitting sparks from the leftover adrenaline of the day. 

your brain is a hive of glitchy code and leftover milk foam, hands still sticky from sugar syrup and the echo of satoru’s voice in your ear.

the room is silent except for your pc fans, whirring louder than they need to, a kind of white noise you let wash over you. you’ve lost time again, hours leaking out of the night like steam from a kettle. the only light comes from your monitor, bleaching all the color from your body, making your skin look ghost-pale and fake. you drag a palm over your face, chasing away the shine of exhaustion, but it lingers, fingerprints smudged across your cheek.

you’re not thinking about him. you’re not. you’re thinking about the project, about the unread emails, about the way your old partner never replied and how satoru just… stepped in. like it was nothing. like he was always meant to do it.

there’s a pulse in your thighs. an ache low in your stomach. you pretend it’s just nerves, just brain chemicals gone haywire from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, but when your hand drifts to the hem of your shirt, you don’t stop it.

you pull your legs up, curling yourself tighter into the chair. fabric rides up, exposing bare skin to the chill. you shiver, but don’t bother fixing it. your focus is shot, a tangle of overlapping windows and file directories, nothing loading properly. you try to work, really, but you keep refreshing your inbox, flicking to the discord thread where his name glows at the top.

he hasn’t messaged in an hour.

that should feel like relief. it doesn’t. it just leaves you raw and hungry, waiting for the next notification, the next ping of attention. it’s pathetic. you can feel the word in your mouth, bitter and mean.

maybe you are. maybe you like it this way.

fingers tap restless on the keyboard, then fall away. your hand drops to your thigh, nails digging into the skin just above your knee. you squeeze, hard enough to leave a mark, just to see how it feels.

it’s not enough.

it never is.

you tell yourself you’re just bored. just tired. that if you touch yourself, it’s for stress relief, nothing else—not because you’re thinking about the way he looked at you over the counter, the way his eyes tracked every move, the way his voice got low and private, like he was whispering straight into your skull.

you angle the chair, just a little, so you’re facing the desk instead of the door. your other hand drops from the mouse to your lap, thumb brushing over the line of your panties, the thin cotton suddenly too hot, too constricting.

you slip your fingers beneath the band. drag them slow, letting the fabric snap against your skin. it stings, sharp and sweet, and the shock sends a little shiver up your spine.

on the other side of the glass, satoru loses his mind quietly, efficiently, like a program running in silent mode.

he sees everything.

he’s seen everything, the access point tucked into your machine like a secret, a worm burrowed deep in the kernel. he tells himself it’s just for safety, just for fun, just to prove a point—but the truth is uglier than any excuse. the truth is a live feed, 1080p, you illuminated by the blue-white of your screen, thighs spread and slick, fingers working frantically under the desk.

he’s not supposed to see this.

he’s not supposed to want this.

but he watches anyway.

he’s breathless, every muscle in his body locked tight, hand squeezing his own cock so hard it hurts, like the pain might keep him from coming too fast. it doesn’t. not even close. the sight of you is enough to fry every circuit in his brain, to turn him into something glitchy and animal, obsessed and unashamed.

he jerks himself off to the rhythm of your movements, palm sliding rough and desperate, hips stuttering every time your fingers disappear between your legs. he wants to hear you. wants to know what sounds you’re making. wants to be there, kneeling on the floor, mouth open, waiting for you to let him taste.

he doesn’t even make it to the end of your orgasm before he’s coming, sharp and sudden, biting down on his knuckles to kill the sound. it doesn’t help. the noise that escapes is pathetic, raw, a choked whimper he’d never let anyone else hear.

cum spatters his hand, his shirt, dripping down in thin, sticky lines. he watches you ride it out, milking yourself through every twitch and tremor, and the sight almost makes him hard again, a second spike building under his skin.

he wipes himself off, not caring about the mess, attention glued to the feed as you slump in the chair, ruined and spent. your chest heaves. your cheeks are flushed. you look soft, vulnerable, the kind of soft he wants to break open and keep for himself.

he wonders if you’d hate him for this. if you’d block him, press charges, change your passwords and never speak to him again.

he wonders if you’d want him to watch.

he wants to message you. wants to tease, to ask what you’re doing, to see how you’ll lie. but he waits, discipline burning under his skin, refusing to be the first to break.

— ⋆˚꩜｡ּ —

the thought of satoru makes your cunt clench, a weak after-tremor, slick pooling under your ass as you squirm in the chair. you pull your hand out from under your panties and wipe it on your thigh, not caring that it leaves a streak, not caring about anything except the low, gnawing ache that hasn’t gone away, not really.

he fans in your pc ramp up, loud enough to vibrate the surface of your desk. there’s nothing running. just chrome. just discord. just your email and a handful of tabs you don’t even care about. you open task manager on autopilot, because you know your own build, you know when it’s running hot, and this is wrong, this is background activity chewing cpu for no reason.

the process isn’t even subtle. it’s just sitting there, “winhost32.exe,” using up a fat chunk of memory and a casual stream of bandwidth. you google it. top result is reddit, someone asking if it’s a virus. the answer is just “system service. safe to leave alone.”

you leave it alone.

you close task manager and pretend it’s not weird. you pretend you’re not weird, sitting half-naked in your desk chair at 1 am., your hand sticky and your head full of a guy who treats obsession like a full-time job. you pretend there’s a version of you that doesn’t want to be watched, doesn’t want to be noticed, doesn’t want to be the fucking main character of someone’s private highlight reel.

there’s not.

you log off, but you don’t actually go to bed. you just flick off the overhead light and crawl under your blanket, phone clutched in your hand, the glow of the screen bathing your chest in pale blue. you scroll, mindless, hungry, thumb twitching on the refresh even though nothing new has come in.

you still send one message, though.

you : wtf is winhost32?

thank you for reading! taglist is open, comment if you want to be added!

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[torupng]

❝ ALTER EGO ❞ 呪術廻戦

CHAPTER 3 ⇢ PREV CHAPTER ⋆ NEXT CHAPTER .

# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ popular fem!reader ⋆ satoru has a secret identity ⋆ no smut in this chapter but still suggestive ⋆ texting.

You should’ve known better than to go seek him out in his territory.

You realized this the second you walked through the doors and saw him sitting at your usual table, back corner, tucked away from the prying eyes of the campus population. He looked up when you approached, and for a split second, you saw it—that nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to adjust his glasses even though he wasn't wearing them.

Then he blinked, and it was gone. Replaced by something else. Something that made your stomach do a very stupid and inconvenient flip.

He was wearing a sweater. Of course he was, he might do porn online but he’s still himself regardless. It was oversized and brown and made him look soft and unassuming. His white hair was messy, falling across his forehead in that way that used to seem dorky, before you knew everything, because now it just looked infuriatingly attractive. His glasses were perched on his nose, and you knew—you knew—they were part of the persona. The glasses-off version of him was the one who posted videos of himself jerking off with stupid provoking captions like “thinking about someone.” The bastard.

This version, the glasses-on version, was the one who was supposed to be scared of you.

But he didn't look scared. Not now at least.

He looked... almost amused.

"You're late," he said, pushing a stack of papers across the table. "I was starting to think you'd stood me up."

"I'm five minutes late." You dropped into the seat across from him, grabbing the assignment without looking at it. "And I don't stand people up. I make them wait. It's a power move. You wouldn’t know.”

"Sure it is." His lips twitched. "Also, you have a little bit of—" He gestured vaguely at his own face. "You know. Sleep."

You reached up and wiped at your cheek, mortified. There was nothing there. He was messing with you. This absolute dick. This very… big… no, no.

"Ha ha," you deadpanned. "Very funny. You're real bold for someone who's contractually obligated to do my homework for the next year."

"Contractually." He tilted his head, that stupid smirk still playing at his lips. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"That's what I'm calling it." You flipped open the assignment, scanning his handwriting. It was neat. Almost annoyingly neat. Every step was laid out with meticulous care, arrows pointing to relevant formulas, little notes in the margins explaining his thought process. He'd color-coded it. With actual colored pens. "This is... thorough."

"I aim to please."

"Don't." You looked up at him, narrowing your eyes. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That thing where you pretend to be normal and then say something that makes me want to throw this book at you."

He laughed. Actually laughed. It was a low, warm sound that caught you off guard, and you hated how much you liked it. God, you were easy weren’t you? It’s only been a few days and you’re so so gone—a 7.4 incher has you acting like that. "You're so hostile. I just did your homework. Most people would say thank you."

You shoved the feeling down. Very deep down that it went too low you had to pull it back up.

"Most people didn't blackmail you into doing it."

"Most people don't have the guts to blackmail me." He leaned back in his chair, and you caught the way his sweater pulled across his shoulders. The fabric stretched, just slightly, and you could see the shape of muscle underneath. You'd watched him flex those muscles last night. You'd heard the sounds he made when he—

"Staring," he said, one eyebrow lifting.

You snapped back to reality. Stupid. Stupid hormones. "I wasn't staring."

"You were. At my shoulders. You do that a lot, actually." He tilted his head, studying you with an expression that was way too knowing. "Ever since you found my page, you've been looking at me differently. Like you're trying to figure out where the muscles are hiding."

"You wear baggy clothes. It's not my fault you look like a Victorian orphan until you take your shirt off."

"Victorian orphan." He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "That's a new one. I've gotten 'librarian,' 'that guy who definitely has a D&D campaign,' and 'human embodiment of a sweater vest,' but never Victorian orphan."

"First time for everything." You flipped to the next page of the assignment, trying to ignore the way his eyes were still on you. "This is actually good. Like, really good. You didn't just do the bare minimum."

"Was that a compliment?"

"Don't get used to it."

"Too late. I'm writing it down." He pulled out his phone, pretending to type something. "Date: the day you admitted I'm talented. Witnesses: none because you'll probably deny it later to make me look insane.”

"Okay, I'm leaving." You stood up, shoving the papers into your bag. "Thanks for the homework. Try not to post any more videos thinking about me. It's weird."

He didn't say anything. Just watched you with that same infuriating smirk, one eyebrow raised like he knew something you didn't.

You made it three steps before your curiosity got the better of you.

"Wait." You turned back. You didn’t even want to but you did. It’s like your body had a mind of its own lately. "Why did you do that? Make the video, I mean. You didn't have to."

He shrugged, the picture of casual nonchalance. "I told you. I was thinking about you."

"That's not a proper answer."

"Well it’s the one you’re getting."

You stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you blinked.

"Why do you do it?" you asked finally. "The page. The videos. You're not... you're not the type. At least, I dunno, I thought you weren't. You're the guy who gets flustered when people talk to him. I saw you apologize to the door once. How does that guy turn into... that?"

His smile faltered. Just a fraction, just for a second, but you caught it.

"Maybe that guy," he said slowly, "isn't the real me.”

"And the page is?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it’s the opposite and the page isn’t the real me. It’s nice, keeps you guessing." He looked down at his hands, and for a moment, he seemed smaller. Less confident. More like the Satoru you'd known for three years. "It’s easier to be something behind a screen."

You didn't know what to say to that. You didn't know how to reconcile the shy nerd in front of you with the confident, cocky creator who'd made you feel things you weren't ready to admit.

"So you made a sex Twitter," you said flatly. "Very healthy coping mechanism."

He laughed again, and it was lighter this time. "It's not just a sex Twitter. It's a very carefully curated sex Twitter. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Absolutely. I have branding. Aesthetic. You don't just stumble into 50k followers.”

Fifty thousand. You'd noticed the number, but hearing him say it out loud made it real. Fifty thousand people watched him naked. Saw him jerk off. Fifty thousand people saw the side of him that he kept hidden from everyone else.

And now… well, you were one of them.

"Okay," you said, sitting back down. "I have questions."

"There she is. I figured you would.”

"First question." You leaned forward, lowering your voice so the guy three tables over couldn't hear. "What's the deal with the username? Glasses off. You wear glasses. Obviously. But you keep them on in your videos. That's like... basically false advertising."

He blinked. "I... honestly hadn't thought about that."

"Clearly. You need a rebrand. Something more accurate. Like 'JackedNerd' or 'NerdWithABig—'"

"Okay, that's… enough." He held up a hand, and you could've sworn he was blushing. "The username stays."

"Fine. Second question." You tapped your fingers on the table. "How do you do it? The confidence, I mean. You talk to me like you've been doing this forever, but the second I showed up, you looked like you were about to pass out."

"I was caught off guard." He adjusted his glasses, a gesture that was becoming increasingly endearing. It was so cute. Fuck, why did you think it was cute? "You don't just show up and tell someone you know their secret identity. Obviously I’d be nervous."

"So you panicked."

"I panicked a little."

"A lot. You were shaking."

"I was not shaking. It was adrenaline.”

"You were definitely shaking. I saw it."

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Sighed. "Fine. I panicked. But I recovered."

"Did you? Because right now you're blushing."

"I'm not—" He touched his cheek, and the betrayal was immediate. "Okay, I'm a little warm."

"A little?"

"You're being difficult."

"Coming from the guy who made a video about me."

His eyes widened. Just a fraction, just for a second, but you caught it. "I didn't say it was about you."

"You literally said my name at the end."

"'Princess' is not your name."

"It sorta is now. You gave it to me. It’s our secret, isn’t it?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. For a moment, he looked genuinely flustered, like he'd been outmaneuvered in a game he didn't realize he was playing.

Then he laughed. A genuine laugh, not the controlled one from before. It was loud enough to make the guy at the next table look up and see the popular girl sitting with the nerd. You tried not to think about what this might’ve looked like.

"You're outlandish," he said.

"I'm outlandish? You're the one with a secret sex Twitter."

"Touché."

There was a moment of silence that wasn’t awkward, exactly. More like the air between you had shifted, something that was a little too hot for comfort.

"What's your third question?" he asked.

"I don't have a third question."

"You said you had questions. Plural."

"I did. I asked two… and I forgot the rest."

"You’re not a very good liar."

You folded under no pressure. "Fine. Third question." You hesitated, then pushed forward before you could overthink it. "Did you actually think about me? Or was that just for the video?"

He didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, his gaze steady.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I think you're deflecting."

"And I think you're avoiding the question."

"I asked first."

He smiled. It was a small smile, almost soft, and it did something to your chest that you refused to acknowledge because acknowledging it meant acknowledging the fact that this idiot was making your heart do things.

"Okay," he said. "Yeah. I thought about you."

You didn't know what to say. You didn't know what to do with the warmth spreading through your chest, the flutter in your stomach that felt a lot like butterflies. You wanted to torch them.

"Third question answered," he continued. "You happy?"

"That you jerk off to me?" You scoffed, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. But when you looked back at him it was like he was nowhere near affected as you. “Verdict’s still out on that one.”

“Let me know when it comes, yeah?” he chuckled.

"Okay, new topic. About the 50k followers. Do you actually make money from this?"

He blinked at the change of subject, but let it happen anyway. "Some. Not a lot. Enough to cover my rent and other expenses.”

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, like it was no big deal. "I do customs. Promotions. The occasional paid video. It's not a full-time job, but it beats working as a cashier in some shitty convenience store."

"You do customs." You stared at him. "People pay you to make videos of yourself."

"People pay me to make videos of myself doing specific things, yes."

"What kind of things?"

His smirk returned, slow and taunting like he had you cornered. "You want to know?"

"I'm asking, aren't I?"

"You're blushing."

"I'm not blushing." You were definitely blushing. "Just answer the question."

"Fine. Some people like specific… scenarios. Teacher-student. Neighbor. Boss-employee. Sometimes they just have a fetish and want someone to fulfill it."

"And you just... do it?"

"If it's within my boundaries, yes—pay’s good."

You considered this. It wasn't exactly what you'd expected. You'd assumed he was just someone who liked showing off, who got off on the attention. But there was more to it than that. There was a calculation, a professionalism to the way he approached it. Which makes sense for a guy like him.

"You're really not who I thought you were," you said.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Not sure."

He laughed again. It was genuine. Open. Like he was actually enjoying this. That was happening a lot. Couldn’t have possibly been a good sign because the sound was growing on you.

"Keep me posted," he said. "I'm invested now."

"So am I, apparently." You stood up, gathering your things. "I need to go. I have a class."

"You have class at 1:15. It's 12:45."

"How do you know my schedule?"

"I do your homework. I've seen your class list."

"Creep."

"I prefer the term ‘businessman’."

"You don't get paid for doing this."

"Not in money." His smile was sharp, teasing. "But the benefits are pretty good."

You didn't ask what he meant by that. You didn't want to know. Or maybe you wanted to know too much, and that was the problem. A shitty problem, at that.

"I'm leaving," you announced. "For real this time."

"I'll be here. Same time tomorrow?"

"I don't have homework tomorrow."

"Then you can bring me a coffee. As a thank you for the assignment."

"I'm not buying you a coffee."

"I did all your calculus. The least you can do is buy me a latte."

"I'm still not buying you a coffee."

"I like oat milk. And an extra shot of espresso."

"Gojo."

"See you tomorrow." He waved, that stupid smirk still on his face. "Don't be late. I like my coffee hot."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him that you weren't going to show up, that you weren't going to play his game, that you were the one in control here.

But you didn't.

Because as you walked away, you were already planning what to say to him tomorrow. Already thinking about the way he'd looked at you when he said he thought about you. Already thinking about going home and stalking his page.

Already wondering what would happen next. Whether he’d text you or whether he’d send you something. It was gross—you were gross. Perverted. Pathetic. A long list of words that didn’t hold much meaning anymore.

The notification came that night at 10:15 PM.

You told yourself you weren't going to look. You were better than that. You told yourself you had better things to do—studying, sleeping, doomscrolling—literally anything besides watching him on your phone like some kind of obsessed fan.

You opened the app anyway because logic be damned, right?

@glassesoff: posted something new.

You clicked the notification.

It was a photo. Just a photo, no video this time. He was lying on his stomach on what looked like his bed, the sheets rumpled around him. The camera was angled to show his back, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted as he stretched his arm above his head. His hair was messy, falling across the pillow, and you could just barely see the curve of his jaw as his face laid sideways on the pillow. He never showed his full face. Just little shots that couldn’t give anyone enough to make out who he was in person.

The caption read: oat milk and an extra shot of espresso is how i like my coffee.

You stared at the screen. Your face was burning. Your heart was beating too fast.

You typed out a message before you could stop yourself.

You: you're stupid.

@glassesoff: i posted that a few seconds ago. you stalking me?

You: i'm making sure you're not posting anything that could get you arrested.

@glassesoff: that's very responsible of you.

You: i'm a responsible person.

@glassesoff: is that why you blackmailed me?

You: i'm responsible about my blackmailing. it's very ethical.

@glassesoff: ethical blackmail. that's a new one.

You: i'm a woman of many talents.

@glassesoff: i know. i've seen them. you're very good at getting what you want.

You stared at the message. It felt like he was talking about something else. Something more maybe. You didn’t want to read into it but impulse overwhelmed logic as you typed out the next text.

You: what's that supposed to mean?

@glassesoff: it means i know you're going to show up tomorrow.

You: you don't know that.

@glassesoff: i know you.

You: you don't know me.

@glassesoff: i know you better than you think.

The words hung there, heavy and loaded. You didn't respond. You couldn't.

@glassesoff: see you tomorrow, princess.

You closed the app. Put your phone down. Stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow. You were going to see him tomorrow despite your best efforts to stand him up on a meet up he planned on his own. And you weren't going to buy him coffee. You weren't. You were going to show up, take your homework, and leave. That was it.

You were absolutely, definitely, 100% going to buy him coffee.

Oat milk. Extra shot of espresso.

You hated how much you were looking forward to it. To seeing him.

© torupng | all rights reserved.

likes, comments, reblogs and any interaction is appreciated ! <3 thank you for all the love on this series !!

[satolune]

──── 𑣲⋆𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ rodrick heffley coded 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐉𝐎 and fashion nerd/girly reader 𑁤⨾

2.1k wc. no warnings, this is pure fluff

a/n :: i deadass might make a little part 2 for geto hehe

Satoru wasn't your typical nerd.

He didn't care about math or history, and he definitely didn't care about the syllabus for a single class that didn't involve a keyboard, a computer, or a snare drum. The guy barely scraped by in anything that wasn't music theory or coding, not because he wasn't smart — he was, annoyingly so — but because he refused to put in effort for anything that didn't already have his attention. His attention, once caught, was a spotlight. If it hadn't caught you yet, you didn't exist.

He spent his free time exactly three ways: behind his drum kit in Suguru's garage, buried in a Digimon rewatch he'd already seen four times, or three hours deep into a raid with a headset clamped over messy white hair, screaming at Nanami through the mic to actually heal him this time. His dorm room looked like a Best Buy had a baby with a comic shop — string lights, a wall of figures still in their boxes because "they lose value if you open them," and a corkboard covered in setlists for a band that had, generously, played six shows.

Satoru always knew that if he fell for someone, it would be a nerd. He just never pictured it looking like you.

You met him because of a spilled iced coffee and absolutely nothing more romantic than that.

It was the first week of the semester, campus still humid and overcrowded, and you'd been power-walking across the quad with a garment bag over one shoulder and a stack of sketchbooks under the other arm when a very tall, very loud boy backed directly into you without looking. Your coffee went down his band tee — some faded shirt with a logo you didn't recognize, letters half peeled off — and his drumsticks clattered onto the pavement.

"Oh my god," you'd said, mortified, already fishing napkins out of your bag like you kept a small pharmacy in there. Which, to be fair, you kind of did.

"Don't apologize," he said, grinning down at the stain like it was the best thing that happened to him all week. "This shirt was already ugly. You just gave it character."

You blinked at him. He was obnoxiously tall, silver hair falling messily over startling blue eyes, and there was a confidence radiating off him that didn't match the drumsticks or the Digimon keychain clipped to his backpack. He didn't carry himself like the guys you'd catalogued back home — the shy ones who blushed and stammered over a group project. He looked at you like he already knew the ending of this conversation and thought it was funny.

"I'm Satoru," he said, sticking out a hand like this was a business meeting and not a crime scene of oat milk. "Drummer. Certified genius. Currently drowning in caffeine that isn't mine."

"That's on you for walking backwards."

"I was doing a bit for my friend." He jerked his thumb toward a guy with a long black ponytail standing several feet away, watching the whole thing with the weary patience of someone who had clearly done cleanup duty for Satoru before. "Suguru doesn't think I can walk and talk at the same time. I was proving him wrong."

"You were proving him right."

That got a laugh out of him — a real one, loud and delighted, like you'd said something far funnier than you meant to. "Okay. I like you." He said it so easily, like liking people was a decision he made in real time and didn't think twice about. "What's your major?"

"Fashion design."

"Perfect." He picked his drumsticks up off the ground, twirling one between his fingers with the kind of muscle memory that only came from years of doing it. "You can redesign this shirt. Character and all."

You should've walked away right then. You had a class in eleven minutes and a stained blouse of your own to deal with. Instead you found yourself saying, "I don't do charity work," and watching his grin widen like you'd thrown down a gauntlet instead of an insult.

"We'll see about that, coffee girl."

You didn't expect to see him again. Campus was big, your circles didn't overlap, and you'd mentally filed him under loud, cute, forgettable the second you sat down in your first lecture. Except campus, as it turned out, was smaller than you thought, and Satoru Gojo was apparently everywhere.

He was in your general ed elective, three seats over, doodling little digital monsters in the margins of notes he wasn't taking. He was at the campus coffee shop your roommate dragged you to, holding court at a corner table with three other guys — the ponytail one, a stoic blond who looked like he paid taxes for fun, and someone with tattoos creeping up his forearms who kept flicking Satoru in the back of the head every time he got too loud. He was at the party your friend Utahime insisted you go to, standing on top of someone's coffee table doing an impression of a professor that had half the room in tears.

And every single time, he found you first.

"Coffee girl." He'd taken to calling you that instead of your actual name, which you found insufferable and, somewhere you weren't proud of, kind of charming. "Fate keeps throwing us together. I think the universe wants me to fix my fashion sense."

"The universe wants you to stop backing into people."

"Same thing, honestly."

It became a rhythm you didn't ask for and didn't stop, either — him dropping into the seat beside you before lecture with some ridiculous opener, you rolling your eyes and answering anyway. He asked about your sketches once, actually asked, leaning over your shoulder close enough that you could smell his cologne — something warm, a little spiced, nothing like the Axe body spray you'd assumed a guy like him wore.

"You drew that?" He was looking at a half-finished dress design, all sharp lines and asymmetric draping, like it was something out of a museum instead of the back page of your notebook.

"It's not done."

"It's sick. You're actually insane for this." He said it with none of the performative flirting from before — just plain, unguarded awe, like he'd forgotten to be cocky about it. "I can't draw a stick figure that doesn't look like it's having a medical emergency."

"I find that hard to believe. Aren't you obsessed with Digimon? Don't you have to draw those?"

"I collect them. Different skill set." He tapped the page. "This is actual art. What I do is scream into a headset until Nanami mutes me."

You found out, slowly and against your will, that he wasn't just loud confidence stacked on top of nothing. He knew music theory cold, could break down a chord progression on the spot, had strong and extremely specific opinions about which Digimon partner was objectively the best (Angemon, he'd argue this until sunrise) and an even stronger opinion about video game soundtracks being "criminally underrated as an art form, coffee girl, I will die on this hill." He talked with his whole body, hands flying, volume climbing, and then every so often — rare, unexpected — he'd get quiet. Almost shy. Usually right after he said something too honest.

Like the day he asked if you wanted to come watch his band practice.

"It's just Suguru's garage. It's not glamorous." He rubbed the back of his neck, and for a second the cockiness dropped clean off his face, replaced by something more nervous, more real. "You don't have to. I just — thought you might want to hear it. Since you've never actually heard us play anything."

You said yes before you'd fully decided to.

The garage smelled like reverb and stale energy drinks. Suguru — Suguru Geto, you learned, the guy with the ponytail — was tuning a guitar with the focus of a surgeon, occasionally throwing dry commentary at Satoru that made the whole room laugh. Shoko sat cross-legged on an amp, painting her nails an unbothered black, bass propped against her knee like an afterthought even though she was clearly the best musician in the room. Nanami — tax-paying-energy Nanami — adjusted his keyboard stand with military precision and gave you a polite nod that felt like the most normal interaction you'd had all week. And Sukuna, tattooed and terrifying in a way that made you instinctively step half a foot closer to Satoru, sat behind a second guitar looking like he was personally offended by the concept of being in a band.

"This is coffee girl," Satoru announced, flopping down behind his kit like he owned the room, which, in fairness, he kind of did. "She's here to witness greatness."

"She's here because you wouldn't shut up about her," Suguru said, not looking up from his guitar. "For two weeks."

"Slander."

"Documented slander," Shoko added without looking up from her nails. "He has a note in his phone."

Satoru's ears went pink. It was the single most satisfying thing you'd seen all semester.

"Play the song, Satoru," Sukuna said flatly, "before I lose the will to be here."

They played. And you understood, watching him, why he never took his classes seriously — because this, clearly, was where all of it went. He wasn't just loud behind the kit, he was precise, locked in with Shoko's bass in a way that looked like something they'd built over years, sticks a blur, head bobbing, completely unselfconscious in a way you hadn't seen from him anywhere else. There was no performance in it. No bit. Just him, fully present, grinning like an idiot between songs when he caught you watching.

After, while the others packed up, he sat down next to you on the busted garage couch, sweat-damp and buzzing with adrenaline, close enough that his knee brushed yours.

"So?" He tried for casual. Missed by a mile. "Verdict?"

"You're actually good."

"Actually good, or good-good?"

"Don't push it."

He laughed, and something in his face softened, the cocky mask slipping sideways just enough that you caught the boy underneath it — the one who kept a note in his phone, who got shy about the things he cared about most, who'd apparently been talking about you for two weeks before he worked up the nerve to invite you here.

"Hey," he said, quieter now, no audience left to perform for. "I know I'm — a lot. Loud. Whatever. I don't really do subtle."

