#lecture hall chairs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

guliexe · 2 months ago

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━━━ONE ON ONE 18+

Nishimura Riki x Female!Reader — University AU

.ᐟwarnings/tags: study buddies to lovers, inexperienced reader, hard dom!riki, crush!riki, porn with some plot, texting, teasing, making out, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), choking, marking, slapping, possessive, demanding riki, spit, handjob, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare

♡ you start studying with your quiet crush, until one day, he invites you over, and you end up sobbing, ruined in his bed.

.ᐟwc: 7.4k

It wasn’t anything serious. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You and Riki didn’t really talk. Not the way other classmates did—casual, loud, back-and-forth in lecture halls. He was… quiet. Always showing up late but somehow still getting a seat near the front. Always in dark clothes and expensive jewellery. Always watching more than speaking. He didn’t try to stand out. He didn’t raise his hand. And yet somehow, you noticed him first. Well. Maybe not “noticed”, more like kept noticing. Like your brain started analyzing him every time he walked into the room: black hoodie again, earphones in, notebook half-open but never messy. You never even thought he’d noticed you at all.

Until he did.

It was a Tuesday, and you were stuck. The professor handed out a printed exercise to be solved in pairs, but your usual friend wasn’t in class. You were halfway through trying to solve the second question alone, chewing the cap of your pen in mild panic, when you heard a voice behind you. “…You’re doing it backwards.” You looked up. He was already sitting in the empty chair beside you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Riki. His voice was lower than you expected. He leaned over and tapped his pen against your sheet ,not correcting you, just quietly showing you. You blinked at him. “Oh. Thanks,” you managed. He didn’t reply. Just kept working beside you until the time ran out. And when the professor collected the papers, he stood up and left without saying anything else.That was it. Or… you thought that was it. Until a week later, when you were reviewing notes from the last lecture and couldn’t find a single readable thing in your handwriting. You remembered his — clean, sharp, borderline aesthetic. You didn’t know why, but you pulled up the class group chat, scrolled, found his number from a previous message, and tapped it. You weren’t even sure he’d remember who you were. You weren’t sure why you were nervous. But you texted him anyway.

You

hey riki!! do u still have the notes from class today? i zoned out halfway :(

♡

Riki

yeah

figured you would

♡

You

what’s that supposed to mean

♡

Riki

you always zone out around the halfway mark

kinda cute tbh

You stared at your screen, heat blooming in your cheeks.

You

i’m gonna take that as a compliment

♡

Riki

was one

He was so casual, unreadable, like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain. It started with a single text from him the next day:

Riki

still need help with the lecture stuff?

library’s dead today, come by if u want

Your stomach flipped a little when you read it, mostly from surprise. You hadn’t expected him to follow up. Definitely hadn’t expected him to remember your struggle with the content. So you said yes. You found him at a tucked-away table in the back corner of the campus library, hoodie pulled over his head, one earbud in, notebook already open. He looked up once when you arrived. Didn’t smile, just nodded. You sat beside him. Close, but not close enough to touch. You opened your laptop, pulled out your notes, and tried to pretend your hands weren’t slightly shaking. For the first ten minutes, neither of you spoke. He scribbled something down. You typed a few lines. It was quiet, comfortably quiet. But there was something about being this close to him that made it so fucking hard to focus and he smelled so good. You weren’t sure why it made your mouth dry. After a while, he leaned over just a little to glance at your screen. “You copied that part wrong,” he said. You blinked. “Huh, really?” He reached out, brushing your hand by accident—or maybe not—and pointed directly at the mistake. “This line. He was talking about this, not that. You flipped them.” “Oh,” you said, staring dumbly at the highlighted section. “That makes way more sense.” He hummed. Barely a sound. Then sat back again like he hadn’t just leaned close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek.

You tried to keep reading, but your eyes kept drifting.

To the way his fingers drummed against the edge of his notebook.

To the way he chewed on his cheek while concentrating.

To the way his sleeve slipped up just enough to show the veins in his wrist and arm.

You forced yourself to focus. Mostly.

You didn’t plan to run into him again. Not really. You were just looking for somewhere quiet, someplace your brain might actually work for once, and the upper floor had study rooms that no one ever used. It was a last resort. You walked in with your headphones already on and your brain half-fried. And then you saw him. Riki. Sitting alone in one of the back corners. Legs sprawled, earbuds in. A pen spinning between his fingers, that same black hoodie pulled halfway off one shoulder. You froze in the doorway. He looked up, and for a second, he just stared. Not surprised. Not curious. Just calm. Like he’d been expecting you. Then he jerked his chin, wordless, inviting you to sit with him. Your pulse jumped. You tried not to show it as you stepped inside. “You’re here a lot,” you said quietly, settling into the chair beside him. “Yeah,” he replied, eyes dropping back to his notebook. “Quiet’s good.” It was. Too good, maybe. Every time he shifted in his seat, every time he tapped the table or flipped a page, it felt louder than it should’ve. You tried to focus on your own material, but your eyes kept wandering. To the veins on his hands. The way he leaned back and chewed on his pen cap. The curve of his lip when he was thinking. God, you needed to get a grip. You were scribbling out notes on a problem you didn’t totally understand, squinting your eyes, when his voice came low beside you.

“You’re writing the wrong formula.” You blinked. He leaned in, arm brushing yours as he took your pen without asking and struck a line through your equation. His handwriting replaced it. Clean and annoyingly perfect. “That’s how you mess the whole thing up,” he said simply, handing your pen back. You stared at the page. “Thanks,” you said. Quiet. Maybe too quiet. He didn’t move away. Just sat there, watching the way your eyes lingered on the ink he’d left behind. Then finally, with a slight tilt of his head, “You always squint your eyes when you’re stuck?” You stiffened. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing that. You looked up, startled, and he was already looking at you. Calm. Casual. His gaze didn’t move. It felt like too much, suddenly.Too much eye contact. Too much attention. Too much heat. You forced a laugh, ducking your head. “Wow. You’re observant.” He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either. And for the rest of the session, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still watching you. Not obviously, not openly, but just enough to make you not being able to focus. The study session lasted just under an hour. By the end of it, your head was clearer, and your notes were neater. You were packing up your bag when he finally spoke again. “You work better in silence,” he said simply. Not a compliment. Just an observation. You paused. “Do I?” He met your eyes. “Yeah. You get distracted too easily when it’s loud.” Something about the way he said it made you wonder what else he’d noticed.

He’d asked you after the last session — just kind of offhand, like it didn’t mean anything.“It’s quieter in my dorm,” he said, packing up his notes. “You can come by next time if you want.” That was it. No expression. No explanation. You’d nodded too fast. Now you were standing outside his door, staring at the number. You knocked twice before you lost your nerve. It took a second, but he answered. His dorm was small, neat, two desks, one unmade bed, the faint smell of detergent and whatever cologne he always wore. His roommate wasn’t home. He didn’t say that part, but it was obvious. The room felt still. You stepped inside carefully, clutching your bag, suddenly hyper-aware of your outfit. You hadn’t meant to dress like this, not for him, anyway. The kinda sheer tank top was just convenient, and the skirt? You told yourself it wasn’t that short. You’d worn it a million times. But Riki’s eyes dropped for just a second before he stepped aside to let you in. And that second? It lit your whole body on fire. He didn’t say anything about it. Of course not. He just sat at his desk, motioning to the chair beside his. “Here.” You took your seat.

For the first ten minutes, it was normal. Mostly quiet. His pencil scratched lightly against his notebook. You tried to copy a few things he wrote down, but your focus was elsewhere. You could feel the heat of him beside you. His knee brushed yours once, and it sent your heart into your throat. You didn’t move. Neither did he. You thought maybe he hadn’t noticed. But then, after a long pause, he spoke. “You wore that on purpose?” His voice was low and calm. Almost lazy. Your stomach dropped. “What?” you asked, too quickly. “That skirt.” You froze, heart hammering, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or deny it or what. You weren’t even sure if he was joking. But when you glanced at him, he was still staring at your thighs, then your face, with that unreadable, maddening expression. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, breath caught. “I just… it’s hot out.” Riki’s eyes dragged over you one more time, slowly. Like he was thinking about something. Measuring it. Then he looked away. “Shame,” he muttered. It was barely audible. And he didn’t elaborate. He just turned back to his page, pen in hand, like that was the end of it.

But your whole body was lit up. Nerves everywhere. Blood rushing to your face, your throat, your fingertips. And even though you tried to keep reading, keep writing, keep breathing normally, you couldn’t stop feeling the heat of his presence beside you. Still quiet. Still unbothered. You tried to keep your hands steady, not to squirm in your seat, not to think about the way his voice had dropped on that one word—Shame—like he meant more than he said. Riki hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t even looked at you again. But it didn’t matter. Everything between you had changed. You stole a glance at him. He was focused again, or at least pretending to be. The sharp angle of his jaw, the loose way he held his pen, the little crease between his brows , it all looked the same, but you knew it wasn’t. He had noticed. And worse, you couldn’t stop wondering what else he’d noticed. “Need help?” he asked, suddenly. You blinked. “Huh?” He nodded at your page. “You’ve been staring at that question for five minutes.” You scrambled to look down, pretending like you were just distracted. “Oh— yeah. I don’t get it.” “Let me see.” He reached for your notebook, leaned in close enough for your shoulders to brush, and took it gently from your hands. Your breath caught. His thigh pressed against yours. Just slightly. He didn’t move.

He explained the answer softly, pointing as he spoke, the tip of his pen gliding over your paper. You weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Because all you could feel was how close he was. How warm he felt. How good he smelled. How careful and deep his voice was. You swallowed hard. He handed your notebook back, fingers grazing yours. “You okay?” he asked. You nodded fast. “Yeah. Just— tired.” He studied you. His eyes flicked down your face, slow, deliberate. “You always get like this when you’re tired?” You blinked. “Like what?” Riki didn’t answer right away. He slightly shifted in his seat and turned toward you. Then, in that same dead-calm voice: “Fidgety. Quiet. All flushed.” Your breath stopped. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely composed like he was stating facts, which somehow made it worse. “I’m not—” you tried, voice weak. He cut you off. “You are.” Then silence again. The air between you was thick. Too heavy to breathe. And then, his hand moved. Slowly. He reached out and touched the side of your thigh, not high, not too far, just above your knee. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look away from your face. He just watched. Watched like he already knew what you were thinking. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t move. And maybe that was all he needed. His touch dragged a little higher. Still slow and patient. Your chest rose with a sharp breath, and his eyes flicked down, just briefly, to your mouth, then back up. Debating.

You stared at the notebook in front of you like it might save you, but your body was already betraying you. Heat bloomed under your skin, your hands twitched in your lap. You couldn’t look at him, but you felt him. Silent. Watching you. Then, finally, his voice, low, right beside your ear. “You’re shaking. You bit the inside of your cheek. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t tease. You turned your face slightly, just enough to catch his eyes and he was already looking at you. Expression unreadable. Completely composed. Then, after a beat, his thumb dragged slightly along the inside of your thigh. Barely anything, but it lit you up. He leaned in, voice low and even, “You get like this for anyone else?” Your heart slammed in your chest. Your mouth parted, but the only sound you made was your breath hitching. He didn’t push, he just watched, already knowing the answer. You couldn’t answer him. Not with words. Not like that. So you just stared, lips parted, heart in your throat, too warm, too aware of every place his hand touched. Then, his fingers slipped slightly higher. Slow and measured. He was feeling it too, the shift in the room, the heat between you, the way your body leaned in before you even realized. He leaned closer, not fully, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours, his thigh pressed against the side of your leg.

You swore you heard the faintest breath from him like he was steadying himself. Then his hand slipped under the edge of your skirt. Bare skin. You sucked in a breath and finally looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes gave him away. There was nothing casual in that stare anymore. His fingers moved again, a little higher, then stopped just before the heat of your core. You tensed, but you didn’t pull away. “Knew you’d let me.” he said, softly. The words slammed through you like a current. Your breath hitched hard. Still, he didn’t move further. He just watched you squirm, fingers barely pressing into your thigh, letting the weight of everything unspoken hang thick between you. You weren’t sure if you were going to melt or burst. His hand moved again, slipping just a little further, fingers grazing the soft curve where your thigh met your hip. Your breath caught, shallow and quick. Riki’s breath hitched softly against your neck as he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the warmth, his steady, quiet presence like a steady flame flickering against your skin. You could feel him—so close now, that his chest brushed against your arm, his steady heartbeat like a silent drum beside you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, loud and urgent. He stayed there, patient, watching. Then, the quietest sound, a breath, almost a sigh, right at the hollow of your neck. Your skin tingled. And then, his lips brushed your skin. A gentle ghost of a kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. You turned your head slightly, searching for more. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, holding yours with an intensity that made your heart leap. Without breaking eye contact, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft at first, testing. But then it got deeper, firmer, as if he’d been holding back all along. Your hands twitched at his waist, unsure and desperate. The world shrank until there was only the two of you—breath mingling, heat pooling between you. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice low and steady. “Finally.” His lips pulled away from yours just long enough to catch his breath. Then, without a word, Riki’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, gripping firmly as he pulled you up and pressed you back against the edge of the desk. The smooth wood was cool beneath your palms, but his body was hot and heavy, looming over you, shadowing your smaller frame. You could feel the weight of him, the strength in his arms holding you in place. His mouth crashed back onto yours, more demanding now, hungry and fierce. His hands roamed freely, sliding up your sides, cupping your ribs, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your tummy.

You gasped when one hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers ghosting over bare skin, no barrier, nothing between you and him. Your back arched instinctively. His other hand found your throat, thumb brushing lightly, fingers framing your pulse. His eyes closed as he kissed you like he was starving, like he needed to devour every inch of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, desperate to hold on, to pull him closer. His mouth moved against yours with an urgent rhythm, deep, claiming. You felt every heartbeat, every breath, every touch. You were pinned but free all at once, lost in the heat of him. And even as his grip tightened just slightly at your throat, it wasn’t rough, it was possessive, controlled, making clear you belonged to him in this moment. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, pressed close, skin on skin, heat and hunger tangled in every kiss and touch. You couldn’t keep still anymore. Your legs squeezed together, your hands gripping the edge of the desk like you’d fall apart without it. His touch was everywhere—soft palms sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare chest, knuckles grazing places that made you gasp and twitch and whine without meaning to. You were dizzy with him. Every breath came out too fast, too shallow. He pulled back from the kiss just enough to look down at you. Your lips were parted, swollen. Your chest rising in frantic little jolts. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, gaze dragging across your face.

You whimpered. It slipped out before you could stop it—quiet, needy, helpless—and his eyes darkened instantly. He liked that. One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you still, the other slid higher, over your chest again, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tipped back and a shaky moan slipped through your lips. You were panting now, thighs pressed together, aching. “Riki…” you breathed, barely a whisper. His hand came back up to your throat, firm but gentle, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look up at him. You were flushed. Eyes wide, lips wet, a total mess. And he looked down at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he said lowly, like he was talking to himself more than you. You blushed, a sigh leaving your mouth, back arching into his touch. His mouth crashed onto yours, hungrily, like he needed to shut you up before you begged. His hips pressed forward, caging you completely, and you felt him, hard through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. You made a soft, desperate sound in your throat, and he swallowed it down. Your hands moved without thinking, tugging at his shirt, trying to get closer, trying to do something with how badly you wanted him, but he didn’t rush. He kissed you harder, messier, until your legs felt weak and your body trembled beneath him. Until all you could do was gasp and whine and let him touch and take. You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Every brush of his fingers, every scrape of teeth, every low breath against your skin. And the worst part was how badly you wanted more, how badly you needed it. How you would’ve said yes to anything he asked.

Your chest rose and fell in short, shaky breaths as he pulled away just enough to look at you again, eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-bitten. His hand slipped down from your throat, trailing slowly along your collarbone, then lower, until his palm flattened over your ribs again. His eyes dragged slowly over your body—the way your chest heaved, the way your thighs pressed together like you were trying to hold yourself in place. Then he leaned in, voice brushing against your ear, low and steady, “Look at you,” he murmured. “So worked up and I haven’t even done anything yet.” Your breath caught, eyes fluttering shut for a second, because God, he was right. His fingers skimmed just above your waistband, dragging across your lower stomach, the touch featherlight, maddening. “You want it that bad, baby?” he asked, quietly, like he already knew the answer. You let out a whimper, soft and high, nodding before you could even think. That made him smile, just barely. Almost smug. His fingers dipped under the hem of your skirt, warm and unhurried. “Let me see how bad,” he said.

His hand moved with ease, sliding beneath your skirt, soft fingertips dragging the fabric of your panties down your thighs—slow, almost teasing. He didn’t take them off, just pushed them down, exposing you enough to make you shy. The cool air hit you, and then, his fingers. Two of them, thick and warm, sliding through your soaked folds like he was testing you. Your hips bucked. He chuckled, quiet, deep in his chest. “So wet already,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Dripping.” Your face burned, but you couldn’t look away. You were panting, lips parted, eyes wide as his fingers pressed in just a little. You whined. He exhaled slowly, enjoying every second of watching you unravel. And then, without warning, he pushed his fingers in—deep, smooth, filling you so easily your head fell back with a broken moan. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tense. “You feel insane.” Your walls clenched around him, and he felt it, smirked a little when your legs twitched, when your body rocked instinctively against his hand. His other hand slid up your thigh, settling on your hip to hold you still. Then he started moving. Slow thrusts of his fingers, curling just right, his thumb dragging over your clit in lazy, perfect circles.

You were gone. Melting. Whimpering with every curl, every press, every stroke. Your thighs trembled. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. “Riki—” you gasped, voice wrecked and whiny. “Please—” He leaned in again, his breath hot against your neck. “Please what, hm?” You whimpered, hips jerking. “Need m-more,” you managed. His fingers thrust a little deeper, a little faster, his thumb pressing harder on your clit. “You’ll cum for me like this,” he said lowly, lips brushing your ear, “and then I’ll give you more.” Your body arched. The pressure built fast, tight and overwhelming, and all you could do was nod, desperate little noises spilling from your lips as your climax started to crest. You were already close, right on the edge, hips twitching, thighs shaking, the pressure unbearable. But then his hand shot up, suddenly, firmly gripping your jaw. His fingers pressed into your cheeks, tilting your head up, forcing you to look at him. “Let go,” he whispered, fingers thrusting faster now, relentless. “Be a good girl and cum.” That was it. Your entire body shattered. You came with a cry, legs clamping around his wrist, hips jerking against his hand as waves of heat and pleasure rolled through you. Your eyes barely stayed open, wide and glossy, locked onto his as you came undone right there on the desk, whining, pulsing hard around his fingers. He watched you, tight grip still on your face, other hand working you through it like he wanted to see you lose control. “Good girl,” he muttered, lips brushing yours. “Just like that.”

You were still trembling, thighs twitching from the aftershocks, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you flinched from the overstimulation. His hand was slick with you, dripping, and he stared at it for a beat, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he dropped to his knees. Your breath hitched. You barely had a second to react before his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth was on you. A gasp tore out of your throat as his tongue dragged through your folds, slow and greedy. “Ngh—Riki!” Your hand flew to his hair, the other on the desk, fingers gripping the edge until your knuckles turned white. He moaned softly into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His hands squeezed tighter, holding your thighs apart, keeping you open for him as he lapped up every drop of your release, messy, shameless. Your head fell back. Another whine escaped your lips, high and breathless, and still—still—he kept going, tongue swirling around your clit, flicking with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. When he finally pulled away, your skin was hot and damp, your whole body still twitching, breath caught in your throat. He stood, and then his hand wrapped around your neck again—firm, possessive—and he yanked you into a kiss. His mouth crashed into yours, lips slick with your taste, tongue sliding against yours with no warning, no hesitation. You whimpered against him, hands reaching for his shirt, for anything to ground yourself.

He kissed you like he owned you. Like he needed to devour you. His grip on your throat tightened and you moaned into his mouth, helpless and hazy, your whole body pliant against his. And when he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his eyes dark, and his voice—fuck—his voice was low and raw when he spoke. “You’re mine,” he said, quiet but rough, meant for just you. “Got it?” Your heart stuttered. He’d barely said more than a few words to you since you met—always calm, unreadable, barely emoting—and now he was gripping your throat, kissing you like he wanted to ruin you, claiming you like you already belonged to him. You didn’t even hesitate. Your head nodded, small and shaky, your whole body still trembling under his touch. “I’m yours,” you whispered, breathless. It came out like a confession, sitting heavy in your chest for too long, just waiting for him to pull it out of you. Your eyes met his, wide and glossy, and the look on your face, sweet and desperate, giving him the biggest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. But you looked so pretty like that—wrecked and breathless, your lips parted, your thighs still shaking, feeling like you needed him more than air.

Riki’s jaw tightened, and something dark flickered across his expression. His grip on your face stayed firm, fingers digging just a little harder into your cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice rough, barely held back. “You’ll make me fucking crazy.” But he was already leaning in again, mouth finding yours in a mess of tongue and teeth, kissing you so hard your head tipped back from the force of it. You moaned into him, needy and sweet, letting him take whatever he wanted, and he did. Then suddenly, his arms wrapped around your thighs and he lifted you. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your body still trembling from the aftermath of his touch. He carried you the short distance from the desk to his bed and laid you down gently, never breaking contact. His body hovered over yours, eyes locked on your flushed, fucked-out face. Your shirt was rucked halfway up your stomach, your lips swollen from his kisses, thighs still twitching where they wrapped around his waist. He stared at you for a long, quiet second, trying to memorize you like this. Then his hands came down, one to your thigh, pushing it open wider, the other to your ribs, sliding up your bare skin under your shirt, slow and deliberate until his palm cupped your chest. No bra. Just you, soft and warm and whimpering under his touch. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered. You bit your lip, hips shifting instinctively, seeking friction. Anything. But he didn’t give it to you, not yet. He just leaned down, mouth brushing your neck, tongue licking a slow stripe up to your jaw before he kissed you there, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a mark. Your fingers clutched at his shirt. “Riki…” He hummed lowly, like the sound of his name falling from your lips lit something in him.

His mouth found your ear, breath hot, “Tell me you want it,” he said. “Say it.” Your whole body was burning now, flushed from head to toe, your voice coming out in a shaky, helpless whisper, “I want it. I want you.” And that was all it took. He kissed you again, before his hands moved, yanking your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside without a second glance. Then he just stared. Your bare chest rising and falling, skin flushed, nipples already hard from his teasing. His hands dragged up from your waist, until they cupped your tits, thumbs brushing over them gently, considering the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding back. “Look at you…” he muttered, voice ragged. “Fuck.” And then he was on you. Mouth hot and desperate, he ducked his head and devoured you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand kneaded the other, tongue flicking and sucking until your back arched off the bed with a gasp. He bit,not too hard, just enough to make you squeal, and soothed it with his tongue right after, moving between your breasts like he couldn’t choose which to ruin first. You were already panting, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs rubbing together. Sloppy kisses turned into bites. He left hickies on your neck, down your collarbone, over the swell of your tits, under them, across your ribs. You could feel the bruises blooming under his mouth, red and raw, one after the other like he wanted to brand every inch of you. He kissed down, mouthing at your tummy next, dragging his teeth over the soft skin before sucking another mark right beneath your navel.

And all that while watching you. Smirk barely there, eyes half-lidded but burning, soaking in every whimper, every twist of your body, every broken moan. “No one else gets to see you like this. Only me.” he said against your skin. He leaned back just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside carelessly. You barely had time to look—at the lean muscles, the toned arms, the sharp lines of his waist—before his hands were back on you again, sliding under the waistband of your skirt. “Lift your hips.” he said, and you obeyed without thinking. He dragged the skirt down your thighs, watching the way you shivered beneath him. He took his time peeling it off, letting his hands skim down your legs like he was memorizing the feel of you. Then he tossed it aside and looked down at you—naked, body covered in marks, chest rising and falling fast. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes roaming like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. His hands found your hips, big, warm and possessive, and then they started moving. One slid up your side, across your stomach, over your breast, the other to your jaw, fingers stroking gently before slipping between your lips. “Suck,” he said, low and commanding. Your lips parted automatically, and you wrapped them around his thumb, letting him press it down on your tongue. He watched you—watched your pretty, desperate mouth take it in, cheeks hollowing slightly as you sucked. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.” You whimpered around his thumb, pussy pulsing, body practically buzzing from the tension. His other hand was still moving—down your ribs, over your tummy, lower, skimming just above your heat. Then he sat back a little on his knees, keeping his thumb in your mouth as he reached for his waistband.

He hooked his fingers into the edge of his sweats and slid them down just enough to reveal the outline of his cock through his boxers—thick, hard, straining against the fabric. Your breath caught, eyes flicking down before darting back up to his face. And he was already watching you. A soft smirk curved his lips as he tilted his head, thumb still resting on your tongue. “My cute girl,” he cooed. “So needy for me already… you really can’t help yourself, can you?” You hummed around his thumb, cheeks flushing even deeper, thighs pressing together as the heat pulsed harder between them. His hand drifted back to his waistband, and this time, he slipped his fingers under. You watched with wide eyes, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat when he finally pulled his cock free. So big and heavy, flushed at the tip, already leaking. The sight made your stomach flip, your mouth go dry, and you could barely look before your gaze darted away, face burning. “Aww,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “what’s wrong, baby?” You shook your head quickly, eyes flickering back up to his face, trying not to stare but completely failing. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, your body so hot you could hardly stand it. He leaned in closer, one hand returning to your cheek, fingers stroking your flushed skin. “Shy all of a sudden?” he teased, a dark smile playing on his lips. “You were being so brave for me a second ago.” You whimpered, squirming under his gaze, his cock now resting heavy against his abs as he leaned. He took your hand and gently guided it to wrap around him. “Come on,” he whispered. “Touch me.” Your fingers curled around him, tentative and trembling, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t expected you to feel that good.