"I noticed."

"I'm serious about this, though." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, and for once he wasn't smirking. "I don't want this to be a bit."

You should've had a witty comeback ready. You always did, with him — it was half the fun, the back-and-forth, the way he pushed and you pushed back just as hard. But something about the way he said it, stripped of all his usual bravado, made the words catch in your throat instead.

"It's not a bit," you said instead, quiet. "For me either."

The grin that broke across his face then was different from all the others — not performing, not for the room, not for a bit. Just for you.

"Good," he said. "Because I already told the guys you're my girlfriend. Retroactively. As of two weeks ago."

"Satoru."

"What? I was manifesting."

You shoved his shoulder, and he caught your wrist on the way, lacing his fingers through yours like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd been planning exactly this move since the coffee spilled down his shirt. Across the garage, Suguru caught the two of you and rolled his eyes so hard you were fairly sure it hurt.

"Finally," he muttered.

Nobody in that garage was surprised. Apparently you were the last one to figure it out — that the loudest, cockiest, most insufferable nerd on campus had quietly, embarrassingly, been falling for you since the first day you soaked his shirt in oat milk latte and told him he deserved it.

You figured it was fair. He'd been sneaking his way into your life for weeks without asking permission for that either.

[kayuekou]

꩜ ◞ THE SEVEN PROCESSES OF A PHOTOGRAPH

Pairing Fushiguro Megumi with you whose cursed technique melts cursed-energy constructs should, by every measurable standard, qualify as administrative negligence. Instead, it somehow becomes a long string of investigations, convenience store dinners, train rides home, and increasingly guilty apologies to his shikigami. Somewhere between burned shadows, said train rides home, and entirely too many photographs, Megumi makes the catastrophic discovery that everything he relies on is vulnerable to you—including his composure.

content ꩜ 9.9k words?? ， fem!reader ， not proof read (i'll go over it later) ， fluff ， canon typical violence (blood, injury) ， rivals to lovers ， slow burn ， mutual pining ， idiots in love whatever ， reluctant partners ， hurt/comfort ， confessions and first kisses ， emotional constipation (megumi disease) ， reader has a last name but doesn't diminish her being a reader insert ， happy ending

A camera is an instrument used to capture and store images and videos, either digitally via an electronic image sensor, or chemically via a light-sensitive material such as photographic film.

For best results, avoid exposing the film before the shutter is ready. This was shot on a 35 mm SLR Camera. HOW TO OPERATE:

I. LOADING THE FILM : A camera cannot record anything until it has something capable of holding light.

Loading the film determines whether a photograph can exist at all. Every image depends on this step, though none of it is visible yet. Film is light-sensitive by design. Exposure before the appropriate moment permanently damages the image.

Fushiguro Megumi already knows your name before the two of you officially meet because Gojo keeps bringing you up like you're some sort of punchline. It's not because you're especially strong—though you are—but because 'you can actually joke around instead of hurting his feelings.' It gets especially more annoying because he keeps bringing you up to Megumi specifically because you're 'the girl who makes being a shikigami living hell.'

To him, you're just the second year who thinks Gojo (who's objectively unfunny) is funny, and apparently takes the most dangerous intelligence missions because nobody else is able to.

Then, Megumi gets stuck with you. Not with Kugisaki, not with Itadori, his actual classmates. Because Gojo can't seem to stop tampering with his life, maybe because he knows Megumi through whatever hardened aloof shell he has, truly loved the guy who took him under his wing at such a young age. Suddenly he's pulled into the entrance of the dorms and introduced to you, who's equally as aggravated by his stunt as Megumi is.

Still, Megumi dismisses everything as one of Gojo's exaggerations until the first joint mission. The moment your camera flashes and Divine Dog lets out a startled yelp before dissolving back into shadow with singed edges, he doesn't even look at the curse you exorcised. He's already kneeling beside the place where his shikigami disappeared, jaw set tightly enough to hurt. He doesn't yell at you. Somehow that's worse.

The afterimage won't go away; there's a light, jagged edge on the surface in which your camera pointed and shuttered on. There's a tremble to your fingers as you let the camera fall, hanging low on your neck.

A patch of fur from White covered a small patch on the ground, nearly melted into the concrete. Megumi's head cranes towards you, and in a frighteningly level voice, he asks, "Can your technique do that every time?"

When you answer with your voice so tinted with guilt after realizing what happened, "...Only if the lens catches them," he simply stands up, turns to Gojo, and says, "Request denied. Find me another partner."

Megumi becomes impossibly difficult to work with afterwards. Not because he actively sabotages missions—Megumi would never compromise civilians over personal grievances—but because every fight becomes an exercise in avoiding you. He'll deliberately reposition himself across rooftops so your field of view never overlaps with his shadows. He starts recalling Divine Dogs far earlier than tactically necessary. Rabbit Escape becomes a last resort. Nue practically disappears from his arsenal altogether. You begin noticing that his fighting style has changed entirely, becoming more physical, more exhausting, because every time his shadows touch your lens there's that horrible smell of burning cursed energy.

There's no shadows swarming the area anymore, no elaborate combinations that you were always amazed of. There were no overwhelming summons, which you were kind of glad for because Megumi didn't have to exhaust himself for conjuring up straining things. Everything becomes close quarters and everything becomes efficient. When Yuji notices, only saying "you don't summon Nue anymore," he gives no reason as a response. You're standing thirty feet away.

Either way, you apologize every single mission. To him, to his shikigami; he never summons them around you anymore, so you ask him to tell them for her. He nods every single time. Nothing fixes anything.

It doesn't take long for you to confide in Gojo Satoru over your worsening image in the lens of Megumi. It also proves to be a mistake.

The red velvet cake sat atop the small, round cedar table is barely touched, only a single spoonful visibly taken from the slice. The cafe you're in is warm and exuberantly luxurious, something that Gojo picked after you muttered, I'll pay, Sensei, only for him to risk a heart attack from you by taking you here. He's paying. He would never make his students pay.

You poke at the cake once, then twice, and you still have entirely no real appetite since whatever happened a week ago. When your gaze comes up to your teacher's sunglasses-clad self, you sigh. "What do I do, Gojo-sensei?"

"No idea," he says with a dismissive shrug. Your expression immediately sours and your grip on your fork tightens. Gojo smiles at that. "You'll figure it out. Megumi probably knows you never intended for any harm."

"But I," searching for words for whatever cacophony inside your head, you click your tongue, "—don't know."

Gojo snickers, picking up the singular cream puff on his plate with his two fingers, shoving it in his mouth vulgarly. He gets up from his chair, stretching his arms, and you glare at him. "Right," he hums, already walking to the cashier with his wallet open, "I have to get going. Tata, [Name]-chan!"

Your hand moves towards the half-empty cup of your strawberry yoghurt drink and you grip it hard enough that you feel the drink rising to the lid with the pressure.

Failure to load the film correctly will prevent image formation regardless of lens quality, focus accuracy, or exposure settings.

II. FOCUS : The focusing mechanism determines which subject is rendered sharply and which remains indistinct.

The lens decides what deserves clarity and what will remain blurred. A lens cannot keep every subject equally clear. Rotate the focusing ring until the intended subject appears sharp within the viewfinder. Subjects positioned outside the selected focal plane will appear progressively less distinct.

Fushiguro Megumi is not someone who doesn't notice, not because he wants to be, but because he can't. He's been around too many things and too many watchful eyes to not realize that being on guard is just the norm.

Fushiguro Megumi finds your personality deeply irritating because it doesn't match the damage your technique causes. He expects someone arrogant. Detached. Clinical, maybe. Someone who doesn't sound the way you do, tone high when joking with his teacher who he oh so despises, and someone who's nose is held so high up to the sky, you'd summon Buddha himself with it. Instead you're the sort of person who kneels in front of injured shikigami with your camera already forgotten around your neck, apologizing so sincerely it almost sounds painful.

The inciting incident happens on the same mission string as the first. Investigating whatever happened to an old, wealthy townhouse in the outskirts of Tokyo, who apparently now had crazy owners. The mission was declared a success, even if you and Megumi were stuck for five hours in the creaky old estate; now you're back to investigating the town.

You aren't curt with Megumi. Not even after the four reassignment forms he filed to the higher-ups and complaining to Gojo about how fundamentally incompatible your techniques are. Megumi is still adamant on this. You can't expose flesh to radiation, it'll burn. The same way you can't expose beings constructed with cursed energy to a technique that burns cursed energy.

The opposite:you're warm, figuratively and literally, and also basically the only thing that emits warmth inside the claustrophobic, yet entirely too big hallways of the hospital you're investigating. There's amber to your fingertips and honeyed softness in your voice that Megumi notices and hates himself for noticing. You don't treat him any differently from before the incident, not really, just more careful.

Divine Dog Black conjures into the vicinity and you turn around just before Megumi lowers his hands from his hand sign. There's a twitch in your fingers and by the next second, the exact second a camera needs to activate its shutter, you take a step forward.

Megumi's eyes follow your movements, watching you, unmoving with only a single step back as you crouch down besides the dark-coated wolf. "I'm sorry," you murmur. You scratch beneath the dog's chin, nails gently scraping at a pressure where the dog leans into your touch. "I'm really sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," Megumi says. And yet, he still feels something unpleasant as he looks at you. Not at you, just an unreasonable feeling in general. Something curdling in the middle of his ribs, spreading throughout his spine. Megumi knows it himself it's irrational for him to still have any sort of condemnation for you, and yet, he still convinces himself that the dogs are still hurt by you. White still doesn't wanna come out when you're with him.

"I know," you agree, pressing your forehead to the dog's own, "I still hate it."

Megumi doesn't say anything because what can he say, and neither does Divine Dog. The dog just closes its eyes, smiling while panting. Its tongue sticks out.

The second incident comes in the form of him really realizing how much you apologize. To him, to the dogs, to Nue, to Max Elephant. Not one mission you and Megumi have been on ends with you not apologizing for your perceived insolence.

The words don't even come grand and heavy, they're muttered like hushed secrets from the curved bow of your lips, which Megumi wanted to kill himself for noticing. Nue is here after Megumi summoned him in the dark corners of an abandoned warehouse. You didn't even raise the camera, and yet you're still approaching the winged creature with the carefulness and gentleness of that of a nurturing mother. Your camera is yet again dangling from your neck, unused and absolutely unpaid with attention. Nue's feather not even burnt, because now you've silently repositioned yourself as to not be in line with Megumi's shadow, or any place where his shikigami could jump out, and yet you're still apologizing to the owl-like thing.

it astonishes Megumi, because you aren't scared. It astonishes him that the expression on your face only features guilt and affection for a creature that shouldn't even be able to understand you like that, nor should you understand. You pay no mind to the giant bird creature that only looks half like a bird because of its wings. You pay no mind with your hands reaching out cautiously to pet him, caressing his feathers, even as Nue is a bird as big as you are, perched precariously on the edge of the metallic table in the study room of the house you're examining.

"Sorry Nue," you murmur under your breath to the bird, caressing its feathers. No mind to Megumi, no mind to anything except to him. Your flash didn't even go off, your shutter didn't go off. There's not a single shred of fear lacing your face even as a bird the size of yourself simply stares you down, perched on top of a desk. "Did I hurt you? I'm really sorry."

The third, is that you don't get mad at anything, you readjust. Like everything is some bad angle that can be fixed just by nudging yourself a little millimeter over. And you don't even think it's a big deal, when clearly it is. He doesn't even understand where your lax demeanor even begins from, and where the anxious, ever-apologizing demeanor starts, because you aren't Gojo. You aren't a theatric, and you certain aren't Itadori with the most earnest smile anyone will ever see in their entire life.

Midnight comes with a deep blue sky, blackened almost, and the chill from the wind hitting your skin. There' s a slight tremble to your fingers from the exhaustion. The streetlamps emit a hearthlike glow that hits your left cheek at an angle that completely contrast the FamilyMart's own fluorescent lights flickering at your right. None of these things emit heat however. You should remind yourself to thank Megumi for his great suggestion in coming to a convenience store after the mission because you looked worn out.

"Kozukata," Megumi calls out, walking towards you with a plastic bag of whatever snacks you had asked him to get you and his. An unopened can of coffee is in his left hand.

You look up from your camera bag and your face softens into a smile. "Hm?"

"…Your lens cap," he points.

"Oh," you glance down, realize it's dangling by the strap instead of attached, and simply click it back into place. "Thanks."

That's it. Megumi realizes what he's done three seconds too late and the name has already come out of his mouth, and he sits far too distanced because he still doesn't know whether to let your light shine to him. You both just eat the heated onigiri in silence and eventually, walk side by side in silence.

He can't take it anymore. "…I didn't mean to."

You blink, readjusting your camera strap, the discomfort of it digging into your shoulder weighing you down. You're pretty sure you're a little bit hunched by now. "Mean to what?"

"…Call you Kozukata," muttering, Megumi tries so hard to avert his gaze. Right, because even if one of his guardians were Gojo Satoru, notoriously disrespectful, Megumi had manners.

"Oh," you shrug. It bothers Megumi for two nights. "S'alright."

The fourth incident of him noticing you is that he slowly realizes your camera isn't actually pointed at battles nearly as often as it's pointed at people. And a horrifying realization that accompanies this is that he knows each film you have.

You photograph abandoned shrines overtaken by ivy. Vending machines glowing alone in empty train stations, illuminating the platform in kitschy flickering lights. Half-melted popsicles left on park benches by little children that you'd later say are gross and unhygienic, and entirely too disrespectful to the Earth. Yuji laughing so hard he doubles over. Nobara asleep during train rides with her mouth slightly open. Even Gojo, somehow, has candid pictures where he isn't posing. Megumi notices because he doesn't have any.

Whenever he glances over your shoulder while you're reviewing photos, he's conspicuously absent. "...You don't photograph me," he says one afternoon without really meaning to.

You shiver. Tokyo is cold at night, always. The pantyhose, while military grade, apparently, under your standard-issued Jujutsu Tech uniform doesn't help much in combating the cold. Megumi's eyes drift to your knee, smooth with the sheer black nylon. He hates this.

You blink at him before answering honestly. "You always leave before I can."

The focusing mechanism adjusts the optical distance between the lens and recording medium. Failure to achieve proper focus may result in loss of image definition.

III. APERTURE : The aperture regulates how much light is permitted to enter the optical system.

Aperture settings regulate the diameter of the lens opening and determine the quantity of light reaching the recording medium during exposure. Aperture values are expressed as f-numbers. Each full stop adjustment doubles or halves the amount of transmitted light entering the optical system.

There comes a point where Fushiguro Megumi realizes that actively avoiding you requires more effort than simply existing in the same space as you.

Not because he forgives you. Not entirely. Divine Dog still returns to him occasionally with singed patches of shadow around its legs whenever your timing slips by half a second, and Nue still sheds the occasional feather that disintegrates before it even reaches the ground. Your cursed technique remains, fundamentally, the worst possible thing to pair with his own. Gojo's matchmaking—professionally speaking, anyway—continues to be one of the greatest failures of modern jujutsu administration.

But you adapt.

Megumi notices that before he ever consciously decides to.

You stop standing directly behind him during missions. Then you stop standing beside him. Eventually, without either of you ever discussing it, you begin positioning yourself forty-five degrees to his left whenever he summons Divine Dog. It keeps your lens naturally angled away from the shadows at his feet. When Nue takes flight, you lower your camera until it's absolutely necessary. You switch to a narrower lens on assignments involving shikigami-heavy combat. Megumi catches you doing it once while pretending to check the straps on his sword.

Tolerating you and liking you is not the same. But somehow, his dogs have accepted they like you faster than he did. Megumi realizes the dogs forgave you before he did a month before your cat's birthday. Your cat's birthday doesn't mean anything, because the most he'd do is congratulate you with his deadpan and you'd both move on with your day. But the dogs annoy him. They're usually right about people.

The first time Divine Dog actually approaches you on its own, pressing its snout into your palm despite everything, Megumi genuinely frowns at the animal. Comparable to a child seeing another child get the last piece of candy from a house during Halloween.

It's White this time that comes to you, completely separating himself from Megumi and leaving him to die. You don't notice him at first. You're kneeling beside your camera bag, quietly replacing the cracked UV filter from yesterday's mission, lips pursed in concentration.

Megumi does.

"...White."

The dog ignores him, snout up in the air like he's smelled something friend-shaped that he liked a little too much. White sniffs once, twice, then pads toward you with complete confidence. The wolf nudges your side and startled, you finally look up.

"...Oh," your entire face softens.

Megumi watches in growing disbelief as you slowly reach into the side pocket of your satchel instead of immediately trying to pet him. It's something he noticed a week into you apologizing to his dogs. You've started carrying dog treats, maybe to curry favor from his canine, but now he's sure has just become a habit. Those treats are the expensive kind and he knows that even your sugary drinks aren't that pricy.

How can Megumi keep hating you when you've been carrying dog treats?

"...Can I?" White has already answered by sitting down, some simper already on the dog's lips that entirely betray Megumi's constant shielding of him from you. You pull out a small paper pouch, neatly tied with a pink ribbon. Megumi's brows knit together.

"They're safe," you say quickly, glancing toward him instead of the dog. The idea that you'd poison a dog is far too out of reach, even for Megumi. He just doesn't know why his dogs want you.

Megumi doesn't say anything, but his eye twitches in disbelief. White gently takes the treat from your fingers and lap at your hand. A startled squeak sound stumbles from your mouth, but you immediately relax when the dog leans his entire head into your palm.

Megumi exhales through his nose. "Traitor."

"...Seriously?" he mutters beneath his breath, "after one apology?" Divine Dog merely closes its eyes while you scratch behind its ears. Several apologies, Megumi. He spends the rest of the mission irrationally annoyed with his own shikigami.

Not on a mission, but a team bonding exercise that Gojo set up, which somehow didn't include Kugisaki and Itadori (who were eventually found, to be in a booth somewhere drinking cheap American-imitation milkshakes), nor anyone from your grade, Megumi finds out that he completely regrets saying anything about your camera and why you don't take photos of him because you start asking.

Quietly, politely. "Can I take one?"

Somehow, you've ended up in Shibuya Parco, with a shopping bag in hand because you decided you deathly needed new stationery you don't need, the afternoon sun hitting him from behind. He's sweaty, exhausted, hair sticking up in every direction imaginable. "Now?" he asks flatly.

You tilt your head. "Yeah."

The rough edges of his voice have appeared and a rasp takes form in his throat. You want to offer him water. It also isn't really because of exhaustion. "...I look terrible."

"You always think that," you deadpan. He doesn't know how to respond because you didn't compliment him exactly. You simply stated it like it was an observable law of physics. Somehow, that embarrasses him more than outright praise ever could.

It's embarrassing the first time you ask to photograph him intentionally, and it's still embarrassing for every time you ask. He thinks you're doing it on purpose because every single photograph somehow captures him looking miserable. Hair a mess, uniform dirty, blood on his cheek, or just plain ugly. It's also embarrassing when you take photos of him candidly; so maybe, it's just embarrassing in general.

Eventually he realizes they are the only photos anyone has ever taken of him. Nobody has photographs of him laughing, because it's rare, and the only person who somehow thinks of taking a picture of him like that is you. Nobody has photographs of him eating, Itadori eats funnier. Nobody has photographs of him sleeping on the train, nobody rides to his stop. Nobody has photographs of him existing. You just have a camera constantly slung around your neck like a geek.

The aperture mechanism controls both exposure and depth of field. Incorrect aperture selection may produce underexposed images or unintended background sharpness.

IV. SHUTTER : The shutter controls the duration of exposure. Once released, the recording process cannot be interrupted.

The shutter regulates the duration for which light reaches the recording medium. Exposure time should be selected according to subject movement and available light.

The first time you get critically injured, is technically, because of Fushiguro Megumi.

Your loafers whine against the creaky floorboards and you hear the leakage coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The damp, utterly uninhabitable home you're in reminds you more of a comically over the top horror movie. You wouldn't mind watching a horror movie after this mission, something stupid to help you unwind. But who the hell would you ask when Maki's not interested in hate watching and you barely talk to anybody else. Kugisaki's bad at horror. Megumi is off the table.

Four steps is all you need for a curse to appear and disappear

One, you step forward until your weight terrorizes the floor. Heat curls under the humid wood of the house and your brows furrow at the sudden change. Your eyes flicker to Megumi and he's already looking at you cautiously.

Two, your hands brace around the camera around your neck, gripping tightly on the device. From behind, you hear whispers from unseen things, dim apparitions clouding your vision. Megumi's hands are already up and ready to summon one of his shikigami. You mutter something incoherent; the curses that hide first are the worst.

Three, you step closer to Megumi, back to him. A pit of dark, shadowy energy forms from the ground in front of you, materializing into a semi-translucent man, eyes curled like it was smiling so happily, yet frowning so deeply. It groans at you, ghastly muttering chants. Megumi summons his dogs.

Four, you place your finger on the shutter and the curse growls at you hostilely. You run to the other side of the room and dodge the projectile-like attack it lunged at you. It seemed entirely too preoccupied on you and the finger on the shutter of your camera. The next second, it's lunging itself at you and you raise your camera up, the viewfinder lighting up as its essence is perfectly focused in frame.

You don't click though.

Numbing pain is all you feel the second after your hesitation. Luckily, the Divine Dogs tackled the curse, enough for it to divert enough to not reach your lethal points. Your shoulder feels heavy, blood drips from a gash far too big for minimal blood loss. Tugging, biting, wailing. Eventually the curse cries out in pain when Megumi hits it particularly hard.

And Megumi reprimands you the second the exorcises the curse. "What the hell were you thinking?" hs voice cracks through the ruined hallway harder than the curse had.

The Divine Dogs are still tearing through the remains of the spirit just meters away. The wet sound of exorcism echoes once before everything finally falls silent. You don't answer. Your hand is pressed against your shoulder instead, blood slipping steadily between your fingers. It stains the leather wrapping of your camera before dripping onto warped floorboards one drop at a time.

Megumi is already in front of you. "What were you thinking?" he repeats, louder this time.

His hands stop just short of grabbing you, fingers twitching. Your injury sits too close to your shoulder. Too much pressure would only make it worse. "You had it. "You had a clear shot."

"...I know," your voice is shaky and your head feels just fuzzy enough for you to panic, but entirely too conscious to still be able to decipher what is happening, what you're doing, and where Megumi is. Still, you aren't good with blood.

"So why didn't you take it?"

The house creaks around you. Silence engulfs the uncomfortable distance between you two and you search for a response. You lower your eyes to the camera still hanging from your neck. "...White was still on it."

Megumi frowns. "...What?"

"The frame," your thumb unconsciously rubs over the shutter button. "He was still pinning it," you realize your fingers have gone numb as well. You swallow and you really don't know why the words won't come out. "If I'd fired, I would've hit him too."

Megumi stares so intensely you feel as if he's burning holes inside your brain. You awkwardly laugh, a pathetic sound that doesn't hold nearly enough comedy for the situation you're in. "I figured a shoulder would heal... burning your shikigami again doesn't."

The sentence lands with all the weight of concrete and all the idiocy of both of you.Megumi can't even find something to argue with. Because from your perspective, it makes perfect sense. You'd made a choice.

And ever since your shoulder injury, Fushiguro Megumi has found it impossible to stop noticing you. He tells himself the reason he's watching you is practical.

Your shoulder has been wrapped for twelve days.

The first three, he only checks because Shoko had warned you against overextending it, and your definition of overextending appears to differ wildly from everyone else's. You still carry your camera around your neck. You still insist on lifting evidence boxes whenever missions require documentation. During one assignment in Yokohama, he watches you reach for a rusted metal cabinet with your injured arm before stopping halfway, blinking once, then quietly switching hands as though you'd only just remembered.

You never complain, that's the most irritating part. Megumi almost wishes you would because then he'd have something reasonable to react to and stop the itching feeling up in his neurons.

Instead, because of this absence, he starts noticing stupid things he has no business noticing. The way you subconsciously roll your shoulder every twenty minutes, trying to loosen the stiffness without making a show of it. The way your fingers hesitate over the shutter button for a fraction of a second whenever Divine Dog is anywhere near your frame. The way you've somehow taught yourself to walk around him instead of expecting him to move around you. It should have made working together easier but somehow it only makes him more aware whenever you're there.

It starts becoming irritating. Not you. The awareness.

He notices you arriving before he actually sees you because your camera strap makes a quiet clicking sound against the metal buckle every fourth step. He notices you carry too many rolls of film in your jacket pockets because your silhouette isn't symmetrical anymore. He notices you always drink the fruit-flavored drinks from convenience stores first and save bottled water for the walk back to the dorms.

None of this information is useful.

And the worst part is that Gojo Satoru notices this change in his awareness level, and notices it first. And Gojo knowing only serves to mock Megumi in ways too conniving for him to handle. Kugisaki and Itadori follow suit. Megumi doesn't know if Gojo started gossiping and spreading baseless rumors about him or something else.

It becomes significantly worse after he realizes you've stopped apologizing to him, which started on the exact first mission you went on after your shoulder injury. The day they took you to Shoko, you apologized to Megumi again and only god knows what happened during that. So not because you've stopped feeling guilty (for what?) but because you've decided he probably doesn't want to hear it anymore.

The apologies redirect themselves, now only to his shikigami. To Divine Dog. To Nue. To Max Elephant after it brushes your shoulder and nearly knocks your camera over. Never to Megumi. He doesn't know why the absence bothers him; it shouldn't, if anything, it's what he'd wanted. Instead there's a strange emptiness where the soft, embarrassed sorry used to be after every mission.

He catches himself waiting for it once on some mission in a faux bustling illusion of a shopping mall. "...Mission's over," you say instead, then you smile politely. Then you leave.

For reasons completely beyond his comprehension, that feels worse.

Megumi finds himself remembering your cat's birthday Nuppe, the day of her birthday. You've shown him photos of her exactly once, when Kugisaki asked about her and you panned your phone to your underclassmen one by one showing you the Angoran cat with a permanently resting bitch face. And somehow, during a rain that starts halfway through the end of a surveillance assignment—meaning, going home—he says in his typical flat voice; happy birthday, I bought her treats.

The rain isn't that heavy. But it's enough to make Tokyo shine and for the dampness surrounding the roads to look like makeshift lacquer. You're standing underneath the awning of a closed pharmacy, trying to wipe rainwater off your lens with a microfiber cloth that has very obviously become too wet to accomplish anything.

You sigh, "gods."

Megumi looks over because you've spoken. That's all. Just because you spoke. Your hair is darker from the rain, flattening to your scalp. Water gathers at the ends before dripping onto your collar. You blow a loose strand away from your face without thinking. Then you laugh to yourself.

"...Guess that's today's lighting ruined."

Megumi stares. Not because you've done anything particularly interesting. Because—you're pretty. The realization arrives with all the elegance of being hit in the face with a brick, because it has none of the kind of exaggerated adjective Gojo would throw around carelessly.

"Shit," he immediately looks away. He has absolutely no business thinking that. Because what are you if not just the second year that makes being a shikigami a living hell?

Do not apply excessive force to the shutter release button. A single complete press is sufficient to initiate the exposure sequence.

V. DEVELOPMENT : Exposure alone does not produce a visible image. Development reveals what has already been recorded.

Exposed photographic film does not produce a visible image until processed using the appropriate chemical development procedure.

Megumi starts lingering after missions with you. Which at some point, became rare, because you've been given your regular missions, paired up with whoever was in your grade. Gojo notices this of course, unbeknownst to Megumi. Eventually he starts being sent on more missions with you; that makes him feel both extremely embarrassed and extremely pleased.

And he doesn't linger to talk. He only stands there while you clean your lens, nothing to discuss. You're packing your camera, checking memory cards. He'll wait. Not because he wants to, he tells himself desperately, because leaving first feels wrong and he's gotten into the habit of walking you to the train station now. Well, walking together, which he also tells himself, because you board the same train and your three stops apart.

It's agonizing when he realizes he's slowly starting to become aware of physical details against his own will. You're shorter than he thought. Your sleeves are always slightly too long. Your fingers have tiny calluses from gripping the camera. You smell different depending on whether it's before or after missions. He hates this.

Megumi is fine with knowing things about you, unless it's unnecessary. At first it's tactical. Which shoulder your camera hangs from. Which eye you instinctively close while looking through the viewfinder. Whether you're reaching for a zoom lens or a prime lens. Then, somewhere along the way, those observations become... less useful. He notices your perfume changes depending on the weather. Notices your nail polish is always chipped on your dominant hand because that's the hand gripping the camera body all day. Notices you chew absentmindedly on the inside of your cheek while waiting for elevators. Notices your hair smells different after rain. Every realization is immediately followed by another thought: Why the hell do I know that?

Megumi absolutely refuses to admit he's becoming physically attracted to you because it feels fundamentally unfair. How is he supposed to be attracted to someone who accidentally burns the very extensions of his soul? Every mission becomes psychological warfare. Every mission all he thinks about is the smell of your perfume, how sweet the strawberry is, and the vanilla that lingers after the first whiff. You're crouched beside him reviewing blurry photographs while he's trying very hard not to acknowledge how close your shoulder is to his.

You roll your sleeves up during summer because it's too hot, exposing your forearms, and suddenly he can't remember what Gojo was explaining five seconds ago. He starts looking literally anywhere else. The all too interesting ceiling, the large tree shading your face that makes the soft light that does hit your face do wonders to it, pavement. curses. Anything except you. Unfortunately, every reflective window reminds him you're standing beside him anyway.

He discovers you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating, not until something severe, not until blood draws and metallic flavors hit your tongue. Just enough for your teeth to leave tiny pale indentations before the color slowly returns.

You do it while changing film. While reading mission reports. While trying to untangle camera straps. He notices it once; then twice, then every single time.

"Megumi," right, you've called him Megumi, no honorific, no last name, for months now since you've met. He let you. Nothing changed, and yet somehow his whole interpretation warped a hundred and eighty degrees. "You've been staring at me for like thirty seconds."

"Huh?" is all he can muster.

"Something on my face?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow as your hand swats to your face, hovering just above your cheek. You wait for a response carefully, watching Megumi's face unchanging despite his overheating interior.

"Yes," he nods. He didn't take himself to be a liar, and that bad at that. You immediately wipe away invisible dust that he made up. After ten seconds of lying to you, he hisses, "...No."

"Oh."

He wants to throw himself into Tokyo Bay.

Everything is over for Megumi when he realizes with dawning, wretched clarity what the fuck his observations about you mean. And it chokes him more when he experiences the slow, humiliating death of his own composure. It starts small. He fixes his hair before meeting you. Then he starts changing hoodies because he remembers you once said dark blue looked nicer than black. He catches himself wondering if you've noticed. He almost asks once. The words get halfway up his throat before he swallows them back down so violently he nearly chokes. This is ridiculous. He's ridiculous. He doesn't care what you think. He repeats that to himself every morning while subconsciously choosing whichever jacket you've complimented before.

And he starts knowing that you have at least four shades of lip tint you alternate with. He averts his eyes whenever they even think about looking at you, like they have a mind of their own. The first shade happens after a scuffle with a curse.

Megumi notices your lip tint by accident. Not because he's looking at your lips. Because he's looking for injuries. You come back to the open world wiping dried blood from your jaw with the sleeve of your uniform. It's instinctive now. Before either of you speak, his eyes automatically scan your face first, then your wrists, then whatever part of you looks like it hurts the most. The cut on your cheek is shallow. Your shoulder has already healed months ago. Nothing serious.

"You're bleeding," Megumi says, voice level. He tries so hard not to let his concern—the overwhelming kind—seep through his cadence.

Your brows scrunch up and you look down, hand coming up to your face. You pause momentarily, fingers touching the corner of your mouth before erupting in quiet laughter. You look at Megumi with a glint in your eyes. "Not blood," you pull out a tiny tube from your pocket and hold it up. "Lip tint."

Megumi blinks. The color is pinkish, plum-like. He files this away unsuspected by his own self. "...You wear makeup?"

The question comes out flatter than he intended and your eyes narrow. You look mildly offended; Megumi hisses inside his mind. "Girls usually do."

"...Right."

The second shade, he sees when you are making indignant sounds somewhere between a protest and a laugh as Kugisaki grips your chin with absolutely no regard for personal space. Megumi doesn't bother looking up from the mission report spread across the common room table. He's already learned that whenever Nobara says hold still, somebody's about to become collateral damage.

"Hold still," Kugisaki complains.

"I am holding still!"

Kugisaki smears the lip tint, a coral color that Kugisaki picked out for you that you personally think is way too coral. It suits her more. There's a slight cooling sensation from the tint and you flinch slightly as the cold reaches your lips. "You're talking."

Finishing, Kugisaki retreats, brows furrowing as her eyes shift back and forth from your eyes to your lips. You ask, "Is it crooked?" she says no, "too bright?" she says no. "It feels bright."

Kugisaki glares at your insistent questioning, then turns to Megumi, filing paperwork nobody in his team would ever wanna do. "Megumi, does this look right?"

"No idea."

"Look," Kugisaki kicks his foot under the table. grunting, he does reluctantly. It was the worst mistake of his life.

Finally lifting his head, he notices. Your lips are pink. Not dramatically, but pinker, and definitely more orange. Like you've been eating strawberries, or wearing something. He tries so hard to maintain his composure. "...It looks the same."

Kugisaki groans loud enough to concern nearby wildlife. "Men are hopeless."

Now the thing is, you own an embarrassing number of lip products. Not because you're particularly vain, but since every photograph renders color differently. One's too orange on film, one disappears completely, one's fine indoors but awful outside. You explain it absentmindedly while reorganizing your camera bag and Megumi wasn't even part of the conversation. He just happened to be sitting nearby.

"...Film changes it?" is what he asks. You sound surprised that he did but you nod and explain anyway about differing color temperatures while you continue sorting lenses like this is obvious. Megumi pretends to return to reading.

Megumi also grows quietly possessive before he's even willing to admit he likes you. Yuji calls you cute exactly once after you cut your hair. It's harmless. Entirely harmless. You're showing everyone because Nobara insisted the new bangs framed your face better. Yuji grins and says, "Looks good." That's it. That's literally all he says. Megumi spends the next twenty minutes unusually curt with Yuji for reasons he himself cannot articulate.

Later that night, while trying to fall asleep, his brain cruelly decides to replay that interaction on loop. Then it starts inventing entirely fictional conversations between you and Yuji. By two in the morning he's lying awake staring at the ceiling, furious with himself over scenarios that never happened.

He's restless for the next two weeks and becomes irrationally irritated whenever Itadori talks to you for too long. Not because he's jealous. Obviously. Itadori's just loud... annoying. Standing too close. Laughing too much. Existing incorrectly.

"...Can you stop monopolizing my partner."

"Your partner?"

"...Mission partner."

Megumi's internal monologue becomes progressively more pathetic. Your hair smells nice today and the hinoki wood suits you a lot. Stop. Your hands are really small, thinking of how'd they be compared to his. Stop. The skirt looks—Jesus Christ.

It eventually goes to a point where he doesn't even wanna talk to you. Well, he forces himself to trick himself into forcing himself to not wanna talk to you. Layers upon layers of lies that conceal the fact that he doesn't know if he can want you.

Megumi doesn't realize the exact moment he stops seeing your cursed technique as the thing that destroys his shadows and starts seeing it as the thing that lets you understand him. Every photograph you take strips away appearances. Cursed energy. Performances. Masks. It captures what people refuse to look at.

One evening you hand him a printed photograph you'd taken weeks earlier without telling him. It's just him sitting beneath a tree after a mission, Divine Dog White asleep with its head in his lap. His expression is softer than he's ever seen it. Peaceful, almost.

"...Delete it," he mutters automatically.

You smile a little and shake your head. It's almost a smirk, something devilish that Megumi thinks you've learnt entirely from Gojo Satoru. "No."

He frowns."...Why?"

Moving to his flank, you give him another smile and tuck the photograph back into his hands. For the first time in his life, Megumi can't think of a single thing to say because of your response. "Because I don't think you've ever seen yourself the way your dogs do."

So handle exposed film carefully before development. Excessive heat, moisture, or accidental light exposure may permanently degrade recorded information.

VI. FIXING : Without fixing, the image continues changing until it destroys itself.

After development, film must be immersed in fixing solution to remove remaining light-sensitive compounds and stabilize the recorded image.

When Megumi first started taking the train home with you, with neither of you planning it, he didn't expect for it to be the highlight of his day, the constant thing he looks forward to when they're granted leave from the dormitory.

He spends entire train rides pretending to scroll through his phone, aimlessly scrolling through internet forums or just some Wikipedia article he could care less about. He's actually watching your reflection in the window. Not creepy. Just—checking whether you're asleep. Whether your stop is next. Whether you remembered to zip your bag. He catches himself doing it. Looks away immediately.

Megumi's eyes drift down momentarily down to your thighs, squished together gently in the seat. He cusses himself out for noticing once again, because he's not stopped noticing things about you, if anything, he notices more.

Now he knows the five different ways you laugh. Divided into fifteen more ways because Megumi spends his time looking at you whilst you're on missions far too long. nothing changes about this, he's noticed things, everything that adds to his suffering.

Tokyo passes outside in streaks of reflected neon against rain-darkened windows but Megumi hasn't looked out once since boarding. He's become painfully aware that somewhere over the past several months, sitting beside you has become so habitual that the absence of it would probably feel stranger than the presence. Your shoulder brushes his every time the carriage sways around a bend—not enough to linger, only enough to remind him that you're there—and every accidental touch feels catastrophically deliberate despite the fact that neither of you moves away.

Megumi stares at absolutely nothing in front of him; he's become good at pretending not to look at you. Mostly because he knows that if he lets his gaze drift even slightly to the left, he'll notice something again. The way your lashes lower whenever you read. The tiny crease that appears between your brows while deciding which photographs deserve to stay. The way your thumb always hesitates over the delete button for half a second longer than necessary because, for reasons he'll never understand, you feel guilty deleting blurry pictures of abandoned buildings.

You yawn without covering your mouth, then seem to remember halfway through and awkwardly hide the rest behind your sleeve. Your head tips backwards against the train window with a soft thud, eyes fluttering shut only for a second before reopening again. Sleep is clearly trying to win and Megumi notices because of course he does. He notices that your grip on your camera bag loosens each time your eyes close, then tightens again whenever the train announces another station. He notices you've missed the announcement entirely this time. He notices the strap digging into your shoulder exactly where it always does after longer missions, leaving that faint indentation that disappears by morning. He notices because his brain has apparently decided that documenting you is now a full-time occupation.

The words leave his mouth before he has the chance to inspect them. "You can sleep."

You blink slowly, still fighting whatever exhaustion has settled over you, before giving him a sheepish smile that feels entirely too warm for someone who should just be another classmate. Is he? "...I'll miss my stop."

"I'll wake you."

"...Promise?"

The question is quiet, that same tone you use when you're talking to his dogs in that way so utterly filled with affeciton. So absurdly trusting that something in Megumi's chest tightens without permission. "...Yeah."

You're both still in the train when Megumi realizes that he should've said to Todo Aoi that his type was you. Not someone with unshakable character, because that could be anyone. That could be Itadori and his loud ass self. That could be Kugisaki. That could be anyone.

Because what he wants is some girl who's a year older than him who looks to pretty to be alive, the first person to have ever made him want so suffocatingly. Because he remembers your hair and how it catches light under the sun, the constant, almost exhaustive gentleness you show to anything and everything—to him, when he so adamantly avoided you because you hurt his dogs—and the snacks you bring for his shikigami, not just the Divine Dogs now, constantly, which Megumi suspects has probably drained far too much of your wallet now. He wants you. Nothing else, nothing more. And he wants you in the middle of his life, perfectly centered like the axis of a pendulum.

And it's hopeful because somewhere between the hurt, electrifying feeling that hummed through his body when you smile at him, and his stomach coiling with something addictive, you started acting differently around him too.

Your backpack jingles because there's always some ridiculous charm hanging from it. One charm never changes; some cat thing that looks too cute for a bag that's seen too much. On his birthday, you gift him the same charm in black.

"Megumi," you murmur, holding the charm up to him, "happy birthday."

That's all it takes. That's everything it takes for Fushiguro Megumi to stop his own heart to look at the cave and asking whether the feelings he has for you aren't worth it, or if what his brain has quietly been saying should be taken seriously or not. So Megumi accidentally lets the truth slip in the most infuriating way possible. Only two hours later, when you're adjusting the strap of your camera before a mission when he says, without looking up from his phone, "...You look pretty today."

Silence. Absolute silence. He freezes exactly half a second after speaking. You stare at him. He stares very intensely at absolutely nothing.

"...What?" you ask eventually, eyes looking up at him through your eyelashes.

Proper fixation permanently terminates the film's sensitivity to light, allowing the negative to be handled safely under normal illumination.

VII. PRINTING : The developed negative is transferred into a permanent positive image. Proper archival storage protects an image against deterioration while preserving it for future viewing.

A photographic negative cannot be interpreted directly without appropriate printing. Enlargement onto photographic paper reveals the recorded image in its intended tonal values.

Eventually Megumi discovers something infinitely more dangerous than your cursed technique: you actually see him. And that's probably the reason you've carved your way into his heart so deeply. You see him. Not the Zen'in heir. Not Gojo's student. Not the prodigy. Just Megumi. You ask if he's sleeping enough because the circles under his eyes have gotten darker. You quietly hand him bottled water before he remembers he's thirsty. You notice he's favoring his ribs after missions without him ever saying they're injured. None of these observations are dramatic. None of them are accompanied by speeches. You simply pay attention. Megumi realizes, with mounting horror, that nobody has really done that before. And he wants you to continue doing this.

There comes a point where Megumi can no longer pretend coincidence is simply coincidence.

Individually, none of it means anything. You wait for him after missions because you happen to finish packing your camera at the same time. You happen to buy two cans of coffee because convenience stores only sell them in refrigerated rows anyway. You happen to sit beside him on trains because there are only so many empty seats. Every explanation is perfectly reasonable on its own. Megumi accepts every single one without argument because he's always preferred simpler answers. Life is easier when things have practical explanations. The problem begins when practical explanations start occurring every single day.

It starts with the train.

Not because the two of you share the same line—that part has always been true—but because you begin missing trains you ordinarily would've caught. You're standing beside him on the platform one evening, camera tucked safely beneath your coat against the rain, when the doors slide open in front of you. You glance at the carriage. Then at him. Then, with complete nonchalance, you let the train leave without boarding it. The next one arrives seven minutes later. You spend those seven minutes discussing whether convenience store pudding has become noticeably worse in recent years. Megumi doesn't think about it until it happens again. Then a third time. Then enough times that he quietly checks the timetable himself just to confirm you really are choosing to wait.

Megumi never asks why; somehow he knows the answer already. And the entire school knows before either of you do.

Not because either of you are particularly obvious. Quite the opposite, actually. You and Megumi never touch beyond whatever is strictly necessary during missions. You don't flirt. You don't exchange lingering glances across classrooms like some cheap romance manga. Half the conversations you have consist of practical things like checking train schedules, reminding each other to eat after overnight assignments, or asking whether either of you remembered extra film. On paper, the relationship is painfully ordinary.

People have functioning eyes.

Itadori notices first because Megumi starts waiting outside classrooms he has absolutely no reason to be standing outside. Kugisaki notices because you've somehow become the only person capable of convincing Megumi to actually buy himself lunch instead of another miserable convenience-store rice ball. Maki notices because the two of you unconsciously drift toward one another during briefings until there's barely enough room between your shoulders for another person to stand. Panda starts making bets. Inumaki simply looks between the two of you once before muttering, "Salmon."

Gojo is, naturally, unbearable. Because he was the one who put you together in the first place, alll those months ago.

"So," he says one afternoon while Megumi is filling out mission paperwork, "how's your wife?"

Megumi is alrady aggravated by so. "...What."

"[Name]-chan."

Megumi doesn't even look up. He always found it strange that he refers to you by your first name and not your last. but he guessed it was because Gojo liked picking up random kids to nurture them. "...She's not my wife."

"Girlfriend?" Gojo asks, a vehement no following. He hums. "Fiancée?"

The pen snaps. Gojo bursts into laughter loud enough that several first-years poke their heads into the hallway to see what happened. Megumi silently reaches for another pen while considering whether murdering one's teacher constitutes self-defense.

And the confession happens after a mission so painfully ordinary neither of you will remember what the curse even looked like ten years from now.

Just rain.

The kind that starts as mist before deciding it has somewhere important to be, soaking through uniforms within minutes. The station entrance is crowded with people waiting for it to pass, umbrellas colliding every few seconds as strangers apologize to one another without looking up. You stand beneath the awning beside Megumi, carefully drying your camera with a cloth that has long since become too damp to actually absorb anything. Something about this feels entirely too familiar but everything that comes after feels novel.

"...It's ruined," you sigh quietly.

"It'll dry."

You shake your head and Megumi doesn't even try to argue. You know better. "The film won't."

Silence settles comfortably between the two of you. Not awkward. It hasn't been awkward for months now. And the air, while you're sure you aren't crazy, feels sweet, like amazake, or something else that reminds you of warmth.

You glance sideways. "You're staring again."

Megumi blinks, shuffling slightly. "Sorry."

"You've apologized to me more this week than I apologized to you in six months," you state. You counted. You would never admit this to Megumi but you've started counting how many times he's apologized. For simply brushing your arm. For talking first before you.

"...I have?"

"Mhm."

He hadn't realized. The rain grows louder against the station roof and the foggy mist beyond your vision continues. You smile to yourself while carefully removing the memory card from your camera. "...It's cute."

Megumi stiffens. "...What's cute?"

"You," the words leave your mouth with complete sincerity. Megumi forgets how to breathe momentarily. An actual contraction in his lungs he's sure isn't good. You point absentmindedly toward the space between his brows. "You have a wrinkle—when you're embarrassed."

He immediately smooths his expression and you smirk playfully, snorting. "...It's gone now."

"It probably isn't," you flatly say, though the teasing edge of your expression doesn't minimize itself one bit. It's become one of his favorite expressions. Maybe he's just a masochist. Or he thinks everything you do should be framed like a photo album.

Megumi complains. "...Stop looking at me."

"I am," you frown at him, squinting at him and kicking the back of his leg softly, not enough for him to tumble, not enough for him to buckle.

Megumi falters, head turning just a fraction to his left, where you are. "Don't."

You raise an eyebrow at him, hand gripping on the camera bag so hard, your nails dig into the fabric. Your heart flutters, and you're entirely too sure what the feeling is because Gojo keeps teasing you about it. And he's mostly right. You continue looking anyway.

Megumi exhales through his nose. Another silence unfolds surrounding your space, only the open sounds of rain drizzling atop the roof. This one lasts longer. Megumi doesn't mind silence, and yet, he couldn't stop himself from breaking it.

"...I think I'm in love with you."

The sentence arrives in the exact same tone he'd use to announce tomorrow's weather. Flat and matter-of-fact like he'd simply become too exhausted to keep carrying it.

The realization strikes him approximately one second after the words leave his mouth. His eyes widen exactly half an inch but neither of you move, not because you don't know what to do, but because you've both imagined this moment so many different ways that reality somehow feels smaller than expectation.

Rain continues hammering against the pavement beyond the station roof. People hurry past carrying transparent umbrellas. Somewhere farther down the street, a crossing signal chirps into the evening.

"Megumi," you say his name in that tone again, whatever tone you use for dogs. At this point, he's compared it to how you talk to White too many times, but he's far too in love with it to hate it.

"...Forget I—"

"I can't," you quickly interrupt then you falter the same way as him. the hold on your camera bag tightens and you murmur: "I think I love you too."

He closes his eyes just for a second. Like someone who's spent months bracing for impact only to discover the ground beneath him is unexpectedly soft. "You do?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

"I thought I was being obvious," you deadpan. Well it was obvious, to anyone but the two of you apparently. Megumi trails off with an unsure no. "I've literally been carrying dog treats for your dogs."

His voice disappears. You step closer before he has anything else to say. Close enough now that your soaked sleeves brush together every time either of you breathes. Close enough that your warmth seeps into him and his warmth seeps into you.

"Can I kiss you?" you ask, peering up at him through lashes wet from the rain.

It's almost funny how immediately he answers.

"...Please."

Your fingers reach first, not for his face, but for the collar of his uniform, straightening it out of pure nervous habit even though the rain has already ruined it. Megumi watches every tiny movement with the concentration of someone trying to memorize something before it disappears forever.

Then you lean up and he meets you halfway. The kiss is embarrassingly gentle, barely there. Nothing like either of you secretly imagined during sleepless nights and train rides home. Then again, you've never kissed a man before, and Kugisaki told you that Megumi's never had a girlfriend before (which relieved you way too much).

It's just warm despite the rain. Short enough that neither of you is completely certain it happened until you separate again. Megumi doesn't move very far. Neither do you. You feel fulfilled, but somehow incomplete. What a selfish being.

"...Can I do that again?" he asks so quietly you're almost convinced the rain invented the sentence for him.

You laugh. Not loudly. Just enough that he thinks he'll spend the rest of his life trying to hear that exact sound again.

"Yeah," you whisper. As many times as you want."

Megumi has one catastrophic realization. Everything he values—His techniques. His shikigami. His composure. His plans. His emotional restraint. You've managed to disrupt every single one. And somehow, he doesn't actually want things to go back to the way they were.

The final print cannot contain information absent from the original negative. Printing reveals only what has already been recorded.

Store negatives in a cool, dry location away from direct sunlight. Proper storage ensures the image remains stable for future viewing.

notes ꩜ hi i've been in a slump lately AND on vacation so all my actual fics are in the gutter im sorry for only giving you slop :[ i made this literally TODAY so if you see any errors lmk. anyway, i have a taglist, i have an ao3, i have a camera ripped off from fatal frame. comments and reblogs appreciated. byebye 𖹭

taglist ꩜ @teaspecifically ， @v4mpyyb4tzz ， @nightmarenyxx ， @spectranix | typical taglist form

[rengoatku]

Fratjo shows up at your dorm drunk?

A loud knock interrupted sleep, well your attempt at falling asleep. You turn over, eyes peeking at the clock on your side table, 2:12AM.

A knock rings through your room once more, slower this time, heavier, as if whoever was standing on the other side of the door was putting their weight into it.

You groaned, running your red-rimmed eyes and dragging yourself out of bed and towards the door. Who was up at this time? There's no way your neighbours were out this late and locked themselves out — especially not on a weeknight.

You straightened your night shirt and shorts, the shirt wasn't even yours, it still smelt of him yet you couldn't bear the shame of returning it.

“Satoru?”

Gojo swayed in the doorway, tall frame hunched beneath the dim hallway light. His white hair was a mess, cheeks pink from alcohol and the cold night air. His designer jacket smelt of cheap alcohol and expensive cologne.

And his usually bright, blue eyes looked… wrecked as if he hadn't slept a wink in days.

The moment his eyes met yours something in him cracked.

Before you could even question him on why he was at your dorm at this hour he slumped into your arms, his large frame nearly knocking you over. “Missed you… S’much,” he slurred into your hair, nuzzling his face closer and inhaling your shampoo.

Something in your stomach twisted. You shouldn't be bitter about it, not really, it's not like you two were official or anything. But it still hurt.

It hurt because he was the first guy to really see you, not just as the ‘quiet kid’ or the ‘nerd,’ Satoru saw you for you, despite being a frat brother, all those late night drives, those cafe study dates, even the lingering kisses.

Then one day he stopped answering your texts, started avoiding you in the library, and eventually told you he had lost feelings on some random Tuesday.

You cried for an entire week, beating yourself up for believing he would want to be with you.

“Satoru,” your voice came out shakier than intended, “are you drunk?”

“Only jus’ a little.” he slurred out, drool starting to pool at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you drinking, I thought you didn't like it?” He giggled at your words, “You always know me too well, pretty girl.”

He stayed clinging to you, backing you up until he was fully inside your dorm and the door clicked shut behind him. It was silent for a moment — except for Gojo’s breath in your ear, then something wet dripped onto your neck.

“Ew are you drooling —” you pulled him off you, finally meeting his gaze again, a soft gasp escaped you, “— why are you crying?” His eyes were redder now, soft tears spilling onto his pale cheeks.

He hiccuped, pulling you closer once more. “I lied… I messed up s’bad, I didn't get bored, fuck I could never get bored of you. You're so funny, and pretty, and you smell really good. Like a cupcake.” His rambling continued as fresh tears welled in his eyes.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself not to look away. “Then why did you do it?”

“M’stupid, that's why.”

“I know that, but that's not an answer.”

His head dropped forward until his forehead rested against yours. “The guys got to my head,” he admitted quietly. “They said I’m wasting my ‘potential’ and could pull that hot girl Shoko hangs out with.” He took a gasping breath, face contorting into one of disgust, “but she isn't hot, she's just not a nerd like you. But that makes you hot.”

You had to bite back a laugh, forcing a serious expression as he continued. “They said you're clingy, too serious but I loved that about you. You're perfect for my stupid self.”

“It really hurt me, what you did.” Your voice felt small, as if your throat was tightening.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them. “You don't know how it felt,” you choked out. “Like I was some hobby, or some prop you kept around.” Gojo’s mouth twisted into a deeper frown, “Don't say that —”

“It’s true.”

“No it's not.” His voice came out desperate this time, yet somehow firm.

He cupped your face carefully, like he thought you might break apart in his hands. “You meant everything,” he said shakily. “That was the problem, I let them convince me that being utterly whipped for you was a bad thing.”

You stared at him through your tears, and a soft sniffle filled the silence.

“A-and I tried to ignore them, o-or tell them that I didn't care about you like that, but I do.” He gave a soft laugh, words sloshing around his mouth as he slipped further into his drunk haze.

Another tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught it with his thumb, swiping it away. “I wanted to answer your texts, to see you in the library at lunch — hell I wanted to come over,” he whispered, “I knew I fucked up.”

He was silent for a moment before speaking again. “I got hammered just to tell you this, y’know? I hate drinking but you're worth it.”

His eyes searched yours desperately. “Kept thinking about your laugh and your stupid jokes you make and the way you steal my clothes—”

A choked laugh escaped you despite yourself and Satoru’s expression softened at the sound. “There she is,” he murmured.

You shook your head, crying harder now. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah…but I’m your asshole…?” He looked down at you hopefully, “Ew, don't make it weird.” You laughed, wiping the tears from your eyes.

A tiny smile tugged weakly at his mouth. He swayed dangerously, alcohol still humming in his veins, “Let's get you to bed, Satoru.” You caught the mischievous glint in his eyes, “Don’t be a freak, I mean to sleep.” You watched his face fall then brighten up once more, “Can we sleep together —” He straightened when he saw your stern gaze, “— not like that.”

You guided him to your bedroom, he kicked his shoes off messily near the door and practically collapsed into your bed with a dramatic groan that almost made you laugh again.

“God,” he muttered. “The room is spinning.” You rolled your eyes, tossing over some of his clothes that you had stole forgot to return. “Hey, keep your eyes to yourself.” He muttered as he not-so-gracefully shimmied out of his jeans.

You climbed into bed beside him, the second you did, Gojo opened his arms. You hesitantly curled up next to him, the feeling oddly familiar.

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his eyes fluttering shut and sleep began to take him.

“I know.”

He pressed a wet kiss to your forehead, finally succumbing to the after-effects of the alcohol.

He's going to be in for it tomorrow when you ‘ran out’ of painkillers for his hangover.

a/n: thank you @ingydingyy for the request I hope I did your idea justice <3

Join the taglist

[kzzzkn]

beauty mark | megumi x reader

wc: ~600

-

the janitor had locked the gym storage room.

that was the only explanation.

you stared at the door, rattling the handle again while megumi stood behind you with his arms crossed.