He swore under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and his head fell down. “That’s it,” he whispered, his hand covering yours, guiding your movements slow and steady. “Just like that.” You stroked him softly, your touch shy, eyes flickering between his flushed cock and his face—so close, so focused, the sight of your hand on him was driving him insane. Your hand stayed on him, guided by his, and the longer you touched him, the more confident your fingers became. You swallowed hard, heart racing at the weight of him in your palm, pulsing in your hand. His cock twitched again, and a low groan left his lips, rough and strained. “Fuck,” he muttered and leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours. His breath was warm and shaky, fingers tightening over yours. “Doing so good.” You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. There was something in the way he stared back, eyes hooded, jaw tight, he was barely holding himself back. He took your hand away from him gently, kissed your wrist, and pressed your arm back against the bed “Spread your legs for me.” You obeyed. Slowly, nervously. But the second your thighs parted, his gaze dropped and darkened. “God,” he said under his breath. He crawled between your legs, hands running up your thighs.

He leaned down, kissed you—soft, slow, deceptively gentle—before lining himself up, one hand wrapped firmly around his cock, slowly moving it up and down your folds, the other resting over your ribs grounding himself. “You ready f’me, baby?” he asked, voice quiet, low against your mouth. You nodded, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips, but it wasn’t enough for him. His hand slid to your throat again, “Use your words.” “I—I want you,” you whispered, and the moment the words left your mouth, his hips pushed forward slowly. The stretch made your breath catch. His hand slid under your thigh, hitching it up. You could feel him, pressed just against your entrance, stretching you, but not moving yet, giving you time. His hand curled around your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with surprising tenderness for someone who’s splitting you in half. You gripped the sheets beneath you, lips parting in a gasp as the pressure built inside you. Every inch filled you more than you expected, and it was overwhelming, unfamiliar, but somehow addictive. Riki’s mouth found your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly over your skin, like he was trying to distract you from the way he was sinking deeper. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured against your skin. You whimpered, your body tensing. “Breathe for me,” he said, and his voice was so calm, so steady, it soothed you even while you felt like falling apart. You let out a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and after another moment, he was fully inside.

Your eyes met his, teary and wide, and your lips trembled. “Riki—s’too much,” you admitted, voice almost shy. He smirked, “I know,” leaning down to kiss your jaw. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you?” Your stomach flipped at the words. You nodded, more sure this time. Then he pulled back just a little, before thrusting again, and your whole body shuddered at the sensation. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice ragged as he buried himself deeper. “So tight… fuck, y’feel so good.” His hips rolled into you slow, dragging against your walls, making you moan louder with each stroke. You clung to him, nails digging into his arms, breath coming in sharp little gasps as he set a rhythm. It was too much, too full, too good, and your body couldn’t keep up. Every time he moved, you clenched tighter around him. He pulled back slightly and grabbed your leg, lifting it high and pressing it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything—you cried out, high and helpless, your head tilting back against the mattress as he thrust deeper, harder, splitting you open with every roll of his hips. “Yeah,” he muttered, fingers digging into your thigh, mouth kissing it softly, as he started to lose control. “That’s it. Let me hear you.” You were loud. Whining, whimpering, trembling under his body, your hands gripping the sheets. “R-Riki—!” you sobbed his name, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your body jolted under the force of each thrust.

And that did something to him. His hand shot to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. You were a mess. Eyes wet, lips trembling, mouth open in breathless, broken sounds, and when the first tear slipped down your cheek, he smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. A sharp, dark twist of his mouth like he was proud of it. And then he slapped you. A clean, firm hit across your cheek—quick and shocking—and you gasped, more in disbelief than pain. Your head whipped slightly to the side, your moan caught somewhere between pleasure and stunned heat. His hand lingered there, fingers spread across your cheek, claiming you. “Fucking love seeing you cry for me.” Your stomach dropped, heat flooding your veins, and you started sobbing harder—overwhelmed, aroused, completely undone. Your hands reached up, grabbing the one that had just hit you, fingers curling around his wrist, holding it like it anchored you. You couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that your crush—the one who barely spoke, who barely looked at anyone—had slapped you, and now he was fucking you like this, praising the tears he pulled from your eyes, and you fucking liked it. You needed more.

He shifted his weight, grabbed both of your thighs, and lifted—guiding your legs up and over his shoulders in one smooth, strong movement. The change in angle made you moan loudly, the new depth dizzying, the sound leaving your lips raw and wrecked. Your hands fumbled at the sheets, knuckles white as you held on, tears spilling down your cheeks again as the pleasure pushed you past the edge of sense. “Riki—” you choked out, completely gone, “I… I can’t—” “Yes, you can,” he groaned, slamming into you harder, his hand tightening on your jaw. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch.” Your eyes rolled back, body arching, sobs turning into moans, hands gripping him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. His gaze locked onto yours, dark, possessive, mouth parted slightly as he caught the sight of you all spread out and shaking for him. “Open your mouth.” You gasped, but you did—lips parting, eyes wide and waiting. He leaned over you, hips never slowing down, and with a sharp breath through his nose, he spit into your mouth. “Swallow.” You did. Without thinking. Without hesitation. And that seemed to please him. His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear like he was calming you, and then—Slap.

A soft one. Just enough to make your breath catch, to light another spark under your skin. You whimpered and he firmly gripped your jaw, tilting your head to make sure you looked at him. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whisper softly. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you?” Your pussy clenched around him, back arching from the bed. And still, you nodded, too far gone to form words, too desperate for him. You were gasping, moaning brokenly into the heat of his neck as he pounded into you, deep and rough, your legs high on his shoulders. His grip on your thighs was bruising, and you clung to the bedsheets, your vision blurred from tears and pleasure. Your body was stretched and aching, but it didn’t matter, not when he was murmuring filthy praise in your ear, not when every thrust perfectly hit your cervix. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “This pussy—” he snapped his hips hard, making you cry out, “—belongs to me.” You sobbed, nodding, walls fluttering around him. “Want you to cum with me,” he said roughly, teeth gritted as his rhythm got sloppy. “Let go, baby. Make a mess on my cock.” You couldn’t hold back anymore. You came hard, a cry catching in your throat as you clenched around his cock, trembling, unraveling. The moment your body gave out beneath him, he buried himself as deep as he could go and let go, filling you with a whimper, low and desperate in your ear. His cum making you feel so full, so warm inside you. “Mine,” he muttered again, softly kissing your neck.

Your breathing was still shaky when he pulled out, careful and slow. You winced a little at the sensitivity, and immediately, Riki’s expression changed. The fire in his eyes dimmed and his hand came to rest on your thigh, warm and gentle. “You okay, baby?” he asked quietly. “Yeah… just sore.” you blinked up at him. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Stay here.” You watched him move around his small dorm room, grabbing tissues. He cleaned you up gently, his touches surprisingly sweet and patient. When he was done, he tugged the sheets over your bare body, then slid in next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. It was quiet for a while. Your heart was still trying to calm down, and Riki just lay there, soft hand caressing your tummy. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?” You blinked, turning your head to look at him. “What?” He glanced down at you, his face unreadable, but there was something softer around the eyes. “You heard me.” You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. After everything, after the rough, possessive way he’d claimed you, this was the last thing you expected. You buried your face in his chest, cheeks burning. “Okay,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Cool.”

my other works ➵ masterlist

a/n: i got a little carried away with this one yall lmao i've been so fucking obsessed with this man lately i can't stop thinking abt him please i need him so badddd :(

#enhypen #enha #enhypen smut #niki smut #enhypen niki smut #enha niki smut #nishimura riki #ni-ki smut #niki x reader #ni ki x reader #ni ki smut #riki smut #jungwon smut #sim jake smut #heeseung smut #jay smut #sunoo smut

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tonycries · 1 year ago

Text

Go For It, Gojo! - G.S.

Synopsis. You wouldn’t fuck Gojo Satoru even if you were paid… …is what you thought exactly five minutes before you were shoved against the wall of this cramped closet, his face stuffed in your soaked panties.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, academic rivals to lovers, student president! reader, unprotected sex, banter about physics, cunnilingus, oral sex (male + female), 7 minutes in heaven, college! AU, 69, Satoru is a tease down bad for you (and has a big dick), overstimulation, pet names (sweetheart, hardass), swearing.

Word count. 10.2k

A/N. I really don’t like physics. Art by @_3aem on X.

Life truly has an awful sense of humor - almost as bad as Gojo’s, which you discovered on the first day of Advanced Quantum Physics.

The air charged with nervous energy and the scent of freshly printed syllabi, you quickly snag a seat right at the front row of Professor Yaga’s class.

Ah, you’ll never forget how peaceful those few seconds to yourself after introductions were - before the devil incarnate dramatically swung open those lecture hall doors and plopped himself down right next to you. Late.

“Any closer to Yaga and you’d be fucking his wife, y’know.” a voice hums from beside you, shattering your daydreams of passing this class with flying colors and riding a wave of glory into becoming a Nobel prize-winning physicist.

With a slight scowl, you turn your attention to the source of disturbance - only to meet eyes with (self-proclaimed) campus sweetheart, Satoru Gojo, leaning on his chair with an air of nonchalance. At your silence, he repeats, “I said any closer-”

“I heard what you said.” you snap, irritation flaring at the amused twinkle in his blue eyes and the mirthful grin that spreads across his lips at your reaction. “Doesn’t erase the fact that you’re sitting here too.” you raise a brow.

“Oh me? That’s because I’m already fucking his wife, sweetheart.” he deadpans with a blank expression.

What? The tense silence that follows is deafening - for the first time ever in your life, you were shocked into speechlessness.

A beat passes. One. Two. Before Gojo bursts into hysterics, clutching his stomach. “You- you shoulda seen the look on your face- HAHAHA-” he gets out between uncontrollable laughs. Face burning, you train your eyes forward and will yourself to not glance at the 6’3 mess cackling beside you.

Ugh. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Just think happy thoughts - kittens, quantum mechanics, being valedictorian. Desperately attempting to block out the giggling thorn at your side, you recoil at Professor Yaga’s extremely disapproving look in your direction.

Panicking, and dreams of being his ace student slowly flushing down the drain, you quickly flip through your notes, attempting to catch up to where the lecture had now started.

“Looks like we’re in trouble, partner~” Gojo’s dramatic stage-whisper catches the attention of students around you, them chuckling at your expense.

“Hey, you’re the student president, right? Hey~ Heyyy prez~” As Professor Yaga continues his spiel about the syllabus, you continue to very obviously ignore the incessant comments that spill out of Gojo’s lips, to stifled laughs from his fast-forming entourage.

The harder you tried to focus on Professor Yaga’s words, the louder and more absurd Gojo’s comments became - as if he’d made it his personal mission to enrage you. A sense of impending doom looming over you, you glare at him with a look that could’ve melted steel, hissing out, “Do you ever in your life shut the fuck up?”

Eyes widening in mock innocence, he grins “Oh~ I didn't know our student prez could get so feisty. Maybe I should take notes instead of doodling hearts around your name in my notebook.”

Ears ringing in embarrassment and frustration, and mind a whirlwind of how bad it would really be if you killed Gojo right here, you almost miss Professor Yaga’s question, “Now, would anyone here be able to discuss the interpretations in the debate between the Copenhagen interpretation and the Pilot-Wave theory?”

Teetering on the edge of your seat, you raise your hand, scrambling to salvage whatever is left of your academic reputation. You and- Gojo?

You start at the call of your name from Professor Yaga, “The Copenhagen Interpretation uses Heisenberg's uncertainty principle and emphasizes measurement to state that quantum-level particles can act as both waves and particles. It’s the most widely accepted and pragmatic theory.”

Gojo basically falls out of his seat in eagerness to answer after you.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Gojo.”

You internally groan, ready for whatever bullshit was about to come out of his mouth.

With a deep breath, “Not to be the devil’s advocate but the Pilot-Wave theory makes way more sense practically.”

Professor Yaga raises an intrigued eyebrow at Gojo’s statement, the class collectively holds a breath - as if awaiting the impending academic battlefield.

Gojo, with a cocky grin, plows on, “Think about it. The Pilot-Wave theory suggests that particles have definite positions and paths, unlike the uncertainty principle of the Copenhagen Interpretation. It's like predicting where a ball will land after you throw it, rather than saying it could be anywhere until you look."

Oh? He wasn’t a complete idiot?

Yet, you roll your eyes, “But the Pilot-Wave theory is too fanciful, it brings in too many hidden variables that have their own set of problems. It goes against the measurements and principles of locality!”

Unbothered by the challenge, Gojo leans back further in his chair, “What’s a couple complications? It’s a lot clearer on a microscopic level, none of that weird uncertainty of the Copenhagen Interpretation.”

Irritation running through your veins, you scoff at his condescending tone, “It might seem intuitive, but experiments and observations support the probabilistic nature of quantum mechanics.” You’re almost out of your chair at this point, an accusing finger pointed at Gojo. “Despite its weirdness, the Copenhagen Interpretation has proven successful in predicting outcomes.”

“Oh yeah? And it’s also only used by hardasses that just want to shut up and calculate, sweetheart.”

“Big talk for a little bi-”

“OKAY STUDENTS, that’s enough for now. Let’s put a pin in this discussion and move on with the topic.” Professor Yaga, who had been watching the debate with amusement, promptly ends it once you two begin to get overly heated.

The rest of the class, on the edge of their seats and probably hoping for some fists swinging between the academic titans, now sit back in disappointment at the fight cut off early.

You sit back in indignation, fuming at how Gojo had gotten you so worked up. And he was wrong too!

The lecture continues as if you two were never two curse words away from each other’s throats.

But, in the midst of it all, your glare meets blue, sparkling with amusement - a jolt of electricity runs through your body at the glint of recognition of the other’s brilliance. An unspoken yet undeniable competition.

You’ve avoided Gojo like the plague for the past few months since then - which isn’t doing much when said plague follows you around everywhere with incessant calls of “Hey, hardass prez~”. The only time you seek him out being to gloatingly show off the large, red “100” on your tests - to which, unfortunately, he does the same.

It’s stupid. It’s childish. Honestly, sometimes you think he just tries to get under your skin for the hell of it.

But you don’t have the time to think too deeply into that.

Just like you don’t have time for this frat party.

Music and alcohol thrumming through your veins, it’s always the same thing. You’d rather be holed up getting ahead of your physics textbook than be here. Yet, you owed a favor to your friend Haibara - and he’d been bugging you to come to this party for weeks now.

You’ll just stay another hour then leave, you sigh.

Zoning out as Haibara plays an overly-intense game of beer pong, you’re startled by an arm around your shoulder. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our lil’ prez looking like she’d rather peel paint than be here.” The expensive cologne hits you before the realization of who this was. “Drooling over the jocks? I recommend the STEM majors, sweetheart, jocks aren’t that great in bed.”

Quickly shrugging off his arm, you scowl, “Not like STEM majors are any better. And unlike some people, I have goals beyond being the life of the party.”

Decked out in slacks and a slightly too-unbuttoned shirt, Gojo chuckles, “Yeah, like what? Banishing fun?” Cerulean eyes gleaming with mischief, “You gotta let loose for once, sweetheart. Not everything in life is about academics and accolades.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes “Well not like I-” but whatever snarky retort gets caught in your throat as Gojo seizes your hand, effortlessly pulling you onto the dance floor.

Caught off guard, you can do nothing more than sputter in surprise as he leans down to murmur in your ear, above the bass reverberating the walls, “C’mon hardass, sometimes in life, you just gotta- dance!”

Gojo spins you into a dramatic dip, his silver chain brushing your face and his hand on your back burning into your skin.

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment - yeah, embarrassment - as the people around you cheer in amusement at the science department’s biggest rivals navigating the dance floor with surprising chemistry.

This was ridiculous. And yet, music ringing in your ears, you almost crack a smile. Almost. That is until your eye catches Haibara’s surprised ones from the side of the dance floor. Wait - here you were dancing with Gojo.

Gojo pain-in-your-ass Satoru.

Immediately pushing him off with a hand to his chest, you don’t listen to whatever spills out of his mouth as you make your way to Haibara, disappearing with him into the crowd.

“Hey, hey you okay? Wasn’t that the guy you were manifesting would step on Lego with his bare foot?” Haibara’s concerned voice speaks up from wherever you were dragging him through this sprawling frat house.

“Ugh, yeah. Sorry about that, I don’t even- Anyway, how did the beer pong go?” you snap out of your reverie. What happened there? You were almost…enjoying yourself with Gojo Satoru of all people.

Listening to Haibara brag about his dominating beer pong win thankfully took your mind off of your little endeavor with Gojo.

“And then Yuji totally-”

“AH, THERE YOU ARE! Perfect, come join we’re two people short!” your kinda-friend Shoko’s drunken drawl breaks through the conversation. You can barely get a word out as she forcefully drags you two into a dimly lit room against your protests.

The atmosphere heavy with beer and laughter, she plops you two down onto the floor in a neat circle of people before taking her seat beside you. “GREAT! Now we’ve got everyone, we can finally start.”

With a mischievous grin, Shoko declares, “Alrighty, folks! Time for the ol’ classic - we’re playing 7 minutes in heaven!” pulling out an old-fashioned, tattered hat from behind her back, to a collective mix of groans and cheers from the circle.

“Where did you even find that ratty old thing, Shoko?” a sharply handsome man - Geto, you think - chuckles from his seat opposite you. And beside him- your heart stops. Gojo.

A smirk curling his lips and twinkling blue eyes locked on you.

As if on instinct, you move to get up - only to be brought back down by a hand on your wrist. “Nuh-uh, no one’s escaping, c’mon it’ll be fun.” Shoko smirks, beginning to hand out pieces of paper to write down your names.

Apprehension pooling in your stomach, you share a glance with Haibara, who was honestly just happy to be here. Reluctantly, you scrawl down your name, tension building as it drops into the abyss of the hat.

“As our first attempted escapee, I think the prez should go first.” that agitating voice you knew too well speaks up. If looks could kill, Gojo would be six feet under and you’d be dancing all over his grave with a textbook on the Copenhagen Interaction.

To agreeing laughter - and your impending doom - the hat is promptly placed in front of you. God, you knew you should’ve stayed home. With a shaky hand, you delve in, grasping onto a slightly crumpled piece of paper.

Not Gojo. Please not Gojo. Literally anyone but Gojo-

Turning it over.

Satoru Gojo.

You jolt in surprise, rereading the hasty handwriting over and over - as if willing it to change. This must be some kind of sick joke. Eyes meeting Gojo’s, a flash of surprises passes his face before a self-satisfied grin takes over. He looked way too fucking pleased with himself.

“No fucking way.” Shoko mutters as it dawns on the group just who you were paired up with. Cheers and wolf-whistles erupt, filling the room as Satoru stands up extending a hand theatrically towards you. “If her highness the student prez would do me the utmost pleasure of joining me.”

You scoff, jeez it would be a surprise if you two didn’t kill each other in there. “Unless she’s…intimidated?” he bats his long lashes at you mockingly.

Intimidated? Of who? Swatting away Gojo’s hand, you stand up. “Intimidated? Don’t make me laugh.”

He leans down, retorting, “I’ve tried but you don’t seem to know how.”. The room holds their breath, attention squarely on the two of you.

A beat of silence passes as you glare at him. You really could smack his annoyingly pretty face right now, but you shouldn’t - too many witnesses.

“Now now, you two. Save it for the closet.”

Ever the mediator, Geto ushers you two in the direction of the - very cramped - closet tucked into a corner of the room.

Before you know it, the creak of the heavy wooden door rings in your ears as the door closes behind you. The loud click of a lock resonates, plunging you two into darkness.

The muffled sounds of the party seem miles away as you try to focus on your breathing - trying not to let your mind drift to Gojo. You could feel the heat of his body, the ghost of his presence less than a foot away from you.

“So…” you flinch as Gojo’s voice cuts through the deafening silence. “You still alive and breathing after being trapped in a tiny closet with me?”

You huff, desperately wanting to break out of this closet, “Yes, but you probably won’t be if you don’t stay on your side.”

“This closet is barely a closet, there’s no ‘side’, sweetheart. And that’s my leg you’re resting on.”

You immediately scramble to move away from the warmth of Gojo’s leg that you’d been subconsciously leaning yours on. In the chaos, you probably did a bit more damage than solving. “Ah! Wait- watch the crown jewels, hardass.”

You distance yourself as much as possible in the small space, knee burning where it had brushed up against Gojo’s that.

God, you were making a fool of yourself.

“As much as I like forceful women, you better take me out on a date first, sweetheart.” As your eyes adjusted to the dim lighting filtering in through the slight crack of the door, you could make out that signature playful grin.

Your irritation simmers beneath the surface. Gojo always knew how to get under your skin.

“Don’t you worry your empty lil’ head, I wouldn’t fuck you even if I was paid.” you bite back.

“Oh yeah?” Gojo leans in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “You sure about that, prez? I’ve been told that I’m irresistible.”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah, irresistibly hard to not smack.”

“I always did like ‘em feisty. Makes our little debates all the more interesting.”

“Our debates would be a lot more interesting if you learned to keep that big mouth shut.”

“Oh? C’mon, prez, you love this ‘big mouth’. And you love the challenge. I see the way you look for me every time you answer one of Yaga’s questions, y’know.” Gojo murmurs, gaze piercing into yours.

He leans in closer - now definitely not on his side of the closet. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d call it chemistry. Admit it and I might consider not calling you ‘hardass’ for a whole week.”

“What- That’s just because- I’d rather be called ‘hardass’ for a lifetime than admit to having any chemistry with you. I can’t even tolerate you for seven minutes here.” you sputter at both his proximity and his (absurd) accusations.

“As the student prez, isn’t your entire job to tolerate everyone? You’re a walking contradiction, sweetheart.”

“I am not. You have no effect on me.” you protest, standing firm. In the heat of your argument, you and Gojo have drawn closer to each other. His breath now fanning your face as he hums, voice a seductive tease, “I do, admit it. There’s a part of you that likes our chemistry.”

A defiant spark ignites in your eyes, “I’ll admit no such thing.”

“Then…hit me like I know you want to if you don’t want this.” he whispers, voice breathless. He closes the distance.

Gojo’s lips meet yours.

Soft, they were so soft.

Your heartbeat thundering in surprise, a hand raising to - to what? Smack him away? Eyes fluttering closed, your hand fists his shirt, the other subconsciously finding its way to his cloudy locks. Tugging. Kissing him back.

Satoru kisses you like he’ll never be able to again. Because, he knows - he probably won’t.

Lips searing against yours, his eyes roll to the back of his head at your taste. Sweet - so sweet - just like candy, with a hint of Baileys and everything that he’ll never be able to have.

A strangled groan leaves his throat when you bite down on his lips. Tugging with your teeth. Shit, fuck him and his bigass ego, he wanted to be the one showing off his irresistibility but really it’s the other way around.

Mouth opening to let you in, he drinks in your gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours. Large hands on your face pulling you impossibly closer to him in this godforsaken closet. It was dizzying - almost as if it hurt to part, drawn by that familiar magnetism that always seems to hang around you.

Lost in the heat of the moment, Satoru’s hands wander the expanse of your body. Groping and squeezing every curve and dip - he doesn’t have enough time. He probably never will.

A hand rests firmly on your hips. Awaiting. Breaking away - just a fraction - he breathes out urgently into your lips, “I need to taste you. Let me taste you. Please.”

“Desperate, huh?”

Your gaze pierces through him, it always does. Immediately after your disoriented nod, he presses a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. God, he could do this forever.

You shudder as he hastily bunches your tight dress at your hips, sending blood rushing straight to his cock. Shit, this was not how he expected these 7 minutes to go.

Hurriedly falling to his knees, the pain doesn’t even register when he comes face-to-face with your clothed cunt. Panties already so wet - just for him. Cock twitching carnally, he needed to taste you now.

Tongue flattening across your swollen folds through your underwear, just a slight taste of your wet pussy and Satoru already thinks he might pass out. Ah, so good - of course you taste heavenly.

“Ah! Gojo- more.”

Pulling away, he feels drunk off the whimper of disappointment that escapes your mouth. “Call me Satoru.” he hums, fingers deftly sliding your soaked panties down your legs. His hot breath fanning your entrance has you clenching your thighs together, desperate for any friction.

Mouth watering at this, Satoru curses the darkness inside the closet - can’t even admire your pretty pussy right. You flinch as his face meets your cunt. Shit, this was better than he’d ever imagined on those lonely nights pathetically fucking his fist.

He breathes you in so sinfully, tongue sliding teasingly between your folds in a leisurely rhythm that almost has him forgetting however many minutes you two have left. Frankly, he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it either. Sinful squelches fill the confined space, along with your quiet moans of his name.

“Hngh- S-Satoru. Feel s’good. Faster.”

Ah, it’s really music to his ears. Your voice plays on repeat in his mind. He doesn’t even realize the call from outside until you look down at him, eyes dazed and kiss-bitten lips moving to panickedly mutter, “Satoru, we only have three more minutes.”