"it's locked."

"i noticed," he said.

"well, aren't you helpful?"

he sighed.

an hour ago, your teacher had sent the two of you to grab equipment after school. somehow, the door had swung shut behind you, maybe the janitor didn’t notice you two, and now neither of you had your phones.

"this is how i die."

"you're not dying."

"you don't know that."

megumi leaned against a shelf, expression completely blank.

"i do."

silence settled between you.

it wasn't awkward exactly.

just... strange.

being alone with megumi always felt different than being around him at school with others. there were no classmates, no friends, no distractions.

just him.

and unfortunately, your rapidly beating heart.

you fiddled with the sleeve of your hoodie.

"how long do you think we'll be stuck here?"

"someone will notice eventually."

"eventually is not reassuring."

he hummed.

you glanced over.

he was already looking at you.

your stomach flipped.

megumi immediately looked away.

then, after a second, looked back.

"...what?"

"nothing."

"you were staring."

"i wasn't."

you raised an eyebrow.

he looked mildly annoyed at being caught.

"i was thinking."

"about?"

his gaze lingered on your face again.

and for some reason, this time he didn't look away.

"i never noticed the beauty mark on your eyelid."

your brain completely stopped working.

"...what?"

megumi blinked.

as if he hadn't just casually dropped a statement capable of ending your entire existence.

"the one here."

he gestured toward his own eye.

heat rushed to your face.

"you've never noticed it?"

"no."

"it's been there my whole life."

"obviously."

you laughed nervously.

he kept looking at you.

way too closely.

"why are you looking now?"

the question slipped out before you could stop it.

for a moment, neither of you spoke.

then megumi rubbed the back of his neck.

a habit he only had when he was uncomfortable.

or embarrassed.

"i don't know."

you didn't believe him for a second.

your heart pounded louder.

"liar."

his ears turned slightly pink.

victory.

"okay," he muttered.

"okay what?"

he stared at the floor.

then at you.

then away again.

"maybe i notice things about you more than i used to."

you forgot how to breathe.

"oh."

excellent response.

truly inspiring.

megumi looked equally frustrated with himself.

"forget i said that."

"no."

his eyes met yours.

"no?"

you shook your head.

"i don't want to."

the room suddenly felt very small.

much smaller than it had ten seconds ago.

megumi let out a quiet laugh.

barely there.

but enough to make your chest ache.

"you're impossible."

"and yet you're the one noticing beauty marks."

his expression softened.

completely.

the sharp edges disappeared, leaving only something warm.

something that was definitely dangerous for your sanity.

"yeah," he said quietly.

"i guess i am."

the sound of footsteps echoed outside the storage room.

someone unlocked the door from the other side.

bright light spilled in.

"oh! there you two are."

you should've felt relieved.

instead, you found yourself glancing at megumi.

he was already looking at you.

and this time, when he noticed, he didn't look away.

"come on," he said.

but there was the smallest smile on his face.

and somehow, getting stuck in a storage room didn't seem so bad anymore.

-

this came to me in a dream hi all i have beauty mark on eyelid too

[gleekluver]

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒

mike’s never been with anyone and he’s terrified of messing up, so his roommate offers to help him out. It’s just practice… right?

‧₊˚ ┊𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.5k ˎˊ˗

♡ྀི ┊𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: college au, first kisses, awkward nerd mike🤤, crumbs of vulnerability, not proofread.ᐟ

the dorm was quiet, except for the hum of the minifridge and the scratch of mike’s mechanical pencil against a notebook. it was late, well past the hour where most people were out doing things that they were supposed to do. for a year, this had been their routine. silence, study, the occasional shared takeout, and the polite, careful distance they maintained to keep from tripping over each other’s lives.

mike was hunched over his desk, his posture tight, shoulders pulled up toward his ears. "you’re grinding your teeth again," you said, not looking up from your own book.

mike’s pencil froze. he let out a short, sharp breath, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "i’m not. i’m just… thinking."

"you’ve been thinking for three hours," you said, closing your book and turning your chair to face his back. he didn't turn around, but he shifted, a clear sign that he was retreating. "it’s friday night, mike. do you ever actually go out? i feel like if i looked for you in the dictionary under 'hermit,' i’d find a picture of your laptop."

mike let out a dry, humorless laugh. "very funny. i have things to do. school is hard, in case you hadn't noticed."

"school is hard for everyone," you said, your voice softening because you saw the way he was gripping his pencil, hard enough that the lead snapped. "everyone else seems to balance it. they go out, they meet people, they… i don't know, they date. you’ve been here for a year, mike. i’ve never seen you go on a single date. i’ve never seen you bring anyone back. you’re like a ghost in this room."

mike finally spun his chair around, but he didn't look at you. he looked at the floor, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the leg of his desk. "well, i don’t see why that’s your concern."

"it’s not a concern. i’m just… curious," you lied, feeling the heat rise in your own cheeks. the truth was, you’d been wondering since the second month. you’d been watching him, the way he looked when he was stressed, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren't looking, the way you’d both fallen into this comfortable rhythm that felt like more than friendship to you, even if you were too terrified to name it. "is it… is there someone?"

mike’s head snapped up. he looked startled, his eyes wide and dark, searching your face for a joke you weren't making. "what? no. no, there’s no one."

"so, what? you just don’t like people?"

"it’s not that," he muttered, his voice dropping, turning raspy and defensive. he started picking at the thread on his sleeve, his movements clumsy. "it’s just… it’s a lot, okay? putting yourself out there. it’s not really my thing."

"you’re twenty, mike."

"i know how old i am," he snapped, then immediately softened, his shoulders slumping. "look, i just… i haven't really done any of that. ever. it’s not exactly something you advertise."

the room felt like it had suddenly lost all its oxygen. you sat there, blinking, trying to process the vulnerability he’d just handed you. you’d spent the last year thinking he was just busy, or maybe guarded, but hearing him admit he’d never… it felt like the floor had dropped out from under you. it matched the ache you’d been carrying for him, the secret you’d been keeping under a lock and key because you were too scared of ruining the only space where you felt like you belonged.

"you’ve never…?" you started, then stopped, feeling like an idiot. "oh. i didn’t… i’m sorry. i wasn't trying to pry."

"it’s fine," he said, though it clearly wasn't. he looked miserable. "it’s just… if i started now, i wouldn’t have any idea what i was doing. i’d probably just… be weird. make it awkward. ruin it for whoever it was. i’m not good at the… the stuff people do. the flirting, or the reading the room, or whatever. i’d just be that guy who fumbles through it and makes everything uncomfortable."

he looked at his hands, his knuckles white. he didn't say the rest, he didn't have to. he didn't say that he’d spent the whole year wanting someone, but being too afraid of acting on it because you two shared a dorm, because he didn't want to be the guy who crossed a line, because he didn't want to lose the one person who actually got him.

"mike," you said, your voice shaking just a little. you stood up, moving slowly, cautiously. you didn't want to scare him off. you stopped just a few feet from him, giving him every chance to turn away. "you’re not going to ruin anything. and you’re not weird. you’re just… you’re you."

he looked at you, his gaze searching yours, looking for a way out, but finding none. "you-you don’t know that. you’ve never seen me try."

"maybe," you whispered. the room felt very small, the silence thick with the things you hadn't said for twelve months. you were terrified, too. you were scared that if you did this, you’d change everything, that you’d break the fragile balance of your lives. but looking at him, seeing the raw, quiet desperation in his eyes, you knew you couldn't just walk away. "but… if you’re worried about being bad at it… why don't you practice?"

mike blinked, his breath hitching. "practice? ..like, what do you mean?”

"with me," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. it was the most vulnerable thing you’d ever said. "it doesn’t… it doesn't have to be anything. we can just… help you get over the hump. if you’re worried about being clumsy, we can just… see. right now."

mike stared at you, his mouth slightly parted. he looked like he was trying to solve an equation that had no solution, his brows furrowed, his eyes darting to your face and then back to your lips. "you’re..being serious?"

"i’m just… trying to help a friend," you said, not able to even believe yourself.

he stood up, but he was shaky. he didn't have any of the confidence he’d seen other guys in the dorm hallway have. he just looked like himself, earnest, anxious, and deeply, painfully careful. he took one step toward you, then another, until he was standing right in your space. he didn't touch you yet. he hovered, his hands coming up and then dropping back to his sides, like he wasn't sure if he had permission to exist in the same space as you.

"if i’m… if i’m not good at this," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the room, "you have to tell me. don’t just be nice. tell me."

"i won't be nice," you promised, your heart hammering against your ribs. "i’ll be honest."

he took a deep breath, and he finally reached out. his hands landed on your waist, his grip delicate, like he was afraid he might bruise you. his palms were warm, and you could feel the tremor in his fingers. he looked down at your face, his dark eyes searching yours, and for a second, he looked terrified.

"okay," he breathed.

he leaned in, slow and agonizingly hesitant. he was overthinking it, you could see it in the way he squinted, in the way he tilted his head too far, in the way he hesitated when he was inches away. you couldn't take it anymore. you reached up, your fingers finding the collar of his hoodie, and you gently tugged him the rest of the way.

the contact was electric. it was messy, he bumped his nose against yours, and he held his breath, and for a heartbeat, it was exactly as awkward as he’d feared. but then, he let out a sharp exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and his grip on your waist tightened. he wasn't thinking about the mechanics anymore. he was just feeling.

he wasn't experienced, and you weren't either, but the desperation was there, a year’s worth of unspoken longing pouring into the touch. he moved his hands, pulling you closer, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. he kissed you like he was trying to learn the shape of your soul, his mouth searching, then slowly finding a rhythm that was just yours.

he made a small, frustrated sound in his throat, pulling back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. he was flushed, his hair a disaster, his eyes dazed and wide.

"is that…?" he started, his voice thick. "was that… okay?"

you let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands still clutching the front of his hoodie. you could feel his heartbeat through his chest, fast and irregular, matching your own. "y-yeah," you whispered, "that was.. pretty good, i think.”

he let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in his shoulders finally draining away, replaced by a soft, incredulous look of wonder. he didn't pull away. he stayed right there, in the circle of your arms, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

"okay," he murmured, his voice stronger now, more certain. "i think i might need to practice a little more."

he didn't wait for an answer. he leaned in again, and this time, there was no hesitation.

[rotandguts]

✮ ┄ ACTUALLY ROMANTIC

mike wheeler (stranger things) x fem!reader, 

summary: your enjoyment of your summer job in scoops ahoy is tainted by your co-worker mike wheeler, who seems to go out of his way to make your life a living hell.

word count: 6.4k

content: 18+ mdni, nsfw, masturbation (f receiving), lots of touchy feely, mentions of violence, semi-public, enemies to lovers, fwb-ish, mentions of bullying, slowburn, angst, mentions of absent parents, these bitches love a tussle lol they r a bit ROUGH with each other, au starcourt never burnt down lol, eleven and eddie never died, inexperienced mike but also a smidge of ooc mike (?).

A/N: BOTH CHARACTERS ARE 18 IN THIS, SET AFTER GRADUATION!!!!! helloooooo long time no see. honestly have had the worst writers block for the past 3 yrs so i'm excited to be back having a go at writing stuff! stay tuned for more content.

publishing date ―  april 17th 2026 |  © rotandguts

✶

The first heatwave of 1989 erupted onto Hawkins with no warning, and Starcourt was undoubtedly the epicenter.

Teens in bright neons and loaded all up on hairspray flooded into the mall looking for one place and one place only: Scoops Ahoy, the best Ice Cream Parlour in town (and the only one, so not a tough competition).

Sure, you could go to Melvalds and get a measly milkshake, or even get a few ice pops from Bradley's Big Buy; but why do that when you could pay less than a dollar for the sugar rush that felt better than getting to third base?

And here you are - in the eye of the storm, standing behind the counter dressed in your polyester bright blue sailor uniform, drenched in sweat and praying for this day to just be over.

The line stretched out of the store, and one regular Erica Sinclair just had to keep coming back to test your patience.

When you were urged to get a summer job to save up before heading off to college, Scoops Ahoy wasn’t exactly what you had pictured. But alas, you weren’t geeky enough for the Palace Arcade and didn’t quite carry the pep in your step needed for the GAP, so, off you set sail on the infamous ocean of flavour.

“You are way too old to be trying this trick, Erica.” Sighing as you hand over what seemed like the hundredth sample of the day.

Erica shrugs, “There is a bogus system here, and each summer it is my job to exploit it. I dare you to challenge me while wearing that abomination.”

The owners still didn’t quite get the memo about the tacky outfits, but it didn’t seem to deter any customers on Hawkins’ hot summer days. And hey, free ice cream for you and your friends!

Well, that would help if any of your friends had time outside their own jobs to visit you or had stayed behind in Hawkins for this last summer before college. It all just seemed like you were cast adrift on your maiden voyage and now you were just waiting for the ship to hurry up and sink so you could get the hell out of here. No amount of summer keg parties could change your mind.

This could all be helped if you had good company while at work.

Unfortunately for you, you have Mike Wheeler.

You knew Mike from school - he was in most of your classes throughout the years. And while you never really exchanged words with him, you were more or less friendly with his group. You had been sure Dustin would follow in his pal Steve Harrington’s footsteps and get a job here, but alas, he managed to be the perfect amount of dorky that the Palace Arcade required in their staff.

Before you could even begin to daydream about having Steve Harrington working with you here instead, at least giving you some eye candy to ogle at every shift, your fantasies were rudely interrupted by Mike slamming the window open behind you.

While you liked the company that Mike kept, you only got to experience him in a perpetually pissy mood.

He’d always been snarky, but his ex-girlfriend breaking up with him at the end of last summer had kind of soured his senior year. Now, with the prospect of all his friends splitting up across the country, and her moving to Iceland, he was loathing having to spend his time in the ice cream parlour all summer.

It seemed that rather than blame his parents for refusing to fund his summer schemes, or his friends for getting on with their lives, you were enemy numero uno for also being forced to work with him in this hell of his own making.

“Dude, you need to step aside and let me on the counter. I’m sick of having to mix all this ice cream up back here and the line is way too long for you to be entertaining her.” Mike slammed the refills on the counter, his scowl ever apparent.

“Sure, no worries - I’m sure the customers will really appreciate your winning smile and sunshine attitude.” You grab them and slot them into their spaces under the counter, shaking your head. This exchange happens almost every shift.

Erica lets out a sound in agreement, smirking while taking her time trying the S.S. Butterscotch.

“What the hell are you agreeing for, dipshit?” His patented eyeroll.

“Language, Michael! She’s a kid!” You scold in a hush, not wanting to alert any customers to his attitude.

“Yeah, Michael, watch your tone with me. Don’t you owe me one for like, the five hundred thousand times I’ve saved your ass?” Erica, wide eyed and challenging, leans across the counter. Before Mike can say anything else you interrupt with a SHUSH, pointing your head in the direction of the growing queue.

“Only my mom calls me Michael.” He retreats.

Turning back around, “Erica, please cool it with the samples. We’re too busy now.” You plead. The freshman shrugs, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” You know that’s a promise.

Mike flies out of the doors, bringing the last of the refills with him. You can’t help but sneak a look at him while ringing up whatever order has just been thrown at you.

Maneuvering behind you, his chest lingers at your shoulder. Why did he need to be towering over you at, like, 6’0?

Swallowing air and chewing slightly on your already chapped lips, trying to fix your focus onto the register keys. His breath is warm on your cheek.

“The customer ordered a Mint Choc Chip double scoop, not a triple. You’re over charging him.” Scoffing, pushing in and evading your space like he always does. Looking up at the customer apologetically, you hope that he understands your mistake - the man looks unamused.

“Maybe I’d be able to concentrate if you weren’t slamming shit on the counters and sulking around so much.” This earns you another eye roll. “Maybe the line wouldn’t be so long if you actually did your job.” He counters, handling the cash while you prepare the order.

This demeaning attitude drove you crazy, you worked just as hard as he did. The way he spoke about you in this place made it seem like anything was always two seconds away from burning down without his intervention. And intervene he did, you felt like you couldn’t breathe at times from him jumping down your neck over the tiniest things.

“Mike, did you take out the trash-”

“Obviously I did, do you think I’m some sort of idiot? I’m not you.”

“Mike, did you turn off the-”

“Yes, the mixer is off. Jesus Christ, you need to worry about yourself.”

It made you want to call in sick for the rest of the summer. Except no teen in their right mind would ever want to work here to get your shifts covered, and you felt guilty about throwing in the towel over a stupid boy.

The sweat is lashing off you. These goddamn uniforms. The cheap material doesn’t help with the heat, even for an ice cream shop. Your jaw is wound up so tightly you didn’t even realise how hard you were gritting your teeth. Fuck this summer so much.

Unbeknownst to you, Mike was in the same boat as you were. He knows well that Lucas and Dustin have a bet against him that he wouldn’t last long working here. If there was one thing that exceeded his need for cash, it was his stubbornness.

In order to work together without a fight, you had to exist in silence; which made the shifts feel even longer and more torturous. Eventually, you would both blow up at each other anyway due to a minor unspoken miscommunication.

By week 3, you had decided you hated Mike Wheeler.

You hated his scoffs, his eyerolls. You hated the way his voice stayed that monotonous, condescending way half the time, as if he thought you were beneath him.

You hated the way he spoke to customers that were taking too long, or the way he would refuse to serve certain classmates that then meant that you would have to go and double down on your niceness to avoid awkwardness.

You hated that he would randomly ditch to go out and smoke behind Starcourt with Eddie Munson, who was the manager in the record store upstairs. Or, when the cute girl from the bookshop would come in on her break and he’d do that shy smile and let her have whatever she wanted.

But more than anything, you hated that while he did not have Harrington-level looks, Mike Wheeler was unfortunately attractive.

Too ashamed to admit that you had indeed thought about what it would be like to pull on his dark hair, or sometimes even hope that he would grab your waist when moving past you, you channelled the frustration into how you dealt with him. Fighting dirty was not, not an option.

Wheeler was scrappy in an argument, enjoying to back you into corners and leave you stuttering. Sometimes he’d smirk at you with narrowed eyes as if he was harvesting all of your sanity for his own sick satisfaction.

One night, after a particularly heated shift that ended in raised voices and slamming doors, and notably you getting a particularly nasty jab in about him playing DND, you couldn’t get him out of your head the entire car ride home.

Even after the shouting match, you had still turned to him at the employee exit behind the mall and asked if he wanted a ride home. It felt like you were handing him a white flag and your dignity on a platter. He bluntly insisted that his sister was coming for him, and you left it at that.

You watched his dark figure in the side mirror as it shrunk into the distance. He seemed to watch your car as you went. If he was trying to intimidate you, it was working.

With the steering wheel gripped tightly in your hands and your eyes stuck on the road in front of you, you couldn’t help but let out all of the snarky comments you wish you’d made instead of feeling so damn spineless.

This continued the whole way home, slamming the door behind you upon entering your house.

Socks and shoes shed and left abandoned, your keys hit the rim of the hall mirror as you carelessly toss them, you’d hoped that they would land in the small bowl instead.

You’re still ranting to yourself. Your parents would be used to this by now if they were ever home. This was a sore subject for you.

Safe in the sanctity of your room, it felt like you could finally breathe. Shedding your uniform as if you were ridding yourself of your own skin, your mind goes blank as your back hits the duvet.

Sunlight seeps through the window across from you, a strip lands on your face. The sky is a picturesque blue, with fluffy clouds that look like they had been painted on.

You couldn’t shake off the feeling inside of you. The vision of him clung to you, no longer able to pretend that the flush of your cheeks is coming from the ray of light covering them.

It felt like he’d burrowed into your chest and was using your heart as a drum.

The fight replayed in your head again. Flashes of him, his mean smile, his head tilting condescendingly, his dark eyes goading you on, his hands grasping onto the counter that separated you.

The way his veins looked as he pushed a frantic hand through his hair and scoffed. “You’re such a fucking bitch,” He’d told you. You squirm, trying to fight the all too familiar heat rising within you.

A tentative hand slips under your panties, your fingers quickly covered in the wetness down there. Methodical strokes over your clit as you bite your lip and try to shake away the thought of Mike Wheeler doing this to you. It’s no use, your imagination begins to run free. You felt so dirty.

Chest heaving from the pleasure, your fingers sink inside of you and you imagine they’re his. Those long fingers, what they’d feel like if he was here with you right now. You frown at the phantom feeling of them as you know no matter how good you touch yourself, it will never fill the void. If he was here, he’d be able to go deeper. Harder.

When you cum, you can’t help but let Mike slip out. Your free hand snaps to your mouth, wishing you could force it back in.

It feels almost foreign on your tongue. You spend the night with a pit of shame in your stomach. But the heat remained.

So, quite frankly, ever since that night you’ve wanted the ground to open wide and swallow you up every time you’ve been in his presence.

But still, you insist that this changes nothing - you hate Mike Wheeler.

And here he was, working right by your side on the counter.

The place is too busy to bicker, and you don’t doubt that he feels just as icky as you do drenched in sweat. Aside from a few annoying comments from either of you, nothing terrible happens.

Until he leans across you to grab a finished ice cream tub sitting on the counter beside your hip. You can’t explain the manoeuvre yourself, but the way he leans over and crosses behind you leaves no personal space. In the crossfire, you can feel his front press up against your back, as you’re pushed into the counter.

You freeze, you can feel him pressing into you - all of him. Forced into the counter, you can’t help but jerk back involuntarily.

A soft moan falls from his throat, he almost grunts to stop himself. You gasp.

Dropping a sundae you were preparing into the ice cream display below in reaction, letting out a curse at the mess created. “JESUS, WHEELER!”

He frowns but looks apprehensive. “You’re blocking the whole damn display, shit, what else was I meant to do?” Mike shakes his head and reaches for the fallen bowl as you go to do the same. “Leave it, I’ll clear it up.” You mutter sternly.

“But I-”

“Seriously, Mike.” You insist, unable to look him in the eyes. He softens at you saying his name. His own eyes nervously shift around, struggling to focus on one thing. You wonder if he realised what noise he made, if he realised the effect it had on you, if he was as embarrassed as you were. It was all too much, too close. “Can you just go and clean some tables, please? The line isn’t long anymore.” The end of the rush was in sight, he hesitates for a second and then nods.

Falling back into that gross silence, the type that you know is only acting as respite for an even worse fight brewing, is worth it for now. You can’t bare to look at him, and he keeps his distance from you.

Then finally, for the first time all day, no one is waiting at the counter. No longer wanting to be inside on a day like this, you presume. The masses of disgruntled parents juggling their kids or tweens coming down from their sugar rushes were now Hawkins Community Pool’s problem, not yours.

The last few patrons take their time as you close up, the fluorescent strip bulbs drone grows only more apparent with the lack of atmosphere in the parlour. A couple in the corner booth finish their milkshake through two straws, you try not to laugh at the girl dragging her bare leg up his calf under the table in a flirting attempt. You cough to get their attention, mopping close to their booth. They get the idea, and leave while sending you smiles that seem fake.

Over the past few weeks, you’ve managed to get the end of shift mop down to a fine art, finding that Mike was too sloppy whenever he did it and ended up delaying what time you actually got out.

“You missed a bit.” Mike snorts, nursing a vanilla sundae that he must have helped himself to. If looks could kill he would be already six feet under. He points to a small dry patch behind you, you hate that he’s right.

“Oh, whatever Wheeler.” The mop is aggressively plunged into a soapy water filled bucket. “Can you just make yourself useful? Stack chairs or clean counters or something?”

“Why can’t you? I’ve worked hard enough, you complain when I do literally anything so I’ll just let the expert lead.” He drifts over to you like it’s the most casual thing in the world, a daring look in his eyes as he brings the spoon to his lips. You fight the urge to smack it away.

“Well, we can get out of here quicker if you do literally anything to help.”

“I’ve already cleaned the full back area-”

“Yeah? Well I’ve cleaned the front.”

“No you haven’t you liar, those kids have barely just left.” You slam the mop against his chest, he whines.

You get the surface cleaner and wipe down the booth, leaning over it as you clean. When you look around at Mike, his eyes dart away. “What? Something funny?” He shakes his head in response, still not looking at you.

You continue cleaning, stretching over the table, a sickly sarcastic smile as you pick up the empty milkshake glass left behind.

When you turn around to brandish it, he does the same again. Your mouth went dry, and your eyes widened. He was checking you out. “Watch it, perv!”

“Oh, you wish.” Mike scoffs and takes another spoonful of his sundae, moving the mop away lest it be used as a weapon again.

The tall glass hits the soapy water in the backroom, splashing up and soaking your top. Scoffing at the inconvenience, you power through and keep scrubbing. The window to the front of the store opens with a blast, you parade the clean glass through it as a trophy. “There! Happy?” Mike shrugs, a smile almost teasing his lips.

“The ice cream needs to be put away into the freezer.” He says, as if doing you a favour.

“Are you gonna do that?”

“Nope.”

“Well neither am I.” That gets him, the mop is discarded and his sundae is slammed on top of the counter. “What? C’mon!”

“I’m trying to help you with everything else I’m doing here, Mike. You’re standing eating fucking ice cream. I just want to get out of here, but you drive me so crazy!” You snatch the sundae bowl and begin to head to the sink. He follows in hot pursuit.

“I’ve taken the trash out, I got the delivery in, I’ve cleaned in here, everything is prepped for tomorrow.” He grabs his Ahoy hat from his head and tosses it on the table in the centre of the room.

A hand runs through his hair, you turn away and focus on the task at hand before allowing anything to stir within you. “I hate this. I hate having to deal with a micromanager like you. And you’re not even smart enough to be a manager!”

An uncontrollable rage surges through you. Taking the sundae bowl, you turn around and throw it over his head. It hits the wall behind him and smashes instantly.

“HOLY SHIT!” Mike exclaims. “You could have killed me!” Whatever shock was on your face quickly dissipated to unamusement. “Get a grip.”

He keeps motioning between you and the bowl as if it’s achieving anything. You’re already sweeping up the pieces.

“You crazy psycho! What the hell was that?”

You struggle to find words, disappointed in yourself that it came to that.

“Just so not professional. Just ‘cause all your friends have abandoned you for the summer, you think you can take it out on me!” He starts shuffling around you as you grab a broom and dustpan to clear up the glass pieces on the floor. You eventually find yourself on your hands and knees to get the difficult pieces as tears well up in your eyes. That does it.

“Oh I’m sorry, Michael. I forgot about how much fun you were having all summer galavanting around with your girlfriend- oh wait!” The comment leaves him dumbfounded. That has to sting.

He scrunches up his face, and heads towards the window. You prepare for the worst as you stand back up and dust yourself off.

He picks up the clean milkshake glass and drops it on the floor in front of you, you flinch as it explodes into a hundred little pieces, adding to your workload. “Whoops.”

You stare daggers, but say nothing and just keep clearing the area.

With no response, he just clenches his fist and stares until you’re almost done.

“Jealous bitch.” He mutters. Your eyes widen.

“Sorry, what was that? As if I’d be fucking jealous.” You begin to laugh maniacally. “Jealous of what? Your fuckin’ right hand?”

“Real mature.”

“Oh fuck you. I’m leaving, Wheeler.” Heading for the back exit, he trailed behind you.

“Sure, go ahead, say hi to your parents for me. Oh wait.” He shrugs with a twisted satisfaction. A killing blow, you really had to give it to him.

With no constraint left after your previous outburst, and just so desperate to get him the hell away from you - you turn around and slap him clean across the face.

The unpleasant THWACK echoes through the back room, and you’re not at all proud of what you’ve done. His right cheek is bright red and both of your mouths hang open in shock. Your hand is aching. His pupils dilate.

Something shifts in him, in both of you. The charade is dropped.