Ah, guess he’ll have to take his time in his dreams.

“I only need two.” Satoru purrs, lips ghosting your wet core, voice sending goosebumps down your spine - all the way down to your dripping cunt.

“W-well, stop hngh- running your mouth then.” you retort.

Satoru’s smirk against your plush folds is the last thing you see before he dives nose-deep in your pussy. He doesn’t waste time, tongue dipping in and out of your hole at an unforgiving pace. In and out in and out in and-

“Hah- yes! Satoru jus’ like that!” you hiss out, desperately trying to keep the moans ripping from your throat to a minimum, in fear of the others outside hearing.

Noticing, Satoru snakes a hand up to your mouth - bullying his ringed-fingers in through your swollen lips. His index caresses your tongue, speeding up his movements on your pretty pussy as you gag around him. Moans catch in your throat as you struggle to accommodate him, the pleasure of being stretched from two ends too much.

Satoru only has to take one look - tears clinging to your lashes and drool trickling down the corner of your mouth as you suck on his fingers - before he thinks he might just cum in his pants. Fuck, it was so lewd.

You tighten your grasp on his hair, sure that your knees would give out if it wasn’t for the bruising grip he had on your hips, keeping you firmly on his mouth. Unable to run away.

Shit, for someone so tight-laced, you were so messy on his mouth. He moans as your slick pools in his mouth, dripping down the corners of his lips. The tap! tap! tap! of it hitting the hardwood floor rings deafeningly in his ears.

Ah, so this is why they call it 7 minutes in heaven. Satoru thinks he wouldn’t mind dying if it was in between your legs being suffocated by your cunt.

Your entrance clamps down desperately on his tongue, forcing him to bully it into your snug pussy, fucking you unrelentingly. His nose rubbing against your swollen clit over and over.

At this point, Satoru doesn’t know whether the pulse he feels is that of his heartbeat or your cunt, throbbing and achingly needy for his mouth. His nose stimulates your clit just right, sending shockwaves through your body that have you bucking into him for more.

Voice slightly muffled by his fingers, “Fuck- Satoru, keep going. Hngh- I’m gonna cum!”

The way your walls desperately try to fuck his tongue has his cock straining so painfully against his trousers. Satoru increases his abuse on your cunt mercilessly, the harsh pace making you squeal and buck into his face. Your juices are now all over his mouth, gushing around his tongue. In and out in and out in and out-

“Satoru!”

You cum hard - all over Satoru’s pretty face.

Now, Satoru loves when you run your mouth and infuriate him, but he might just love it even more when you’re falling apart and speechless under his touch.

Riding out your high on his features, you can feel yourself quivering around his tongue as he laps up your juices as if it were a delicacy. Deep moans leaving his mouth and vibrating across your soaked cunt, making you jolt at the overstimulation.

Pulling back, Satoru admires your unfocused eyes and bruised lips. “For someone that so fucking despises me, your slutty pussy sure is sucking me in so desperately.” he murmurs, slightly out of breath after what just transpired.

“Sh-shut up.”

Ah, if only he got to see this view more often.

You can’t help but feel the same way. Seeing Satoru fucked out, vibrant eyes half-lidded and blown out, your slick prettily glossing all over his mouth and nose. A small voice in the back of your mind wishes he was more like this and not whatever he is when he’s getting on your nerves.

“ONE MORE MINUTE! Finish up whatever devil’s tango or death match y’all are having in there!”

Those troublesome thoughts are pushed out of your mind as soon as you hear Shoko call from outside.

The bubble is broken. Jumping apart as far as possible in the cramped closet, you press yourself into the closet wall as you two wordlessly rush to make yourselves slightly more presentable. The air, once charged with overflowing tension and sex, now so strained.

Bending down to feel for the panties that Satoru- no, Gojo had thrown god-knows-where, your hands graze his - still slightly wet with your spit. Snatching your hands back as if it burned, you make out Gojo’s figure pocketing something.

…

Your panties??

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you hiss, face burning at both his actions and the idea of going outside without panties.

“Just think of it as repayment for the fun.” he hums, mirth spilling into his tone. And before you could snap at his antics, Shoko is ripping the door open and looking around the closet for what you can only assume to be missing body parts and blood.

“Aw, man. And here I was thinking Satoru would be six feet under by now.” she groans, walking off disappointedly - for which you were eternally grateful otherwise she’d have seen the few suspicious stains on the floor.

“Remember, you owe me twenty, Shoko.” Geto speaks up from the circle. Were they…betting on whether you and Gojo would kill each other in there?

Finally stepping out of that godforsaken closet, you catch the smirks and raised eyebrows from some of the people from the group.

Meeting Gojo’s eye, a smirk curls around his swollen lip as he swipes a thumb across it. Agonizingly slow. Teasing.

Your cheeks flare, something pooling in your stomach. Ugh, this is why you hate frat parties.

“You alright, man? You look…flushed?” you hear Geto question, pointedly staring at Satoru’s slightly disheveled look.

It was all getting too much - the alcohol in the air, the thumping of the overplayed pop music, and him. You felt so lightheaded. Ripping your gaze from Gojo’s you leave without so much as a goodbye to him, only stopping for a reassuring nod at Haibara. You make a beeline for the exit, dashing out of there and down the winding staircase as fast as you could.

Focused on navigating the packed party, you almost don’t register Gojo rushing after you. Ignoring whatever words were tumbling out of Gojo’s mouth, you silently thank the sorority that had just pulled up - clinging onto him in greeting, making it impossible to follow after you.

The cool night air washes over you as you finally step outside. You sigh in relief as you leave the chaotic sounds of the party - and him - behind.

Impatiently waiting for your friend on the way to pick you up, only two thoughts echo in your mind.

He actually only needed two minutes.

What the fuck?

Meanwhile, back in that heady room, Shoko nudges Suguru, the latter still watching in amusement where Satoru had run after you in the door. “Hm?” he asks, absent-mindedly.

“Why do most of these papers have Satoru’s name?”

---

You pass through the next morning in a daze. The hardest part was probably trying to get dressed without making eye contact with the purple finger marks on your hips that Sato- Gojo had left to remember him by.

You still can’t believe that happened.

It’s alright, it was just a mistake in the heat of the moment - you just have to forget it ever happened, right? But that’s easier said than done when your last class of the day is Advanced Quantum Physics.

Cursing your timetable, you step through the crowded campus. You pull your sweater tighter around yourself, the fabric doing nothing to stop your skin searing where Gojo’s lips had been just last night.

Alright, you just had to get through this one class today. There’s a lot of people in Professor Yaga’s class - it’s not like you’ll necessarily see that bane of your existence-

“Yooo prez, fate just seems to bring us together hmm?”

Gojo almost topples out of his chair, waving in your direction. As your eyes sweep across the room, you can feel your heart sinking. Shit, you really feel like you’re being Punk’d right now.

Cursing whoever was up there for this cruel joke, you make your way to the desk beside Satoru’s - the only empty one.

Slumping down onto the chair with a frustrated huff, you sink into yourself - eyes trained firmly forward and ignoring the playful grin in your peripheral vision.

To your surprise, Gojo doesn’t say a word throughout the lecture. Not a single comment about fucking any professor’s wife - or your cunt. Huh, did last night cause some type of qi deviation or something?

As Professor Yaga drones on about quantum entanglement, you find the words going in one ear and out the other, too focused on wondering what Gojo’s game was.

It’s only towards the end of the lecture, at the introduction of some new assignment that you find yourself finally letting your guard down. Okay, see, it wasn’t too bad. Now time to go back to your apartment and study whatever quantum entanglement was for the next five hours.

“Ah- And remember, the midterm assignment pairings are posted on Canvas.”

What was that?

God, you hated working with other people. It was much more efficient for you to stay in and finish this paper in one sitting.

“So, partner~ My place or yours?”

What?

The bell rings, its metallic chime resonating in your mind almost as loud as Gojo’s words. Signaling the end of class - and probably the end of your sanity.

You wish the ground would swallow you up at this very moment. These days have really not been your days.

---

“Literally what do you bring to the table?”

“Comedic relief and my undeniably good looks.”

“...”

“...and also the case study and background information.”

The air at the stuffy café just off-campus was a mixture of freshly ground coffee and hushed conversations - of course, occasionally disrupted by the chaotic debates that erupted from your little booth.

Not too long ago, as everyone moved to file out of the classroom, you were frozen, glaring at your open laptop so intensely you half-expected it to combust - scrutinizing the neat arrangement of Gojo’s name next to your own over a million times.

Finally sighing in defeat, you nodded in surrender at Gojo - who was whooping in victory. But, you were still adamant on meeting somewhere in public. The last time you two were left alone ended up…interesting.

“Then you do that and I’ll take care of the rest of the theoretical analysis and evaluation. Okay, sounds good, Gojo.” you deadpan, rubbing the sides of your forehead in frustration.

“Ouch, no Satoru?”

Ignoring his comment, you promptly slam your laptop closed, gathering your things with a determined sigh. Ready to escape the stifling atmosphere of the cafe. “So you do that and put it on the doc, and I’ll do the same with my parts. See ya.”

That’s when you feel a large hand covering yours - the same one from- “Hey there now, hardass, stay a little longer - gotta make sure you don’t slander quantum entanglement in our essay the same way you do with the Pilot-Wave theory.” Gojo interrupts your intrusive train of thought.

“What? Unlike you, I don’t slander any scientific theories. Although, I do think the idea of entangled particles jumping around like you do is hardly the hallmark of a stable scientific theory.” you retort, face burning but setting down your bag nonetheless.

Resting his face on his hands, he grins at you. “Oh yeah? I think stability is overrated, prez. Quantum entanglement challenges you because it’s a realm where your precious stability crumbles in the face of non-local correlations.”

God, was he glad he begged on his knees to Yaga to pair you two together. He was having way too much fun with this.

“Just because particles can communicate faster than you can comprehend doesn't mean we should abandon reason.” you raise a brow.

“Well, I think you should just embrace the uncertainty, sweetheart. Life is a game of chance, just like quantum entanglement.”

“Oh, really?” you drone out, sarcastically.

“Yeah, think about it. For instance, I never thought I’d still be alive and breathing after last night. But here I am.” at your stunned silence, he continues. “I for sure thought you’d have the coffin ready as soon as I kissed y-”

You panickedly place your hands over his mouth to shut him up, those blue eyes twinkle in amusement. “When I said you had a big mouth I really wasn’t lying, huh.”

Slowly removing your hands once it seemed like Gojo wouldn’t spill your endeavors in this family-friendly cafe, you sigh, “Okay- We’ll get some shit done today, alright. But this is the last time I’m meeting with you for this.”

“Mhm~ You got it, prez.”

It was not the last time you met with Gojo for this.

Nor was it the second-last.

Or the third-last.

Each and every time you two worked together on the assignment, you’d spend more time bickering about anything ranging from what you’d learned in Professor Yaga’s class that day to whether the old lady who frequented the café was a part of the mafia.

“I’m telling you, she handles those knitting needles like they’re a weapon.”

“Mhm and she sips her Earl Grey like she’s plotting espionage. Now, get to work before I use my teaspoon as a weapon.”

“I’d rather investigate her than this damn Qiskit simulation.”

“Sure, Gojo. I’ll add her to our list of groundbreaking research projects.”

“Don’t come crying to me when I rub it in your face once we see her on the news as a mafia queenpin, prez.”

You’re pretty sure the café employees have a love-hate relationship with you and Gojo - too lively to be one of their favorite regulars, but arguments too amusing to kick you two out.

And as for your relationship with Gojo…well. It’s not as if you can’t go 7 minutes without being somewhat civil, and yet that’s exactly the issue, isn’t it?

After what had happened that night, it feels as if there’s something charging the air whenever you two are together.

You chalk it up to just lingering tension, but that still doesn’t explain the way Gojo’s eyes hold a warm twinkle whenever he looks at you - gaze a little too warm than you’d expect a rival to have. But it’s fine, you just have to ace this assignment and then this strange dynamic can go back to normal.

It’s only towards the end of your assignment that you realize how wrong you really were.

---

Out of breath and darting across campus towards where you knew Gojo was waiting, you half-wish you joined the track team instead of the student government. Damn student reps, can’t keep proper archives.

As much as you got a kick out of getting on Gojo’s nerves, you hated to keep anyone waiting.

“Ah! Prez! Was heartbroken thinking you’d stood me up, y’know?” Satoru calls once he spots you bolting towards him on that dimly-lit pathway. Wow, maybe you should’ve joined the track team.

You trip. Ah, maybe not.

Feet automatically hastening your way, he catches you. Well, more like you fall into his arms.

“Just in time, huh?” he chuckles, thankful for the sun dipping below the horizon - otherwise you’d surely have caught the rosy flush tinting his cheeks. Arms wrapped around your waist and supporting your waist, Satoru almost coos at the surprised look gracing your face. You always did something to his heart.

Hastily distancing himself from you once you stand on your own, he rambles - anything to drown out the banging of his heart against his chest. “So, I’m assuming you were out there doing all your president-ly duties?”

“Ah! Yes, I’m so sorry, the meeting ran overtime and-”

Listening to you rant, Satoru thinks that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here - bickering with you. He’s only snapped out his reverie at your disappointed groan. Oh, what was this? He didn’t even realize his feet had carried him to the little café already.

Ripping his eyes from you, he turns to what moping at. A sign with red writing is plastered over the very locked café entrance - Sorry! Staff training today, hope to see you tomorrow!

“Seems like everyone’s got meetings today.” he hears you grumble. Satoru knows it isn’t right, but his heart leaps slightly at the chance to get to know you outside of that familiar cafe.

You, meanwhile, felt tension - and something else - pooling in your stomach. Shit, if the sanctuary of your café is no longer available…

“Well, we could just go home and finish off the paper by ourselves. It’s only the last bit anyway.” you suggest, voice slightly shaky at the idea and anticipation of actually being alone with Gojo after so long.

“But Suguru’s such a loud snorer, I’d never get any work done.” Gojo whines. Well, there goes that plan.

“The library?”

“I hear it’s haunted this time of year.” he answers right away.

“Ghosts are seasonal?” you ask absent-mindedly, too focused on weighing between the need to finish this assignment today and the uncertainty of what would happen between you and Gojo.

A tense silence fills the slowly darkening street as you go through all your options. Finally, watching the long shadows casted now, you sigh. “Fine. We’ll go to my place.” you mutter out.

“Would you get angry if I celebrated right now?”

“Maybe.”

The walk to your apartment is bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. It was almost peaceful - if it weren’t for Gojo’s excited chattering about god-knows-what.

Your mind was running a million miles a minute. Was something like last time going to happen? Were you a lecher for expecting it? Why didn’t you mind the thought as much as you think you should?

You risk a glance at Satoru, who was in the middle of a passionate speech about how ketchup was a valid condiment on pasta. Soft sunlight paints his hair an amber hue, casting warm shadows that bring out his pretty features, eyes sparkling with passion and mischief. He was beautiful.

Wait. Beautiful?

“Hey isn’t this your apartment building or is walking past it a pre-entrance ritual?”

Ah. Whoops.

You snap out of those ridiculous notions, gathering whatever dignity you have left to walk back to the apartment complex you’d left in the dust while wrapped up in your thoughts.

“Oooo, didn’t take you for much of a decorator, hardass.” Gojo comments, flitting about your cozy apartment to look at all the little knick-knacks and pictures

“Did you really think I lived in some sterile lab?” you retort. Gojo’s almost-endearing curiosity amuses you enough to let go of the electricity thrumming through your body at having him so close. In your home.

“Well, I expected more beakers and fewer fairy lights, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to be offended. “Believe it or not, Gojo, hardasses can have a sense of style, too.”

He continues his exploration, stopping in front of a photo on the wall. “Who’s this model?” he grins, pointing at a picture of you in stuffy formal attire at some conference.

You sigh, knowing exactly which photo he's referring to. “That, Gojo, is me at a conference presenting a groundbreaking research paper.”

“Groundbreaking, huh? Is that what they call it these days?” he hums, arching an eyebrow playfully.

“Yes, and six feet under is what they’ll be calling you if you don’t get your ass here and finish this paper.”

“...yes, prez.”

Writing the conclusion and inserting citations is always the fun part. If you could write an essay on whatever you want, it would be only conclusions and citations, you think.

After a few hours of working on your paper, apparently Gojo does not feel the same way.

“Fuck Noodletools. All my homies hate Noodletools.”

“This is why you only have two friends, Gojo.”

“Hey! I’m a very likable person, y’know.”

“...”

He sets his laptop down leaning closer to you over where he was seated opposite you on the coffee table, clearly bored of citations for the time being. “Also, aren’t we friends, sweetheart? Technically I have three.”

You raise a brow, this was the first time Satoru had ever addressed the strange dynamic you two had. “Are we?” you ask, genuinely.

A deafening silence envelopes your living room. This was the first time you’d seen such a serious expression take over Gojo’s face as he answers, voice even, “I’m not sure.”

The atmosphere thickens with a charged tension, the weight of Gojo’s words lingering in the room. A spark flickers in his eyes. You feel like you could almost get whiplash from the contrast between the heated banter to where you two were now. Was it always so hot in this room?

You let out a strained laugh, attempting to diffuse the seriousness and go back to a trivial territory you were more familiar with. “I never thought the great Gojo Satoru would be uncertain about something.” Your eyes flicker unwillingly from his intense gaze to his worry-bitten lips.

The mischief returning to his gleaming eyes, he smirks “Uncertainty can be thrilling, don't you think, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what to say to that - and you don’t have to. Because before you can respond, Gojo swiftly leans over the coffee table - catching your lips in a sudden, electrifying kiss.

Time stands still. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize that you didn’t want to push him away. At all. In fact, you grab a fistful of his soft locks, pulling him impossibly deeper into the kiss.

Pulling away mere millimeters, Gojo’s hot breath fanning your mouth as he whispers, “Told you the uncertainty is thrilling, sweetheart.”

“Shut up and kiss me.” you grumble, irritated because his lips ghosting yours was not enough.

Before you know it, Gojo has you pinned against the plush couch. His lips finding your, the kiss deepening as he yearns for that desperate connection - as if each breath depends on smothering you with dizzying kisses.

The room seems to shrink, right now only filled with the heated exchange of breaths and the feeling of Satoru’s lips searing into yours.

You think he tastes like caramel and uncertainty - yet, this time, you fall into the unknown with open arms. Wrapping your legs around his toned waist, your arms around his broad shoulders - bringing him to you so close you’d think the laws of physics were taking a coffee break.

It almost hurt.

The intensity of the moment only growing, the atmosphere in your homey apartment crackles with a tension that you knew in the back of your mind had been building for so long - ever since that party.

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears. You knew this would happen.

And a part of you needed it to.

His fingers trace a path along your jawline, leaving a trail of heat - you shudder, craving for more.

“Gojo, I want you.” you breathe out, words muffled by Satoru sucking sinfully on your lips.

He pulls away slightly, delicate strings of saliva still connecting him to you. Every fiber of his being resisting to part.

“Don’t call me that.” he purrs out, the intensity of his half-lidded stare sending a jolt straight down to your heated core. “It’s Satoru when we’re fucking, remember?”

Looking into his sultry eyes, for the first time ever you decide to heed what Satoru says. “S-Satoru, please.” you whimper, hips bucking up to meet his own. You can feel the large outline of his achingly hard cock straining against those stupidly overpriced trousers, pussy quivering in anticipation.

Now, there have been three times in his life that Satoru thinks he has died and gone to heaven. The first being when he discovered that the ramen joint by his dorm also had free Wi-Fi. Second, that first day in Advanced Quantum Physics when you snapped at him told him to shut the fuck up.

And finally, right now, as he’s got you needy and squirming underneath him - such pretty gasps of his name leaving your kiss-bitten lips.

God, navigating quantum physics is a walk in the park in comparison to what you put his heart through.

“Hmm, never in my life thought I’d see his view, sweetheart.” he whispers lowly into your ear, delighting in the goosebumps that erupt along your alluring body. How did he get so lucky?

Hastily pulling down your shorts, his mouth waters at your wet panties. Another prize for him, hm? Throwing them along with your panties to god-knows-where, Satoru drinks in the sight of your bare pussy - a privilege that he didn’t get in that godforsaken closet.

Ah, so ready and dripping for him already. Your slick glistens out of your heated entrance as you clench around nothing. “Aww, they’ve faded.” he whines, heart lurching at the lack of his marks from last time.

It’s alright, he can just make more.

Not one to waste time, with a bruising grip holding your hips steady, Satoru grinds his painfully hard cock into your needy cunt, savoring the pretty mewls that leave your mouth. The way your swollen pussy quivers against him makes him throw his head back, seeing stars already.

Nipping along your neck, leaving marks he knows you’ll have to cover up tomorrow. “Sit on m’face,” he murmurs into your skin.

“W-what?”

Pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the valley of your breasts, Satoru breathes you in. Fuck, he prefers the smell of your skin to any scent in the world. “Sit- on- my- face.” he repeats, words punctuated with erotic kisses to your hardened nipples, tongue flicking them through the fabric of your clothes.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know?” you gasp. Yet, still shifting on that cramped couch. Why do you two always fuck in the most inconvenient places?

Satoru’s legs hang off the end of your couch as he lays on his back, you’d almost find the position funny - if it weren’t for you straddling his head.

His hot breath on your wet cunt sends waves of electricity though your entire body as you hover over his mouth. Your needy pussy right above where his mouth is, hesitating. Your slick oozes slowly through your swollen folds - drip! drip! drip! onto his awaiting tongue, brows furrowing and eyes rolling to the back of his head at your sweet juices.

“Mhm, and I hope that you’ll be the death of me.” he hums, tongue savoring your taste.

It’s the last thing said before Satoru surges forward, plunging mouth-first into your heated cunt.

Despite not being on a time crunch this time, Satoru doesn’t waste a moment teasing - he already has you splayed out and aching for him, what more could he want?

He bullies his tongue into your snug cunt, pushing past the first ring of muscle. You twitch around him, sweet moans spilling incessantly from your mouth. “Ah! Hngh- Satoru! Fuck s’good.”

Your sounds of pleasure going straight to his dick, he bucks into your hands. Ah, more. He needs your touch more.

The feeling of your plush walls clamping down on him only spurs him on further, fucking you at a ruthless pace. One hand gropes across your body, resting a thumb on your clit that rubs tight circles, making you grind down further into his mouth.

“Your pussy is so honest, sweetheart. She wants me so badly.” he murmurs, voice sending vibrations that make you let out a loud moan which he suspects your neighbors would be complaining about.

You were so perfect for him, Satoru thinks he might go insane.

You were definitely going insane.

Satoru shows no mercy, his abuse on your dripping cunt only speeding up at every buck of your hips into his tongue. It felt so fucking good.

Closing your eyes, his pressure on your core has you seeing spots behind your vision. You could feel the curl of his signature smirk against your folds as your pussy tries sucking him back in at every thrust. Too good to let him go. “Knew you loved this ‘big mouth’, hardass.” he murmurs.

Shit, you can’t be the only one acting so needy like this.

“What’re you doing, sweetheart?” Satoru drawls, voice muffled by your cunt as he feels the breeze of his lower abdomen hitting the heady air of your living room.

“Payback.” is all you mutter out as you fumble his trousers down his long legs. Curse these gyms. Curse squats. Why did he have to be so perfectly sculpted? An Adonis in his true form.

You can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth as his boxers come into view - rock-hard cock straining painfully against it A patch of pre-cum pools at his head - he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him. Hands shaky from the way Satoru’s incessant tongue was fucking into you, you shuffle his boxers down.

Satoru’s painfully hard erection springs out, hitting his lower abs. Fuck- how the hell were you supposed to take him? Life was really unfortunate - water was wet, and Gojo Satoru has a huge dick.

“S-sweetheart, you don’t have to-” he murmurs against your swollen pussy.

From all your times shutting up Gojo Satoru, this one might just be your favorite.

His words catch desperately in his throat as you spit out a pool of saliva onto Satoru’s furiously flushed head. A low hiss leaving him as you teasingly lick his sensitive slit.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Satoru attaches his lips with yours once more. He groans lowly into you, the stimulation making you yelp in surprise.

“So, it’s like that, huh?”

Satoru doesn’t have the time to ponder your words before you take in as much of his length as you can in one go. “Ah! Hah- Oh fuck, prez. Always knew you were a forceful woman.”

You moan at the slightly salty taste of his precum. Gagging around him, drool drips down the corner of your mouth as you try to take him in inch by fucking inch. It was so fucking messy.

Diving nose-deep in your cunt once again, Satoru continues the merciless pace of his tongue once more. Both your muffled moans fill the heated room, lost in the pleasure and the heat of the moment.

Shit, you knew by the way your walls clenched down on his tongue that you weren’t gonna last long. And judging by the urgent twitching of Satoru’s cock - he wasn’t going to either.

He fucks up his throbbing erection into your mouth, your eyes watering as his tip hits the back of your throat. Ropes of spit and precum decorate your lips. Even the staunch part of you that never backs down for anyone cheers at being so used. It’s so fucking debauched.

Your hand moves down to massage his heavy balls, tugging and pulling at a rhythm that matches the rapid ministrations of his thumb on your swollen clit.

Mind spinning and pleasure dizzyingly overwhelming as you both lean closer and closer to your highs. With a final mewl around his thick cock, your juices are gushing all around Satoru’s mouth.

Your mind blanks as you cum, the only things registering being the tingles of your oversensitive pussy as Satoru rides you through your high on his tongue and the taste of Satoru as he cums in hot spurts in your mouth. Salty, with a hint of sweet - the flavor making your pussy twitch.

Fucking his seed into you, your mouth milks his cock. His cum dribbling down the corner of your mouth, all thoughts of dirtying your couch go out your brain when you hear the fucked out whines at the back of Satoru’s throat.

Fuck a refractory period, you wanted to hear that more.

You remove yourself from him with a lewd pop! Cum flowing smoothly down your throat, you lock eyes with Satoru over your shoulder. His jaw drops, pupils blown lustfully as your tongue sticks out - showing the way you’ve swallowed every single drop of his seed.

“Now, Satoru. I need you to fuck me with yours cock just as you did with your tongue.” your words still strained from your orgasm.

Wordlessly, Satoru nods, eyes shining - still reeling from the sinful sight of your bruised lips glossy with his cum - his cum that you swallowed as if it was a delicacy.

Meanwhile you were thinking that you should fuck Satoru more if it meant you got him to shut up and be pretty more often.

Slightly more clear-headed now, just as lustful.

Your couch creaks in protest as you shift positions to face Satoru once more. He seizes your lips in a passionate kiss, mouth attacking yours with a desperation for your essence.

Your head spins as you taste yourselves on each other, words tumbling out of your mouth in the haze, “Satoru, bed- now.”

But when has he not challenged you?

“Mhm, anything you say, prez.” he whispers raspily against your lips, still-hard cock teasingly dragging along your swollen folds.

“Satoru.”

“Fuck yes. Say m’name, sweetheart.” he groans out, throwing his head back against the armrest. Your slick pools all over Satoru’s thick head, dripping sensually down his length to where he gripped tightly at the base.

Swollen lips dropping into a small “oh”, he slides a ringed hand up his member, spreading your juices. Cock twitching carnally at the way your pussy was leaking all over him, he grits out, “Need to feel you around my cock now, sweetheart.”

So he does.

Thick head pressing into your tight entrance, a low growl leaves his throat at how sinfully tight you were. Fuck, he could just about pass out right now.

“S’tight, sweetheart. So good.” he fucks up into you in shallow, uncontrollable movements of his hips - impatience quickly waning. You yelp at each thrust, walls burning with the stretch of Satoru’s thick head.

You try to steady yourself as Satoru’s thrusts get deeper and deeper, nails digging harshly into his muscled shoulders. In the midst of it all you still manage to impatiently slur out, “I-if you’re gonna fuck me then hah- fuck me like you mean it, Satoru.”

Oh, that did it.

Your words make the last bit of sanity Satoru had left snap.

In a swift movement, he sheaths his throbbing erection in your wet cunt completely. A gasp gets caught in his throat at the way your walls were clamping down on him in surprise.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded and a dangerously predatory glint in them that sends shivers down your spine. “Fuck me like I mean it, huh? You’re quite bossy, y’know that, prez?”

Before you can retort - and probably dig your grave deeper - he stands up in one fluid motion, your legs around his waist and cock still buried deep in your snug pussy. You moan at the change in angle, his tip now kissing your cervix so deliciously painfully. Shit, you feel so full.

Hands moving down to grope your ass firmly and support your weight, he grins lowly in your ear, “You’re lucky I love that part of you.”

The wall is cold as Satoru shoves your back against it. his body making the air leave your lungs as he presses into yours, ramming into you at a merciless pace. Your tight cunt clenches so tightly around him, as if to prevent him from leaving.

Each thrust into your warm core has his eyes rolling to the back of his head, brows furrowing in ecstasy. His lips capture yours once again in a rough dance that matches the cadence of his hips.

You mewl against his mouth at the feeling of his heavy balls stinging your skin as they smack your ass. The power behind each harsh thrust has you bouncing against the wall, legs pulling tighter around his toned waist to bully his cock impossibly deeper in you.

“Where- fuck! Where’s the bed?” he moans breathlessly against your lips, voice sounding as if each thrust of his pulsing cock into your plush walls sends him spiraling deeper into insanity.

“Down- down the hallway. Hngh- fuck, Satoru!” you not far behind.

Your mind is foggy, barely even registering as Satoru moves blindly towards your bedroom with powerful strides - not yet pulling out of you.

He doesn’t get very far before he’s got you sprawled over your bedroom floor, your carpet digging into you as his cock slams into your abused cunt with that feral pace he loves so much. Not even making it to the bed.

“Ah! Hah- Satoru, what happened to the bed?” you sputter out in-between uncontrollable moans.

“Too far. Hngh- need you now.” he answers around your breasts, teasing and tweaking your sensitive nipples.

“Wh-who’s irresistible now?” you manage to smirk, relishing in the huff of laughter that escapes him. Even now, you always did manage to one-up him.

“Mhm, you’ve always been irresistible, sweetheart.” he mutters, moving to press a chaste kiss against your forehead, not sure whether the words were even meant for you to hear.

And you know it’s just pussy-drunk talk, but right now you can’t help the way your cheeks heat up, heartbeat ringing in your ears.

Not sure how to respond to that, you pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his burning face in the crook of your neck. Maybe right now neither of you needed to speak, your bodies doing enough talking as Satoru continues his relentless cadence.

Your hips bucking up to meet his, you whimper in pleasure and overstimulation into the heady room as Satoru moves down a hand to draw rough, little circles over and over your throbbing clit. It was all too much. “S-Satoru.”

“Me too, my sweetheart. Me too.” is all he gasps out, teeth digging into your neck at the pleasure overwhelming his sensitive cock. Satoru’s tight balls twitch as they smack your ass, cock glistening with cum and slick. He sees stars behind his eyes - or maybe those were tears at the overstimulation. He really doesn’t know anymore.

Head spinning and thoughts racing with only Satoru Satoru Satoru, you’re very much in the same state.

“Satoru?” you whine out, tears clinging to your lashes.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You pull him into an intense kiss, pussy clamping down on him desperately as his lips brand yours - it sends you both over the edge.

Satoru thinks he sees heaven as he cums, and you were probably an angel.

Hot ropes of his thick cum paint your walls white, cunt quivering around him as you both ride out your climaxes together. A creamy ring forms around his base as he fucks his seed into you desperately, marking you so obviously as his. All thoughts of Plan B run out of your mind at the overstimulated whimpers leaving Satoru’s ruby lips.

His dick twitches inside you as his unforgiving thrusts slow down to shallow grinds of his hips, nothing more than to keep his cum inside of you as your highs bate.

Body collapsing onto yours, careful to not crush you with his weight, Satoru pulls you closer to him. And despite everything that happened this evening, he thinks that this might be what makes his ears burn red the most. Your body so vulnerably connected with his own. Just the two of you in this quiet world.

The silence feels intimate and fragile. Brain still hazy from your orgasms, you don’t think you’ve ever quite looked at your bedroom ceiling from his angle.

Strangely enough, Satoru’s warm weight on you feels comforting. Neither of you speak now. Nor do you speak when Satoru carries you to bed, searching through your clothes for a washcloth he can wipe you clean with.

It’s only when he lingers at the foot of your bed - uncertain - that the silence is broken. “Get in, stupid.” you scoff, opening the covers invitingly.

Of course, an elated smile overtaking his face, Satoru jumps in your bed with enough force to send you both bouncing. It was childish. It was so ridiculous. It had you barking out a surprised laugh at his antics.

In your joy, you don’t even realize that Satoru has stopped moving - frozen, smile slipping off his face and staring at you with an unknown spark in his eyes.

“What?” you question, feeling strangely self-conscious.

White locks tousling as he shakes his head, he breathes, “It’s the first time I’ve made you laugh.” The words hang in the delicate atmosphere, tension so thick you think it could snap any moment.

You hide your face in your hands, palms clammy. “You- you make me sound like some sort of evil witch.” you stammer out, embarrassment pooling in your gut. The tension in the air dissipates, yet the intensity in Satoru’s gaze remains.

Satoru understands, smiling blindingly. He pulls your naked body to his, wrapping his arms tenderly around your waist as you both bury into the covers. “Well, more of a hardass than an evil witch.”

“Satoru?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You still have to finish your citations.”

A/N. Can be read as a standalone BUT part 2 planned for next longfic Sunday!

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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hueseok · 10 months ago

Text

it was always you.

for as long as you remember, you’ve always had the fattest crush on your childhood friend, jeon jungkook. it never blossomed into something more though, because that’s what happens when life naturally takes it course—you grow up, you move on, and you pretend that those feelings never existed in order to maintain the good friendship that remained between the two of you over the years.

so when he visits you after work one day, asking you to marry him, you do everything you can to refuse, because the reason he’s asking you isn’t due to the fact that he finally realized that he loved you after all this time, but because he thinks he’s doing you a big favor.

or at least, that’s what you think.

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 13.2k

rating: 18+

content: fluff, semi-angst, childhood friends to lovers au, pining au | ft. naval aviator!jungkook + brother’s best friend!jungkook; professor!reader + editor!reader | inspired by purple hearts

warning/s: swearing, potentially wrong medical & military information (i’m sorry but i tried to do as much research i can 😭), mentions of having type 1 diabetes, making out, heavy petting, implied sexual content: oral (f. receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (this is only fiction!)

MINI PLAYLIST: ♫ die with a smile — lady gaga, bruno mars ♫ juno — sabrina carpenter ♫ selfish — *nsync ♫ nandito na ako — benj pangilinan, angela ken

opening note. omg this is my first full length fic in two damn years i think??? certainly took a long time before i had the motivation to write again but i hope y'all like this! to my og readers who still keep up with my shenanigans, this one's for you 🥹💗

“Any questions?”

A boy wearing half-rimmed glasses raises his hand and you gesture for him to speak. “Can we get an extension on the Save the Cat project due tomorrow?”

You sigh, just as several of your students begin agreeing with him and muttering reasons of their own why the extension should be approved. It’s the week before finals, and you’re aware that the class must be packed with assignments and projects for several of their classes because of it, hence the rather last minute request. They look tired and pleading, a complete reflection of how you were when you were the one in their position nearly a decade ago, begging for an extension from a professor who you thought was kind enough to be swayed with the proposition.

You scan the crowd. “How many of you are at least 70% with it, hm?”

More than half of the class raises their hands.

“Okay, that’s honestly unexpected,” you say, pleased to know that they aren’t slacking on your subject. “Does Monday sound good? That’s three more days, to be fair. I don’t want to extend it further because I have to read everyone’s work and you guys know I don’t like rushing it before turning in your final grade.”

A chorus of relief and thanks echoed in the room, all of your students either dramatically sinking in their chair or erupting in an animated conversation with their seatmate or making crying faces to portray how grateful they are.

“Thank you so much, Ms. ____!”

“I love you, Ms. ____!”

“Ms. ____, I will offer my first child to you,” one theatrically adds and you smile a bit, rolling your eyes at students like this one who is now opting to flatter you way too much for your act of kindness.

“Alright, alright. Just get it done and I’m expecting quality work, okay? Class dismissed.”

The whole class begins to gather their things at the cue and you don’t stay there a minute longer after your announcement, exiting the lecture hall to head to the faculty room where you’re certain half of the teaching staff have gone home already. It’s already 8:47 p.m., and all you want to do is head home to get the rest you deserve after an eventful day.

There was a time that having a schedule from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. wasn’t the norm for you. You used to value work life balance so much—it was even a nonnegotiable you used to say in interviews, saying that if you didn’t get enough rest within the week, then the job most likely wasn’t for you. But things have been very different for the past months; you have definitely grown out of that mindset due to the fact that you’re simply in need of another source of income to pay for your monthly rent, utility bills, and now your medication. You’re in a stage of your life wherein you consider working part time as a professor was a blessing rather than a big nuisance.

Making a right turn to where the hallway to the faculty room is, you’re too busy rearranging the papers inside the folder you’re holding to notice a man sitting on the bench placed just beside the entrance. He notices you the second you appear in his line of vision though; he straightens his posture and proceeds on standing up immediately upon seeing you closer, calling your name softly when you failed to look at his direction, too preoccupied with the thought of finally coming home that you’re oblivious that the man trying to catch your attention is Jeon Jungkook.

“____,” he calls again and this time you notice him, your eyes widening instantly.

“Holy shi—” You stop yourself from finishing that sentence. “Jungkook?”

He grins. “Hey, lamb chop.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet an old friend?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughs, following suit to you who’s already giggling just by his presence alone, outstretching his arms then. “You gonna hug me or what?”

You beam and step forward to embrace him. He returns it without hesitation, muscular arms circling around you and squeezing tightly that it lifts you up from the ground for a quick second. The faint smell of fabric conditioner on his clothes enters your nostrils and you feel like a teenager again, warmth rushing to your face while your heart hammers loudly in your chest. Regardless of how old the both of you are, you think your hopeless crush on the guy will forever live on and constantly transform you into a middle school girl whenever opportunities like these to have him near arise. You’re just happy you’ve trained yourself to be better at hiding it now compared to when you were younger.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in base or wherever it is that you’re designated?” you ask, the first to let go from the hug.

“Actually, I returned from deployment three days ago. I’m on leave for two weeks.”

“Wow. Two weeks, huh?”

“Yep. It’s the longest break I’ve gotten in a while.”

“That’s good. Everybody needs a break from time to time.”

“Says the girl has a day job and a night job.” He points out with a smirk; your heart does a little leap at how handsome he looks doing that. “When the hell did you get into teaching, by the way? I never pegged you to be the kind who can tolerate it. You hate kids.”

“You’ll find yourself tolerating lots of things in this economy.” You snort. “And my students aren’t kids. They’re in college.”

“Yeah, which you graduated from six years ago. Still technically kids.”

“Are you seriously jabbing at my age when you’re two years older than I am?”

He rolls his eyes at that one, an indication that you won the argument. “Anyway,” he starts again and you grin, “I didn’t come here to compare how old we are—”

“You didn’t?”

He sends you a look. Your grin gets even wider.

“I’m here because I was hoping to treat you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” you repeat, not masking the surprise from your voice.

Let’s get the facts straight before we proceed to this conversation.

It isn’t a lie when you say that you and Jungkook are great friends. You have been since you were 7 and your family just moved into the house next to theirs. He was a natural playmate, a companion when you couldn’t tolerate the antics of your older brother, the boy who looked out for you aside from said older brother, and the person you’ve shared significant history with throughout your youth that you can never seem to forget nor disregard.

It’s just that you never deemed that you were great enough friends for him to go out of his way and visit you at your workplace, offering to treat you for dinner. Gestures like that were reserved for your older brother, Seowon, who’s the same age as he is and who you’re sure is considered as his best friend. Compared to them, yours and Jungkook’s dynamic shifted slightly after graduating from college. What once was a really close friendship turned into a casual one, with mostly just teasing, light talks, and the occasional welfare checks at times you hear certain news from the other that’s worth speaking directly about.

At the mention of that, realization dawns on you on why he must be here.

“Jungkook…” You’re trying not to sound mad but you can’t hide the exasperation from your voice. “That’s not the real reason you’re here.”

“Of course, it is. Why else would I be here?”

“He told you, didn’t he?” you ask, not willing to drag this out. “You’re just going to give me another lecture that I definitely don’t need.”

Jungkook frowns, like he’s dismayed that you caught on pretty swiftly.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” You pressed.

“He meant well, ____.”

You scowl. To remark that Seowon is unnecessarily nosy and coddling would be an understatement. That man hasn’t left you alone the second he was aware of your condition. Usually, whenever he gets into his ‘big brother tendencies’, his girlfriend Winnie steps in and helps you lay him off your back. However, it’s different this time; no matter how much you reinstill your independence and insist that you’re fine, it’s like you’re talking to a wall.

“What exactly did you hear from him?” you query.

He seems hesitant in answering that. “That you got diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.”

You wince.

“Look,” he steps forward towards you, “I wasn’t going to bring it up unless you did, okay? I’m just here because I’m genuinely worried about you and I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.” You murmur. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Worry doesn’t vanish magically just because someone says so.”

“Well, it should—because I’m fine.”

“You sure? I heard that you’re struggling to buy insulin among other things you’re having a hard time paying.”

“Fuck. Seowon told you that too? That’s private.”

“My parents know. He just filled me in because he wants you to have as much support as you can get.”

“I don’t need that. I’m an adult. I’ve lived by myself for years. I can fend for myself just fine.”

“It doesn’t look like it from what I’ve been hearing.”

“All you’re hearing is a warped and exaggerated version of the story told by Seowon who won’t listen to a word I say.” You huff. “I’m fine and I’ve been doing everything I can, alright? I’m taking care of myself. I’m going to the doctor whenever I need to. I’m making ends meet, buying treatment for this goddamn disease and regulating my sugar levels all the fucking time. Why do you think I’ve been working two jobs for the past year? It’s because I’m doing everything I can to stay alive.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, he only remains gazing at you.

“If you’re here to offer me money or whatever because of what he said,” you add, already embarrassed that you can’t even look at him anymore, “then I don’t want it.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” he says.

“Then are you really just here to treat me to dinner?” you question sarcastically.

He laughs and you dare return your eyes at him, catching him peering at you with a fond expression. “Yes. It’s my way of doing a welfare check.”

“Welfare check.” You echo with squinted eyes. “Well, in that case, here I am—alive and healthy.”

“I can see that, and I’m glad.” He smiles. “But I need more than just seeing you. I need a conversation and an apology.”

“An apology?”

“For being the last person to know about your condition.”

“And we’re still talking about that apparently.” You mutter under your breath. “Sorry. I didn’t think that you wanted to know.”

“Of course, I would have wanted to know. It’s you we’re talking about here.”

Something about how he said you causes your lips to twitch as you fight off a smile. This isn’t a good time to dive into your romantic feelings for your childhood crush, but when he’s letting go of lines like that which are sure to have your heart soaring out of your chest, it’s hard to keep on a cool and unfazed facade. You just convince yourself that he sees you as a little sister and that’s why he’s so worried; you should already be past your ‘delulu’ phase at this age to be affected by such statements.

“I didn’t want to add to your worries,” you reason. “You already have your life to think about. Add to the fact that you’re a naval aviator—so you literally have your own life first to think about.”

“I can make space for you.”

Is he flirting? Is this a normal thing to say between friends?

You blink. “Okay, uh, that’s… that’s completely up to you, I guess.”

“I just like knowing those things first hand. It makes me worry less.”

“Got it. Next time I learn I’m dying, I’ll tell you.”

“____,” he says your name in warning, and you know he’s serious.

“Sorry.” You heat up. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass.”

“I promise that’ll be the last time I make a dark joke, Lieutenant.”

Jungkook’s nostrils flare. You prevent yourself from grinning like a fool again in success of getting on his nerves.

“Are you done here? Because I’m hungry and would really like to get going now.” He changes the subject and gestures to the faculty.

“Yeah. I’ll just get my things and then I can get out of here.”

“Great. You’re letting me take you to dinner, right?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Fine.” You deadpan.

This time, he’s the one who’s beaming at you. “I’ll wait for you here and we can go.”

“Okay.”

****

When Jungkook discovered that you had type 1 diabetes through a phone call with Seowon, he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, ignoring the snores of his squadmates and overthinking what’s supposed to happen to you now that you had an autoimmune disease which he was told didn’t have a cure. He was assured that you were okay despite it, that there was medication to treat it, and that you had access to them and have been very careful with your lifestyle due to the diagnosis ever since.

He still couldn’t be put to ease though. As ridiculous as it may sound, he had this overwhelming realization that life truly was short, that you had to make certain decisions all the time because you need to adjust to what the universe is only willing to give you. It was funny coming from a person who risked his life for a living. He thinks that perhaps he never understood the philosophy of the quote ‘time is gold’ until he had a loved one on the same trajectory, always one step closer to possible death.

And so that same night, he decided to file a leave for two weeks, effective immediately after his deployment.

He wasn’t sure what his game plan was exactly in filing that two-week leave. Was he supposed to barge in your life and force you to let him take care of you? Was he supposed to demand why you ended up having diabetes? Was he supposed to act as a big brother like your actual big brother because he was that worried about you? But if Jungkook was going to be truthful, he already had an idea on what he wanted to do in the back of his head—he just didn’t want to execute it because it was absolutely insane.

Until he heard Seowon suggest it himself when they met up at a bar to share a drink together.

“She would never say yes,” Jungkook said, beyond doubt that you won’t be persuaded that easily with a plan like that.

Seowon made a face. “I know. That girl is so hyper independent—she’d rather die than accept help.” He scoffed. “She needs it though. It’ll help with her medication and she won’t have to pay rent for that shit apartment she’s living in. Plus, she'll actually get the chance to take care of her body if she’s not juggling two jobs to have sufficient income.”

“You’re right.” Jungkook shrugged.

“You’ll do it then?”

He took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. I’d do anything for ____, you know that.”

“Even as crazy as marrying her?”

“Sure.”

Seowon stared at him, narrowing his eyes and morphing his expression into a teasing one. “Are you sure you’re not just considering this because it’s a perfect excuse to marry my sister? I know you like her.”

“I don’t like her.”

“You’re in love with her.”

“I don’t—” Jungkook began to deny but Seowon was staring him down. “Fuck you, man. Don’t make me some kind of pervert who’s trying to lock her into marriage because he likes her. You’re the one who brought the idea up.”

Seowon laughed out loud. “I know, I just can’t believe you’d agree. It’ll benefit ____, that’s for sure—you, on the other hand? It’s career suicide.”

He shrugged. “I’m okay with the thought that she’ll be okay.”

“Because you love her, man.” Seowon pushed. “Why on earth would you consider this if you weren’t? It’s a fraudulent marriage. You’ll be thrown in the brig and be dishonorably discharged if you get caught.”

“We don’t even know if she’ll agree to this whole thing. You said it yourself, she would never say yes.”

“Yeah, unless maybe you’re the one who tries to persuade her.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to buy her a ring and kneel down before her or something?”

“That can work.”

“What?” Jungkook laughed.

Seowon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how she’s been crushing on you since we were kids.”

He barked out a laugh again. That he knew; it was impossible not to when a lot of friends and cousins kept on teasing you before, especially at instances Jungkook was in the very same vicinity. “We’re not kids anymore and I barely see her though.”

“Still, it ought to count to something. It raises the chances of her agreeing.”

“You’re really cool with me marrying your sister, Won?” Jungkook asked.

Seowon placed down the beer bottle he’s consuming on the counter. “Yeah. You’re a good guy. You’re not perfect, but I know you enough to know that you won’t do anything that will purposely hurt her. Besides, if this sham marriage ends up to be a real relationship and then for some reason, you fuck up and decide to break her heart—I’ll easily know what to do, where to find you, and then I’ll do everything I can to fuck you up.”

Jungkook pressed his lips together to stifle a chuckle.

“Noted.”

****

It’s always been a big wonder to you how no matter how long it’s been since you saw each other, it still feels like no time has passed between you and Jungkook. You think that’s why you can never get over him; he always had this comforting and familiar aura that you appreciate—something that you sought for in every other person that you liked. Maybe it was impractical, maybe it was the reason you can never hold a relationship for more than two years, but unless you gain the courage to confront your feelings and tell Jungkook about it, then you constantly dispel any doubts you might have whether this was good for you or not.

You don’t want to lose him. Admitting that you harbored romantic feelings for him would just make it awkward for everyone: your brother, your family, and then his family. You don’t think you can ever trade his smile, the sound of his laughter, and all the good things about him for anything in the world.

“Are you dating anyone?” he asks.

You choke on your drink, having just poured yourself and Jungkook a glass of water after the server arrived with the pitcher. You’re in a Japanese restaurant near the university, aware that the cuisine was a favorite for the both of you hence why it’s what you recommended when he asked where you wanted to dine. The place is packed with people from the workforce and students; you’re thankful that you don’t see any of your students within the mix.

“We’re getting straight to it, huh?” you say.

Jungkook smirks. “I’m just making sure I’m not upsetting a boyfriend by meeting you tonight.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not upsetting anyone.”

He nods in understanding. You don’t want to add more meaning to his actions for the evening but he seems glad about the information.

“How about you?” you ask back. “Are you dating anyone?”

The ends of his mouth lift a bit upwards. “Nope.”

“Why? You don’t have the time for it?”

“Precisely.”

“It must be really hard dating when you’re in the Navy then.”

“Kinda. We’re away a lot and stationed in different places most of the time. It can get really dangerous for us too and people don’t like the stress that comes with that.”

You bob. “Does it get lonely?”

“Sometimes, but when you’re on duty, you don’t get to think about those things.” He chuckles. “Besides, I don’t know if this sounds fucked up or not—but it can get exciting. Flying a plane can be fun, you know. Not to mention that it helps when you’re surrounded by good men in your squadron.”

“You’ve always been an adrenaline junkie.”

“And you’ve always been a scaredy-cat.”

You scoff at the declaration. “No, I’m not.”

“Remember when Seowon and I forced you to ride that ship in the amusement park that sways left to right and as it goes on it falls from a higher standpoint?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you do, and Jungkook knows you do, it’s evident by how your expression is trying to feign innocence. That memory is your villain origin story; the whole pretext of why you refuse to ever visit the amusement park or ride an exhilarating ride again. Yet you can’t help but recall that it’s one of the rare instances wherein you got to hold Jungkook’s hand when you two were younger, as his hand was the one you were clinging for dear life when it happened while the other was too busy slapping Seowon in irritation.