“Ohmygod- Mike I’m so sorry, what the fuck! I don’t know what came over me, I swear!-” You begin to ramble, reaching out to touch his cheek, but his hand reaches there first.

You try to read his eyes, it’s like he’s struggling to even process what happened. You frown, this is the worst you’ve ever felt in your life. You need him to say something, anything. Hell, you kind of even want him to slap you back just to make it even.

His breathing is heavy, you hadn’t noticed before now. He’s just standing there, staring at your face. You’re so close. His eyes are so, so dark. He kind of shakes his head, an unreadable amusement flickers briefly on his face.

You realise that while he may be in shock, he didn’t not like it.

The heat returns full force, you bite down on your lip, unable to look away from his face. Your eyes dart from his eyes, to his lips and back up again. Then, you feel the dampness between your legs. You unmistakably tremble, jaw slack.

“Holy shit.” You don’t know who mumbled it, maybe you both did.

Some unholy force washes over you both, and you grab each other like you might die if you don’t. Your lips meet his in a fury, your fist tugging tight on the red tie from his stupid fucking uniform. You feel drunk on the adrenaline, it’s dangerous, but you can’t stop.

He rips your hat from your head, and throws it across the room. His hands slot through your hair, holding you in place. Noses, tongues and teeth clash, a giddiness rises within you.

This was Mike versus you at its rawest, and you weren’t sure who was in the lead right now. His hands fall to your waist and slide under the sailor top, you jump at the feeling of the coldness on your skin, not expecting it considering how warm you both had been. He pulls you forward with a harsh tug and you can feel him against your pelvis. Rock solid.

Vanilla unrelenting on his tongue, it was addicting.

You drag your fingers through his messy long hair, he feels like just how you’ve imagined. You pull his head back, but chase his lips. Mike groans and grabs you tighter, nails pressing into you, it sends shivers down your spine.

For a second, you come back to reality and push him off of you. He is wild eyed and breathless, but apprehensive.

“I dunno what happened-” He starts after a beat, but you push past him and head straight for the steel table in the centre of the room. Sitting on top of it, you shed your damp shirt, exposing your bra.

“Shit.” He stands there awkwardly, obviously in shock.

“Are you gonna come here, or what?” Your voice shakes when you say it, but you still can’t believe your own boldness saying this to Michael Wheeler of all people. He starts frantically nodding, he can’t believe this is for him.

He approaches with caution, eyes not leaving you the entire time as he flickers from your face to your body. You curse in your head for not picking out a nicer underwear set today of all days.

“You know, you can touch me, Mike.” His brow furrows, as if he’s about to whine. As if he knows just as much as you how wrong this all feels. Unfortunately, that just made it hotter.

His left hand falls to your breast, his right cupping your jaw. A little unsure of himself, he leans in and kisses tentatively this time. There’s something about his touch that while it was greedy, it felt inexperienced.

You put your hand over his on your breast and get him to knead harder through the fabric, he follows without hesitation.

The kiss escalates quickly, sloppily dragging his tongue over yours as he grabs your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table. He slots himself between your legs, and you feel him again, rubbing yourself against him as he swears into your mouth.

He grinds even harder and you whimper, he can’t stop himself from smiling against your lips.

Breaking away to catch your breath, there is a shy excitement on your faces shared between you both now. If you gave yourself too much time to think, you think you would short circuit. From the way he seemed to be hiding his nerves, you thought he might do the same.

The air in the room is thick with heat, and you want him to lick it off of you.

Without thinking, you reach between his legs and grab his erection. Hissing, he jerks towards you. Mike relishes in the feeling for a moment and then with a wide, panting mouth, he captures you in a kiss again as you palm him through his shorts.

Your other hand snakes through the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls back. Biting at his exposed skin, not too hard, but hard enough to leave a mark.

“Fuck you.” You hear in your ear, it only makes you wetter.

The grip on your thighs grows tighter as he rocks himself into your hand, trying to alleviate the pressure building inside of him. His hand moves down to your knee and hooks it at his waist.

Through his strain he blurts out, “Can I feel you?”. With hesitance, you nod.

Both halves of your uniform are reunited on the floor, you feel bare. He is still looking at you in a sort of awe filled way, it makes you feel even more naked despite not being fully just yet. For the first time today, you feel chilly.

“I- I’ve never-“ Mike seems at a loss for words, but you understand what he’s saying.

“You’re a virgin?” Eying him curiously, he grimaces. He looks down at himself in his sailor uniform, and crosses his arms as if he’s the one almost naked.

“No! It’s just I’ve never, like, touched someone like-” Motioning his right index and middle fingers through a hole made of his left hand, you suppress a giggle.

“You’ve never fingered someone before?” He almost stutters but no words come out in response, hanging his head in shame, as if he’s worried what you’re going to say next.

A twinge of pity rang through you as you looked at the timid figure in front of you. Softly, you capture his hand in your own. Bringing his digits to your mouth, you suck. He shudders, the image better than anything he’d ever imagined.

Guiding him to the waistband of your underwear, you admit, “I’ve thought about this, you know.” His eyes burst open.

You push his fingers past the elastic, “That day when we were screaming at each other in the freezer, I went home and touched myself after.” He understands, you continue guiding him down.

“I came on my fingers thinking about you. About how much I can’t stand you.” Biting his lip, his fingers trail against your clit, you gasp at the contact. You were only half convinced by what you were saying.

There is no hesitation on his end, he immediately begins to rub his wet fingers against your core as if soothing a generational hunger.

The room is filled with your uncharacteristic whines as you grab his arm. Your underwear is pulled down your legs and thrown, abandoned with the rest of your clothes.

“Please, Mike, please.” You beg, grip growing tighter. At the mention of his name, he sinks his fingers inside of you. The gasp you let out feels like the first time you’ve ever breathed.

His face hovers on top of your own, as he leans you back. Your noses are parallel to each other, as your eyes stay locked on his and vice versa. His jaw is clenched as he works his way into you, trembling.

The noise of his fingers fucking into you is pornographic, and feeling even a little of his weight on top of you makes you yearn for everything to be harder. Deeper. Rougher. Just like it was in your head that day spread across your duvet.

“Do you like it when we argue? Do you always get this wet?” The question catches you off guard, especially the way he says it. Teasing, but entirely curious. You frown, but nod, tightly shutting your eyes out of embarrassment.

He brandishes that annoying grin he reserves for when he knows he’s under your skin. “Knew it.”

You couldn’t help but tighten on him, in response he begins to curl his fingers, hitting a spot that feels like uncharted territory. Those damn long narrow fingers. You knew you were right to imagine them fucking into you so much. Whining, you feel like your eyes are wound shut so tightly that you might cry.

Eager to please, he moves them a little quicker, a little more greedy. You tap his arm, Mike takes this as a good sign. “So fuckin’ wet, it’s crazy.” He admires.

It comes to you in a wet hot flash, one you’ve never quite experienced before from your own doing. You call his name out and he goes even faster, chasing after euphoria.

This desperation for Mike Wheeler was unbearable, and the worst part was you could practically feel his ego growing as you sat up on your elbows on the steel table and he kissed you hard again.

“Take your shorts off now.” You whisper. He does so without hesitation, taking his boxers with them and exposing his hard length to you. It was long and skinny like he was, with dark wild hair around it. Exactly as you’d pictured.

He began to take off his shirt but you stopped him.

“Freak.” He scoffs, but obeys nonetheless.

“Shut up, bet you can’t even unclip a bra.” Pushing your chest out towards him. Accepting the challenge, Mike fumbles around with the back of it for a moment before it pops open. “Beginners luck, I guess.” He smirks, and pulls you in again. You could kiss him forever, you think.

Entirely topless now, Mike almost doesn’t know what to do with you.

“You look….. good.”

“Shut up,” You almost go to cover yourself but he stops you.

“I’m serious! Especially when you sit there all horned up and just shut up.” You hit his arm. “Ouch.”

“Oh, whatever, you like it when I smack you.” You joke but feel guilty for even saying it, he blushes.

“True.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d hit me back, in the moment. Not in a weird way, just like, to make it even.” You open the floor to it, all cards on the table. You were already picturing your arch nemesis ramming into you in your work place where anyone could walk in and see, may as well suggest some further experimentation.

Mike contemplates for a second and then awkwardly, “I don’t think I’m really into that, sorry.”

Shrugging, “No worries,”, you challenge him, “Are you atleast going to fuck me or are you just going to stand there being a pussy?”.

“You’re such a dick.” The boy shakes his head, smiling. Catching you off guard, a tight hand lands on your throat. He holds his other palm out under your chin. His cock is already working up against you, you exhale.

“Spit.”

You oblige.

He lathers the stream of saliva on himself and spreads the rest over your already soaking entrance. Pumping himself a few times, he lines himself up, takes a deep breath and pushes himself inside you.

The stretch burns ever so slightly, but you still cry out in ecstasy at the feeling. Mike is holding himself against you, trying not to come thinking of your naked figure pressed up against his body alone.

Eventually adjusting, he begins to move, rocking into you slow but steady. You can’t help but moan. His hot breath on your forehead as you sit there, both throbbing, feels so intimate.

It felt so filthy, it felt like the worst thing you could ever do. To be with him in this way, after everything.

Your mouth is wide open, panting, and his jaw is resting above it. You can hear every little struggling noise he’s making, you can almost feel how nervous he is and taste his sheer selfish want.

His hips snap into your own, you hold his chin to force him to look at you. “Look at what you’re doing to me.” You struggle out, overcome by pleasure. “Take it all out on me. Go on.”

He hums and your name spills out of his mouth as he starts to thrust harder. You’ve been with guys before, sure, but never like this.

“You feel so good, shit.” He whimpers, the table begins to shake and he unforgivingly buries his hilt inside, filling you so entirely. So, so deep.

“Aw fuck, I’m not going to last much longer.” Mike strains, you bite your lip in an attempt to ground yourself but accidentally draw blood.

“Keep going, idiot, fuck - I’m gonna cum.”

“Don’t be such a fucking bitch about it-”

“I despise you-”

“Ditto-” You lean forward and graze your teeth into the side of his neck again, and he comes undone.

Body tensing, Mike falls into you and your back is pushed against the table. The feeling of him convulsing sends ripples through you, and you finally release once more, fingers grasping his hair for dear life as he fills you.

Covered in sweat, you both stay there for a moment, not saying anything.

He leaps up. “Oh shit, we never used a condom.”

You struggle to get up on your elbows, nonplussed. “I’m on the pill.” Still trying to stay in the afterglow before you have to come crashing back to reality.

Mike sighs, relieved. Pushing away the dread at the potential of having to tell his mom and dad he got a girl pregnant before he even reached college.

“I think that’s the longest we’ve went without, like, properly arguing.” You sigh.

“What are you talking about? That’s how I argue with everybody.”

You smack his chest, he lets out a little ow, but smiles. You smile back.

Your head falls back onto the table. Mike sorts out his clothes, then gathers some centrefeed roll from beside the sink and hands some to you.

“Jesus, I feel like I can’t get up.” The ceiling stares back at you. Mike hurries around the kitchen, you zone out as you clean yourself up. Nothing a cold shower can’t help with when you get home.

By the time you finally get up and redress, you realise Mike has done the rest of the close.

“I mean, it’s the least I could do seeing as you literally just let me cum inside you.” He shrugs, half joking. You amusedly huff. He gets a little stir out of seeing you smile at one of his jokes.

“I appreciate it, seriously.” A moment lingers between you. Maybe it’s an awkward silence. You’re not quite sure what to say.

Mike stands there, awkwardly nodding. “Cool.”

“I can lock up if you want. Do you need a ride home or…?”

“Nah it’s fine, Nance is coming for me. She’s probably here already.”

“Cool.” Another beat passes, neither of you move.

“I should go then.” He grabs his jacket from the hook beside the door, getting ready as you clear the last of any mess.

“Hey, Wheeler,”

“Listen I’m not gonna tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about-”

“No, not that. God, I’d just deny it anyway.”

Mike rolls his eyes at you, but he still hesitates to open the door. “What’s up?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you were down, I’d be up for this same time tomorrow again.” Your gaze drops to the floor in shame, here comes the punchline - Mike Wheeler is probably never going to let this down.

But instead his face lights up.

“Sounds good.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“I still cannot stand you though, Wheeler.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.” He says it with a smile, and takes his time leaving through the employee exit, still unable to take his eyes off you.

The second he leaves the room, you let go of a breath you didn’t even know you were holding and gripped onto the table you were practically spread across a few minutes ago.

What the fuck just happened?

But then, you remembered, tomorrow.

And then you smiled too.

[doublewheelrr]

₊⊹𝜗ৎ⋆˚꩜ MAKE OUT POINT ( chris tian 𝔁 fem!reader )

<33# daphy’s note: this is a continuation of “when did you get hot” since so many people liked it and requested another, which is absolutely insane to me bc i got so close to just scraping the entire thing, so thank you thank you thank you to everyone who supported it!! lol it means so much, this is a combination of two reqs i got (more madwheeler bobby & reader dynamic and just another chris fic)

<33# warnings/content: no use of y/n ([name] and you used), bobby & reader are best friendism but they hate each other because they’re so similar, chris is stupid per usual, mentions of violence and blood, not canon compliant with hell of a summer, slighttttt smut warning (the most that happens is the reader palms chris through his underwear)

<33# 3.4k

<33# IN WHICH, As the first night of the summer session at Pineway winds down, you and Chris take the chance to sneak off and make a couple of memories.

“𝓢O, IS NO ONE CONCERNED ABOUT JOHN and Kathy not being here and it’s already night time?” Shannon's asked over the music from the radio, one of John’s old CD’s blasting.

“Yeah, they were supposed to be here hours ago.” You mentioned, curling your body into Chris’ on the couch, ignoring Bobby’s deep sign of irritation.

You and your fellow campers, Shannon, Bobby, Noelle, Claire, and Ari were all sitting in the lounging cabin, sprawled in different ways: Shannon and Claire sitting back to back on the floor, fanning themselves cool, and Ari kept trying to coax Noelle into listening to his screenplay plot.

You, however, were practically in Chris’ lap on a separate couch. Call it a honeymoon phase (since you guys got together exactly four hours ago), but you both found it hard to even be without each other for five minutes. If you went off to clean your cabin before the campers arrived, Chris would be right behind you (not helping much, just staring at your face lovingly).

“A lot of things were supposed to happen today and they haven’t, so this isn’t really that crazy.” Bobby snapped, smacking his teeth at the sight of you and Chris.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You questioned, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I think you know full damn well what it means, [Name].” Bobby murmured. Everyone else just watched you two like a tennis match.

“Um, okay.” Claire said awkwardly, “I feel like we should give John and Kathy a call, just to be on the safe side.”

A couple others hummed in agreement. Chris twirled a piece of your shiny hair around his finger and smiled. He was so close you could feel his mouth curving into a grin from your cheek.

“While they’re busy calling John and Kathy, say you have to use the bathroom exactly three minutes after I leave to get water.” He whispered in your ear, hiding his words behind his stupid striped robe you laughed about earlier.

You gave him a look of confusion, drowning out the surrounding conversation about how they would reach your camp directors.

“Why?” You asked him dryly.

“So we can make out near the creek…Y’know, where everyone goes to make out?” Chris spoke as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You do realize I spent my entire life being a loser up until now, right?” Your lips formed a straight line.

Suddenly, you felt like that same fourteen year old who got picked last for dodgeball and color war. You felt like the same loser who was always the first to be pranked during cabin vs cabin because everyone knew you’d never say anything. You were transported back to being sixteen and watching Shannon and Claire get invited to bonfires with the cool campers, while you were left crying into your pillows.

Sure, you were in a new body, but new hair, skincare and makeup couldn’t heal years of ostracization.

Chris paused, “Oh…” There was an awkward silence before he continued, “Just turn left as you leave the cabin, follow the trail until you see the little clearing, the creek is right there.”

You just nodded, forcing a smile and stuffing the sickly, painful feeling rising from your throat back deep into your stomach.

“And how would I tell if it’s exactly three minutes if I don’t have my phone or a watch?” You tried to diffuse the tension by asking playfully.

Chris just sat there, blinking dumbly. You could see the gears turning in his head. “I didn’t really think of all that…Just count to one hundred eighty.”

Before you could question his logic any further, Chris abruptly stood up from the couch with a loud groan. The discussion of who would go get the phones was paused to pay attention to Chris.

“I’m so thirsty, is anyone else thirsty? ‘Cause I’m like really, really thirsty.” You nearly face palmed at Chris’ very obvious display.

“I could go for some water.” Shannon said, peaking at Claire who nodded.

“Yeah, whatever.” Ari waved off Chris to go back to talking Noelle’s ear off, who looked ready to die (even more than she normally did).

“Cool! I’ll go get us some waters. Be back soon.” Chris shot a fake smile at everyone and rushed out of the cabin, practically leaving a cartoonish trail of dust behind him.

In his rush, Chris didn’t realize his best friend watched with sharp eyes during your entire conversation. He saw the way you both giggled in each other’s ears. His lips pulled into a scowl.

“Well, we still need to find a way to get our phones. Anyone know where Jason is?” Shannon asked.

“Nope, but he’s the one who took our phones. What if he’s a crazed serial killer and he killed John and Kathy, now we’re next?” Noelle spoke up. She looked a little too excited.

Claire stared at her in bewilderment, “Jason isn’t a serial killer.”

“Yeah, he can’t even lift the archery targets, let alone kill someone.” You laughed. You were at ninety seconds.

Bobby made a noise as you spoke, something between a scoff and a click of his tongue. Regardless of what it was, it was in annoyance.

Your eyes shot to Bobby, who wouldn’t even look at you, “Something you’d like to add, Bobby?”

He finally turned back to look at you, "It's just that looks can be deceiving. So, I don’t think we can rule out Jason being a murderer yet.”

Under other circumstances, you would’ve agreed with Bobby, but the way he made an effort to stare directly at you after saying “looks can be deceiving” ticked you off.

“Why the hell did you look at me while saying that?”

“I didn’t look at you.”

You laughed mockingly, “Raise your hand if you saw Bobby look at me when he said ‘looks can be deceiving.’”

Shannon and Claire’s hands both shot up, followed by Noelle who timidly raised her hand and Ari who raised his without taking his eyes off his screenplay.

“Are you guys serious?” Bobby gaped, “You guys are only saying that because she’s hot now!”

A crowd of protest went around the room, “Why’re you booing me? I’m right.” Bobby retorted.

“Not everyone equates correctness with hotness, Bobby.” Ari snarked.

Frankly, you didn’t care much for this conversation. It passed three minutes fifteen seconds ago and you were looking for an excuse to leave the cabin and meet up with Chris.

“Wow, Bobby…” You began the dramatics, “I can’t believe this is what you really think of me. I don’t know if I can bear this.”

Cue the world’s smallest violin.

“I need a minute,” You fake choked up, wiping your dry waterline as if you were actually crying. “Just to get myself together.

You paused your terrible acting to scan the faces around the room. All of them looked incredibly sympathetic, even nodding in solidarity. Maybe you were too hard on Chris, these people really were that easy to deceive.

You pushed yourself off the couch quickly so that they couldn’t see your tears, or lack there of. Stepping over tangled limbs on the ground and the creaky floorboards, you tried to scurry off towards the door.

But the universe wasn’t letting you go that easy, heaven forbid anything good come easily for you.

A hand clamped on your wrist that was hovering over the door handle. You trailed the hand up through the arm and was met with the suspicious face of Bobby.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked as if he was in a ‘20s detective flick.

“Well, I just said I need a minute…” You said obviously.

“Then, I’ll come with you,” Bobby announced, not even looking at you, but at the rest of the room, who were still gawking at his audacity.

“When I said I needed a minute, I meant preferably a minute alone.” You deadpanned.

“Why would she want to go with the guy who just insulted her?” Shannon inquired genuinely.

“Um, because I’m a good dude?” Bobby said. “And because [Name] is only going to go meet up with Chris.”

You cringed, eyes darting everywhere else in the cabin. You hadn’t realized Bobby was being a creep and eavesdropped on your conversation with Chris.

“That’s not even true–“

“A lot of things about you aren’t true, aren’t they?”

Before you and Bobby could begin arguing again like insolent toddlers, Claire cut in.

“Even if she is going to meet Chris, who cares?” She shrugged as Shannon and Noelle rapidly nodded their heads. Ari still hadn’t looked up from his screenplay.

Bobby malfunctioned, gesturing to you, then the door, then the girls sitting on the floor, looking at him expectantly.

“U–Uh,” Bobby sputtered, “Because there’s a murderous serial killer on the loose, as Noelle said.” He framed the sentence as if he was asking if his reasoning made sense, which it didn’t.

“Yeah, whatever, Bobby.” You scoffed, pushing him away from the door and stomping out into the warm summer night. You allowed the wooden door to slam itself shut on Bobby’s arguing; the last thing you heard was “dump her body in the lake,” which was starting to make you think he wished a serial killer was rampaging through Pineway currently.

You huffed, blocking Bobby and his flippant words out of your mind and trudged on into the woods. You did exactly what Chris said to, turning left, then listening to the crunching of rocks and dirt under your scuffed sneakers you’ve been wearing since age fifteen.

You walked until the trail stopped, leading to the open-mouthed clearing where a little creek lay. You had memories of sneaking out with Shannon after lights out to eat your first edible, then freaking out about it, then throwing up into the creek and crying the entire walk back to your bunks. Maybe it was better that you hadn’t gotten invited to the bonfires.

“Chris?” You whisper-yelled into the night, trying your best to talk over the cicadas and the rustling of the creek water, but not too loud that you’d alert everyone else in camp that you’re about to get it on. “Chris, where are you?”

That same sickly, unwelcome feeling crawled up your throat again. What if Chris stood you up and this was all an elaborate ruse to embarrass you one last time?

“Boo!” A voice rustled through the still trees. A cliche, horror movie scream ripped through your throat, your entire body spun to look at whatever murderer was about to kill you right as you started your new life.

Fortunately, for your life and self-esteem, it was Chris, doubled over himself and his stupid robe, laughing so hard tears escaped his eyes. Your face felt so hot under the summer evening that you wanted to punch Chris and throw him into the lake.

“That’s the loudest I’ve heard you ever be.” Chris managed to get out through his childish giggles.

You smacked your lips, rolling your eyes, “Maybe I’ll just go back to camp, asshole.” You shoved Chris’ shoulder, trying to hide the smile threatening to etch across your face.

Chris grabbed the hand you used to push him and held it there tightly. You paused, short-circuiting. The only boy you held hands with was your father. Twelve years ago.

He used your hand to pull you flush against his chest. You had to bring your arms around his shoulders to stabilize yourself, or else you both would crash to the grassy Earth.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for so long,” Chris whispered into the night. His words left his mouth and entered yours as you took a breath.

“Have you really?”

“Since we were ten years old.”

“Then stop waiting.” You spoke, all you could feel were Chris’ cold palms on your exposed stomach. Shivers crawled up your arms and spine. He felt so nice in the blazing summer night.

You and Chris’ lips met in a mess of hushed breaths and saliva. You brought your hands up to his hair to tug at it as his hands pressed your waist against his. You could feel the ridges of his bony chest and the buckle of his pants through his stupid robe. Your attention was taken by a growing pressure up against your inner thigh. You placed your leg between Chris’ as he whined into your mouth.

“Please, don’t stop,” Chris moaned, ending the kiss to nuzzle his head into the crevice of your shoulder. “I’ll do anything, just don’t stop.”

You complied and continue to rub your leg against him. Chris’ breath picked up in your ear. The chirps of crickets and buzzing of cicadas filled your senses and the moon seemed to shine extra bright on his dyed hair. You never remember summers at Pineway being this hot. Maybe because you’ve never been this close to someone before.

Feeling weirdly bold from hearing Chris moan into your ear, you decided to trail your hand from his hair down his chest and beneath his waistband.

“Oh, fuck—“ Chris sputtered, “I’m almost there, please.

“Does that feel good?” You asked nervously in his ear. You continued to palm him through his underwear. Chris had to bite into your shoulder to stop his screams.

“Yes, God, yes,” He answered breathlessly.

“So,” You allowed that sickly feeling to pool at the base of your throat again, “Have you been here before… Y’know, with someone?”

Chris lifted his head from your shoulder, scanning the bruises he left before his eyes flickered to yours.

He tilted his head in confusion, “Have I been here before? As in, have I been to Pineway?”

You stopped rubbing Chris, ignoring his whine of protest, “No, you idiot. Have you ever done this with someone here before?”

Realization hit Chris’ face, “No, never.”

“Really? Or are you just saying that so I keep jerking you off?”

“No! God, no!” Chris glowed bright red, “I swear, I’ve never been here before with anyone. Ask Bobby.”

You tried not to roll your eyes at the mention of his best friend. If you thought too hard about him, you’d gag.

“Yeah, okay.” You tried to go back to kissing Chris, but he stopped you with a serious look on his face.

“I’m serious, [Name],” Chris promised, “I saved my first time at this spot for you.”

You looked into Chris’ brown eyes, the lake water reflected off of them and shone a new emotion you’ve never seen before on anyone.

“Your first time?” You tried to laugh away your insecurity.

Chris shook his head with certainty, “Only time.”

You smiled and moved back in to kiss him again, not minding the fact that your hand was down his pants the entire time.

Chris’ breath sped up again, your mouth moving messily in tandem with his. He kept letting out pitchy whines in pleasure that told you he was close.

“I’ve never done this before,” You whispered as he hissed when you squeezed tighter, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Chris moaned, his eyes shutting tightly, his face flushed, sweat pooling at his cupid’s bow, “I just want you. More than anything.”

Something shifted in your chest after Chris said that. Heat pooled in your core and filled throughout the rest of your body. You felt impossibly hot and impossibly close to him in this moment, even if you were getting him off in the middle of the woods. It wasn’t the most romantic, but it felt as such.

With a final bite on your shoulder that made you cry out, Chris finished with a matching moan that matched your scream and soaked his underwear and pants. Clarity hit him like a freight train and he breathed heavily into your ear, coming down from his high.

“I love you,” Chris whined, lifting his head to look at you directly, “I love you so much.”

Your eyes widened in bewilderment, “Chris, you barely even know me. I couldn’t even bring myself to talk to you before today.”

“So?” He asked, hands leaving your waist to grip your face, you allowed your own hands to leave his pants and trail up his shirt, “You weren’t the only one watching from afar.”

“Try being romantic when you don’t have a wet spot on your crotch.” You laughed, pushing him back to take in his disheveled, drunk-like state.

His hair curled in ways it never had before, some sticking to his forehead from the sweat. His lips were swollen from your kisses and his cheeks were bright red, per usual. His shirt twisted awkwardly on his body and you could get a glimpse of his happy trail with how low his unzipped pants hung on his waist.

Chris blushed and nodded awkwardly. You two sat there, in the dead of night, not caring of what lurked in the woods of Pineway. This was the calmest you’ve felt in hours.

“Aw, fuck.” Chris’ voice randomly cut through the silence, meshing with the sounds of the rushing water feet away from you. He brought his hands up to his hair to pull at it.

“What’s up?” You frowned in concern.

“Studies have shown that out of every ten relationships, women perform sexual advances on the men first in nine of them. I told myself I’d be the one difference.” Chris lamented, looking stupidly serious.

You couldn’t help but gap at him, “Well, if it makes you feel better, there is no fucking way I was lying on the ground to get eaten out by you anyway.”

“I got a blanket from my cabin for you to lay on.” Chris mumbled, pointing towards the folded, blue blanket a couple feet away from you. You hadn’t even noticed it.

You scoffed a laugh, “So you just assumed I’d want to do that?” You teased.

“No! No—“ Chris stuttered, “It really was for us to lay on together. But if you wanted to—“

“Relax, Chris. I’m only teasing.” You moved his wet curls out of his eyes and poked his freckled cheeks. “Rain check? Maybe it doesn’t have to be your only time here.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Chris nodded to himself, trying to fight the easing smile emerging on his face. Your grin matched his own.