He snickers, appearing like he’s replaying the scene in his head. “We should do that again with Seowon during my break.”

“Hell no.”

“I thought you weren’t a scaredy-cat?” He challenges.

“I’m not.” You give him a kittenish glare. “But I am busy. I have to send the final manuscript of this book I’m editing to the chief editor next week and it’s about to be finals week for my students as well.”

He fakes a shiver. “I don’t know how you can do two jobs like that, ____. Truly.”

“You work as a naval aviator so I’d say we’re pretty even.”

The waiter arrives with your orders not long after, and you and Jungkook carry on with your conversation, jumping from topic to topic without difficulty. You’re not certain when was the last time you saw each other like this to have so much to talk about—was it last Christmas? Or was it more recent or longer than that? Nevertheless, it feels good and you find yourself blushing multiple times throughout the night, whether it’s because of how his words can have two meanings or how his eyes are staring at you so intensely whenever you’re the one who’s talking.

You like the undivided attention, the back and forth that’s occurring as you discourse, the subtle touches one of you does when something funny arises, how your knees are touching underneath the table. You wonder what’s so different with this encounter that the energy feels so bizarre in a good way? As far as you’re concerned, you’re positive that you’re acting like you always have in his presence—lively, smiley, sarcastic—and aside from the little touches of flirting here and there, Jungkook’s acting like he always has too.

When dinner was done, Jungkook offered to drive you home. You obliged, no longer in the mood to annoy him for you were tired to make the effort. Before stepping outside the restaurant however, you excused yourself to the restroom first, checking your blood sugar with the glucose meter you brought along wherever you went. It’s a hassle but it’s necessary, largely because you’re still in the middle of saving up for the insulin pump that would help you regulate your sugar levels easier.

After administering yourself with the insulin injection you have, you spend a few more seconds inside the enclosed room. You should be past the point of feeling sorry for yourself, but it’s times like this wherein you’re with a loved one that the dejection hits and you wish that you’re in a better predicament than you are right now. You’re close to being broke, you’re overworked, you’re somehow fatigued all the fucking time—those factors aren’t soothing your worries at all. It’s a miracle how you manage to keep an optimistic mind amidst everything.

“Ready to go?” Jungkook smiles at you once you’re back at the table and you nod, clutching your bag tighter against your body and following him to his car.

He drives you to your place, turning the radio on, and letting it play while the both of you sit in silence. You’re both tired and you almost even sleep during the ride. It’s only when Jungkook gently shakes you awake that you realize that you’ve arrived in front of your apartment building.

“I’ll walk you up,” he insists as you’re unbuckling the seatbelt.

“That’s no need, Kook.”

“Of course, it is,” he says. “I’ll walk you up. That’s nonnegotiable.”

So, you allow him.

It takes five minutes tops to reach the door leading to your apartment. As you rummage through your bag to grab your keys, Jungkook patiently stands there, occasionally glancing around the hallway and even smiling when the old lady that resided in the same floor got out of her room to throw out the trash. He receives a smile in return which you notice and grin fondly at.

“Well, this is me.” You turn to him, done unlocking your door. “I’d invite you inside but you should probably get going. It’s quite a long drive back home.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out a chuckle. “Hey, tonight was fun. It made me realize how I missed you.”

Your brain temporarily malfunctions; you force yourself to recover quickly. “Me too. I had fun tonight. Maybe we should do this again whenever you’re on a break.”

“Agreed.”

You flash him a smile. “You can go now. Goodnight.”

Jungkook nods, however doesn’t move a muscle. He’s looking at you, like really looking at you, his eyes moving from one feature to another, as if he’s memorizing your face or having a hard time arranging the words he wants to say. You guess it’s the latter, familiar with a tongue-tied Jungkook that it takes you a few good seconds before you’re demanding why he’s impersonating a mannequin.

“There’s something I want to say,” that’s what he utters and you almost snort due to your assumption being right.

“Okay…” The smile is still on your lips. “What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t get mad first.”

“Well, if you’re making me promise that then it’s probably worth being mad about.”

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

“That’s not convincing at all.”

“It’s just…” He begins and trails, biting his lower lip, “it’s… it’s why I went here. Why I went here to see and meet you, I mean.”

You unconsciously recoil at the revelation. It’s certainly a rookie mistake to believe that there was no ulterior motive in Jungkook meeting you today. You just didn’t reckon you’d actually be truly disappointed at that—at the idea that he just didn’t randomly decide to visit and be with you earlier until now.

You draw a long breath. “Well, I knew you weren’t just feeling generous and wanted to treat me to dinner out of nowhere.”

There’s a pause and then he resumes. “Just—before I say it, you have to hear me out, okay? You have to let me explain before you berate me.”

“I can’t promise that either.”

“You have to.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because what I’m about to say is for your own sake. You know I always have your best interest at heart, don’t you?”

You wrinkle your forehead in further confusion. “Can you just get on with it? The vagueness is making me more annoyed.”

“I just don’t want you to misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand what?”

“What I—and Seowon—genuinely think is the best option.”

“Oh, and Seowon is in on this too?” You bellow. “Have you and Seowon just been conspiring behind my back the whole time?”

“Calm down.” Jungkook puts his hands on your shoulders, a chuckle inevitably escaping him. “I’m sorry for dragging it out. You should know I’m high key afraid of you, that’s why.”

“You should be.” You grumble.

Another chuckle, but he’s back to appearing anxious. You want to shout that this isn’t healthy, that you’re close to giving him a real reason to be afraid of you—yet once he blurts the confession out, you’re speechless, gawking at him and staggering backwards in complete shock. Perhaps you would have bolted as far away from him as possible if not for his solid grasp.

“What?” You hiss.

He swallows hard.

“I want you to marry me, ____.”

You don’t bolt away running. You shake off his hold on you though, and before he gets another word in, you’re hastily rushing inside your apartment and slamming the door to his face.

****

Jungkook was your first kiss.

It happened in a game of truth and dare. You were at a party of a mutual friend and when the bottle miserably pointed in Jungkook’s direction, the person who was tasked to think of his dare when it was his pick said that he dared him to do 7 minutes in heaven with you.

He profusely refused at first, especially since Seowon was in the same party, but everybody began booing and next thing you know, Jungkook was agreeing as long as it was fine with you. When you nodded to make your consent apparent, your friends were quick to shove you both in the closet, some of them pulling Seowon back who was complaining how it wasn’t right to bully you into doing 7 minutes in heaven with Jungkook. They calmed him down once they bullied him into agreeing too.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Jungkook told you in the darkness, his breath fawning over your face. “You don’t have to feel pressured. It’s just a stupid game.”

You blushed.

Secretly, you were hoping that he’d kiss you or touch you. Who didn’t want to do anything with their crush at the age of 15? A lot can happen in 7 minutes. You were aware that sometimes people made out, went as far as third base, and although you didn’t want to go that far with Jungkook, you wanted something to happen while you were stuck in this small closet with him. There weren’t a lot of instances that put both of you in this kind of situation; you wished that you were brave enough to ask him to kiss you or do the first move yourself.

5 minutes in, Jungkook turned towards you.

“Is it true that Taehyung kissed you last week?”

You whipped your head so fast that you might have given yourself whiplash. “That’s—that’s not true. Where did you hear that?”

“During homeroom. Some girls were talking about it.”

Your cheeks burned. “Oh.”

“So, it’s not true?”

“No.” You shook your head. “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” You laughed weakly.

It was his turn to seem stunned. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet?”

You shook your head again, then realized he might not see you doing so. “Not yet.”

“Want me to change that?” he asked, grinning.

He said that with a boyish grin and teasing tone, but you sucked at social cues (plus, you really couldn’t see shit that much) that you started nodding.

“Okay,” you told him.

“Huh?”

“You can kiss me.”

“Oh, oh, shit—I didn’t—” He was blabbering, about to take back what he offered. “I mean, I was just joking but—”

You widen your eyes. “You were? Oh my God, I’m sorry, I thought you were—”

“No, it was my fault. That was a little out of line for me. I’m sorry.” He was laughing and you felt like burying yourself 6 feet under. “It was a stupid thing to say. But if you want me to kiss you, it’s cool.”

“It is?” Hope sparked within you.

“Yeah. It’ll just be a peck anyway.” You can tell he was smiling through his voice. “Just don’t tell Seowon because he might punch me in the face for kissing his sister.”

You cackled. “Deal.”

56 seconds before the 7 minutes were up, Jungkook leaned down to match your level and placed his lips on yours.

****

You’re seething with rage, the embodiment of Godzilla, channeling the God of War, Ares, in your body; you harshly press Seowon’s number on your phone to call him and he answers after three rings.

“What’s up?”

“I will fucking murder you,” you snarl.

A beat. You hear shuffling. Then he answers, “you already talked with Jungkook?”

The nonchalance and calmness in his voice drives you to be more frustrated than you already are. “Yes, I have! What is wrong with you? Why would you plant that idea on his head?” You yell, not caring that your walls are thin and that your voice can probably be heard by the couple that lived next door. You’re feeling a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and every negative emotion that exists at the moment. You’re comparable to a bull who just saw the color red.

“____, it won’t be a big deal if you don’t make it to be.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“Did you even let Jungkook explain?”

“I don’t need him to spell everything out. I know why he’s asking me to marry him.”

“Then you know too that it’d be good for you.”

“Marrying him won’t be good for me.”

“Why not?”

“It just won’t!”

“You’ll get health insurance benefits that you don’t get with your current jobs. You can pay less rent once you move in at Jungkook’s place—there’s a huge chance he won’t even let you pay him while you stay there too. He’s away most of the time anyway, so staying there wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, you can start studying for a masters degree like you’ve always wanted.”

You groan. “Not like this. This is crazy.”

“The both of you can divorce once you’ve saved up a little. It really isn’t that complicated.”

“It’s a sham marriage!”

“It’s a sham marriage with Jungkook.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Are you sure? Your grade school diary might disagree.”

“Oh my God, that’s fucking low of you to bring that up. You just gave me another reason to hate you.” You stomp around the living room, acting like a teenager because of your brother’s behavior. This isn’t the first time he revealed that he’s read your diary before; that doesn’t mean it’s less infuriating to be reminded that he has. “I swear, you better fucking sleeping with one eye open tonight. I’m choking you to death.”

Seowon laughs out loud. “Just marry him. He’s surprisingly amicable with the idea.”

“That’s because you’re pressuring him! I bet you and Mom devised this entire thing together.”

“Mom doesn’t know. To be fair, she’d probably have the same reaction as you. It’s all me and Jungkook.”

“Wow. You have two brains and yet none of you thought this was goddamn stupid?”

“It’s not stupid. It’s genius if you come to think of it,” he says. “Jungkook just wants to help you, dude. He wants to make sure you’ll be okay and all that shit. You’re the reason he filed for a two-week leave, did he tell you?”

Your heart does that jumping thing again. “No.”

“Well, he did. He’s on a break for two weeks because he wants to convince you to marry him and actually marry you within that time frame.”

“This is nuts.” You sigh, finally flopping down the sofa and rubbing your face with your free hand. “The both of you are nuts. How are you okay with this?”

“It’s Jungkook. I trust him. Don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, I just—” you cut yourself off and frown, “I just feel like it’s unfair for him. I’m marrying him because of military spouse benefits and what does he get?”

There’s a long pause, and you almost check your phone to see whether Seowon has already hung up on you or not.

“It’s better that Jungkook answers that question,” he tells you finally.

“Why? You can’t answer it on behalf of him?”

“Something like that.” You can imagine him shrugging. “All I know is that he’s genuinely concerned about your health and your financial status right now. So, just think about it, okay?”

“God, fuck it, fine. I’ll think about it.” You grimace.

You hang up and glance at the door.

You don’t think the conversation you just had with Seowon took that much time. The initial rush you had upon having your longtime crush propose to you is wearing off and you’re realizing that it was a dick move to literally slam the door right in Jungkook’s face earlier, leading you to stand up from your seat and look through the peephole to check if he’s still there.

He isn’t, which you sigh in relief at.

As you lean against the door and regulate your breathing, you think how funny it is that Seowon is right about one thing—and that was grade school you would have been delighted at the thought of getting married to Jungkook. He’s your dream guy; your parents loved him, his parents loved you, the both of you got along very well, and his personality and looks are everything that you’re looking for in a partner. It sucks that you live in a world where the only reason he wants to marry you is because he’s afraid you’ll die because of self-neglect.

Your phone pings and you unlock the screen to look at the message that flashes on it.

Jungkook: hey, seowon just messaged me to say that you two already talked Jungkook: i’m sorry for jumping on you with a topic like that… Jungkook: i’m shit at confrontation lol Jungkook: also it’s the first time i’m proposing so give me some slack

You scoff at his audacity to joke about it this soon.

You: it’s okay You: i’m sorry too for what i did You: the answer is no btw

Jungkook: already??? Jungkook: let’s talk about it first

You: no need You: i don’t want to marry you

Jungkook: oof that’s harsh

You: sorry not sorry?

He doesn’t respond and you think you’re safe. Maybe Jungkook does take no for an answer and you’re confused because you’re a little disappointed that he’s not falling on his knees, begging you to marry him like what your imagination is supplying you.

However, after you took a shower and went to check your phone again, you see that Jungkook messaged you a few minutes ago in response to your last message.

Jungkook: give me 10 days and i’ll change your mind

You have the urge to go take a shower again because of how hot your body is feeling at the statement.

You: hate to break it to you but you’re not matthew mcconaughey

Jungkook: 🤣🤣🤣

****

It’s not part of Jungkook’s branding to chase a woman. Typically, women chase him; they chase him in every city and country that he gets stationed in, flirting with him and hoping that they’ll get the chance to take him home for the night for a mindblowing one-night stand. They never succeed though, for despite their pretty faces and sultry gestures, Jungkook only smiles and declines every offer, saying that he had a girl waiting back home that he loved very much.

He used to think that he only used that as an excuse because he’s not the type to hook up with every attractive girl he meets. There are times when he succumbs, when he gives into the temptation of a little fun, especially after a life threatening or highly stressful mission—but most of the time, he thinks he declines and use that pronouncement of his because his mind reverts him to the idea of you, to what would happen if he just gained the balls to ask you out.

Evidently, although asking you out and asking you to marry him are two completely different things, he’s a bit afraid that your answer will always be a hard no. It’s what you’ve been literally spelling out to him since the day he presented the idea, regardless of how he’s trying his best in swooning you or explaining how this is the perfect plan to help you gain an upper hand with your diagnosis.

“I’ll file a restraining order against you, I’m serious,” you say to him when he appears yet again outside the faculty room, waiting for you to gather your things and head home. You’re wearing a white button up shirt and pinstripe wide leg trousers, an outfit combination that he ogles at before he goes down to business.

“You wouldn’t.” He glares at you. He gestures for you to let him take your backpack, and despite what you said, you let him. “Also, what the fuck is in this thing? You’ll break your back if you keep using this.” He swings your backpack on one shoulder.

You laugh. “My laptop, its charger, a couple of notebooks, books, pens, then the outputs of my students.”

“Aren’t they supposed to submit virtually? What happened to Google Classroom?”

“I still use it, but sometimes I like to have their work printed out so I can write the comments better. How do you know Google Classroom?”

“I have a squadronmate whose kid uses it for class.”

“Ah.” You nod in understanding.

You two continue walking forward.

This has been your program for the past few days. Jungkook goes to the university you work at, he’ll wait outside, you’ll threaten him with something ridiculous, he’ll take your bag, he’ll offer to take you to dinner, you’ll decline, and then he’ll drive you home anyways. Before that routine ends, he’ll lean on your door frame and give you his best puppy eyes, asking you to marry him for the sake of your welfare, and you’ll scowl at him, insisting that you don’t need his help to survive.

“Dinner?” he asks, right on schedule.

You glance at him. “No. I want to go home and sleep for 12 hours.”

“Busy day?”

“Yep.”

“You know, if you marry me, you won’t have to work two jobs and overexert yourself.”

He doesn’t need to turn to you to know that you’re giving him a dirty look. “I won’t marry you, Jungkook.”

“Why not?”

“Because marriage doesn’t work that way.”

“It does. Billionaires do it all the time. The mafia does it too. It’s always been some kind of transaction.”

“Well, if I marry you, what do you get?”

“The assurance you’re taken care of.”

“That’s cheesy.”

You share a laugh and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says. “I’ll be fine as long as you are.”

He waits for you to quip back a reply, flickering his eyes to you when it takes longer than usual. Instead of the sneer he’s expecting, you appear to be flustered, an expression that is very recognizable for him who’s known you since forever—an expression that makes it too obvious for Jungkook that the crush you had on him that he thought has been long gone was still there. He’s been seeing it a lot lately, particularly when he’s uttering lines that sound flirtatious on purpose; he’s positive that you’ll threaten to kill him when you discover that he basks on the fact that he can still make you all flustered and cute, which encourages him to do and say anything that would elicit a reaction from you. Was it unethical to seduce you into marrying him? He might have to rethink that part too.

Reaching the parking lot, he unlocks the doors to his vehicle and places your bag inside the backseat. He watches you walk around the car, about to go to the passenger’s side, but then you wobble a bit and his attempt to get inside is instantly forgotten.

“Hey,” he strides to where you are, gazing at you as you now hold onto the hood, “you alright?”

You raise your chin up. “Kook, can you get my bag?”

Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s swinging the door again and getting your bag from the other end of the backseat while you get on the passenger’s seat, keeping the door wide and placing your legs outside, your feet planted on the concrete.

“What do you need?” he asks, crouching in front of you and zipping the bag open.

“Glucometer.”

He halts. “What does that look like?”

“It’s in the yellow bag. There.” You point at it right when he rummages through a certain part.

He brings it out and you take it from his grasp. Your movements are sluggish but he can discern that you’re doing your best not to be too slow; he’d present to help but he knows that he might prolong what you’re doing due to his cluelessness, so he just observes, noting how you’re pricking your finger with a device and then pressing it lightly to the glucometer which shows that your blood sugar is low.

“Apple juice,” you mutter to him and he finds it faster than the last one.

You grab the juice pouch from his grasp, prying the straw attached on the back, pushing its end for it to pop out of its plastic cover—then your hand shakes, preventing you from continuing and punching in the straw properly.

“Let me do it,” he says.

You don’t fight him, you just slump against the seat as Jungkook picks up from where you left, and the moment he does the job and guides the straw to your awaiting lips, a long exhale through your nose escapes you.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers. He didn’t notice that he was holding his breath the entire duration of the scene.

Another sigh. “Better.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

You seem to hesitate. “Not a lot. Just when life gets a bit too hectic.”

“____—”

“Just take me home.” You don’t give him the chance to lecture you. “Please, Jungkook.”

Defeated, he nods. “Alright.”

“Thank you.”

He helps you position yourself properly on the passenger’s seat. “But we’re talking about this at your place.”

Before you can protest, he closes the door.

****

Lee Hyunwoo was the name of the guy that you brought home for Christmas Eve eight years ago. It was the first time that you did, and Jungkook hated how Hyunwoo was considerably handsome, intelligent, and kind—the exact kind of person he always imagined you deserved.

In the short time Hyunwoo spent with theirs and your family that night, everybody loved him and was already inviting him to the next gathering, all the while Jungkook avoided him at every cost, puzzled by this strong dislike he was feeling for your guest. He was annoyed at the manner in which Hyunwoo had an arm around your waist the entire evening, how you grinned up to him, eyes sparkling and all that shit. Hell, you used to look at him like that.

“Honey, can you get the mango float we have in our freezer?” Jungkook heard your mother tell you, and without thinking, he stood up from his chair and made a beeline to where you were, telling you he’d accompany you to your house.

“That’s fine,” you told him. “It’s literally next door.”

“Yeah, but it might be heavy.”

“It’s not.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

You rolled your eyes and agreed then, excusing yourself from Hyunwoo who was in an engaged conversation with Seowon. The pair were geeking out because of their mutual love for the MCU and the next film slated to be released the following year.

Upon arriving at your home, you dashed to the kitchen with Jungkook trudging behind you. He wasn’t sure what his next course of action should be now; all he wanted was some alone time with you, away from the presence of that college boyfriend of yours, but now that he had that, he couldn’t think of anything that he wanted to say or do. He wasn’t even sure why he was feeling a bit jealous—was it because of that saying? Wherein people are bound to want what they can’t have? Or was it that you only appreciate what you had when you’ve already lost it?

“How long have you and Hyunwoo been dating?” he asked, leaning against the counter as you pulled your freezer open.

“Four months, I think.”

“Four months? And you already brought him home?”

You snorted at his tone. “His family is in another country so I thought it’d be nice to invite him.”

“You must really like him then.”

“Yeah, but I’m not in love with him or anything.” You placed the mango float on the space beside Jungkook on the counter. “He’s nice, and he likes me too.”

“Does he treat you well?”

You flashed your eyes at him, amusement dancing in them. “What’s with that question?”

“What’s with it?”

“Nothing, it’s just that…” you trailed, a smirk etched on your face. “Wait a minute, are you… you can’t possibly—” Jungkook was widening his eyes, ready to deny your accusation once you questioned whether he was jealous of Hyunwoo or not— “are you pulling an overprotective brother skit on me, Kook?”

Fuck, thank God, he thought.

“I prefer ‘overprotective friend skit’,” he said.

“That doesn’t have a nice ring to it.”

“But I’m not your brother.”

“You don’t have to be, I’m just saying that you and Seowon have been acting similar since Hyunwoo and I arrived.”

“Nonsense. Seowon likes him.”

“Oh, so you don’t?”

He pressed his lips into a tight line.

“Did you just admit that you don’t like Hyunwoo?” you asked, chuckling. He was grateful that you didn’t seem to be offended by it.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”

“Instead you implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You kinda did.”

He heard you laugh and he couldn’t help but allow himself to laugh as well.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Maybe I’m just not used to you dating anyone. You are chronically single.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong.” You snorted and picked up from the mango float, marching back to his house and gesturing for him to follow you.

He did, no words spoken between the both of you once more. Though when you were entering their place again, with Jungkook holding the door open for you, he mentioned something he never reckoned he’d have the guts to mention out loud.

“When you open my gift,” he began, “don’t do it in front of Hyunwoo, okay?”

“Why not?” You weren’t paying attention to where you were going, intrigued by his warning.

“He might not like it. You’ll see.”

That night, at the comfort of your bedroom, Hyunwoo nowhere near but instead sleeping at the coach downstairs in your living room, you opened Jungkook’s gift and saw that it was a necklace with your birth flower as its pendant.

You smiled, rolling your eyes to yourself, and slept with that giddy look never leaving your face.

****

“Not so fast,” Jungkook grunts.

Did he think that you were going to be less difficult since he was helpful earlier? Yeah, he did. He likes to think that if it wasn’t for him, you would have taken longer in feeding yourself with apple juice, so he at least wanted a thank you in the form of your willingness to have an adult conversation with him tonight. However, that clearly isn’t the case because when he walked you up to your apartment like he always did, you’re attempting to lock him out, shutting the door as fast as you can once you’re inside, thus trying to prevent him from initiating that talk he wanted the two of you to have.

“Seriously?” He successfully pries the door open and you scowl at him.

“Jungkook—”

“No, you don’t get to reason your way out of this. I’m done hearing you out. It’s your turn to listen to me.” He steps inside your apartment.

You groan, striding to the sofa and throwing your bag there. “You can’t force me to marry you.”

“Is marrying me so fucking bad that you can’t get over it for health insurance benefits that can really help you?” He demands, infuriated.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“You can get arrested!” you exclaim. “And so can I! Does that not freak you out?”

“We’ll only get arrested if we get caught.”

“I’m not willing to take the risk.”

“I’m not willing to see you die.”

You scoff out a laugh. “Who the fuck said anything about dying? I’m not dying.”

“You almost passed out on me. You almost—”

“It’s an error on my part, I admit.” You sigh. “When I get busy and preoccupied, sometimes I forget to check my sugar levels regularly throughout the day. I’m sorry.”

“And you expect to be convinced that you have everything handled?”

“God, I’m not a child. Stop treating me like I can’t do shit for myself.”

“Please, ___,” he approaches you with the most pleading expression he can muster, and he watches as your hard expression crumbles, “just accept my help. It’s really not a big deal—you won’t even see me often, so keeping up with the whole marriage ploy wouldn’t be difficult. We’ll divorce in two years, we can pretend we never got married after that.”

“You just don’t get it, don’t you?”

“What do I not get? If you think I don’t understand something, then explain it to me—”

“I can’t marry you,” you say. You do so like it’s final, like there’s no point in arguing with you because he can never change your stand on this. As he’s pleading with his eyes to urge you to agree, you’re communicating with your eyes in a similar way that’s wishing he would just drop this. “It’s wrong.”

His eyebrows furrow. “This isn’t the time to go on your high horse and decide what’s wrong and what’s not. It’s a fraudulent marriage—of course, it’ll be wrong to some degree.”

“No, I mean…” You turn away from him, rubbing your face in exhaustion. “It’d be wrong of me to marry you. I’m taking advantage of you if I do, and I don’t like that.”

Jungkook shakes his head, frustration worsening at the childlike excuse. Surely, you weren’t that naive, were you? “You’re not. I’m not doing this against my own will. Besides, we get extra pay just for being married. If it makes you feel better, I won’t split it with you.”

“That won’t make me feel better.”

“Then what will?”

You flop down on the coach and lean back, closing your eyes. He knows he’s being a pain in the ass but he can’t just stand here and do nothing. He thinks he’s already come too far in convincing you, he isn’t going to back out now. Every single day spent together, he can feel you warming up to the idea of marrying him for health insurance. Your connection and entirety of your relationship has been off the charts recently that it’ll be harder for him not to be assured that before he leaves for his job, you’ll be taken care off.

Jungkook goes to the spot beside you, sitting down. Your knees bump together, he keeps on gazing at you, waiting for you to focus on him; a minute passes and his gaze moves to your hand that’s laying on the small space between you.

Without overthinking, he stretches out and clasps it, allowing his fingers to play with yours that finally captures your attention. The moment he glances up, he sees that you’re staring at him and he doesn’t let go, he even smiles, a quiet promise that he’s always willing to listen to whatever you want to tell him.

You hesitantly smile back. “You know,” your eyes train back to your intertwined fingers, Jungkook reveling in the warmth of your skin, gaining more confidence in acting out his feelings, “there was a time wherein I would have said yes immediately if you asked me to marry you.”

He smirks, can’t deny how hearing that inflates his ego a bit although this route in the conversation isn’t where he expected to go. “What changed?”

“For one, I grew up.”

“Ouch.”

You laugh. Then you stay quiet for a while before speaking. “Can I confess something?”

That piques his interest. “Anything.”

“But you have to promise not to make fun of me.”

“That’s impossible.” He teases. “What is it?”

You stall, readjusting your position so that you can directly face him. Jungkook doesn’t let go of your hand, he keeps it in his grasp, his thumb rubbing along the expanse of your knuckles.

“I like you, Jungkook. I really really do,” you finally say and he blinks, startled.

It shouldn’t surprise him, considering that it’s been long established that he knew of your crush already, though he doesn’t seem to have anticipated for you to boldly admit it when all these years, it’s only been some kind of unspoken understanding that neither of you downright acknowledged.

You continue speaking. “In fact, I like you so much that maybe it developed into love at some point—I’m not sure. I’m at this stage of no longer being afraid of what I feel, I think? Most of the time, I just let it occur like it’s something so natural. Like it’s a feeling that I can never get away from? Like whatever I do, there’s no way to shake you.” You chuckle half-heartedly. “Though never in a million years would I have thought that I’d confess all of this. What for anyway? I don’t want you to be burdened with what my teenage heart couldn’t rub out.”

His mind is racing; hundred thoughts, hundred scenarios, hundred experiences he’s spent with you since the day you met. Jungkook never realized how much he needed you to say that you liked him—that maybe you even loved him—until he heard it from your very mouth that you did, causing every inhibition and doubt he had to vanish. Now, he only wants to engulf you in an embrace and shout Yes, I feel the same way! Sorry for being a fucking corward and not doing this first!

He would have done all of that in a flash if it didn’t appear that you still had something to say. Based on your rather constipated posture and the hand he’s holding that’s becoming clammy, he discerns that you’re just in the first part of what you wanted to admit.

“Actually, that’s also why I can’t let myself marry you,” you say. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know… it feels really icky somehow. I feel like I’m holding you hostage, or that I’m tricking you because of an ulterior motive, or that I’m defying the laws of the universe by having the chance to marry you. I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t want to marry you if it means I’ll only get to do so because you think you’re doing me a huge favor. I don’t want to be your charity case, Kook—I deserve to be more than that, you know? I’m not traditional or whatever but if it’s not for love, I’m not keen on getting married.” You abruptly pull away from his clutch, embarrassment washing on your features by what you stated. “Plus, two years might not be that long but what happens when you meet someone and you like her? How can you explain that you’re only married to me because I need it for my medication? It’ll just be unnecessarily messy. I don’t want to hold you back from those kinds of things. I don’t want to be a hindrance.”

That’s his cue. That’s when he knows he’s supposed to kiss you and take your breath away, to admit that he’s certain that he has loved you since that one time when he was in the Naval Academy and although the training was hard as fuck, the thought of you gave him strength and he didn’t want to see anyone as much as he wanted to see you after—that when you and Seowon visited him, that familiar urge to have you alone was all he felt the entire time, solidifying the idea that perhaps he didn’t just see you as a friend.

“You’re unbelievably dense, ___,” he murmurs, smirking at the play of events, and you glance at him, expression showing disbelief that he’s somehow treating this matter lightly.

“What?”

“Do you honestly think I go around and offer marriage to every woman out there who can benefit from being a military spouse? Do you think I’m that generous? I’m not. I wouldn’t ask anyone to marry me for the same reason if they weren’t important to me—or if I didn’t like them. I’m not that much of a saint,” he adds. “I mean, I’m taking a two-week break to convince you to marry me. I’m spending time with you every single day. I’m driving for almost an hour and a half, enduring the traffic to get from my apartment to the university you work in to do that—and you think this is because I want to be charitable?”

Silence. Your forehead wrinkles. He thinks you’re still not getting the point.

“I’m in love with you, ____,” Jungkook says.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re opening your mouth, then closing it, then opening it again, then pressing it into a thin line. He thinks you look cute, being taken aback like this, and he’s wishing that he’s done this sooner so that the last five days of him chasing you around like a lost puppy was spent with talking more about what’s possibly waiting for yours and his relationship next.

“Are you serious?” you ask after what seems like forever. “Or are you just saying that because you’re that desperate to have me on board with the whole fraudulent marriage thing?”

“God—” He’s inching closer to you now, laughing, watching your lips twitch at his reaction— “I’m convinced that you were born into this earth to drive me fucking crazy.”

And just like that, he no longer restrains himself from kissing you.

It takes you a few good seconds before you will yourself to move. You can’t seem to process the reality of Jungkook admitting that he was in love with you and then taking the liberty to plant his lips on yours. You’re not complaining, of course, but you are a bit overwhelmed that it literally makes you freeze, unaware of what you’re supposed to do now that your fantasies are coming into life.

However, once you feel him angle his head to the side, doing so to deepen the kiss, your reflexes kick in and you’re kissing him back, encircling your arms around his neck and leaning towards him, Jungkook sighing in what appears to be relief. He grips your hips to support you as you try to straddle him, but your movements are so clumsy that you end up sprawling against his chest instead, perched on a leg of his that provides pleasure on the spot you need him the most. He chuckles at your lack of gracefulness, gliding his lips to your cheek and down to your jaw, nipping.

“This okay?” he whispers with a palm drifting to your bottom.

You nod and Jungkook’s mouth is back on yours in an instant. He squeezes your ass, takes his time in fondling with it, cheekily slapping whenever you get brave yourself and push your tongue past his lips, before he skims his hand lower to your thigh and signals for you to mount him. Upon being properly sat on his lap, you get an immediate feel of his hard length through his jeans, prompting your imagination to run wild and induce the filthiest things he can do to you if neither of you stops.

“Holy shit,” he curses, your kisses roaming to the base of his throat where you lap and suck.

It becomes a dirty pattern for a while. The both of you will take a brief pause from making out to remove a piece of clothing or kiss every other exposed skin there is: the cheek, the jaw, the neck, the collarbones, the shoulders. Then one of you hauls the other back for another passionate kiss, hands skating everywhere on your bodies, sounds of arousal echoing inside the room; you’re starting to get lightheaded but you’re positive it’s not because of your sugar levels running low.

“I hate that it took us so long to get to this point,” he mutters.

You grin. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the man—I should have confessed long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. ‘Was afraid to lose you, I guess.” He draws his head back and admires your blissed out expression. “But then when Seowon told me you had diabetes, I panicked and thought that I might lose you either way.”

You go back to making out, Jungkook guiding your hips in grinding on his clothed length. It’s addictive—the intimate feel of him, how he’s not shy in making sure you know how much he’s craving to be as close to you as you are to him. You think you can spend the whole night just doing this and be okay with it.

“Fuck, Kook,” you groan against his mouth, a hand descending to his stomach and to his manhood, “you’re so… so fuckin’ hard.”

You’re palming him now, tracing the erection evident under his boxers.

He lets out a grunt. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

“Do you… do you want me—” You’re breathless, not able to continue whatever it is that you want to say.

He understands you just fine though. “No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t do anything.”

You’re not sure what Jungkook means by that. How are you supposed to do nothing when you want to do everything to him? You soon comprehend what he means when he guides you to lay down on the sofa, when his lips skim lower and lower, passing your breasts, giving them the attention they deserve, until he goes lower than that and discards your underwear, kissing you in between your legs.

It’s like he’s releasing all the pent up emotions he’s been keeping all these years. His tongue and fingers are relentless, his voice is telling you that he’s eager to coax an orgasm out of you, and as he lifts himself up to return to his previous position, face hovering yours, you’re positive that he’ll get everything he wants because without a doubt you’ll give him everything he wants from you too. Hell, if he uses this opportunity to ask you to marry him again, you might answer yes straight away, no longer bearing in mind the worries you expressed to him earlier.

Although did that even matter anymore? Jungkook said he loved you. He said you drove him crazy. You never thought you’d come to see the day he’d utter those words but here you are. The man of your dreams is kissing you, pleasing you, and looking damn enthusiastic as he does all of that.

“Last chance to stop me,” Jungkook teases. His eyes are glassy and you can feel his cock nudging on your thigh.

You giggle, bringing his head closer to press another long kiss on those pink and plump lips of his. “Please never stop.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“I’m going to take you up on that.”

“Please do.”

After this night, you’re certain that you’ll never allow yourself to be with another man aside from Jungkook. At the back of your head, you always thought that you were his, regardless if that wasn’t true or that there was no real relationship to prove that—however, at this moment, as he thrusts in and out languidly, you unquestionably know that you are. You belong to him now and he belongs to you; he lets you know through his love-filled gaze, his passionate kisses, and the manner wherein he moans your name.

“I love you,” he says, like he’s still in deep longing for your touch and affection.

You hum, tangling your fingers through the strands of his hair. “I love you, Kook.” You stare at his eyes. “I can’t remember a time I didn’t.”

A boyish grin erupts on his features.

Time passes by quickly. In a few more of his kisses, of the intoxicating slam of his hips, of his seductive whimpers, you’re coming beneath him, Jungkook pulling out and jerking his length until he too comes, his seed landing on the base of your tummy. You have the nerve to giggle at that, grinning at him with low-lidded eyes, and Jungkook hastily wipes his cum off your skin, attacking you with another passionate kiss that leaves you breathless.

“There’s no way you’re not marrying me after this,” he murmurs.

You teasingly graze your teeth on his bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”

He groans. “Don’t think about it. Just say yes.”

“At least let me sleep on it, Kook.”

“Fuck—fine.” He grabs your sides and pulls you flush against his body. “Guess I’ll have to keep on convincing you until you agree.”

****

“God, why is this so difficult?” Jungkook whines, keeping you in his embrace, head tucked between your cheek and shoulder.

The air is very humid and Jungkook’s in his naval aviator uniform, which doesn’t look cool in a sense that air is properly flowing through the material. He doesn’t care though, doesn’t care that it’s sticking to his skin as he refuses to let you go, not even when you complain playfully.

“Kook, I’m fucking sweaty.”

“I don’t care.”

You laugh.

He’s leaving to return to his duty and you’re here with him outside the base before he enters, being with him until the last possible minute because that’s how much of a good wife you are.

Yes, you and Jungkook did get married. Three days ago in fact, at the city hall’s courtroom. Neither of you invited your parents; they didn’t know about the occasion and you refused to tell them, afraid that they may be critical about yours and his choices when they discover the true reason why you’re rushing to be wed. The only people that remained to be aware of it was Seowon and his girlfriend, Winnie, who served as the witnesses, which was fine by you. In your understanding, this was just for the papers and your health, and not the real deal yet to be celebrated lavishly.

“I’ll propose to you again after a couple of years,” Jungkook promised after the ceremony. “Let’s renew our vows and I’ll give you an amazing wedding.”

You would have told him that there was no need, but who were you kidding? You did want a proper wedding with Jungkook. The previous week didn’t even feel like you were newlyweds. Yes, the both of you compacted all of the dates you could have if one of you weren’t such a chicken in five days, and yes, though the honeymoon stage was experienced and practiced—it was only because you were a new couple who after years of hiding their feelings for one another, was now finally free to express it as much as they desired.

“Call me everyday?” you ask when he finally pulls back, Jungkook pecking your lips one more time.

“Definitely.” He smiles. “Visit me whenever possible?”

“Of course.” You kiss him too.

His smile transforms into a grin. “Take care of yourself, alright? Keep me updated all the time. No sugarcoating allowed.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Rolling his eyes, he gives you another kiss and engulfs you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground that causes you to giggle.

“Okay, pack it up, love birds!” Seowon shouts.

The two of you turn to your brother who’s leaning on his car, the vehicle that was used to transport the three of you today. You’re still in the middle of moving your belongings at Jungkook’s place and Seowon was kind enough to volunteer helping, always dubious that you could do stuff on your own. Despite your reluctance, you let him assist you, mostly because you’re trying to make a conscious effort in not upsetting him again.

Let’s just say that when the judge hailed you husband and wife at the civil wedding, Seowon wasn’t thrilled to see that the kiss shared between you and Jungkook wasn’t as fake as the supposed sham marriage, leading him to the conclusion that in the middle of Jungkook’s ruse of convincing you to be his wife, something must have happened that led to your approval and that rather 18+ rated kiss. Mostly though, he’s just offended that neither of you thought of telling him that you were an official couple before the wedding.

Jungkook unwillingly places you down.

“I think I need to go,” you say.

He nods with a sigh. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” You affectionately caress his cheek, bringing his face down for the very very very last kiss.

He leans into it. “Fuck, I don’t want to leave.”

“Seriously—hurry up!” Seowon shouts and you pull back.

“I will kill him,” you tell Jungkook.

“He’s your brother,” he says. “And now, my brother-in-law, so I can’t let you do that.”

“That might be your very first red flag, Jungkook, insinuating that you’re choosing my brother over me.” You cross your arms. “Tell me, if the both of us were drowning, would you save me or Seowon?”

“You,” he answers without missing a beat.

You narrow your eyes. “Is that the truth?”

“Of course. Seowon would probably undrown himself anyway and you’re shit at swimming. It’s an easy choice.”

You punch him hard on the shoulder and he feigns hurt, snickering. “For the record, I don’t think anyone can ‘undrown’ themselves—but fine, you pass the test.”

Jungkook faces Seowon’s direction and does a final salute, your brother returning it swiftly, and just like that, you and him share your last farewells. You watch as he goes through the entrance of the base and sends you a wave of goodbye; you weakly copy the gesture and stand there for a few seconds, just watching him fade from your view the further he trudges inside. You don’t think saying goodbye to him ever felt this heavy, and you blame it on the fact that after all this is the first time you’re saying goodbye to him with the assurance that he loves you too—and that alone weighs millions.

You spin on your heel and go to Seowon who’s already in the driver’s seat. As soon as you get in and wear your seat belt, he’s giving you a dirty look.

“What?” you ask.

“Please never do that in front of me again.”

His statement makes you smirk. “Why? Didn’t you want this?”

“Want what?”

“Me and Jungkook to be together.”

“When on earth did I say that?”

“You previously admitted that you were lowkey playing cupid by suggesting that Jungkook marry me for health insurance.”

A short pause. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you two reenact a porno every fucking time.”

“We’re not—”

“You are. Don’t deny it.” He grumbles. “God, every time I see you two, it’s like I’m Ross from that one Friends episode where he accidentally sees Monica and Chandler doing it from the window of his apartment.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” You laugh. “In my defense, you haven’t seen me and Jungkook actually do the deed so—”

“Wait, so the two of you have?”

Your expression drops. His tone is approaching older brother protectiveness territory and you’re quick to attempt diffusing the situation. “I will not dive into that. All I’m going to say is that I’m a grown adult and so is Jungkook.”

He grimaces before starting the engine. “Yeah, never dive into that. I don’t need to hear the details.”

You share a laugh and then silence fills the car.

You press your lips together, looking at him while he backs out from the parking spot. “Hey, thanks, by the way. For driving today, and for offering to help me later, and maybe for also never minding your own business.”

You recall how Seowon was the one who couldn’t stop worrying about you and finding a solution when you told your family that you had type 1 diabetes. Your parents were concerned, they pestered you for months to force you to accept financial assistance from them, but they gave up soon after. Seowon though? He never did. He persisted through every outburst you had; he tolerated your bitchiness and your dirty looks all the time. Out of everyone in your life, you always felt like regardless of how stubborn and prideful you could be, Seowon was worse—in the best way possible.

A crooked smile illuminates his face. “You’re my kid sister. It’s my job to never let you experience peace in your whole life.”

You scoff. “Well, you’re damn great at what you do.”

When you reach Jungkook’s apartment, unloading the boxes and arranging your stuff to its designated places, your heart swells in happiness as the reality sinks in that your life is heading in the right direction after months of feeling hopeless. It drives you to be more thankful to the little things, to the people who were always by your side, to your previous circumstance that although wasn’t ideal was still manageable. A lot don’t get to have that kind of privilege and you promise yourself that you’ll make an effort to find more things to be grateful about from this day forward.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Seowon approaches in the middle of you arranging your books on Jungkook’s near to empty shelf, “Winnie wanted to give you this. She would have handed it over herself but she’s going to be busy for the next few days.”

You take the frame from his hand and see that it’s the picture Winnie took of you and Jungkook after the ceremony. It’s in the restaurant that you ate at to celebrate the civil wedding. Jungkook was grinning at you with an arm around on the backrest of your chair, you were leaning towards him, smiling at the camera—and the absolute selling point of why this was the best picture ever taken was because of how cake icing was scattered on your faces, places on spots in an artistic manner like it was planted there on purpose for the picture and not because the both of you were being silly that instance.

You think it showcases your relationship with Jungkook marvelously. It’s playful, it’s sweet, and most of all, it demonstrates how you two are clearly great friends.

“This is so beautiful, Seowon,” you say.

You immediately send Winnie a heartfelt thank you message for the gift and continue to take a photo of the frame, sending it to Jungkook as well.

Once you hit send, you type out a message to accompany it.

You: look how cute we look 🥹

You’re certain it’ll take hours before he replies so you keep your phone again, going back to staring at the picture which is now placed on one of the shelves. It’s the sole picture frame you have with Jungkook. In fact, it’s the only picture that Jungkook has in his apartment, and you like to think that this might be the mark of the new beginning you’ll have with him. Even though your relationship wouldn’t be traditionally explored given his occupation and how he’s most likely going to be away a lot, you don’t mind.

If there’s one thing you really believe in, it’s that waiting for Jungkook—whether consciously or unconsciously—always brings out the best outcomes.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

#jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagines #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagines #bts #bts imagines #bts x reader #bts drabbles #jungkook drabbles #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x you #bts x you #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jeon jungkook fanfiction

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

Text

yearning nerdjo x shy reader, fluff & humor.

a/n: this is so embarrassing bc this is literally how miserable i am irl.

satoru is down so bad it’s starting to rot his brain. like. visibly. tangibly. his leg’s bouncing under the desk like it’s on fast-forward, the heel of his sneaker thudding rhythmically against the floor tile like a metronome set to desperation. his fingers are drumming nonsense rhythms onto his scratched-up laptop case like he’s trying to decode the algorithm of your absence—tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap, like morse code for where is she. his eyes—red-rimmed behind silver-rimmed glasses with one slightly crooked arm—keep flicking to the lab’s entrance like he expects you to materialize in a puff of soft pink mist.

his hoodie’s three days old, and it shows: the sleeves stretched from him pulling them over his hands, the fabric bunched at the elbows. his white t-shirt underneath has a tiny ketchup stain from wednesday’s lunch. the keychain you gave him—blue enamel cat, chipped at the ear—dangles off his pencil pouch like a beacon. his code’s running fine. tabs are hyper-organized. debugging queue nonexistent. he even fixed suguru’s late-night python spiral that nearly bricked the department printer and summoned the wrath of the IT gods.

but it doesn’t matter. because you’re not here.

he’s been looking. he’s always looking.

in the hallway, in the cafeteria, in the reflection of vending machine glass. he leans his stupid giraffe neck around corners like he’s expecting a spontaneous reveal. he scopes out lecture halls he’s not even enrolled in, notebook in hand just in case. every time he hears the soft shuffle of flats in the distance, his head snaps toward it like a bloodhound. he’s started recognizing the rhythm of your steps versus every other pair on campus. your soft-soled shoes tap lighter. more deliberate. his ears practically perk up when he hears a backpack zipper. once he dropped his pen and nearly dislocated his neck looking up, thinking it was you.

and every time it’s not you, his expression glitches—eyes dimming, mouth tightening like his soul just flatlined. it's pathetic. it's art.

he sits sideways in group study like he’s waiting for you to pass by the window. laptop askew. chair half-turned. a ridiculous image—this lanky nerd in a grey hoodie and cargo pants with one pant leg caught in his sock, white wires tangled in his ears and dark under-eyes that make him look like he’s been stress-coding in a cave. (he hasn’t slept. not really. he keeps replaying the way you laughed that one time you dropped your highlighter. it echoes like holy scripture.)

his glasses are smudged. he keeps adjusting them, even when they’re fine. his knuckles are red from resting his chin on them too hard. he keeps fidgeting with your keychain when he’s not typing. thumb brushing over the worn metal, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep touching it. a nervous tic disguised as reverence.

“dude,” suguru says, from two monitors over, voice dry, hair tied up in a lazy half-bun. “you haven’t scrolled in thirty minutes.”

suguru’s slouched in his chair, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows, rings tapping against his thermos. his screen's frozen on a meme. he hasn’t blinked in five minutes.

“maybe she’ll walk by,” satoru murmurs, eyes locked on the frosted glass wall outside the lab, hunched forward with his chin on his palm, as if willing your silhouette into existence.

“you said that an hour ago.”

“maybe she’s shy today. maybe she’s building up the courage. maybe she dropped her student ID and fate’s guiding her back here. what if the universe is lining up our pixels right now, suguru? what if—”

“she’s shy every day.”

“and that’s what makes it beautiful,” satoru sighs, dreamily. he stares out the window like a man in a tragic romance film. “she’s mysterious. like a foggy horizon at sea. you don’t know what she’s thinking, and that’s the best part. she could be plotting world domination. she could be drawing cats in the margins of her notes. it’s art.”

suguru groans into his hoodie sleeve.

and then like a glitch in the matrix. like god reached down and clicked “unmute” on the simulation—you pass by.

no footsteps. no warning. just a blur of your jacket sleeve on his left peripheral, and he flinches so hard he nearly spills his water bottle. the water sloshes. he slaps the bottle upright. you’re so close. the scent of your shampoo—jasmine and something warm, like vanilla and late-night bookstores—floods his senses. his head whips around before he can even think, pupils blown wide behind his crooked glasses, mouth parted like a cartoon character seeing a pie on a windowsill.

your gaze meets his.

not one second.

two.

wide eyes. startled. curious. the slope of your brows twitch upward slightly, and your lashes flutter—a beat too long, like a reflex or a stutter in time. your lips part just slightly, like you meant to say something—but don’t. your fingers tug at your sleeve, pulling it over your knuckles in that way you always do when you’re flustered. a half-step pause. your mouth twitches, just barely, like you might’ve smiled. then your gaze drops, your shoulders stiffening as your pace quickens, like you’re embarrassed to have looked at all. your fingers curl tighter around your binder. there’s a sticker on it he hadn’t noticed before.

and that’s it. you’re gone.

satoru slaps both hands over his face and releases a sound that is one part gasp, one part squeal, one part glitching modem.

“oh my god,” he whispers. “oh my god, she looked at me. TWO SECONDS, suguru. TWO. that’s statistically significant. that’s a scientific breakthrough. that’s… that’s eye contact with depth. it had nuance. it had arcs.”

“you’re not well.”

“no, listen. the way her eyes flickered? like she wasn’t sure if she should look away or say something? and her lashes twitched, just a bit. like she was nervous. did you see her hand? she pulled her sleeve down. she only does that when she’s flustered. i know. i’ve studied her. i’ve got timestamps. i’ve got spreadsheets.”

“you’re insane.”

“i’m in love.”

satoru slumps in his chair, limbs sprawling dramatically, glasses askew. he exhales like he’s just seen god. his knee knocks into the desk. his sock has a hole in the toe. the corner of his laptop screen catches the light and reflects a faint shimmer onto the ceiling, and it feels, to him, like stars. his fingers are still frozen mid-air, clutching the keychain like it’s the only proof the moment happened.

“i’m gonna marry her,” he says. “drop out, become a florist. i’ll propose with baby’s breath and carnations—those are her favorites, don’t ask me how i know. maybe a little lavender tucked in. something gentle. delicate. a bouquet that says ‘i know your soul.’”

“you need help.”

“i’ve named our cats already. ichigo, milky, and toblerone. toblerone’s the shy one. milky’s chaotic evil. ichigo wears a little red bow tie. we’ll live in a little flat above a cafe and drink lavender lattes. she’ll wear soft sweaters. she’ll draw comics on sticky notes. i’ll iron her lab coat. it'll be perfect.”

“she doesn’t even know your name.”

“wrong,” satoru says smugly, lifting a single finger like he’s presenting hard evidence. “she knows me as the guy who always looks left and right like a cracked-out meerkat. that’s recognition. that’s brand awareness.”

“romantic.”

“don’t be jealous just ‘cause she didn’t look at you.”

“she’s cute, i guess.”