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. If he tried, he’d end up saying he loved you again.

[viesjournal]

𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐝- 𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐫

hello lovelies !!! this idea has been rolling around in my head for a while now. it’s kind of angsty, sorry. i just think ex!mike wheeler is such an interesting concept.. || masterlist. (could be a series if yall want..!) 1.4k

your fingers flip over the pages, mumbling to yourself desperately. the paper feels both course and glossy, and the texture is a welcome distraction from the throbbing in your left temple.

you’ve never liked physics. who does?

still, you let your head drop into your hands, and will yourself not to cry out of frustration. you begin to chew the side of your lip, feeling the rip of dry skin, waiting to taste the blood. they probably look similar to your nails- chewed, mangled, desperate.

‘i thought you stopped doing that.’

you recognise his voice quicker than you thought you would. you feel your heart thrum in your chest.

mike wheeler stands, half awkward, half determined. he looks like he’s not totally sure where to put his arms, so he folds them and leans back. you look up slowly, carefully, as if he might not be there.

you don’t say anything. you just stare. blink.

that’s when he notices the textbook, sees the scrawls and scraps of paper, and he nods.

‘ah.’

‘ah.’ you copy, trying to swallow your uncertainty down.

he looks around nervously, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. then he hesitates, and gestures to the open seat in front of you.

‘can i- can i sit?’

you shrug, glaring around the room. there’s no space anywhere else- and that placates you a little. at least that’s why he’s asking.

‘sure. just don’t disturb me.’ you reply, a little too bitterly. he flinches.

about twenty five minutes later, he glances up at you, gently pushing his foot on top of yours.

‘i can help you, you know?’

you snap your gaze up.

‘i don’t need your help.’ you almost spit back, but he doesn’t recoil.

‘are you sure? i can still- we’re still friends, aren’t we?’ the word rolls off his tongue like its sharp, like it hurts to say. you scoff.

‘our friendship ended a long time ago. honestly? probably before our relationship did.’

he inhales, a shaky, unsure sound. you almost feel bad.

‘i don’t need you, mike. but thanks.’ you revise, and you watch him shuffle, before deciding to get up.

he doesn’t gather his things, doesn’t close his notebook. but he still disappears around the back of the library, and you let yourself breathe.

you’d been friends with mike for longer than you can remember. it had been one of those predestined things, that came with your moms being friends, and your dads working together.

it had been slow, as it grew into something else. steady. you’d always known something was a little off with him and his friends, when he’d come home with cuts and bruises neither one of you could explain.

and then you’d got fed up. sixteen years old, watching him grow sallow. watching his sister go missing, watching his parents in hospital, the way his eyes would go glossy and blank when you’d ask what was wrong.

two years later, you still care about him. maybe. you don’t want to know.

you blink as he resurfaces, two paper cups in hand.

he passes one to you wordlessly, and you look down. then you look at his, and frown.

‘since when do you drink coffee?’

he shrugs.

‘i made one for you in hospital once. you’d left by the time i got back to the waiting room, so i drank it. now i have them all the time.’

he pauses. as if he’s considering if he should say what he wants to.

‘tastes like you. reminds me.’ he adds, with a casual shrug, that looks anything but.

‘thank you.’ you say carefully, taking a sip. you don’t blow on it- you never do. he gives you a knowing raise of the eyebrow.

‘you just burnt your tongue, didn’t you?’

you scowl at him. ‘stop that.’

he smiles, a curious thing. ‘stop what?’

‘knowing me. you don’t get to do that anymore.’

he tilts his head to the side, admiring you.

‘can’t help it. you don’t just unlearn someone like that. you still know me, too.’

you shake your head. ‘you didn't let me know you, mikey.’

the nickname hurts. he hadn’t expected to feel such a pang.

‘s’not true. you knew everything else. i just couldn’t-‘

‘you could’ve. you didn’t want to. everyone else knew, mike. all your other friends. jane, who you told me not to worry about. jesus, even my sister. how was vickie meant to help? i saw her, that look in her face, and i just knew. knew she’d been let in or whatever secret it was. and i was left out, as usual. like a fuckin’ idiot.’

he cuts you off by grabbing the palm of your hand, a little too tight. you nearly flinch.

‘i couldn’t. i couldn’t tell you. they asked me to, you know? they thought you could’ve helped. but i couldn’t.’

‘why, mike? why?’

‘because i loved you too much to do that to you. you might’ve- what if you died? what if you died, and it was my fault? and i had to watch- knowing i could’ve let you avoid it all.’

you hesitate. ‘but you knew it was going to end like this. surely, surely you must’ve known you’d lose me. you saw it was killing me anyway.’

he squeezes your hand. ‘yeah. it was killing me too. but not- not literally. that’s what counts. you’re still here. i can still touch you.’

‘but not like-‘

‘-no. but that doesn’t matter. it’s better than the alternative.’

you shrink your hand away.

‘alright.’

he blinks. ‘alright.’

you let a heavy silence settle between you, the scrapes of biro and ink being the only sound you dare make.

‘i wish- i wish you’d told me. i wish you’d tell me now. i didn’t have to get involved, if you hadn’t wanted me to. i just- you were struggling. you were sad. i couldn’t help you.’

he looks up, a little surprised.

‘i struggled the most when you left. you were like an escape for me. i guess i didn’t want to give that up. it was- it was a mess.’ he mumbles, and you pause.

‘oh.’

‘yeah. i miss you, you know? even as a friend. we used to be such good friends.’

you nod. ‘we really did. do you remember, that time you accidentally turned the sprinklers on? and we drenched nancy and barb. she was so angry.’ you chuckle, and he laughs. the sound churns in your gut.

‘what about that time we tried to bake brownies and you accidentally lit a towel on fire?’ he counters, and you stifle a giggle.

‘okay, well what about the first time you kissed me? you had a cold. it was disgusting.’

he gives you an outraged glare. ‘i was delirious. thought i was close to death. you were my saviour. and i thought we agreed to never bring that up again.’

your laugh erupts from you now, an undignified sound, and someone behind you mutters an irritated ‘shush.’

mike nods at you righteously.

‘yeah, shush. this is a quiet space, you know?’

you kick him under the table, making him yelp, and then there’s a chorus of noise complaints.

suddenly, you drag your eyes up to the clock on the wall and your eyes widen.

‘shit, i need to run. i’ll, uh, see you around. bye, mike.’

he gives you a rueful grin. ‘it was nice to hear you laugh again. bye.’

you roll your eyes, but you can feel your cheeks warming.

‘yeah, whatever.’

as the cold air of the evening hits your face, you inhale. something softer than sadness floods across your chest.

you’re not sure what you were expecting. you expected to be angry, to resent him. but looking at his eyes, the way he’d gripped your hand- you couldn’t. it was easier to laugh at him than to scream.

maybe you’re more over him than you thought.

mike hugs his knees to his chest, staring at the empty chair in front of him. he can still visualise the smile you had etched on your face. he nearly shudders.

you’d done a good job of avoiding him for nearly two years. he still looked for you in every classroom, still tried to hear that laugh, but it had always escaped him.

he’s not sure what he was expecting. he doesn’t feel all that hopeful, though. he just feels like it’s over, in a way he hadn’t let himself acknowledge before.

[auracobaltblue]

Petition to have Mike wear more cozy fuzzy sweaters

Like these:

[dreamyysouls]

are you listening yet?

cheerleaders are supposed to be stupid– right? so why in the world did you consistently score higher than everyone in your and mike’s chemistry class? impossible.

or, 

mike can’t handle the idea of you being smarter than him, and he’s determined to throw you off course. but, you two are paired together for a project, and mike starts to realize that maybe–just maybe–you aren’t as bad as you seem.

mike wheeler x cheerleader!reader - requested here

word count: 17.2k (please trust me)

cw: (one-sided) academic rivals to lovers, mike is a little shit, reader whips him into shape, jealous mike, slowburn, confessions, kissing, cursing, perhaps some yearning nachos, angst, no past mileven, forced kissing (not from mike though!!!), yes mr. clarke is their high school teacher, reader is a secret nerd (is it really a secret though), yes title is from harry styles, no i have not taken chemistry, not very proofread

Mike Wheeler had always, always been good at science. It was the subject that came to him most naturally, the thing he could do on his own just fine after one practice problem. Science was a fascination of his, stirring deep thoughts of wonder in his mind and consistently making him want to seek out more knowledge. 

But, as much as he hated to admit it, math proved to be a struggle for him. He could never quite memorize the formulas the way he was supposed to, and made so many careless mistakes that even the simplest of problems would result in a wrong answer.

So, when you came on, math as your strong-suit and just as good at science as he was, Mike couldn’t stop the rage that bubbled inside of him.

It made zero sense to him. One minute, you were out on the sidelines, screaming whatever stupid chant your predecessors had created to try and hype the rest of the student body, and the next, you were somehow acing every single chemistry test thrown your way. It stunned Mike in a way no thing–aside from the whole Upside Down fiasco–ever had. 

Weren’t cheerleaders supposed to be stupid? Air-headed? You beat every expectation he had placed on you, and it nearly gave him whiplash. And somehow, people actually liked you, said you were sweet, and placed you on a pedestal Mike could only dream to be on. But Mike wasn’t buying your niceties for one second.

He believed that everything about you was fake and manufactured. There was no way a cheerleader should’ve been beating him at the thing he was supposed to be good at. It was utter nonsense. And no, he wasn’t jealous. He was just irritated by the fact that you of all people were smarter than he was. He was definitely not jealous.

When your first test scores had come back, Mike’s mouth had involuntarily fallen slack as he watched Mr. Clarke praise your near perfect score, the score that Mike should’ve made. Instead, he was stuck with a massive C-minus written at the top of his paper, and it made him so infuriated in the moment that he felt an urge to tear his paper to shreds right there.

“I just– how?! She must’ve cheated!” Mike scoffed later that day, rolling his eyes dramatically as his friends watched, silently amused.

“Now, how would she go about that?” Dustin questioned, raising an eyebrow from above the sandwich in his hands. “You know Mr. Clarke runs a tight ship.”

“I don’t care. She must’ve. Somehow,” Mike grumbled again, poking aimlessly at the mush that he was supposed to eat on his tray. The rest of the Party only exchanged glances at each other in response, silently agreeing to not push this issue more.

From that day on, Mike had made it his mission to hate you. He would never give into the spells that you seemed to cast on everyone you were around, and he sure as hell would never think any of your chemistry work was valid. It just can’t be, he would say in defense to his friends on days where you had just particularly irritated him.

You were such a tryhard, and it irked Mike every single time. Every time you raised your hand in class, he responded with a not-so-silent groan, earning some suspicious looks from your fellow peers as he slumped forward on his desk in a dramatic gesture. You apparently held biweekly study groups with some of the people in your shared class. Gross, Mike thought, right before a sudden urge appeared in his mind to interrupt a session and tell everyone they were under spells, and that you might as well be a pawn of the Mind Flayer. Dustin had been the one to shake that idea out of him.

Mike hated practically everything about you. But the worst part of it all, the thing that kept Mike up at night, was that hating you was getting him absolutely nowhere. He hadn’t shown much improvement on any of his tests, and had only struggled more and more as the class progressed. It made him angrier than anything, the fact that you were still leagues ahead of him after nearly two months. 

Just when Mike was at his lowest, Mr. Clarke posed a new opportunity to their class. Turns out that chemistry wasn’t as easy as you had made it seem, and several people were in desperate need of grade-boosters before everyone was let out for Spring Break. Mike was relieved, finally able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. If he aced this project, then he would be saved from the wrath of his parents when they inevitably discovered his report card. Besides, a project was always better than a midterm, right?

Wrong. Oh, Mike was so wrong.

Mike had held all hopes that the first day of the project would go smoothly. Mr. Clarke had said something about it being partner-based, but Mike had neglected to actually read the directions paper before walking to class that day. So when Mike heard that his teacher had hand-selected the partner pairings, he immediately knew something bad was bound to happen. And of course it did. 

Mike didn’t hear what Mr. Clarke said after he called your name alongside Mike’s. His thoughts turned to fuzz as pure anger swept through his bones, and he clenched down on his own hands so hard that he thought he was going to break his fingers. His eyes bore into the side of your head, hoping that by some miracle this had all been his imagination and his brain was just playing tricks on him.

He could barely believe his luck. Of course he would be stuck with you. The second he had heard your name, all hopes of completing the project vanished from his mind, as he knew that he would never work with someone like you. You were a stuck-up, pretentious asshole who would probably just make fun of him the moment he turned around. He hated you, and now his project was bound to suffer. You probably weren’t even going to help since you were only passing through cheating. Great. 

Mike completely tuned out Mr. Clarke’s words for several long minutes as he silently steamed over the idea of working with you. Eventually, Mr. Clarke told the class to break off with their partners and start throwing around ideas for what they could do. Mike stiffened when your once still form rose up from your seat and began to walk in his direction. He was so focused on trying to not scream right then that he didn’t catch whatever you said to introduce yourself to him.

“Hello…?” You trailed, your brow slowly raising upward as you stood in front of him. Shit.

“What?” He said, his tone already irritated. Not that he really cared to hide it anyway. Your eyebrow only lifted higher as you took the empty seat in front of him and cleared your throat.

“I said hi. Did you really not hear?” You asked, your head tilting just slightly. When Mike made no sound or movement, you shook your head, trying to ignore how awkward he was acting. “Whatever. You’re…Michael, right?”

“Mike,” he murmured absentmindedly, his voice just as offended as before. You sighed in response.

“Mike, sorry. Well, it’s good to meet you. I’ve heard you’re smart so, I’m assuming this should be pretty simple, ri–” Your tone was so obviously manufactured to be nice that Mike rolled his eyes and let out a loud groan, abruptly cutting you off.

“You can just stop trying, okay? I’m not falling for your act,” he huffed out, shaking his head as he avoided any and all eye contact with you.

“What act?” You asked with what Mike perceived as forced curiosity, your eyebrow raising upward once more.

“Y’know, the whole ‘oh look at me, I’m so nice’ thing. I know it’s fake,” Mike scoffed, an irritated smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. You leaned forward just slightly, as if you couldn’t believe that he had found out your secret.

“Excuse me?” You scoffed in turn, a half-laugh falling off of your lips at his absurdity.

“I mean, you guys are all like that, right? Cheerleaders are notorious for being stuck-up and pretentious,” Mike looked at you this time, immediately thrown off by the small smile you wore while he spoke. Why were you not absolutely seething right now?

“If that’s what you think. I’ve never been like that,” You shrugged, still smiling like you were completely unaffected by his statements.

“And I’m not borderline failing this class,” he murmured absentmindedly, rolling his eyes in a different direction. 

“Wh– You’re failing?” Your eyes widened at near light-speed, and Mike’s heart dropped in return. Shit. He hadn’t meant for you to hear that. 

“No– I didn’t–”

“Listen, it’s fine. Your interpretation of me is actually really, um, interesting,” You shook your head with a small smile, politely dismissing the former matter like it was nothing. Mike could hardly grasp what was happening. “I mean, I’ve never met someone who has acted like they hate me right off the bat.”

“I’m not acting,” Mike stated, voice reverting back to the irritated sound that he seemed to have reserved for you.

“Oh, so you hate me?” You tilted your head, a skeptical smirk plastered to your face. Mike was starting to feel himself get angrier and angrier with the fact that you seemed to not be upset by this information at all. 

“Correct. Wow, maybe you really aren’t as air-headed as you seem,” Mike nodded, pushing his confusion to the back of his head and forcing a fake grin onto his face. You shook your head in response.

“You’re funny, Mike. Honestly,” you let out another small laugh, crossing your arms on top of the desk as you leaned forward. “One-sided beef with a girl you’ve never met? I mean, wow.”

“I don’t have to know you to know how evil you are. All cheerleaders are inherently devil-spawn,” Mike reasoned, leaning forward and mirroring your position as if you two were in some kind of stand-off.

“Aren’t you in the club everyone thinks is satanic?” You hummed, raising a brow and looking at him with a knowing smirk. Mike’s grin faded and he looked away, trying and failing to find an argument against you.

“I– that’s different.”

“Okay, Mike. Whatever you say,” you laughed again, and Mike was starting to get sick of that sound. You flipped the conversation on its head, trying to turn to what you were actually supposed to be discussing. “Listen, we need to focus. I think we could get this done quickly and efficiently. Mr. Clarke has talked you up a lot.”

“Hold on, you’re not gonna argue with me?” Mike asked, completely ignoring what you had just said. He wasn’t ready to drop this, not yet. You were already rolling your eyes, your hand lifting to rub the bridge of your nose. 

“Oh my god, back to this? Mike, I know some of the girls in the squad–”

“Cult,” he cut you off with a scoff. You shot him an unamused look.

“–are actually evil, I’m not one of them. I try to distance myself as best as I can. I only hang out with them because I have to,” you sighed, your eyes never once leaving his. He could tell you were trying your best to convince him, but fortunately for Mike, he was immune to your spells.

“I still don’t believe you. Cheerleaders are also good at being fake, right?” He tilted his head, his smirk reappearing as he watched your lips form into a thin line. Finally, the reaction he had been looking for.

“You–” your words were cut off by the buzzing of the bell, signaling the end of the class period. You looked up and let out a sigh, as if you were cursing the thing in your head. You turned back to Mike, voice suddenly serious. “I’m gonna ignore the fact that you just wasted our time. I have practice today, but I can meet after school tomorrow in the library so we can get started. I’ll even bring a drink for you or something, if you want.”

“I highly doubt that,” He shook his head, scoffing as he moved to grab his backpack. You were already standing, rolling your eyes while a small smile tugged at your lips. What?

“Whatever. See you tomorrow, Wheeler,” You turned away, shooting him one last look before you walked away, leaving him in the classroom.

Mike was baffled for the rest of the day. You had barely even seemed upset after Mike’s words, even though he knew that the truth should’ve stung. In fact, you had basically treated everything he said as a joke. Did you just not take him seriously? Or were you really that comfortable with being evil? It all confused him so much that he could hardly pay attention in the remainder of his classes for the day, his brain so clogged by bewilderment that he barely got any work done. 

Despite the uncertainties in his mind, Mike was still determined to veer you off course. He had decided to make it his mission to get you to realize the error of your ways, and to prove to the rest of Hawkins High that you were nothing more than a dumb cheerleader.

The next day rolled around quicker than Mike thought it would, and he was dreading having to talk to you again. He had complained so much to his friends about it during the day that by sixth period, he thought that Dustin was going to strangle him out of frustration.

Eventually, the final bell of the day rang, and Mike did everything in his power to slow the process of meeting you in the library. He asked his teacher a few pointless questions that he already knew the answer to, he walked slower to his locker, and even sat in the bathroom and stared at his reflection for a few minutes. At some point, he begrudgingly forced himself to walk to your meeting place, knowing how bad it would look if he chose to not show up.

Even with walking as slow as he would allow himself to, Mike still found himself at the library doors sooner than he expected, and silently cursed himself when he saw you sitting at a table inside. He had been secretly hoping that by the grace of whatever god was out there that something might go wrong, that you wouldn’t be there anyway and Mike wouldn’t have to talk to you.

Of course, it hadn’t worked out in Mike’s favor, and he could feel his resistance giving in. He thought back to the day before and how you had been so casual about the fact that you were evil, and his anger grew back so fast that he nearly hurled the door open. He forced himself to calm down, knowing that it would only look worse for him if he lost his composure. After taking a deep breath, Mike opened the door and walked through the library. You seemed to perk up at the sight of him, and Mike almost felt guilty for leaving you waiting. 

Almost– because he immediately remembered how much he hated you.

“There you are,” You sighed, your frame relaxing into your chair as a soft smile grew on your lips. “Was starting to think you wouldn’t show up. Here,” you reached into your bag, pulling out a bright orange soda and sliding it across the table. His favorite. Mike looked between you and the drink, confusion immediately rising in his chest.

“What– how did you–”

“I actually have Honors U.S. History with Dustin. He’s actually really nice to talk to,” you hummed, leaning against the back of your chair as you waited for Mike to sit across from you.

“Yeah, he is. But how did you know he was my friend?” He asked, his voice gaining a defensive edge that made your eyebrow quirk upwards. He was still standing, not exactly ready to give you the gratification of sitting down.

“You guys literally walk around like you are in your own little clique,” you laughed to yourself, and Mike knew the face he was making wasn’t pretty. “It’s honestly admirable how you’ve managed to keep so many people away from you for this long.”

“You sound like a stalker,” Mike said, his tone becoming accusatory within seconds. He rolled his eyes, taking a step away from the table. “Like I said, your act is never gonna work.”

“Again, not an act. Can you really not believe that I’m a nice person?” Your demeanor changed as quickly as his did, quickly lit up by his comments. Perfect, Mike thought.

“Nope. You’re an evil liar,” he crossed his arms with a small smirk, and it only agitated you further. Why couldn’t he just be normal?

“Wow, thanks for letting me know. I’ll try to do better for you,” You scoffed, getting tired of how incessant he was on the fact that you were some vile creature. You couldn’t wrap your head around the possibility of anyone thinking these kinds of things about you, let alone someone who barely knew you anyways. This was the second conversation you had ever had with Mike Wheeler, and he was already proving to be a thorn in your side. 

“Like you could actually care,” he scoffed again, a sound that was almost like a laugh, and you had to clench your fists together. Anger was bubbling inside you, like a ticking bomb ready to go off at even the slightest of pokes. One more snarky remark, and you would be set off.

“Mike. Please stop. I can’t do this,” you sighed out, slumping in your chair as a frown grew on your lips.

“Do what? Confront the truth–” he pushed you again, and you physically could not hold back your words anymore. You leaned forward, staring dead at him as you cut him off with no shame.

“You and I both know how bad you need this. I know you’re on the verge of failing, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut the hell up, and we can start this project,” you said sternly, not once looking away from Mike’s eyes. Your voice was lower, and your lips were stuck in a thin line that spoke a thousand more threats that Mike didn’t want to hear. 

A pit had dropped open in Mike’s stomach at your words. He had never seen someone with such an intense yet overwhelmingly calm rage, and it spooked him more than anything. All of the fight left his body in an instant as you pierced holes into his eyes, and he knew it was useless to resist you. Fuck.

“Am I clear, Wheeler? Or do I need to dumb it down for you?” You asked when he didn’t respond, and Mike felt the pit in his stomach sink even further.

“N- no, I think I got it,” he shook his head quickly, finally letting his hand reach for the seat across from yours as he moved to sit down.

“I knew you had it in you,” you smiled gingerly, your mood doing another speedy one-eighty before you quickly shifted into the topic of your chemistry project, already throwing out several ideas for what you and Mike could work on.

Mike forced himself to stay on topic as the two of you discussed your project, knowing that if he said the wrong thing, you might walk away. Then you’d really be evil. How in the world had he been swayed by you so easily? He had convinced himself the day before that he was exempt from your act, that he could never be fooled by the front you put on. And yet, within seconds, he had folded. How stupid was that?

He couldn’t figure out what made him keep going back to you. He hated you…right? Why would he constantly put himself through the torture of staying after school just to hear you talk about a project that was basically optional anyways? He finally was able to land on the excuse of needing the grade really bad, which was true, but he still felt like the entire reason was out of his grasp. He kept pushing it down and out of his thoughts though, not wanting to think about you more than was necessary.

So, much to his distaste, you and Mike kept meeting to put together your project. He supposes it wasn’t all that bad, as you typically had a drink or snack waiting for him, and you kept the bragging and evilness to a minimum. If Mike didn’t know better, he’d say you were improving from your inherent ways of life and changing for good. But thankfully he knew better.

This topic crept back into your conversations day after day, usually with Mike asking things like ‘how evil on a scale of one to ten have you felt today?’ or ‘how are the other members of your cult?’ No matter how stupid his little one-liners were, they always managed to pull a laugh and a ‘shut up, Wheeler,’ out of you, and it was starting to become something of an inside joke between the two of you. The two of you fell into a routine, and in the process, slowly became an unlikely pair that neither of you could have imagined.

Because of your shared intelligence, you and Mike had been constantly bouncing off of each other with ideas, and had been so productive that your project was nearly complete a whole week before it was due. And while you realistically should’ve wanted the time away from Mike, something was holding you back from fully separating from him. You figured it was just your competitive spirit, though deep down, you knew that part of you wasn’t quite ready to let go of the banter Mike brought to your life.

For a stranger who most of the people in your life would immediately label as an outcast or freak, Mike had, for the most part, been one of the realest people you’d ever meant. He never tried to force himself to act a different way around you because of your status, unlike pretty much everyone who came into contact with you did. He was unabashedly himself, and was never afraid to speak his mind– even if it was him attempting to get you to admit that you were just as he had first perceived you. No one in your life had ever had that kind of authenticity, and it made you admire Mike more than you’d like to admit.

Because of that–well, maybe not just that–you had decided that it wasn’t time to rid of Mike’s presence in your life. Not yet.

You knew that Mike was still struggling with your regular work through several comments he had made over your time together, and the midterm was on its way anyway, so you figured that you and Mike could spend more time together through studying. Just studying. Nothing more. 

So, on a random Tuesday right before class ended, you approached him. Mike was almost scared when you came up to his desk, his brain immediately going to the worst, but it all faded when you asked him a simple question.

“I know you said some stuff about the work still throwing you off, so…” you trailed with a grin on your face. Mike raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How would you like to join my study group? It’s really not that much pressure, and the people there are mostly tolerable–”

“Sure,” he replied quickly. Too quickly, but the word had already left him when the realization hit him. Mike cleared his throat, hand reaching for the back of his neck while he prayed you didn’t notice his sudden awkwardness. You did, but it brought a smile to your lips. 

“I mean– yeah, I’d like that. Just as long as it’s not a secret cult thing,” he smirked up at you, and you instinctively rolled your eyes playfully. 

“I wouldn’t put you through that,” you laughed, and the sound made Mike’s stomach nearly surge out of his chest. Strange. “It’s Tuesdays and Thursdays. Is that good with you?”

“Yeah, I just might have to miss a couple. Um– Eddie, y’know, likes to do things pretty spontaneously, so,” he laughed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck again. What was up with him today?

“No worries. We don’t have an attendance policy. It’s casual,” you smiled, voice genuine, and relief filled Mike’s chest in response. “I know it’s last minute, so you don’t have to show up today if you have plans–”

“I’ll be there,” he spoke out again, and dammit, why in the world did he keep doing that? He was almost embarrassed before you smiled gingerly, and that weird relief rushed back into his stomach like it had never left in the first place.

“Perfect,” you hummed, and right as you seemed like you might say something else, the sound of the bell shot sharply through your classroom. In an instant, you were waving Mike bye, and the next moment, you were completely out of his sight. 

The rest of the day, Mike was at a loss for that entire interaction. Why had he acted like that? He had never been that awkward around you, and it had been like he was nervous to speak to you. Mike had never once been intimidated by you, despite your social status throughout the school. From the beginning he had believed that it was you who should’ve been afraid of him, since he knew your truth. But Mike wasn’t exactly hellbent on proving how evil you were to everyone anymore. So what gives? Why did he wake up that day and turn into an awkward wreck around you?

Whatever it was, Mike decided it was best to push it down. He was usually better at that anyways, and he figured he was probably just having an off-day. 

After sitting through his classes all day, Mike was more than eager to attend your study group when the final bell finally went off. He nearly shot out of his seat at the sound, wasting no time in his journey to the library. When he got there, he noticed a small group of students already forming, and right as he was about to walk over, he realized that you were not there.

Of course. A familiar pit opened up in Mike’s stomach as his thoughts began to spiral again, already embarrassed at himself for actually believing you. Mike should’ve known you were just baiting him. He was ready to call it quits, to walk out and never speak to you again when—

“Hey, you okay?” your voice cut through the fog in his head, startling him so much that he nearly jumped. His eyes widened at the sight of you, thrown off by the look of genuine concern on your face. He almost thought he was imagining it.