“NO.” satoru jolts upright like he’s been electrocuted. “DON’T even THINK about perceiving her. your eyes? shut them. your brain? turn it off. opinions? delete them. she’s too good for this world. if anyone’s going to romanticize her, it’s me. with accuracy. and passion. and nuance. only i’m allowed to think she’s cute. and i do. constantly. it’s my full-time job.”

“fine, jeez.”

“say she’s ugly, then.”

“what?? no??”

“exactly. you can’t. because she’s perfect. ethereal. a goddess walking among midterms and overpriced coffee. and she blinked slow, too, did you notice? it was like… like a signal. maybe morse code. she’s trying to tell me something. she’s reaching out. spiritually. through kinetic energy and eye twitches.”

suguru closes his laptop with the tired resolve of someone preparing for battle.

satoru, still glowing with delusion, goes back to staring at the glass wall, head tilted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“she looked left,” he murmurs. “that’s my side. she always looks left.”

he swears his hoodie still smells like you.

#౨ৎ — flash reports #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader fluff #jjk x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk x reader #reader insert

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pipszhou · 3 months ago

Text

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐭

✧ — synopsis: Top of the class? Not for long. All it took was one lecture, one remote-controlled vibrator, and Professor Caleb’s merciless control to turn you into a shaking, dripping mess. And when he calls you up to the chalkboard, you learn the real curriculum: obedience, humiliation, and being bred full by your favorite professor.

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~2.5k

✧ — tags: professor caleb, semi-public sex, vibrators, humiliation, degradation, subspace, sexual overstimulation, creampie, breeding, power imbalance, dom/sub, rough sex, size kink, dirty talk, cock warming, spanking, hair-pulling, biting, marking, possessive behavior, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, begging, soft aftercare, classroom sex, pet names

✧ — notes: hello hello again i'm really horny so i wrote this within a day. not beta read, i hope you enjoy my horny endeavors! i just need more power imbalance lmao

You’re in a predicament.

The top student of the entire university—the pride of the campus—yet here you are, sitting at the back of the lecture hall with your thighs pressed tightly together, your nails digging into the edges of your seat. Your brows furrow, delicate lines forming between your temples as you bite down hard on your bottom lip, desperately trying to smother the whimpers threatening to spill out.

Because nestled deep inside you, hidden from the world, is a merciless vibrator—thick, hot, and unforgiving—pounding into your dripping cunt with devastating precision. Each thrust stretches you open wide, the fat head grinding against every desperate, soaked spot inside you. The toy doesn't just vibrate; it fucks into you, grinding in deep, twisting and pulsing like a real cock seeking to wreck you completely. Your walls flutter helplessly around it, clenching and spasming in pathetic pleasure.

As if that wasn’t enough, a suction toy clamps tightly onto your swollen clit, tugging and slurping with obscene, wet noises, like it's trying to suck your soul straight out through your trembling folds. Every pull sends white-hot sparks through your body, every pulse making you jolt and tremble.

All because of him.

Professor Caleb. Your childhood friend. Your Gege. Now the most sought-after artificial intelligence lecturer on campus—the heartthrob every girl wanted. And the man who had no mercy for you.

This was his game. His twisted, cruel judgment: could you endure, maintain your perfect, untouchable image... while the toy he prepared tore you apart from the inside out?

Or would you crack, humiliate yourself by running to the bathroom to finger yourself raw like a desperate little thing?

You refused to lose.

Your pride was too fierce.

Your stubbornness, too stupid.

So you stayed in your seat, trembling, thighs sticky and slick, grinding ever so slightly against the chair in a desperate bid for relief. Hands clamped over your mouth, you prayed no one would hear the faint, wicked buzzing between your legs. You clenched, you gasped, you endured.

Until the voice you dreaded most called out, slicing through your fragile composure like a blade.

"Class number 13," Caleb said smoothly, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Please come up and solve the problem. What is the predicted value output of this activation layer in the full network?"

Oh gods.

Oh fuck.

Your heart plummeted. Your body spasmed around the merciless toy, gushing helplessly. Your mind—blank, so utterly blank, filled only with the overwhelming feeling of being stuffed full and sucked dry.

You hadn’t heard a single word of the lecture.

But you had a reputation to keep. The golden girl. The untouchable ace.

You forced yourself to rise, your nails digging into the table so hard they threatened to break. You took slow, shaky breaths, fighting to control the feverish pulse hammering through you. Your legs trembled as you stepped out into the aisle, every eye in the room burning into your skin, every step feeling like a mile-long walk of shame.

You reached the front—and there he was. Professor Caleb. Eyes dark with amusement. Smirk hidden behind the respectable façade.

He handed you the chalk. His fingers brushed yours—and in that exact moment, you caught it: the glint of the remote tucked in his palm.

A flick of his thumb.

The vibrator inside you roared to life, surging to its highest setting, brutal and relentless. It slammed into you, the fat shaft pistoning deep, hammering your g-spot, dragging moans up your throat you barely swallowed down. The toy twisted with each brutal thrust, the head grinding against your sweetest spots, almost lovingly cruel in how it refused to let you breathe.

The suction on your clit tightened too, a filthy, slurping rhythm pulling at you in time with each thrust inside—as if the toy was fucking and drinking you at once, milking you dry.

Your knees buckled slightly. You caught yourself against the chalkboard.

You could feel it.

The thick, pulsing length of the toy stuffing you full, stretching your cunt to its limits, buzzing violently against your spasming walls. Your panties were drenched, your thighs glistening. Your dignity, seconds away from shattering.

And yet you had to solve the equation.

In front of the entire class.

Under his watchful, merciless gaze.

The chalk trembled in your hand. He leaned in close, voice a low purr only you could hear. "Go on, top student," Caleb murmured, dark and wicked against your ear.

"Show me how well you can think… while getting fucked dumb.”

Fuck—a moan slipped past your lips before you could catch it. You wanted to curse the existence out of him. You wanted to tear him apart with words, call him the cruelest bastard alive. But all you could do was look at him—eyes burning with dark, venomous vengeance, even as your body betrayed you with heavy, panting breaths and soft, pathetic whimpers.

You tried—you really fucking tried—to walk your mind through every algorithm, every neural network formula you’d memorized so well. You tried to scribble something on the chalkboard, your hand trembling. But it was useless. Your writing was a mess of illegible lines, nonsense formulas no one could make sense of, the chalk crumbling and snapping in your tight, desperate grip.

Then you heard it— the low, rich sound of his chuckle. Amused. Entertained. Savoring your unraveling.

With a lazy flick of his thumb against the remote, he cranked the suction to maximum.

The effect was immediate. Your entire body convulsed, a helpless jolt of pleasure rippling up your spine. The suction on your clit was savage, unrelenting—greedy little pulls that sent wave after wave crashing through your gut, making your vision blur with stars.

Fuck, you were so close. So fucking close.

You slapped a trembling palm against the chalkboard to steady yourself. The chalk clattered to the floor with a hollow thud as your fingers lost their grip. Your knees buckled, barely holding you up as your hips gave a desperate, involuntary twitch.

Inside you, the thick vibrator kept thrusting deep—the textured veins along its shaft dragging against your slick walls with every ruthless stroke, the fat, rounded head grinding mercilessly against your sensitive cervix. It was maddening—perfect—too good. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every pulse made your cunt flutter helplessly, greedy for more.

The suction was obscene, slurping at your clit so loudly you were sure someone, anyone, could hear. Humiliation and raw, brain-melting pleasure tangled inside you, choking you.

Then—his hand.

You felt it. Large, warm, strong fingers gripping your shoulder tightly.

You barely registered him leaning down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, sinful growl meant for you alone.

"Fuck, baby," Caleb rasped, the words sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

"Why don't you just give up—let go—and I'll fill you up with my babies later, hm? Breed you nice and full right here…"

That was it.

The last straw.

You came—hard. Your body seized violently, every muscle locking tight as the orgasm tore through you, raw and merciless. Slick gushed down your thighs, soaking through your panties, dripping onto the floor. You bit down on your own hand to muffle the loud, broken moan that ripped free from your throat.

You shattered under him, completely undone, just as he wanted.

You heard it—the low, scandalous murmurs rippling across the room. The students whispering, stealing glances at the obscene sight before them. You, gasping for air, your knees buckling under you, while Professor Caleb—the campus heartthrob—stood so close you could taste his cologne, feel the heat of him against your trembling skin.

Then he stood upright, rolling his shoulders lazily like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t falling apart on the floor.

"Alright, folks. Class dismissed," he said, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. "I'll take care of our top student here. She must be feeling a little... overwhelmed."

He winked—a cruel, knowing thing that made your blood boil.

"Come back next week with the answers to the problem on the board."

Students scurried out, throwing lingering stares your way, none brave enough to question him.

None knowing just how soaked you were—how the vibrator still pounded inside you, thrusting, suctioning, working your overstimulated folds mercilessly. The cum from earlier leaking out, wetting your thighs shamefully.

Once the last student left, Caleb locked the door with a click. He turned, his steps slow and deliberate as he stalked toward you. He grabbed your arm and pulled you up, no patience left in him.

"Stand up, Pip-squeak," he said, his professor mask fully dropped, replaced by something darker, filthier. "I’ll make it fast for you."

You nodded, helpless. Your legs felt like jelly, your cunt still clenching pathetically around the toy buried deep inside. With his steadying hand, you stumbled upright.

He guided you to his seat—the throne at the front of the room—and sat back lazily, spreading his legs in a welcoming posture.

"Strip, baby," he ordered, voice thick with lust. "I wanna see every curve hiding under that tight little shirt and short skirt you wore, thinking you could tease me."

You glared at him, breathing heavy. God, you hated him. You hated how hot he made you. How wet you got just from the sound of his voice.

"Chop chop," he said, tapping his jaw with his fingers smugly. "Or do you want me to rip it off you instead? I won't be gentle, Pips."

You cursed under your breath but obeyed—gripping the hem of your tank top, peeling it over your head slowly, exposing trembling skin. Your skirt pooled down your legs with a soft whisper, leaving you utterly bare, nothing left to hide.

"What now, Caleb?" you asked, your voice small, shivering slightly.

"Good girl," he murmured, unzipping his fancy linen pants with one smooth motion. His thick, heavy cock sprung free—long, veined, angry red at the tip, leaking pre-cum like he couldn't wait to ruin you again.

The same cock that had broken you a hundred times before.

The same cock you dreamed about, drooled over, worshiped like it was your personal god.

"Sit on me," he said. "You know the drill."

You let out a shaky breath, heart pounding in your ears. No matter how much you wanted to slap him for being an asshole—you wanted him more.

You were his cocksleeve, after all. His needy little thing.

You climbed onto his lap, one trembling hand gripping his collarbone for balance. The other reached down between your legs, pulling the soaked, buzzing vibrator out of your stretched hole and tossing it somewhere carelessly.

Lining him up, you sank down. It was like the first time all over again.

His cock was thicker than anything, harder, hotter—stretching your walls until they clamped around him desperately. Every vein of him dragged along your sensitive insides perfectly, the fat head of his cock pushing into your cervix with sinful precision. He filled you up like he was made for you—like he owned every inch of your tight, ruined cunt.

He was your naughty professor.

Your filthy god.

Your damnation and your salvation wrapped in one devastating man.

You started moving—bouncing weakly, trying to ride him the way he liked, but your legs were too shaky, too spent from the relentless overstimulation. You whimpered, grinding pathetically against him, barely able to lift yourself.

"Oh, baby," he cooed mockingly, hands resting heavy on your ass. "Is that all you got? After coming so pretty in front of the whole class?"

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you squeal, then soothed it with a rough grope, making you rock harder against him.

You tried to look away, humiliated, but his dark gaze pinned you in place—all-consuming. Inescapable.

"Shut up, Caleb," you snarled weakly. "Shut the fuck up—I—"

He gripped your hair tight, yanking your head back roughly. A broken cry escaped you, your back arching, pressing your tits flush against his chest.

"You don't get to order me around, baby," he growled, voice pure sin against your ear. He bit down on your neck, hard enough to bruise, suckling dark purple marks into your skin like a man possessed.

"You're mine, Pip-squeak. My perfect little whore."

Your mind spun. Your body shook. You fell deeper into subspace—weightless, aching, desperate for him. He toyed with you, slapping your ass, groping your tits, biting your throat, until you were a trembling mess in his lap.

"Need help, my lovely top student?" he whispered against your ear, voice thick with cruel affection. You nodded frantically, tears clinging to your lashes, your body begging.

He chuckled low and deep—"could’ve said so sooner, Pips."

Then he took control. His hands grabbed your waist, slamming you down onto his cock with brutal, merciless thrusts. Each movement drove him impossibly deep, splitting you open, pounding against your g-spot so viciously that your cries turned into strangled, high-pitched sobs.

You dug your nails into his back, leaving angry red trails down his spine. You wanted to brand him. You wanted him to remember how you fell apart on his cock.

The lecture hall echoed with the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—your cries, his low groans, the obscene, squelching sound of your cunt sucking him in greedily. "Keep it down, baby," he mocked, voice a rumble in your chest. "Others might hear you begging to be bred."

Fuck him.

Fuck him so much.

But you were too far gone. Your second orgasm built fast, violent, white-hot, ripping through you with every devastating thrust. You couldn’t hold back—your body convulsed, your cunt squeezing him desperately, trying to milk every drop from him.

And he was close too. You could hear it in his ragged breaths, feel it in the way his thrusts became rougher, erratic.

"Baby," he moaned brokenly, forehead pressed against yours, "I’m gonna come—open up, please—"

You did—your walls clamping down, your legs shaking, your mind blank as you came undone together. He spilled inside you with a low, desperate groan—thick, endless spurts of cum flooding your sore, twitching cunt. You could feel every hot, filthy drop filling you, leaking out, dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

You collapsed against him, shaking, gasping, his cock still buried deep inside your pulsing heat. His arms wrapped around you tight, possessive, like he was afraid you might slip away.

"Mine," he murmured against your hair, voice rough and spent. "Always mine, Pip-squeak."

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You stayed there—your body convulsing in little aftershocks, your pussy throbbing around him like it was the end of the world. He held you close, a suffocating, trembling embrace, like he needed to feel you breathing against him just to stay sane.

Even after the humiliation he put you through—after the teasing, the breaking, the claiming—you still loved him just the same. Your Gege. Your professor. Your ruin. Your home.

"Meet me after your classes end," he rasped, his temple resting against your bare shoulder, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Five p.m. sharp. As usual."

You nodded weakly, knowing full well—

You weren’t going to make it home in one piece.

#caleb #love and deepspace #lads smut #caleb x reader #lads #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #professor caleb #power imbalance

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kayrma · 1 year ago

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i am SO FUCKING TIRED of lecture hall seats my BACK HURTS

#this sem one classroom has fucking spinning lecture hall chairs. BULLSHIT #i can feel my lower back disintegrating every time i sit in them #and the tiny bitty desks on the side of them... kys #karla speaks

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sweetonsin · 9 days ago

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AFTER HOURS

pairings: professor!joel miller x curvy!reader

summary: you're heartbroken, humiliated, and spiraling—your ex not only cheated, but he did it with a skinnier, louder girl from your own lecture hall. It’s your final semester, and your senior capstone professor, Joel Miller, has always been a little too attentive, a little too perceptive. You never thought he noticed you like that..until you're alone in his office, crying, and he tells you to lock the door.

warnings: nsfw, 18+, age gap, au joel miller, teacherxstudent smut, orgasms, creampie, face sitting, joel lovesss her curves, bent over a desk, unprotected piv, protective!joel, female receiving, praise kink!reader.

wc: 5.3K

requested by: @allyourfavesinoneblog

You don’t mean to cry in his office.

You really don’t. You’re not the type. But your hands are shaking, and your chest is tight, and you feel like if you take another step across campus, you’re going to scream.

So you find yourself in front of Professor Miller’s office, heart pounding, makeup already smudged from holding back tears all through his lecture. His door is cracked open, the warm gold light spilling out into the hall.

You knock once. Soft.

Joel looks up from a stack of papers, his eyes immediately narrowing with concern. “Hey. You alright?”

You hesitate.

He sees it all before you can lie.

“C’mere,” he says, voice gentle, but no-nonsense. “Sit down.”

You do.

You collapse into the chair across from him, clutching your phone to your chest like it might break in your hands. You can’t even look up at him. He says your name softly—once, twice. You flinch the second time. That’s when he knows.

“Talk to me.”

You breathe in sharp. “He cheated on me.”

Joel blinks. His jaw works. “The kid you were seeing?”

You nod, choking on the shame. “With that girl. From class. The one who always shows up late and wears nothing—”

“I know the one,” he interrupts, calmly. “And I also know you, sweetheart. And I know you’re worth a hell of a lot more than that skinny little brat with an attitude problem.”

Your mouth parts in shock.

Joel doesn’t take it back.

You look up at him, startled—and he just stares at you, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair. Steady. Calm. And so fucking solid you could cry.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumble. “He left me for her. That says everything.”

“No,” Joel says simply, “it says he’s a goddamn idiot.”

You shake your head, looking down at your thighs, arms crossed over your stomach. You feel like a joke. “I knew I was too big for him. I knew it.”

And that’s when Joel moves.

He rises from his chair like a storm rolling in—silent but heavy—and crosses the office to crouch in front of you. Big hands, callused and warm, cradle your thighs. His thumbs stroke just above your knees, and his voice is a low hum.

“You listen to me,” he says. “You are soft in all the right places. You’re not too big. You’re too good for some little boy who doesn’t know how to treat a woman. He couldn’t handle you.”

You sniff, still not quite believing it.

His fingers tighten. “But I can.”

Your stomach flips.

“What?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says. “I ain’t blind, sweetheart. And I sure as hell ain’t sorry for the way I look back.”

You’re breathless. You’ve spent months keeping your crush on Professor Miller quiet. He's always been too good-looking, too rugged, with that low voice and rough Southern drawl and hands that looked too big for academic life.

And now he’s on his knees for you.

“I shouldn’t—” you start to protest.

Joel looks up at you with dark eyes and a crooked smirk. “You came to me, didn’t you?”

He stands, towering over you, then gently takes your hand.

“Lock the door, baby.”

Your breath catches. You do as you're told.

He backs toward his desk, eyes never leaving yours. “C’mere.”

You cross the room like gravity’s dragging you.

He sits on the edge of his desk and pulls you into the space between his legs. One hand cups your cheek. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Use your words, baby. I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth is on yours—hot, firm, commanding. His hand on your waist, gripping the soft flesh with something like reverence. He kisses like he’s wanted to for years. Like he’s angry he didn’t do it sooner.

You gasp against his mouth when he lifts you, setting you onto the desk. Your thighs spread naturally around him, and he groans when he sees how your skirt hikes up.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters. “Look at you.”

His fingers trail down to your thighs, dragging slowly down the curve. “You got any idea what it’s like for me? Tryin’ to teach a lecture when you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like that?”

You whimper. “Like what?”

Joel smirks. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

His mouth finds your neck, licking and sucking until your head falls back. Then he drops to his knees again. This time, it’s not to comfort you.

It’s to worship you.

He pushes your thighs open and groans, burying his face between them like a man starved. His stubble scrapes against the sensitive skin, his tongue already licking through your soaked panties.

“Oh my God, Joel—”

“Shh,” he rasps. “Lemme taste you. That’s it, baby. You just sit back and take it.”

You cry out when he tears your panties off and dives in properly—tongue stroking, sucking, teasing your clit until your hips buck. You try to hover, overwhelmed by the intensity—

And then he growls, wrapping strong arms around your thighs to hold you in place.

“I said sit, baby. Not hover.”

You gasp.

“If I die, I die,” he mutters into your cunt. “Let me drown in this sweet fuckin’ pussy.”

You sob out a laugh and moan all at once, thighs trembling around his face.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans. “So fuckin’ sweet, baby. That boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t know how to treat you. Didn’t know how to eat.”

His tongue works you like a machine, flicking over your clit just right, curling inside you until your whole body locks up. Joel’s muttering between strokes:

“That’s it, baby.”

“Good girl.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I could live between these thighs.”

You come with a broken cry, your hands gripping his curls, your thighs locked around his head—and Joel moans like he’s the one getting off. He keeps licking, letting you ride it out on his tongue until you’re limp and boneless on his desk.

When you finally blink up at him, Joel’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild.

“You good?” he rasps.

You nod weakly. “More than good.”

“Good,” he says, standing. “Because I’m not done with you.”

Joel picks you up like you weigh nothing—like he’s grateful you’ve got thighs for him to hold—and carries you to the leather couch against the wall. He sets you down gently, pulling his belt free with one hand.

“Joel—”

“I’ve been patient,” he mutters, unzipping his pants. “Been good. But the way you taste? The way you fuckin’ moan?”

You glance down and swallow. He’s huge.

“You still want me?” you ask, softly. “Even like this?”

Joel stills.

Then—he steps forward, straddles your thighs, and grabs your hand. Places it right over his cock, hard and heavy in his boxers.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s for you. Not them. Not her. You. Every soft fuckin’ inch of you turns me on. I don’t want some bony little brat—I want a woman.”

You’re breathless. Wet all over again.

“I want you. So bad it hurts.”

You tug his boxers down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. He strokes it once, slowly, as he watches you take it in.

“Turn around,” he murmurs. “Hands on the couch. I want you from behind.”

You obey, heart racing.

He lines himself up and slides in slowly—inch by inch—and fuck, he fills you so deep you can barely breathe.

You cry out, head dropping.

Joel curses, gripping your hips hard. “So tight, baby. So warm. Took me so fuckin’ good.”

He starts moving, thrusts slow and deep. One hand cups your belly, the other on your hip. You feel him everywhere—inside you, around you, claiming every inch.

“You know what I see?” he pants. “When I look at you in class?”

You shake your head, gasping.

“I see thighs I wanna bite. Hips I wanna bruise. Tits I wanna suck. A body I wanna worship.”

You moan, arching back into him. “Joel—”

“I see a girl who deserves the fuckin’ world. And I wanna give it to you.”

You come again with a choked sob, pulsing around him, legs trembling.

Joel groans like he’s dying and spills inside you with a harsh moan, grinding into you until he’s drained.

You both collapse onto the couch, tangled together, panting.

His arms wrap around you from behind, lips pressed to your shoulder. “You okay, baby?”

You nod against his arm. “More than okay.”

You rest like that for a long moment, wrapped in warmth and the scent of him—earthy, musky, safe.

Then Joel kisses your neck and whispers, “Next time, I’m takin’ you home.”

You blink up at him.

“Gonna cook for you. Run you a bath. Put you in my bed and make you forget every bad thing that little shit ever said about your body.”

You smile, eyes glassy. “Yeah?”

Joel grins.

“Yeah, baby. And tomorrow?” He pulls you closer. “You’re gonna walk into that class lookin’ smug as hell. Let ‘em wonder why you’re glowing.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel x reader #tlou fanfic #fanfic #joel tlou #fanfiction #joel miller x you #professor x #agegap #joel miller smut #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfiction

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shelovesosa · 1 month ago

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DON’T BE FOOLED BY THE PINK

PAIRING: PopularBF!Satoru X Meangirl!reader

SUMMARY!! Y/N is the undisputed queen of the school — captain of the cheerleading team, untouchable, and fiercely protective of her spot at the top. Then she shows up: the quiet new girl, sister to one of Satoru’s closest friends, and instantly wrapped in the basketball captain’s attention. But this isn’t your typical “new girl steals the spotlight” story.

(Mean girls collection masterlist here!)

East Kinsen University’s courtyard was loud with first-week energy — new students darting between buildings, upperclassmen lounging in clusters like they owned the place. And in a way, you did.

Your legs crossed as you sat on the concrete ledge outside the gym, black sunglasses shielding your eyes from the early fall sun. People walked by and either greeted you or looked away too quickly. Your reputation had that effect.

You were Y/N. Captain of the cheer squad. Satoru Gojo’s girlfriend. Pretty, well-dressed, impossible to ignore. People either wanted to be you or wanted to see you trip.

You didn’t care either way.

You took a slow sip from your iced coffee and glanced at your phone. He was late. Again.

When Satoru finally showed up, he was in his usual post-practice look — basketball shorts slung low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair damp and messy from the gym. He wore that same loose grin he always had when he saw you.

“You're not slick,” you muttered, eyebrows raised. “Fifteen minutes?”

He leaned down, kissed your cheek. “Technical meeting ran over. Coach wants to murder Kaito for slacking on defense.”

“Again?”

“Every day.”

You smiled despite yourself. Then your gaze flicked past him.

Trailing behind him, slightly hunched, was a girl you didn’t recognize.

Wavy dark hair, headphones in, a stack of books clutched to her chest like a shield. She wore a plain long-sleeve top and jeans, the kind of outfit that made her easy to miss.

But Satoru was walking with her.

He turned and gestured lazily. “Yo, Y/N — this is Yui. She’s Daichi’s little sister. First year. He asked me to show her around since he’s got classes all day.”

You took your sunglasses off slowly.

Daichi was one of Satoru’s closest friends. A solid guy. Chill, never talked much. You knew him mostly through late-night study groups and group hangouts at the courts.

Yui blinked like she hadn’t expected you to even look at her.

You didn’t smile. You nodded.

“Hi,” she said softly, voice nearly drowned out by the noise of a passing skateboard.

Satoru nudged her shoulder with casual ease. “She’s a little shy. But she’s cool.”

You gave her a once-over. The oversized backpack, the nervous posture, the way she avoided your eyes. Not a threat. Yet.