“Yeah I just—“ he started, eyes shifting nervously back to the group of the students on the other side of the library before returning back to you. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, full of something akin to surprise. “I didn’t see you.”

You paused for a second, letting his words sink in your mind before a knowing smirk took over your face. “Did you not trust me?” You asked in your own quiet voice, though Mike had a feeling you knew the answer. He only smiled sheepishly, eyes darting to the floor. Your laugh brought his eyes back to your face, and his mind went blank as he felt your hand come into contact with his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t trust me either. Since I’m evil and stuff,” you laughed even more, and Mike’s stomach did that weird thing again. Seriously, was he getting sick or something?

“Sorry, I guess I just was a little nervous about this. Y’know, new people and stuff,” he shrugged as the two of you walked further into the library. 

“I get it. If it’s too much pressure, you can leave,” you hummed lightly, leaning slightly closer to his frame and looking up at him with kind eyes. Now Mike’s heart was trying to leap into his throat. He was convinced he would die later, and he had no clue why.

“N- no, I want to stay,” he shook his head quickly, trying to ignore the fact that his body seemed to be failing him. You smiled at his answer, and continued to lead him further into the library.

Mike’s thoughts blurred into one as you introduced him to the group that had gathered. He recognized a few faces from your shared class, but the rest were complete strangers to him. As if sensing his hesitation, you offered Mike a seat at the table you were at, and he gratefully accepted.

For the most part, everything was going great. Mike asked you for help when he needed it, and was able to figure out exactly what he was missing through your counseling. Plus, the people in the group had treated him nicely, and everyone seemed just tolerable enough for him to want to come back later in the week.

Well, not everyone.

Mike had noticed him watching you eagerly from the moment you had approached the group after you arrived, as if he was willing you to go near him. For some strange reason, you obliged the stranger, and it quietly lit a fire in Mike’s chest that wouldn’t go away for the entirety of the session.

Mike seethed each time the guy leaned a little too close to you, completely invading your personal space like it was no big deal. He felt his fist clench his pencil while he held back the anger that built up from watching that total stranger whisper to you like no one was around. He looked at you with the grossest look of desperation that he had ever seen. For god’s sake, the idiot looked like a lost puppy. It was completely and utterly gross.

Mike lingered once the study session was over, waiting for whatever his name was to finish flirting with you so that he could finally speak with you. After nearly waiting an hour (five minutes) for the dude to shut up, he finally left, and Mike was able to return to your side.

“So, how did you–”

“That guy is disgusting,” Mike interrupted you, arms crossed as he watched the boy in question walk down the hallway. Mike looked utterly displeased, something you had never seen from him. Your eyebrow quirked upwards.

“Cody? What makes you think that?” You asked lightly, eyes flicking to the boy Mike was staring daggers at.

Cody. That was the idiot’s name.

“Seriously? He was on top of you the whole time,” Mike scoffed, turning back to you with an unreadable expression on his face. Your head tilted, the subtle anger in his words throwing you off.

“...so? He was just asking me questions?” You responded, eyes not leaving Mike once. You shifted on your heel as he inhaled a deep breath.

“He was openly flirting with you. It was disgusting,” He spoke again, not trying to hide the irritation in his voice. He rolled his eyes, like it was bothering him to just think about the other boy. “I mean, other people are here, dude.”

“Mike.” His stomach did that strange thing again. A small smile appeared on your face, and Mike must have looked confused, because all you did was let out a laugh. 

“You don’t need to worry about it. I’m used to guys like that,” you breathed out, your voice reassuring as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Trust me, he’s just one in a long line.”

“Wow, has anyone ever told you how humble you are?” Mike teased, the words leaving him without much thought. You let out a small laugh in response.

“You’re funny. But I’m serious. It’s nothing. He’s douche-y anyway,” you shrugged while you kept your eyes on his. 

“Damn right he is,” he muttered under his breath, but his voice was a little too loud. You raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and he let out a deep sigh. “Look, just stay away from him. He reeks of something bad.”

His words were quiet, an undercurrent of something neither of you could figure out lingering on the edges of his tone. Your gaze rested on him for a few silent moments, quietly pondering before you took a breath, breaking the stillness between you and him.

“Okay, Mike. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you smiled softly while adjusting your backpack. Mike was sure he had said something in reply, but he didn’t process it as he watched you gradually disappear down the hallway, leaving his sight within mere seconds. 

Mike couldn’t explain why, but your words just then had made that fire in his stomach dissipate. Almost like relief. But Mike didn’t know why he would need to feel relief– there was nothing bugging him enough for him to have a thing to get over. Nothing. 

Well, wait. Unless he counted the whole Cody thing. God, even his name sounded douche-y. But why would he feel relief over you dismissing an idiot’s outrageous attempts to woo you?

Mike’s thoughts went quiet. And then it hit him.

“No. No, that’s– no,” he spoke into the deserted hallway, his words echoing across the lockers.

But Mike kept thinking, and the more he thought, he started to think that–

“No. That is not what it is,” he affirmed to himself, his tone serious. Mike clenched his fists together, shoving that thought entirely out of his mind. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

Mike biked the whole way home in silence, not daring to even give his mind an inch. If he thought about it any more, even just one word, it would all be true. 

And Mike wasn’t ready to cope with that. Not yet.

Mike Wheeler did not have a crush on you. 

He stored that thought in the back of his mind for the next few days, not willing to let it resurface under any circumstance. He continued to ignore the mysterious little palpitations in his heart and the flips his stomach did whenever you laughed a certain way or when your eyes did that stupid soft thing that he should’ve hated. He persisted, not once yielding to the thoughts that threatened to consume him at just about every moment.

A whole week passed like this, and Mike had no other way to describe it than utter torment. He continued to attend your study group despite the fact that your project was over and had already been turned in. He needed the extra studying. That was all. And he had to make sure that Cody guy wasn’t getting too close. 

To Mike’s dismay, he seemed to only get closer, and Mike’s added presence egged him on even more. Each time Mike would look up from his work, he would be an inch closer to your frame, eyes on you as you explained whatever stupid question he had asked you. He smiled at you like he was begging for your attention, trying to get you to give in to his flirtations. It was sad, really, but the fact that he could still have the audacity to try even after experiencing your disinterest made the fire in Mike’s stomach rekindle every single time.

And Mike swore that sometimes, Cody would even look directly at Mike just before he would launch into another round of unnecessary questions with you, and the most evil smile would sit on his face. He knew exactly what he was doing, and it irked Mike to the core. 

But, because Mike had vowed to himself not to acknowledge his lingering emotions, he couldn’t let himself dwell on it. He had forced himself to not be bothered, because why should he be anyway, and reminded himself constantly that it was nothing. Because it really was. He didn’t like you like that. He repeated that mantra over and over in his head, despite the fact that its impact lessened each time, and he didn’t let himself believe anything else.

Unfortunately for Mike, it did not take long for all of his hard work to shatter.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

Chemistry was always boring on Thursdays. Not that it was particularly special any other day of the week, but by the fourth day of torture, everyone was usually too tired to want to put effort into the class. Even Mr. Clarke. 

He had gracefully given the class a catch-up day, something unheard of for the room of students. Some still needed to work on their projects, but everyone was in need of time to study and finish classwork. Mike had never been more grateful for Mr. Clarke in his life; he had nearly cried tears of joy when he read the lesson outline for the day on the chalkboard. Mike was determined to focus, ready to devote himself to his work for the day when–

“Mike! What’re you working on?” Your voice startled him out of his trance, despite the fact that you were whispering. He hadn’t seen you take the empty desk next to him, and he wondered how long you had been sitting there before you decided to speak up.

“Jesus, you scared me,” he breathed out, slumping back into his desk chair and letting his eyes move down to the paper in front of him.

“Sorry,” you giggled, shaking your head as you leaned back. “Just wanted to check if you’ll be there this afternoon?”

“Ah, shit. I have Hellfire right after school,” Mike sighed, a frown tugging his lips downward. He fiddled with and stared at the pencil in his hand, a wave of disappointment crashing over his body.

“It’s okay, no need to feel bad!” You quickly spoke, leaning closer to Mike as your voice took on a reassuring tone. He ignored the skip of his heartbeat when his gaze moved back to yours.

“No, it’s not that,” Mike sighed again, letting his shoulders slump. He looked away from you, his voice growing quiet while his emotions sank further into his skin. “I really need to study for the midterm next week. I feel like I’m still so behind.”

Mike could feel your gaze on him as the two of you stayed quiet for a moment, and his heart subtly started going faster with each second that passed.

“Hm. Well…” you tilted your head, eyes on the floor as you let your thoughts brew for another moment. When you were ready, you looked back up at Mike, and your voice sounded uncharacteristically shy. “You could come over to my place if you wanted after your meeting. It’s not a whole campaign, right? Surely not on a Thursday night…”

If Mike didn’t blank at your first sentence, it definitely did after your second. 

“I– wait, I’m sorry. I’ve never said what we actually do in Hellfire,” he said quietly, his eyebrow raising upwards as he lifted his head to meet your gaze. You froze, smile dropping as if you had said something you shouldn’t have. Silence passed for two beats before Mike’s jaw dropped, the dots clicking in his head.

“Oh my god, you know D&D–”

“Mike. It’s not like that–” Your words fell on deaf ears, Mike already off to the races.

“Holy shit. I would have never expected that from you. What’s your class? Level? Alignment–” His eyes were practically sparkling, and his frame was inching closer to yours with each second that passed. You’d never seen Mike smile as big as he did right then, and something in your chest fluttered at the sight.

“Mike. I don’t actually play regularly. My younger brother is just really into it, that’s all,” you offered a small laugh, shrugging your shoulders. A pit immediately caved in Mike’s stomach, that weird feeling that was a crossover between disappointment and embarrassment reappearing and killing his demeanor. 

“Oh,” he backed away, smile faltering and voice getting soft all over again. “That’s okay. Sorry for getting so excited.”

“Please don’t be sorry for that,” you said with urgency, your hand instinctively reaching out in his direction. You stopped before it could touch him, like your brain was preventing your heart from taking too much action. Your eyes didn’t leave Mike’s as you spoke, and the softness of your voice nearly made him rethink the mantra he had been saying to himself for the past week. “It’s endearing when people are invested in their hobbies like that.”

Your words settled over Mike like a warm wave, and he could feel himself reaching the point of no return. Stop it.

He wasn’t sure how long the two of you had sat there staring at each other, but when you finally broke the silence, invisible tension released from his body and he felt relaxed.

“A-anyways, do you want to come over? It’d be just you and me, but it’s not like we aren’t kinda used to that already. You can obviously say no, thou–”

“Yes.” Too fast, you idiot. “I– I’d like to come over. If it’s not too much trouble,” Mike said, clearing his throat and fidgeting with his hands in his lap. You smiled gingerly at him, and he knew you must’ve liked his response.

“It’s not. Here,” you reached forward without warning, grabbing the pencil from off of Mike’s notebook and quickly scribbling down your address on the edge of the paper. When you were done, you carefully ripped it off and handed the small slip of paper to him. “Don’t lose this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mike replied, a small smile on his face as he watched you back away. He was ready to keep talking to you, to search his brain for something else to say when, of course, the bell cut through his haze, and reminded him of what he was really supposed to be thinking.

“See you later, Mike,” you said before he knew it, quickly gathering your things together and leaving him deserted with his thoughts.

Mike was slipping, and he knew it. He was willingly giving in to every idea he should’ve been saying hell no to, and he was starting to push it out less and less. He had to keep fighting, no matter how weak his resolve was. He couldn’t admit it. He wouldn’t admit it.

Mike was, sadly, terrible at following his own rules. He was on edge for the rest of the day, his mind teetering back and forth between the different what ifs and definitely nots as he sat in class, completely restless. By the time he showed up for Hellfire, his leg was bouncing up and down so much that Eddie had cut his sentences short multiple times just to ask if Mike was okay. He would say he was, but then immediately return to his zoned-out state. He’d never been so out of focus in his life, and it was throwing him for a loop.

Was he really this nervous to go to your house? He’d been nervous all day; surely it had to be something else. But Mike wouldn’t allow himself to think too hard on it because as soon as he did, those thoughts crept back in, and Mike slipped more and more onto the wrong side even more. He wasn’t sure how much fight he had left in him at this point. Visiting your house would either fix everything and set in stone what he should feel, or, worst case scenario, break him completely and shatter every single expectation he’d had since meeting you.

Mike prayed it would be the former.

Hellfire was over before he knew it, and Eddie had given him one last check-in before letting him actually leave. Upon one last glance at the slip of paper you had given him just hours ago, Mike realized that your house was conveniently close to his, only a few streets down from where he lived. While bike rides normally soothed Mike’s worries from the school day, this one only made everything worse, amplified by the fact that he was really about to be at your house.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, he kept thinking to himself, don’t make it a big deal. It’s just studying. With a once-enemy turned friend. Nothing else. He repeated those words over and over until the moment he reached your driveway, the ball of nerves in his stomach rendering him unable to think much at all. God, why was he so nervous?

Mike hesitated when he reached your door, anxiety coursing through him more than ever. He forced himself to take a deep breath and steady his shaking hands. He reached up to ring your doorbell, and within seconds of the sound chiming on the other side of the wall, the door flung open. 

Instead of being met with the sight of you, Mike was faced with a boy who immediately held out a sword in between the frame, glaring up at Mike.

“Halt! I am the brave warrior tasked with defending this land! No trespassers!” The boy who just so happened to look a little like you spoke, waving his sword defensively and dramatically throwing his cape (blanket) over his shoulders.

“Uh–”

“State thy name and case. The great herald will–” He tried again, eyes still scrutinizing Mike.

“NATE!” A voice from inside shouted, and the way Mike’s stomach flipped let him know it was you. Within seconds, you were at the younger boy’s side, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Ah, a fair maiden has appeared. Lass, there appears to be a commoner at the door. How–”

“Nathan.” You called in a quiet voice before ushering the boy forward with your pointer finger. You bent down to his ear level, using your hand to cover your mouth while you whispered something to him. Mike watched with a raised eyebrow as the boy’s eyes flicked back to Mike’s face, a small smile growing as you spoke to him. When you were done, the boy cleared his throat and grinned.

“Greetings, Sir Michael Wheeler! You have been granted entry into the kingdom,” your brother declared, pulling his sword back and allowing Mike to finally step into your house. Mike was grinning from ear to ear, thoroughly amused by your sibling. “But do not falter, for I wield great power and will not hesitate to use my–”

“Nate, Mike’s here to study. There won’t be any need for your sword,” you crossed your arms over your chest, a subtle grin on your face as you looked at your brother.

“You said he’d think it was cool, though,” Nate pouted, eyes dropping to the floor. Mike’s gaze immediately flicked to you in response.

“Did you?” He asked with a knowing tone, a smirk plastered to his lips. You shook your head and rolled your eyes, though the subtle red tint on your cheeks told Mike everything he needed to know. 

“Okay, buddy, good talk. We’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” you patted your brother’s shoulder and closed the door before turning away and walking towards the staircase. Mike followed you wordlessly.

“Yeah, yeah, just don’t do anything provocative,” Nate spoke back up, emphasizing his final word before quickly running out of the room and leaving you and Mike alone. Mike flushed at the implications of that word, his mind already starting to fail at upholding the mantra he had laid out for himself.

“Where did you learn–” You started, turning back around before realizing that he had already made his escape. You sighed, shaking your head and letting out a small laugh. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“No, it’s fine. That was funny. And cool,” Mike smirked again, following you up the stairs. You turned back around and gave him a playful glare, resisting the quick urge you felt to lightly shove his shoulder.

“How was Hellfire, anyway?” You sighed, leading the way as Mike trailed behind you. His eyes moved across the walls, observing everything from family photos to random artworks that your mom must’ve found at the thrift store.

“Boring, I guess. Just went over some campaign stuff. It kinda went over my head, if I’m being honest,” Mike shrugged, a small smile growing on his face the longer he spoke.

“Too worried about chemistry?” You hummed, coming to a stop in front of a door and turning back to Mike with a subtle grin. 

“Something like that,” Mike laughed awkwardly, immediately remembering how out of focus he had been all day over thoughts about you. He would never say it out loud, though.

What happened next was a blur for Mike. The door you had stopped at had ended up being what opened up to your room, and Mike was taken aback at the sight. It was so jarringly you that he felt strangely impressed just walking in, every decoration and piece of furniture a direct reflection of you. Mike looked around for a few moments, admiring the various posters hanging on your wall before looking at you expectantly when you sat down on your bed. You raised an eyebrow at him, sitting for a few seconds like you were giving him more time to decide what he wanted to do. When he stayed standing, you sighed, gently smiling up at him.

“You can sit down, y’know,” your voice was quiet, but that didn’t stop Mike from hearing its teasing undercurrent. He felt the tips of his ears grow warm, suddenly unable to handle the weight of your gaze.

“Sorry, I just didn’t wanna overstep or something,” he laughed awkwardly before crouching onto the floor next to your bed. You stared at him for a few more seconds, mouth hanging slightly agape as you took in the scene before you.

“Mike. Oh my god,” you laughed, gesturing to the empty spot next to you. “On the furniture. Please sit.”

Mike’s face was burning now, and he quickly scrambled up and next to you with an awkward smile that only made you laugh more. The bed dipped beneath his weight and it was then when Mike realized he was really in your room with you, and it nearly made him choke. What was going on?

“Okay, so, I was thinking I’d give you a practice problem and we can go from there? Most of the time it’s the small mistakes,” you spoke clearly, eyes never once leaving his. He could do this.

“Yeah, yeah, that works,” he cleared his throat, nodding as he reached for his backpack. 

“Good,” you nodded back, still smiling as you quickly rose from your position to step to your desk, taking a few things from the surface before returning back to your place beside Mike. Once you sat, your hand was immediately in touch with a pencil, quickly scribbling a problem down onto a sheet of paper and giving it a brief one-over before carefully handing it to Mike.

Mike stared at the paper for a few seconds before getting to work, his handwriting a bit messy as he configured his thoughts onto the paper. Once done, he handed it back to you, and you were quick to find an error.

“Okay, I see what’s wrong. It’s your math,” you looked up at him, a sort of sympathetic look on your face. Mike sighed, turning away as his hand reached for the back of his neck.

“Figures. I’m terrible at math,” he grumbled, avoiding your gaze and fiddling with his pencil.

“Don’t say that. Math is a mindset thing,” you encouraged, leaning down a bit as you searched for his eyes. He gave in, lifting his head and watching as a smile tugged at your mouth. “Look, this is where you start mixing things up…”

Mike didn’t let his gaze on you waver once as you explained the problem to him, but he wasn’t really listening. He watched your expressions closely, noting the soft glow of lamp light that cascaded onto your face. He had never looked at you this closely before, and now that he was, he couldn’t help but notice how—

“Mike? Are you there?” Your voice cut in front of the thoughts in his head, and Mike suddenly realized he must’ve been staring at you for probably a little too long. Shit.

“Um– yeah, sorry,” he shook his head, forcing a sheepish grin onto his lips in the hopes that it might pull away from what was probably the obvious redness he felt burning into his face. 

“What did I just ask you?” You raised a skeptical eyebrow, your lips falling into a straight line. Mike went silent, staring blankly at you for a few seconds before a sheepish grin rolled back onto his face.

“...could you actually repeat it for me?” He smiled, and you rolled your eyebrows in response. Mike could tell you held no real malice though, noticing the way your lips had started to curl upwards again.

Mike really did try to focus this time, really tried, but for some reason, his brain just kept moving his eyes back to your face. Your eyes were particularly soft as you spoke, in a way Mike had never ever seen before. You looked like a normal person, not the most popular girl in his class who he had desperately hated for the longest time. But now that you were close to Mike, with your so you room and your insistence on helping him, it finally hit Mike that he could no longer keep up with his hatred. In reality, it had been slowly dissipating for some time, but only now did he realize it. 

And now that Mike couldn’t hate you anymore, he was faced head-on with the one thought he had been trying to push away for the past week. Because there was nothing to counter it with, he was ready to let the thought swallow him, ready for it to grasp onto his brain and not let go.

“Mike! Is something the matter?” You called out again, waving a hand in front of his face. Mike blinked, quickly readjusting his gaze while silently cursing himself for zoning out again. Quick, think of something.

“No, I just– the smell in here, i- it’s distracting,” he shook his head, trying to laugh it off. Albeit, awkwardly.

“Distracting?” You asked, your eyebrow raised again as you shot an offended look in his direction. Mike felt his heart leap to his throat, panic quickly rushing into his bones.

“It’s not bad, trust me! It’s just– overwhelming? I think?” He waved his hands out in front of him quickly, trying to find the most neutral words he could. Was it bad that he thought your room smelled good?

“Do we need to go somewhere else?” You asked quietly, voice laced with genuine concern. If Mike didn’t know better, he’d think that you suddenly looked hurt, and his natural reaction was to comfort. What a mistake that was. Without even thinking, his hand shot out and landed on yours, his eyes firm on yours as he spoke.

“No, no! We can stay! I think I’m getting used to it now,” he reassured quickly while shaking his head once again, still unaware of where his hand had landed. When all he got from you was a slightly open-mouthed stare, he leaned back and caught sight of his hand, and he quickly jerked away. He then trained his eyes to your comforter, doing anything and everything to avoid your gaze and hoping that the burning of his face would end before he had to look up next. 

You cleared your throat after a few moments, prompting Mike to look up hesitantly and find the lingering hints of blush that sat on your face. A pit immediately opened in Mike’s gut at the sight, guilty for making you feel uncomfortable so suddenly. At least, he assumed you felt that way.

If you were really bothered, you didn’t show it, as you quickly shifted back into explaining the problems like you had before, and Mike was careful to pay extra close attention whenever you spoke. The two of you were quick to fall into an energized state of work, moving back and forth with the same kind of productivity that you normally had together. Before either of you knew, the sun had set, and the scent of whatever was being cooked in your kitchen for dinner was beginning to seep in your room. Mike took those factors as his sign to leave, alongside the fact that you were starting to run out of problems for him to figure out.

So, you let him gather his things before walking back downstairs, right back where you had started just a few hours ago.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna stay for dinner? I’m sure my mom cooked enough for one extra person,” you asked Mike with a soft smile on your face, and he would’ve said yes if it weren’t for the fact that he was currently having an early-life crisis over his thoughts about you. 

“I would, but my mom might be a little stressed out right now,” Mike sighed, mirroring your expression as he mentally high-fived himself for his excuse. “I kinda didn’t tell her I was gonna be out this late.” You grinned at his words, crossing your arms over your chest.

“In fairness, it was kind of last minute. Maybe I could make it up to her? Cookies are my specialty,” you hummed, tilting your head playfully, and raising your eyebrows.

“Really? That does sound enticing, but how do I know you aren’t lacing them or something?” Mike hummed back, shifting on his heel and letting his smile lift up into a smirk. You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face told Mike that you weren’t truly offended.

“You really think I’d lace your family?” You gasped playfully, putting a hand over your chest and tilting your head once again. “And here I was thinking you were starting to fall for my charms.”

Mike felt his breath nearly leave him completely at that, suddenly feeling like he had been caught in some act. He had no time to respond, however, because within milliseconds, your brother reappeared at your side.

“Mike– I mean, Sir Michael, leaving so soon?” Nate looked up at Mike with big eyes, a curious look on his face. 

“Yeah, bud, I’m sorry,” Mike replied, letting out a sigh as he smiled sympathetically at your brother. Nate frowned, but continued to listen regardless of his disappointment. “I have to get home. My mom doesn’t know that I’m here.”

“Ooh, scandalous, Sir Michael,” the younger boy shooting a smirk in Mike’s direction.

“Nate, where are you learning these words?” You laughed, gazing down at your brother with a raised eyebrow.

“The Wesbert book that mom keeps on the table,” Nate said, and neither of you had the heart to tell him what the dictionary was actually called, so he continued: “It has lots of words. You should read it sometime. Your vocabulary is quite monotonous.”

“Oh really? Why don’t we put it to the test at dinner?” You suggested to him, your smirk now etched into your face as you looked at your brother. Mike observed silently, something in his chest panging at the sight of you interacting with your sibling so effortlessly. 

“You have a deal,” Nate grinned back at you right before he turned back to Mike, stepping on his tippy toes as he whispered to the older boy: “I’m gonna beat her.”

“I’m sure you are,” Mike laughed lightly, his eyes moving back to you with ease. He cleared his throat, moving back upright as he shrugged his shoulders back to a relaxed posture. “Well, I really should get going. Thanks for helping, it means a lot.”

“Any time. And I’m serious about the cookies, Mike. Just say the word,” you smiled up at him, the look on your face so soft that Mike’s heart skipped at the sight of you. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

“I’ll let you know. Bye, guys,” he waved, quickly opening the door before he could say anything he definitely shouldn’t. 

“Bye, Mike!” You and your brother called out in unison, watching as Mike walked back to his bike. Eventually, you shut the door, and Mike let out the deepest sigh of his life.

The ride home wasn’t long, but with the thoughts swirling around in his head, Mike felt like he had been on his bike for ten hours. His mind replayed his moments alone with you, where he had been so focused on you that he hadn’t heard a word you’d said. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he had been admiring you, and the idea of that wasn’t scary to Mike anymore. He welcomed it with open arms, accepting that his resistance had failed him. 

He could no longer hide from the way his heart just happened to go faster when he was around you, or the way that he would blush every time you did something as simple as smile at him. You were pretty, so pretty, as much as he had tried to resist thinking of you in that way. And you were so, so sweet, too sweet to him. He had been an asshole to you, and yet, you kept trying with him, pushing him to be a better person in the process. No one had ever, ever done that for Mike before. It all washed over him the whole way home, each thought building upon the last as the walls Mike had intricately put into place shattered completely.

It was when Mike turned onto Maple Street, his house in view when he finally let it settle over him: He definitely had a crush on you.

Since he had finally let himself admit it, an intense relief filled in Mike’s body, and he slept the best he had in weeks. He woke up the next morning filled with a sense of exhilaration for the day ahead of him, and he found that he was extremely eager to see you at school. Yes, he’d probably be even more of a nervous wreck around you now, but at least he’d get to be around you.

The first thing he did upon seeing you at school was politely remind you about the cookies you’d said you make upon his request. You had questioned his sudden excitement about the idea, considering that it was only second period, and he had played it off successfully by saying he had a cup of coffee for breakfast. You had laughed and his stomach flipped like normal, and you promised you’d show up to his house at some point that night with a fresh batch of ‘completely normal and not laced’ cookies.

Excitement bubbled in his gut for the entirety of the day, and when the last bell finally rang, he shot out of the school doors and booked it home on his bike, anxious to get home and start preparing for whenever you might arrive. He’d paced around his room for nearly an hour, imagining the moment when you would knock on his door. He went back and forth between rehearsing what he should say or just winging it entirely. He settled for a happy medium, but there was no telling what might happen to his brain whenever you finally showed up.

Mike waited at home for nearly three hours until he finally, finally heard his doorbell ring. He practically levitated off of his couch, scrambling as fast as he could to the door, but, of course, Holly had to beat him to it. 

“Are you that girl my brother keeps talking about? Wow, you’re like, really pretty–”

“Holly!” Mike cut his sister off, standing at her side before his eyes snapped to you. His heart leapt into his throat, all of the practice he had done in his room leaving him in an instant. “Uh– hi. Sorry, I was gonna get it until someone had to beat me to it. Aren’t you too young to answer the door anyways?”

“Nu-uh, Mike. Besides, you wouldn’t wanna keep your friend waiting, right?” Holly grinned widely, and Mike prayed you wouldn’t notice the blush that had crept on his face at his sister’s teasing.

“Go away,” he groaned, lightly shoving Holly’s shoulder and turning back to you.