That afternoon, you ended up at the dining hall with Satoru’s usual crew — Daichi, Ren, Kaito, and Satoru. You weren’t always there, but today you felt like being visible.

Yui tagged along, of course. Satoru pulled out a chair next to him. You were about to sit down when she sat there instead.

You watched her blink in slow realization.

“Oh—sorry,” she murmured, half-standing.

“It’s fine,” you said before Satoru could speak, sitting on his other side instead. You glanced across the table at Kaito, who watched the whole thing happen with unreadable eyes. He quickly looked away when you caught him.

Halfway through lunch, someone asked how Yui liked her classes.

“They’re okay,” she said. “I’m still figuring everything out.”

“She’s in one of my psych lectures,” Satoru added, casually. “Professor’s a lunatic. Screamed about pigeons today.”

“She’s passionate,” Yui said with a small laugh.

You stared at her. You weren’t used to other girls laughing with your boyfriend.

By the end of the meal, it was clear: she wasn’t trying. She wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t competing.

And that’s what made it worse. She didn’t have to try. She was already in the room. At the table. In Satoru’s words. Laughing at his jokes. And no one noticed the shift. Except you.

It started with a laugh. That was all. Not yours — hers.

It was in the student union lounge, Thursday afternoon, when you heard it. You were across the room, near the coffee counter with Ren and Daichi, scrolling through your phone while they argued about fantasy league picks. Satoru had said he’d be “five minutes.”

He was ten.

And when you looked up, he was there — across the room, slouched over the vending machine with Yui beside him. She had her hair tied in a low, messy knot and was holding a can of green tea. Something he said made her laugh. A soft one. Quiet. But familiar.

It wasn’t flirtatious. Just… familiar.

You watched as he bumped her shoulder lightly, like he’d known her longer than two days. You saw how she looked up at him — not like she wanted him, but like she trusted him already.

That was worse.

Friday afternoon, you passed the quad on your way to class and spotted Satoru sprawled on the grass with Kaito, Daichi, and Yui.

No one invited you. You weren’t mad. You were just... watching.

Yui sat cross-legged, sketching something in a small spiral notebook. You recognized the style — fine pen lines, heavy shading. She was talented. You could admit that. Quietly.

You didn’t stop to say hi.

Saturday night was when the first crack showed.

You were at Satoru’s place. His roommate was out, the lights low, your jacket on the floor, and your legs draped over his lap. You weren’t fighting. But something was off.

He was scrolling through his messages absently, the glow of his screen lighting up his face.

You leaned in to kiss him. He kissed you back — quick, distracted.

“Who’s texting?” you asked casually.

He didn’t flinch. “Daichi.”

A beat of silence. Then you saw the edge of a photo — something black and white, drawn in ink. You blinked.

“Is that one of Yui’s sketches?”

He looked up at you, surprised. “Yeah. She showed me earlier and I told her to send it. It’s of the court. Cool, right?”

You stared at him.

“She drew the basketball court?”

“She said it helped her focus. It’s kind of sick.”

You smiled tightly. “Yeah. Sick.”

Monday, you sat at your usual table in the campus café — the long one by the window. Satoru had just come back from the gym, towel over his shoulders, hair damp. You were halfway through a protein bar when he slid into the seat across from you.

You expected him to kiss you hello. He didn’t. He was texting.

You leaned forward. “You good?”

“Huh?” He looked up. “Yeah. Just — Yui left her psych notebook in the gym. I told her I’d drop it off.”

Of course he did. You took a sip of your drink and looked away.

The worst part was how quiet it all was. No one was flirting. No one was lying. It wasn’t that kind of story. But you still felt it — this silent invasion of space. Your space. Your people. Your boyfriend.

And every time you said something about it, it sounded ridiculous. Satoru wasn’t doing anything wrong. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t happening.

That night, you got a DM on Instagram.

From Kaito.

She’s not doing it on purpose, you know. But I still don’t like it either.

You stared at the message.

Then you closed the app.

You didn’t realize the group hang was happening until it was already halfway underway.

Daichi sent a lazy text in the guys’ chat about grabbing food after evening classes, and somehow that had turned into a full table reservation at Yuu’s Ramen Bar downtown. You weren't even in the chat — Satoru texted you separately, told you the plans like you were being added to something instead of hosting it.

The first subtle shift.

You met them outside the restaurant. The weather was cooling, breeze tugging at your cropped jacket. You looked good. You always looked good — perfect makeup, clean lines, skirt just high enough to remind everyone you were her. You used to walk in and own the room.

But tonight, the room had already shifted. They were standing around, waiting for the last of the group. Daichi, Kaito, Ren, Satoru… and Yui.

She was wearing a dark sweater and plaid skirt, sleeves too long, hair tied with a ribbon. She looked like she didn’t mean to be there. That’s what made her presence so hard to challenge.

“Hey,” she greeted, voice quiet.

“Hey,” you said flatly, brushing past her to Satoru’s side.

He leaned down, gave you a quick kiss to the temple. “Glad you made it.”

You tried not to glance at Yui, but you felt her eyes on you.

Inside, the table was long. You sat between Satoru and Ren, across from Daichi and Yui.

You didn’t know who made the seating call, but it irritated you.

Yui ended up next to Daichi, but she kept glancing at Satoru across the table. You saw it. You weren’t going to mention it. Not yet.

The boys were loud, laughing over miso bowls and fried gyoza. You tried to stay in it — laughed when Kaito told a story about freshman year, played with Satoru’s fingers under the table.

But at one point, Daichi asked, “Yui, did you tell them what club you’re thinking of joining?”

“Oh,” she said, straightening. “The art society.”

Kaito nodded. “That fits. You still sketching campus buildings and people and all that?”

Yui flushed a little. “Yeah. I just don’t know if I’m good enough to—”

“Don’t say that,” Satoru interrupted, casual but direct. “That drawing of the old gym? That was sick.”

You blinked.

She smiled. “You remembered that?”

You cut in before he could answer. “Satoru has the memory of a goldfish. Don’t give him that much credit.”

A few chuckles. But Yui looked down. Her smile faded just slightly.

Later, when the check came and everyone was getting up, Yui accidentally bumped into your shoulder while grabbing her coat.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

You turned slowly. “It’s fine.”

She hesitated. “I hope I’m not… making anything weird.”

You gave her a long look.

“No,” you said. “You’re not that important.”

Her face dropped. She didn’t reply.

When you and Satoru left, he was quiet. Too quiet.

“Something wrong?” you asked, half-daring him to say it.

He ran a hand through his hair. “You didn’t have to say that to her.”

“Say what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

You stopped walking. “Why are you defending her?”

He paused. “I’m not. I’m just saying… it wasn’t necessary.”

You smiled, cold. “Neither is her sitting with you every day.”

That silenced him.

Back in your dorm room, you took off your earrings with slow, careful movements.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Ren.

You good? Looked a little tense tonight.

You typed, deleted, then typed again.

Do I look crazy to you?

Three dots. Then:

No. Just different.

You stared at the screen until it dimmed.

Monday mornings had a rhythm.

You walked into the student lounge and the table by the windows was always yours. Satoru, Kaito, Ren, Daichi, and you. You brought coffee sometimes. Other days, snacks. You filled the silence, kept the conversation up when the boys were too tired from weekend games.

You were the glue. You always were.

But this Monday was off. You entered the lounge and saw them first. Kaito half-laughing. Satoru leaning back with his ankle crossed over his knee. And Yui — sitting in your chair, holding a takeout tray of coffee cups and paper bags.

“—I just figured everyone could use a pick-me-up,” she was saying, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “The bakery near the art building opens early.”

Daichi held up his croissant like a toast. “This slaps.”

You stopped. Your seat was taken. Not just physically — but replaced.

Satoru spotted you and smiled. “Hey, babe. She brought pastries.”

You forced a smile and sat next to Kaito instead. A space over.

He didn’t say anything, but when he slid you one of the coffees she brought, you noticed he’d passed over one that didn’t have lipstick on the lid.

Small mercy.

By Wednesday, people in your program were talking about Yui’s art.

There was a bulletin board near the design wing, and she’d put up a charcoal sketch of a girl sitting alone on the library steps. It was beautiful, you’d admit. It also looked eerily like you — same posture, same boots.

People stopped to compliment it. Someone even said, “You know, she’s so refreshing. Like… real. She’s not trying to impress anyone.”

As if that was something to praise. As if trying hard made you fake. As if you trying at all was the problem.

That afternoon, you sat on the bleachers watching basketball practice. You always did — the cheer squad usually finished an hour earlier, and you liked seeing Satoru move, command, lead.

You were halfway through tying your jacket around your waist when you spotted her.

Yui.

Sitting in the far corner of the bleachers. Alone. Sketchbook in her lap, legs tucked under her.

You didn’t walk over. But you kept glancing that way, waiting for her to leave.

She didn’t. She waited until he waved. At her.

You saw it clearly. The lift of his arm between drills. The way her posture straightened when she noticed.

Your stomach turned.

That night, you left the group chat. Quietly. No drama. No goodbye.

But they noticed. Daichi messaged you, then Ren. You ignored both. Only Kaito sent the right thing.

Wanna talk? No judgment.

You didn’t reply for hours.

But eventually, you did.

She’s replacing me.

His typing bubble appeared. Then paused. Then started again.

No. She’s just… being included.

You stared at that sentence.

Then:

But I see you. I haven’t forgotten.

You blinked at that.

It was nothing. And everything.

Thursday, Satoru walked with you to class. You held his hand loosely. You didn’t say much. He did.

“You’ve been off lately.”

“Have I?”

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

You looked up. “Do you like her?”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

“Yui. Do you like her?”

“No. She’s Daichi’s sister. She’s a kid.”

“She’s only two years younger than us.”

He looked frustrated now. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m observant.”

He pulled away just slightly. “Can’t you just let people in without turning it into a threat?”

You stopped walking.

“I used to be your person,” you said quietly. “Not a threat. Not a chore. Just… your person.”

He didn’t have an answer for that. And that hurt more than anything.

It started with a seat. Again.

Friday morning, your first free period, the guys had taken the usual corner table outside the cafeteria. It was barely 10 a.m., and already warm. You were running late — hair still damp from your shower, your slides too loud on the concrete path.

You rounded the corner, expecting the usual: the boys eating loud and fast, Satoru teasing Daichi about his midterms, Kaito flipping through his notes, and an empty spot beside your boyfriend.

But the seat wasn’t empty. Yui was already there. Right next to Satoru.

They weren’t doing anything, not exactly. But her elbow was close enough to his that your heart clenched. He leaned toward her mid-sentence, laughing softly at something she said. She wasn’t flustered this time — her voice was calm, steady.

She wasn’t trying anymore. She had already arrived. You walked slower.

When you reached the table, Kaito was the only one who stood slightly, sliding a chair toward you. You caught his eyes. He didn’t smile, but he gave you that quiet look — the one that said, Yeah. I saw it too.

You sat across from Satoru. He greeted you with a casual, “Hey, babe,” like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Later, while walking to class, Kaito caught up with you.

“She’s louder now,” he said casually.

You looked at him sideways. “What?”

“Yui. Used to whisper everything. Now she interrupts Daichi when he talks.”

You raised a brow. “Why are you telling me that?”

Kaito shrugged. “Just proving I’m paying attention.”

You didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t look away either.

That afternoon, you found out they had planned a night out — ramen and karaoke. A group thing.

You found out by accident.

Daichi had posted a dumb video on his story: Ren badly lip-syncing to some anime opening while the camera panned across the private karaoke room. There was Satoru. There was Daichi. Kaito. Ren.

And Yui. Laughing on the couch, your drink in her hand. The one you always ordered.

No one had texted you.

You were alone in your dorm, eating crackers with peanut butter, phone glowing in the dark.

You didn’t cry. You called Kaito. He picked up on the second ring.

“You saw?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled. “I wasn’t in the mood to go either. But I had to show up.”

“Why?”

“Because someone has to keep her from turning into you.”

The silence was loud.

You didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then quietly: “What’s wrong with being me?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But they forget what it took for you to get here. She just walked in.”

The next day, Yui approached you.

You were at the vending machine near the back stairwell, alone between classes. She came around the corner with her sketchpad pressed to her chest.

She didn’t look nervous. She looked… ready.

“Hey,” she said.

You turned, slow. “Hi.”

She didn’t fidget. “I just wanted to clear the air. I know it’s weird that I’m around your friends all the time now.”

You smiled. Not kindly. “Oh, now you notice?”

Yui looked away for a second, then met your gaze again. “I didn’t mean to step on anything.”

“But you didn’t stop either.”

Her throat moved in a swallow. “I didn’t think I had to. I thought… maybe there was enough room for more than one girl at the table.”

You tilted your head. “That’s cute. But it’s not about room. It’s about roles. I had mine.”

“And now I’m threatening it?”

“You’re not threatening it,” you said, voice sharp. “You’ve already replaced it.”

For a moment, you thought she’d say sorry. But she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “Maybe you just stopped wanting it.”

That stopped you cold. She walked off without another word.

Satoru wasn’t oblivious. He just didn’t want to admit how bad it had gotten.

It was easier to think you were just being dramatic. That your tension with Yui would settle. That things would click back into place if he just gave it time.

But he wasn’t stupid.

He saw the way you started dressing up more for morning classes again — lashes perfect, lip gloss slick, hair curled even when it rained.

He noticed how you kept your phone face-down around him, and how Kaito always seemed to look at him like he knew something he didn’t.

The final nudge came on a Thursday.

Yui had been tagging along to lunch with the group. Again. She wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore — cracking jokes with Daichi, handing Ren her apple juice like they’d grown up together.

Satoru was halfway through his rice bowl when you walked up to the table, dropped your bag beside him, and smiled — big, bright, the kind of smile you used when cameras were around or when you were pissed.

“Hey, baby,” you said sweetly, sliding into his lap like it was nothing.

Everyone froze. Even Yui.

He blinked. “Hey.”

You wrapped your arm around his neck and leaned in like you’d missed him all morning. You hadn’t. You’d ignored three of his texts.

Yui looked down at her tray.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, brushing your fingers through Satoru’s hair like it was routine. “Cheer practice ran over. You didn’t wait for me?”

He hesitated. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

You smiled with your teeth. “I’m always coming.”

After lunch, Satoru caught up with Kaito on the walk to class.

“She’s starting to play games,” he muttered.

Kaito gave him a dry look. “You mean she’s acting like your girlfriend again?”

Satoru frowned. “It’s not about that.”

“It is to her.”

He didn’t respond.

At practice that evening, Yui showed up again.

She claimed she was waiting for Daichi — said she just wanted to sketch from the sidelines until his shift ended.

Satoru didn’t believe her.

She sat quietly, legs crossed on the bleachers, sketchpad on her knees. The first ten minutes, she didn’t look at him at all.

The next ten, she did. And the next.

He wasn’t sure when it started, but he found himself thinking about it even when he was running drills.

Not her, exactly. But the way you’d looked at her during lunch. Like a challenge. Like you were done playing nice.

And for the first time in weeks, that version of you — sharp, high-maintenance, territorial — made him feel something warm under his skin.

It reminded him why he’d fallen for you in the first place.

You didn’t go quiet. You never faded out. You fought for what was yours.

Later that night, he showed up at your dorm without warning.

You opened the door in a robe, eye masks under your eyes, music playing low behind you.

“Do you want something?” you asked, not stepping aside.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just— We haven’t talked.”

“That’s new.”

He gave you a look. “You’ve been acting like I’m the enemy.”

“Because you’re not on my side.”

A beat of silence.

Then, softer: “I’m just stuck in the middle.”

“Then move.”

You crossed your arms. He looked at you — really looked. Messy bun. No makeup. Annoyed as hell.

Beautiful anyway.

“Don’t make this a war,” he said.

You tilted your head. “Then stop handing her ammo.”

The silence between you stretched. Not hostile — worse. Tense in a way only people who used to love each other could feel.

When you finally turned to look at him, he looked tired. No teasing smile. No cocky charm. Just Satoru. Raw, undecided.

“You don’t see what it’s like,” you said, voice lower now. “Sitting there every day like I’m some relic while she slides into my spot.”

He frowned. “You think that’s what’s happening?”

“No, Satoru. I know that’s what’s happening.”

“She’s not—”

“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to laugh in your face.”

His jaw clenched.

You leaned back in your chair, legs crossed under your robe. “She’s sweet. Quiet. Harmless, right? I know the game. I used to play it.”

“She’s not playing a game.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m losing?”

That silenced him. You watched him, eyes softening just enough to let the truth peek out.

“You don’t look at me the same anymore.”

He didn’t answer. And that was the answer.

You stood up slowly, walking to the mini fridge to grab a bottle of water. Twisting the cap off, you kept your back to him.

“I used to be the only girl you’d skip class for. Remember that? We’d lie in bed all morning, then I’d wear your sweatshirt to practice just to make it obvious.”

“I remember,” he said quietly.

You turned back around, arms folded loosely around your waist. “Now I feel like I’m fighting a war no one told me we were in.”

Satoru finally stepped forward, voice lower. “You think I don’t care about you anymore?”

“I think you’re tired of me. And you’re too cowardly to admit it.”

He flinched at that — not dramatically, but you saw the way his throat tensed.

Then, softly: “You’re wrong.”

“Prove it.”

That hung there, heavy and cold.

He looked at you — really looked. Wet lashes. Bare skin. Red mouth. Sad eyes that still somehow sparkled when they stared him down.

“I miss us,” he said.

You blinked.

He stepped closer, hesitantly brushing your wrist with his fingers. “But you’ve got this armor on now. Like I’m the enemy.”

“You started this war,” you whispered.

“I didn’t think I’d have to choose.”

You swallowed. “But you do.”

He nodded once. You held his gaze a second longer, then turned back to your bed and sat down, curling your knees up beneath you.

Satoru hesitated.

Then slowly, quietly, he joined you — sitting on the floor in front of your bed, leaning back against the frame.

No one spoke. The music still played quietly from your phone speaker, some old Japanese R&B playlist looping in the background.

You reached down, your fingers brushing his shoulder.

Then, slowly — impossibly soft — he leaned in and kissed you.

It was barely even a kiss at first. Just his lips brushing yours, a question wrapped in hesitation. And then your hand slid into his hair, and that was it.

He kissed you again — slower this time, deeper. His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb sweeping just beneath your eye. His lips pressed to yours again, and again, with a hunger that surprised even him — not desperate, but familiar. Like he knew you. Like he had always known this mouth, this rhythm, this exact taste.

You made a soft sound against him, and he moved closer.

Your legs tangled beneath the covers. Your robe loosened slightly at the shoulder, and his hand slid along your waist, warm and steady, not rushing. His fingers gripped the fabric, grounding himself there.

When he pulled back, just a breath away, he kept his forehead resting against yours. His voice was low and hoarse.

“I hate fighting with you.”

You swallowed. “Then stop giving me reasons to.”

“I didn’t know how to handle it,” he admitted. “Everything just got… loud. And she was easy.”

You blinked. “You mean quiet.”

He nodded.

You traced the curve of his ear with your fingertip. “I’m not easy, Satoru.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I never wanted easy.”

He kissed you again — this time slower, like he had all night. You let yourself melt into it, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as his body pressed you gently into the mattress.

It was messy. A little angry. A little sad. But it felt real again. And in that moment — it was enough to stay.

It started with the hallway.

Friday morning. Eighth period break. You were always a little late walking to the cafeteria — part intentional, part habit. You liked people watching you enter.

But today, there was no act. You were calm.

You wore your school sweatshirt slouched off one shoulder and a miniskirt paired with knee-high socks. Hair half-up, gloss shining but simple. Not trying too hard. But you didn’t have to.

You knew he was waiting at the table. Satoru. And this time, he wasn’t looking at the entrance for someone else.

Ren was mid-story when you walked in. Kaito and Jin were arguing about fantasy league stats. Daichi had his head down texting.

Satoru was staring at his drink — until the second you stepped in.

His head lifted instinctively. His eyes followed you, slow, steady, like they didn’t want to blink and miss the moment. And you?

You walked right over to the table, slid into the seat next to him, and draped your arm along the back of his chair like it belonged there.

“Missed me?” you said casually.

He looked at you, smiled. A real one. “Always.”

Across the table, Yui watched quietly. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Her lunch tray was still untouched. Her water bottle had a tight grip around it. Her drawing pad sat unopened in her lap. She kept glancing from you to Satoru like trying to make sense of the math.

But the numbers weren’t adding up. You were back in your seat. And Satoru didn’t even hesitate.

He nudged your leg under the table. You looked over, caught him staring — warm and distracted. You rolled your eyes but didn’t move your leg.

You laughed at one of Ren’s jokes. You stole a fry from Daichi’s plate. You whispered something in Satoru’s ear and made him chuckle mid-sip.

And all the while, Yui sat three spots down, pretending not to notice. But she noticed. Everyone did.

Especially when, just before the bell rang, Satoru reached over and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear like it was nothing.

In the hallway after, you could feel her catching up. The rubber soles of her sneakers too soft to be loud — but you were trained to feel eyes.

“Y/N?”

You stopped, turned.

Yui stood there with her sketchpad hugged tight to her chest.

Her voice was calm. Careful. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just crossed your arms, tilted your head.

Satoru glanced back from where he stood ahead — waiting, watching — but you waved him off.

He nodded slowly and kept walking.

When it was just the two of you, you finally spoke.

“What’s up?”

Yui hesitated, her grip tightening around her notebook.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

You smiled. “But you did.”

“I was just trying to make friends.”

“And you picked my boyfriend?”

Her expression shifted slightly — not angry, not even defensive. Just… confused. Hurt, maybe.

“I didn’t think it would matter. You barely looked at him lately.”

That landed sharper than she probably meant.

But you didn’t flinch. You stepped forward, slow, deliberate — just enough to have to look down into her eyes.

“Here’s the thing,” you said softly. “You don’t have to understand what we are. You just have to remember that we are.”

And with that, you turned and walked away.

Leaving her in the hall with her sketchbook and a stomach full of silence.

The sun was setting behind the gym building, casting long golden shadows across the basketball courts. Practice had ended late. Satoru was walking toward the locker rooms, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair messy, shirt slightly damp with sweat. His jersey clung to his back, and his steps were slow — tired but calm.

Until he heard her voice.

“Satoru!”

He turned.

Yui stood a few feet away, hands nervously gripping the strap of her messenger bag. Her cheeks were flushed — whether from walking fast or nerves, he wasn’t sure.

“Hey,” he said, adjusting his bag. “Everything okay?”

She hesitated, then stepped closer. “Can we talk?”

He didn’t answer right away. The way she was looking at him made his stomach tighten — it was too open, too expectant.

“Just a minute?”

“…Yeah.”

They walked toward the side of the gym where it was quieter, near the old vending machines. It smelled faintly of rubber mats and Gatorade. A few straggling players shouted from inside, but out here, it was still.

Yui finally turned to him.

“I don’t want to make this harder than it needs to be,” she began, voice low. “But I think I deserve to know what’s going on.”

Satoru blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Her voice faltered. “You and Y/N. Yesterday. Today. Everything’s changed.”

He shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking down to the cracked pavement. “Yeah. We’re figuring things out.”

Yui’s brows pulled together. “But I thought—”

She stopped herself. Satoru looked up at her.

“You thought what?”

“I thought you liked me,” she said softly. “Or at least… I thought there was something.”

He stared at her a moment — not cruelly, not even cold. Just... quiet. Honest.

“Yui,” he said carefully. “I like you. You're sweet. You're easy to talk to.”

Her face lit up with hope.

“But,” he continued, “I was never not with Y/N.”

Yui’s expression froze.

“I thought maybe... we were over,” he admitted. “Things got distant. Complicated. But it wasn’t your job to fill that space.”

“You said you wanted me around,” she whispered.

“I did,” he nodded. “And I meant it. But not like that.”

Silence. A bird chirped somewhere nearby. A basketball thudded in the distance.

“You were just being nice,” she finally said, her voice cracking just a little.

He nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry if I led you on.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

“I wasn’t trying to steal you,” she said suddenly. “I just… felt safe with you.”

He gave her a sad smile.

“That’s the thing, Yui. I’ve never been safe. Not with her. Not with anyone.”

She looked away quickly, trying to blink back the sting in her eyes.

Satoru adjusted his bag, standing taller now.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate,” he said gently. “Someone who chooses you all the way.”

And then — he turned, walking off toward the locker rooms, leaving her alone in the golden light.

The evening air was cool and soft, wrapping around you like a quiet promise.

You found Satoru sitting on the low stone wall outside the school gym, alone except for the fading light and the distant hum of the city.

Without thinking, you slipped beside him, your shoulder brushing his.

He glanced at you, eyes catching the last warmth of the sunset.

For a moment, words failed you both.

Then, slowly, Satoru reached out, his hand warm as it slid to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath hitched.

He looked down at your lips, then back to your eyes — searching. You swallowed.

“Can I?”

His nod was the softest thing. Leaning in, your lips met his.

The kiss was gentle at first, a quiet question hanging between you.

Then it deepened — slow and steady, like two halves finally coming together after too much space.

Your hands found his wrists, fingers curling lightly.

He pulled you a little closer, careful, like you might disappear if he wasn’t.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling.

“I missed this,” he whispered.

“Me too,” you said, voice just as soft.

You stayed like that a moment longer — two people tangled in something honest and new and old all at once. And for the first time in days, the noise around you faded completely.

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