“Where? I live here–”

“O-kay, so, one order of cookies, right?” You cut off their bickering, feeling a little out of place as you stood in the doorway. Mike flushed even more.

“Yeah, r-right,” he cleared his throat, and in an instant, Holly was walking away, disappearing to who knows where. “Sorry, she can be a little annoying sometimes.”

“Younger siblings,” you rolled your eyes playfully, shaking your head with a small laugh. “what would we do without them?” Mike laughed along with you, trying to ignore the way his stomach filled with butterflies at the sound of your laugh. Hiding this was going to be hell.

“Okay, well, if that’s all, I should probably–” You started, your arms reaching out as you attempted to hand out the container of cookies to Mike, but a sound from within the house stopped both of you in your tracks.

“Mike? Is someone at the door?” Mike heard his mom from behind him, and the muscles in his body went stiff at the sound. 

“Not now, Mom!” He quickly turned around, but it was no use. His mom had been closer than he’d thought, and she was already nearly next to him, and had clearly spotted you.

“Oh, hello! I didn’t realize we were having any visitors,” She spoke lightly, her eyes moving between you and Mike with a hint of curiosity. 

“Just stopping by with a treat, Mrs. Wheeler,” you smiled, holding out what you had brought to Mike’s mom, and a wide smile spread across the woman’s face in the process. Mike let out a breath of relief, thankful that you had saved the situation.

“How sweet of you!” His mom exclaimed, taking the container from your hands before nudging Mike lightly with her shoulder. “Mike, where did you meet a girl so nice?”

“School. We had a chemistry project together,” Mike shrugged lightly, his eyes darting nervously between you and his mom. She paused for a beat, seeming to process Mike’s words before her entire face lit up, as if something in her mind had clicked for her.

“Wait, you’re the cheerleader?” Her eyes widened in your direction, and you smiled shyly. Mike wanted to crawl into a ball on the ground. “Oh my goodness, do you want to stay for dinner? You’ve been too good to Mike; it’s only right that we pay you back.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal, Mrs. Wheeler–” You tried to stop her, but it was no use. 

“No, I insist! Mike, go set a place at the table for her,” She placed a warm hand on her son’s shoulder, and Mike was helpless to resist. He took one last look at you before disappearing back into the house, leaving you at the doorway with his mom. He didn’t think that could’ve gone further south than it did.

Mike’s mind fogged over as he floated into the kitchen, absentminded as he gathered up what he needed to prepare your spot at the table. His table. With his family. Mike thought he was going to throw up.

You and his mom eventually worked your way into the kitchen, where you properly got the chance to introduce yourself to his family. Mike was a shell as you sat next to him, barely even able to touch his food throughout the course of the meal. He kept quiet, listening to the conversation as it bounced from you to one of his family members and then eventually back to you. If Mike hadn’t been impressed by you before, he definitely would have now; your ability to keep up with so many questions was incredible.

He could tell his dad was silently impressed by the fact that you seemed to get along well with Mike, considering the fact that Mike wasn’t exactly one to just hang with the popular crowd at school. Holly absolutely loved you and took the time to detail her entire day to you, and you listened with extreme intensity. His mom was instantly charmed by your politeness, and begged you to take leftovers home for yourself once dinner was eventually over. Mike figured Nancy would probably like you too, considering how smart you were and how easily you got along with literally everyone.

Before Mike knew it, dinner was over, and you were helping him wash the dishes at the sink. Mike hadn’t realized how close the two of you were at first, but when he finally did, his mind nearly flew away from him again. He could barely even tune it out, your warmth seeping into his side as a constant reminder of your presence.

“Is your dad normally that quiet? He barely said a single word,” you laughed, your words quiet as you leaned slightly closer to Mike. He was going to die.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mike rolled his eyes, his soft tone a mirror to yours as he laughed along with you. “He just, like, sits there. Unless it’s to get onto us about ‘language’ or whatever.” You laughed again at that, and Mike could feel your eyes on him as he set aside a plate. 

“He sounds like the life of the party. Holly, on the other hand, is remarkably sweet,” you grinned, eyes shifting down for a moment before immediately returning to Mike’s form. Your grin then turned into a smirk, and Mike’s eyebrow quirked up in response. “You guys are actually really similar.”

“What? We are?” Mike scoffed, tilting his head and forcing the corners of his lips to remain downturned as he looked at you.

“Yes, Mike. Why else would she be so stubborn?” You tilted your head, mirroring his mannerisms as you shifted onto your hip playfully. You let out a laugh as Mike did, and the butterflies that were sitting in his heart started raging once again.

You two continued to go back and forth, passing the time together with just the company of each other. Eventually, you had to leave, and once you were gone, Mike realized just how much he had enjoyed having you over. Sure, he had been a complete nervous wreck just hours ago, but it had all been worth it to see you hit it off so well with his family. It made Mike able to actually see something with you, something tangible in the distance that he might soon be able to grab onto. All he had to do was get around to you.

Unbeknownst to Mike, he already had gotten around to you. Despite your initial efforts to keep your thoughts about him neutral, your heart had eventually broken through the barrier of your mind, and it now rendered you a nervous wreck every time Mike was around. You were a little surprised that he hadn’t noticed your slight change in behavior, considering how you had taken such a long time to notice it yourself. 

You forced yourself to believe neither of you could be everything, too different to ever work. At least, at first. The more time you and Mike had spent together, the closer you had become, and each little interaction you had started to change your beliefs more and more. You felt pulled to him, like the two of you had somehow been tethered together by an invisible string. It was tugging you closer and closer to each other, and you were starting to think that the two of you might collide soon. 

You could only hope that Mike felt it too, because the amount of days you had together was slowly running out, and you knew that deep down the two of you would likely pull away the moment the semester ended. 

So, you and Mike persisted in your own separate ways. Spring Break started at the end of the week, and Mike wanted to capitalize on the opportunity as much as he could. He decided to make it his mission to ask you if you wanted to go on a date before the week ended, more determined than he had ever been in his life. He had made this plan on his own terms, not seeking the consultation of any of his friends or family. It had to come from him, or it wouldn’t be right.

You were focused on doing anything and everything you could with Mike, trying to get as close as you could before the string holding you together snapped, whether it be because you finally reached each other, or because you broke apart. You sought to make it the former, and spent the week trying to find little ways to incorporate Mike into your day. Fortunately for both of you, Mike’s midterm at the end of the week was the perfect excuse for you to see one another more. You had taken the liberty of inviting Mike back to your house, offering just a little more studying in between the days you were supposed to meet at the library anyways. Mike gingerly accepted, all too eager to just be with you.

Both of you had meant to be productive that afternoon, but with Nate so adamant that Mike actually got to see all of the cool things he wanted to show the older boy, barely anything was accomplished. And even when you did make it back to your room, the two of you spent most of the time telling each other stories about your high school experiences, bonding over how different it had been for each of you. Mike learned how much you sought escape from the so-called popularity you held, and he, in turn, finally told you that he had really only hated you since you were better at chemistry than he was.

You laughed at him so hard that Mike felt like walking out of your room and leaving out of embarrassment. But the smile on your face and sound of your pure, unfiltered laughter had him absolutely smitten, and he knew he’d be a fool to leave simply because of you poking fun at him.

That had been just yesterday, and the entire afternoon had filled both of you with more hope than you’d ever had before. Mike was convinced that nothing could stand in his way now, and was finally, finally ready to make a move on you.

Of course, he was a nervous wreck most of the day, mentally preparing for the moment when he was going to approach you. He planned on asking you after your study group, when it was just the two of you, completely free of distractions. He went in and out of focus throughout all of his classes, and denied that anything was wrong when his friends took notice of his anxious state. Nothing could get in the way of his plan, Mike kept telling himself minute after minute, rehearsing his words in his head while his brain came up with a thousand different responses that you might come up with.

When the time study group finally arrived, Mike busied himself with studying, forcing himself to focus as much as he could on his impending midterm and not you. This task, of course, was nearly impossible, with you sitting directly across from him and occasionally checking up on him and offering him extra help without him even asking. God, you were too good for him.

Thankfully, Cody had decided to be extra quiet today, sticking to observing you and Mike interact with what Mike assumed was a look of self-pity. Mike didn’t really care though, knowing that whatever you and himself had going on was definitely leagues better than how you and the other boy interacted. Plus, Mike knew for a fact that you absolutely had no interest in Cody, so that ruled out every possibility of you rejecting him for that idiot.

The end of the group’s time together had come to an end sooner than Mike had hoped for it to, and he could feel his hands buzz with anticipation as he gathered his things together. He waited for you to say goodbye to everyone and wish them luck before immediately meeting you at your side, a soft smile on his lips while he tried to ignore the thrumming of his chest. The two of you walked out of the library together, side by side as you moved through the hallway. Mike kept his pace slow, wanting to stay with you for as long as possible.

“That was really great today, Mike. I’m serious,” you grinned up at him, your voice calming while exciting the nerves in his body. “You’re gonna ace your midterm. Trust me.”

“Well, I did have a pretty great tutor,” Mike hummed, grinning back at you before he sheepishly shrugged his shoulders. “Not that I really needed her, though.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t,” you laughed lightly, the sound like music to Mike’s ears. “You’re smart, you just need to get out of your head sometimes.”

Mike paused at that. Your words hit him like a truck, being the exact thing he had needed to hear at that moment. The fact that it came from you made it even better. 

“Yeah. I do,” Mike took a deep breath, turning to face you fully as a soft smile grew on his face. Time slowed as the two of you sat in silence for a moment, both simply looking at one another as a strange air passed over you. Not awkward, not odd, but heavy with the weight of what went unspoken. You cleared your throat, knowing that you might do something regrettable if given any more time in the quiet.

“Any spring break plans?” You asked Mike, your voice a degree softer than before. Mike didn’t notice it, too consumed by whatever had just happened to the space in between the two of you.

“U- uh, not really,” he stuttered out, his hand reaching for the back of his neck instinctively as if it would soothe the anxiety away. “I’m sure you’ve got something, though.”

“If you mean babysitting the entire week, then sure,” you scoffed, shaking your head lightly as a small grin grew back on your face.

“Nate? Surely he’s not that much trouble,” Mike laughed a little, raising an eyebrow as his head tilted to the side.

“He’s not, I just really don’t have the capacity to go over his games for hours on end,” you sighed, something similar to regret sitting on the edge of your tone. Mike thought for a moment, and as your words from before passed in his mind, a sudden idea appeared to him.

“Really? Well, I mean, if you need help…” he trailed, the subtle intensity within your gaze causing him to falter for a moment. He inhaled deeply before continuing again: “With Nate, obviously. I’d uh– hang out with him, or whatever.”

“Are you indirectly asking to come over next week?” You raised a suspicious eyebrow, and Mike felt the tips of his ears grow red. 

“Well– only if it’s not a big deal, I don’t wanna–”

“Hey, relax, I’m teasing. You’d actually, um, probably be a really big help,” you spoke, your voice getting more quiet with each word that left your lips. You cleared your throat, praying that Mike didn’t notice the redness that had started to bloom on your face. “Besides, Nate would probably want to see you anyways.”

“Well, it’s settled. Just let me know when I’m needed,” Mike smiled gingerly, forcing himself to hide how excited he really was about you agreeing with him. He was closer than ever, and his confidence was starting to shoot through the roof.

“Of course,” you nodded, smiling back at Mike so sweetly that he wanted to melt. You let out a deep breath, and Mike felt a sharp twist of panic coil in his chest. “Well, we should probably get going. You need to sleep well, remember?”

No. Not yet.

“Yeah, yeah, um, could you wait here? I need to, uh, run to the bathroom really quick,” Mike didn’t give you time to respond to him, immediately darting in the direction of the bathroom and finding the nearest mirror.

This was it. Mike had convinced himself that his plan had a better chance of going right than wrong, especially after the interaction the two of you had just shared moments ago. He stared at himself in the mirror, re-rehearsing everything he wanted to say to you in his head while his hands shakily gripped the edges of the old porcelain. He let himself take three deep breaths for safe measure, telling himself that it would be fine and that the worse you could say was no before he pulled away, taking one last glimpse at himself.

He quickly ran his hands through his hair and straightened his shirt, wanting to look the best he could with what he had. Anxiety still pooled in his stomach, and he knew it wouldn’t be eased until he finally spoke the words he wanted to say to you. So, Mike forced his feet out of the bathroom and back into the hallway. He could hear faint voices as he walked down the hall, anticipation building in his gut as he rounded the corner and saw–

Oh. Oh.

Mike registered you first. And then the person pressed against you, lips on yours. Cody. Mike felt like throwing up.

Not much processed in Mike’s head as the two of you separated, your hands coming up to the other boy’s shoulders to push him away. The boy wore a look of shock–though it couldn’t have been anything like MIke’s–and you turned around to face him.

Mike watched the color drain out of your face as you realized he had seen. But it was over. The anxiousness in Mike’s stomach had been replaced by a gaping pit of a mix of so many things that Mike didn’t have time to count right then.

“Mike. Fuck,” your voice was weak as you stepped away from Cody, your arm reaching out in Mike’s direction. But Mike was already moving, his feet carrying him away mindlessly. With each footstep he grew faster, and his eyes began to lose focus as tears pooled at their edge.

“Mike, stop, please stop–” You were following him now, persistent as ever, and it only made Mike want to get away more. Of course. Of course you had lied. You were what he always thought you were, just some good for nothing but evil cheerleader whose mission it was to wreck havoc on the lives of everyone but yourself. A liar, a backstabber, and someone that would never, ever like Mike, no matter how much you faked it.

“Mike!” He was too far gone to hear the desperation of your voice, to hear the way it cracked with the weight of emotions that had just hit you. Before you knew it, he was out the door, too ahead for you to keep up. You knew he wouldn’t listen even if you did. You were left stranded, a flurry of various emotions running all through your body as you tried to point out where everything had gone wrong.

The moment Mike had left, Cody had appeared out of absolutely nowhere. It made you think that he hadn’t been far away at all the entire time you were talking to Mike, listening and waiting for a spot to finally open. The moment it did, he jumped in, immediately rambling about how he couldn’t keep his emotions away from him anymore. He needed you to know that he wanted you, and at some point in time, he had become convinced that you wanted him too, and was ready to risk it all for you. 

You rejected him firmly, but he wouldn’t listen, and, of course, as if the universe were working against you, he pulled you in just as Mike returned. 

You could hardly believe that it happened at all. But it did, and you had no clue what to do. Mike was upset, so upset, and rightfully so. Your heart sank for him, and you knew that you had to fix it. Mike had to know the truth, not just about that situation, but about your feelings and the emotions you had been reeling in for weeks. He had to know it all. 

Without any more hesitation, you booked it to your car and then back to your house, flying up the stairs and into your room. If you were going to speak to him, you needed to let yourself breathe, to let yourself find the right words to say. 

You sank onto your bed at first, letting out a deep breath that was followed with a groan as your body slowly receded into the sheets beneath you. Your mind allowed you one minute of solace before immediately pushing forward a thousand thoughts to the front of your head, overloading you with countless words and emotions that you could barely even grasp onto. Your fingers dug into your blankets, desperate for any sense of solace from the ceaselessness of your mind. 

After a few moments of doing your best to block out the noise, a knock at the door broke your thoughts. You lifted your head and muttered a small ‘come in,’ prepared to act like everything was completely normal. The sight of your brother brought a smile to your face, and you rose up to a sitting position. 

“Hey, Nate, how was–”

“Is something wrong? You didn’t say hi when you got home,” he asked you, his voice clearly upset as a frown tugged the corners of his mouth downward. Yours immediately did the same, your heart sinking in your chest as he came to sit next to you.

“Oh, Nate, I–” you started, eyes on him as you debated on telling him the truth or not. “No. Nothing’s wrong. Well, something kind of is, but–”

“What is it?” He cut you off quickly, his head perking up as he eagerly awaited your answer. You let out a breath through your nose, your gaze drifting down onto the floor while your fingers squeezed the sheets for support.

“Okay, look. Mike is just a little upset at me right now. It’s nothing,” you reassured, shaking your head and forcing a smile on your face while you did your best to not remember the way Mike had fled from the school. Your tone, however, let on more than your words had said, and your sibling picked up on it instantly.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” Nate said, raising a suspicious eyebrow and leaning closer to you with a curious glint in his eyes. “Why is he upset?”

“He thinks I lied to him,” you sighed again, turning away as your gaze fell back to the floor. You fidgeted with your hands in your lap, a beat of silence passing before Nate responded with a hum.

“So tell him the truth,” he said simply, observing you closely. Your frame stiffened just slightly before you let out another sigh, a deep wave of mixed emotions washing over you.

“It’s not that simple. He’s really, really angry at me, Nate. I don’t know if he’ll listen,” you bit the inside of your cheek, wishing that it didn’t bother you as much as it did. You liked him so much, more than you had ever liked anyone, and this little rift in your day had left your entire being shaken. You kept going back to how it had all played out, how none of this would have happened if Mike had just returned a few seconds before, if you had been able to get yourself away from Cody–

“If he really likes you, then he will.” Your brother’s words broke your train of thought.

“What?” You asked, your voice breathless as your head turned back up to look at your brother.

“Mike likes you, right? Then he’ll listen to you,” Nate shrugged, a gentle smile on his face as his head tilted to the side. “It’s called respect.”

“I–” you tried to search for something to rebuttal his words with, but you couldn’t. He was completely right; no matter how much Mike might hate you now, he’d probably still have the decency to listen to you. It was exactly what you needed to hear. “You’re really smart, Nate. Thank you.”

“Oh, I’m just doing my duty. Plus, I want ice cream later…” Your brother looked proud of himself as a smirk grew on his lips, and you let out a breathy laugh as you nudged him lightly.

“It’ll have to be tomorrow, bud. I have to go talk to Mike,” you spoke, already standing up to leave your room.

“Oh, right, do that,” Nate grinned, moving to follow you. “And can he come over soon? You said he would.” His words brought your mind back to the conversation you and Mike had not that long ago, immediately bringing back a fluttery feeling to your chest at the idea of Mike back on your bed again, staring at you with the most intense gaze you’ve ever seen. Now is not the time for that, you told yourself.

“W- we’ll see,” you cleared your throat while you stepped out of your room, Nate trailing behind you as you made your way downstairs. You wanted to leave, but you were still anxious, mind whirling with the words you wanted to speak. To give yourself more time to think–really, to stall–you ate dinner with your family, trying to ignore the growing wad of nerves that had decided to form at the center of your chest while you ate.

You used the guise of needing to run something over to Mike’s house to escape your parents’ suspicion, even grabbing your backpack to make it seem more believable. They let you leave without any questions, and you wasted no time getting in your car and driving to the Wheeler residence. You parked on the road outside the front lawn, deeply inhaling the soft chill of the night air while you walked up Mike’s driveway and to his front door. You tapped your foot restlessly after you knocked on the door, hoping and praying that you wouldn’t have to face Mike already. To your relief, his mom opened the door.

“Hi, Mrs. Wheeler,” you greeted immediately, your anxiety making you speed through your actions. “Is Mike here? I have something I need to bring to him.”

“Uh– yes, come in,” she blinked, clearly a little shocked by the subtle urgency in your words. She didn’t question you, stepping aside and letting you into the house. She closed the door before turning back to you, a concerned look on her face.

“Before you go up, could you please do something for me?” She asked you quietly, stepping closer to you. You nodded wordlessly and she let out what sounded like a relieved sigh. 

“Could you take Mike’s plate up to him? He got home and hasn’t come out of his room since,” she whispered, clear concern within her tone as she looked at you with pleading eyes. “Sorry, I’m just worried, is all.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you swallowed, thankful she at least didn’t know the reason for Mike’s avoidance. Your heart sank at the thought of Mike in his room all alone, refusing to talk to anyone and letting his emotions stir in silence. “I can take it to him, it’s no problem.”

She nodded and quickly disappeared to the kitchen, returning with a plate of food that was still semi-warm. A sympathetic smile was plastered to her face as she handed the plate over to you, and you felt a sense of guilt crash onto you at how worried she was for her son.

“Thank you so much, sweetie,” she hummed, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you; he seems to like you a lot.” God, why does that sting so bad?

“I’m glad he does. He’s a really nice guy, Mrs. Wheeler,” you said, praying she didn’t notice the slight waver in your voice as you spoke. You smiled at her one last time for making your way up the stairs, anticipation humming in your gut. Your feet felt light on the carpet as you walked to Mike’s closed door, and you bit your lip at the absolute silence from the other side. You felt absolutely awful, but the only way to fix it was to try and get through to him. You let out a soundless sigh as you raised your hand, knocking on his door.

“I’m not hungry right now, Mom,” you heard him speak from the other side, and the hoarseness of his voice nearly killed you right there. You took another breath, clinging onto the plate in your hands for life support.

“It’s not your Mom,” you breathed out, voice already starting to shake. You heard faint rustling from the other side of the door before the handle slowly turned, and the door opened just enough for you to meet Mike’s gaze. 

You felt your breath catch at the sight of him. His eyes were puffy  and his cheeks were stained by evidence of tears. That alone made you want to start crying. His hair was messy and his clothes were wrinkled. It was clear the effect that the incident had on him, and guilt mixed with sadness flooded your entire body at the thought of Mike lying in his bed and crying. All because of you.

“Why are you here?” He asked harshly, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at you.

“Your mom wanted me to bring this to you,” your words were careful as you held out the plate, which he quickly ripped from your hands.

“Cool. Bye,” he spoke, not trying to hide his anger before he quickly moved to close the door. You were quicker, lodging your foot in the frame before the door could click closed. Mike looked absolutely pissed at that.

“I– Look, I need to talk to you, Mike,” you spoke firmly, not letting his clear agitation get to you.

“What is there to talk about? That kiss told me everything I need to know,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes at you before pushing the door further. “Now, could you please move–”

“No. Mike, I need you to listen to me,” you spoke again, now moving forward to push the door back with your own hands. Mike stumbled back, giving you the space to step into his room as you quickly started to let your pent-up words out.

“What you saw, it wasn’t what you thought it was,” you breathed, closing the door behind you. Mike scoffed while he set the plate down on his bedside table.

“Really? It looked like what I thought it was,” he quickly snapped at you, facing you head on as his brows furrowed even further. You nearly groaned, but forced yourself to remain calm no matter how heated he got.

“Would you let me explain? I can promise you now that–”

“Let me stop you right there,” Mike interrupted, leaning forward and throwing his hand out. “You can’t promise shit. Remember what you said? About how it was nothing, about how Cody was douche-y anyway?”

“Mike–” you tried, but he wouldn’t give you an inch, his emotions quick to take over all of his rationality.

“You said that. You promised it. You lied to me, and I trusted you. Fuck, I trusted you with so much, Y/n,” his voice was starting to wobble, and you could feel every ounce of fight leave your body the more he spoke.

“I hate you. I really, really hate you. You're exactly who I thought you were, just some snobby two-faced asshole who likes to play with people’s emotions,” he pointed an accusing finger at you, and you could feel your heart sinking lower and lower at his words. You could feel your lips quivering as you held back your tears.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Your voice was devastatingly soft, so much so that it nearly broke Mike from the state of anger that he seemed to be locked in. He didn’t let it get to him though, continuing in his beration of you.

“Yes. It is. I hate you. I hate how smart you are, because you shouldn’t be at all. I hate that people actually like you, that you can barely do anything and people will praise you like you’re the best thing this town has ever fucking seen.” You stayed silent as his words hit you, holding back tears as the frown on your face got lower and lower. 

“I hate how nice you are, how you gave me a chance even after I told you to your face that I didn’t like you. I hate how you let me try over and over again until I get it instead of leaving because you shouldn’t like me at all. And you know what, I hate how pretty you are. You’re stupid pretty, and it makes me so mad that you could be doing anything and still look amazing–” 

You could hardly believe what you were hearing. The more he went on, the more his words started to sound less like an angry rant, and more of a pent up confession that had been brewing for weeks. Your lips fell agape at his honesty, and your heart skipped a beat as he called you pretty.

“Mike, slow down–” You stepped forward hesitantly, trying to get him to circle back and explain further. He just kept going, talking over you as the tension in the air grew overwhelming.

“You know what I hate the most? I hate how no matter what, no matter how hard I fucking tried not to, I actually like you. Too much. You’re all I’ve been thinking about, and I can’t stand it. And I hate that you want to settle for that fucking loser, because you’re so much better than that and you deserve someone better–” His voice wavered as tears began to roll down his face, and you could feel your heart beating out of your chest. 

“Mike, please–” You took another step closer, but he cut you off again. 

“I hate you because I can’t hate you. I tried to, but it didn’t stay, and now I’m stuck on you. I’ll hate you forever if it keeps me from the fact that I–”

“MIKE!” You shouted this time, cutting him off completely. You stared at each other breathlessly, and it was then when you realized how close the two of you were. Oh my god, it was happening. Your eyes darted dangerously to his lips, and in a split second, all of your fears left you.

“Shut up,” you breathed out, shaking your head as you took one last step closer. Your hand moved on its own, reaching up to gently take hold of his tear-soaked cheek. His breath hitched at the warmth of your touch. “Please, just shut up.”

You pulled him in, your mind and heart moving at a thousand miles a minute as Mike’s lips met yours. Mike blanked against you, hesitating before he tilted his head, his lips desperate atop yours. The two of you stayed in that position for a few moments before Mike jerked away, a realization coming to his head.

“W- wait,” he breathed out, eyes lidded as he looked down at you. “You like Cody. You kissed him earlier. What are you–”

“Oh my god, you idiot,” you laughed breathlessly, your thumb moving up and down his cheek as you gazed up at him with soft eyes. “I don’t like him. I like you. You wouldn’t let me talk.”

Mike blanked again, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the gentleness of your eyes, the softness of your touch, or the sudden shock of your words. Probably all three. 

“I– then why–”

“He kissed me. I didn’t want that,” you shook your head, answering his question before he could get it out. You took a deep breath, your voice nearly reverent as you spoke your next words. “I want you, Mike. Just you.”

And with that, Mike was sold. He surged forward, his lips crashing against yours in a haze of eagerness and joy and admiration. 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured against your lips, his hand reaching for your face as he held you impossibly close. He kissed you fervently, taken over by his feelings for you and the emotions that had been sitting with him for weeks. “You’re not snobby. You’re perfect.”

“‘M not perfect,” you responded breathlessly, kissing him back with just as much passion. You were certain that a few tears had escaped your eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotions that coursed through you. Your knees nearly caved beneath you as you felt his thumb wipe away a stray tear.

“Perfection is subjective,” he grinned before leaning back in, letting out a small hum as your hand shifted to the back of his neck, your fingers teasing with the curls that rested behind his head.

“God, you’re such a nerd,” you let out a laugh as you broke the kiss, shaking your head as you gazed up at him through lidded eyes.

“And you like me,” Mike grinned widely, cheeks flushed and eyes practically shining as he looked at you. 

“I really do,” you sighed, your voice quiet as your lips curved up into a gentle smile. You stayed still for a few seconds, relishing in the warmth of your shared contact and the comfortable silence of the moment before Mike giggled, letting his hand slip into yours. He tugged you to his bed and pulled you down next to him, his lips quickly finding yours once again as you settled next to him.

Mike’s midterm was long forgotten, but he couldn’t have been happier. You were with him, and that was all that mattered now. You, you, you. For the first time in weeks, he was truly at ease, letting the warmth of your embrace envelop him completely as he got lost in each and every thing about you. Even as his mind started to go blank the longer the two of you kissed, one thought remained at the forefront of his head, a quiet reassurance that settled his feelings more than even he knew.

Mike could never, ever hate you.

author's note: ten things i hate about you anyone 👀 hiii i hope you enjoyed reading!! i know that was a long one but i really didn’t want to break it into two parts 😭😭 #sorry also yay i am back!! school is keeping me decently busy so i will update the best i can, i have some requests i’m planning on working on soon!! feel free to send anything to my ask box if you have ideas or just want to talk!! i love you all!!!!

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