#zero table maths

[saatorus]

almost yours — a satoru gojo fic

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

wc — 35.4k (never let me estimate my own word counts again)

read it on ao3

warnings — smut, p in v sex (unprotected and protected), fingering, oral (f receiving), making out, brief 7 minutes in heaven trope (couldn't control myself sorry) tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, kind of unreliable narrator vibes, afab reader, more inaccurate representations of frat parties and possibly frat culture ^_^

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on. He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.” He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then. He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore. Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different. Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges. And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot. So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way. Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra, not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me. It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body. Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up. And then—there’s him. Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts. You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you. 

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets. “I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!” Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.” Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system. He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?” You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.” You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?” He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.” You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs. You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts. And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change. But you know it is. He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly. You look up, startled. “What?” His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?” Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire. He’s still watching you. But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand. Still. You tuck it away. Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night. He won’t. But you will.

–

​​It’s been three years since that night. The one where your heart skittered up your throat at the sound of his laugh, where he’d tugged the ends of your hair and called it pretty, where he’d looked at you like he saw something there. Or maybe he was just being friendly. You over analyze simple interactions with men a little too much.

You’d replayed it for weeks. Obsessively, stupidly. Burned it into your mind like it meant something. But time has a way of softening things, even the sharpest crushes. The ache of it dulled as college rolled on, as you kissed boys who weren’t him, as you got older and started dressing for yourself instead of wondering if he’d notice. Now, you’re sitting cross-legged in Seiko’s childhood bedroom, half in a blanket cocoon, sipping flat soda out of an old anime cup you both used to fight over when you were twelve. The window’s open, the curtains swaying with the breeze, and the room smells like spring air and vanilla body mist. “Okay,” Seiko says, her voice muffled as she flops back dramatically onto her pillows, “I’m literally not kidding anymore. If prices of apartments go up by even one more dollar than the current budget I’m on, I’m just going to live in the campus library like a cryptid.”

You snort. “You’d last two nights before you begged for my airfryer and moisturizer.”

“That is so true,” she groans, throwing a hand over her face. “Wait—why don’t we just move in together? Like… actually. Find a place off-campus. Split the bills. You’re always here anyway, and you hate your housemates. And I wanna get out of this house already. Like, I need to feel like an adult, stat” You blink at her. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Deadass.”

It’s not a bad idea. You are here all the time—your uni ended up being like twenty minutes from Seiko’s family home, and when your dorm got too loud or your brain got too tired, she always had a spare blanket and instant noodles ready for you. Half your stuff’s already in her closet. Living with Seiko wouldn’t be hard. You’ve survived sleep-deprived all-nighters, food poisoning, two breakups, and a disastrous eyebrow waxing incident together. An apartment feels like a natural next step. “I mean, yeah,” you say, stretching your legs out on the bed, “I’d be down. But only if I get the good side of the fridge.”

“You don’t even cook!”

“Exactly. So I deserve extra space for my stash of thirty minute butter chicken and diet coke.”

“Fair point, the thirty minute butterchicken has been one of your greatest finds at the store yet,” she nods solemnly. It’s easy like this. Girl talk, real talk. The kind that only comes after years of shared notebooks and late-night crying and stupid dances in the hallway. You’re mid-scroll on your phone, looking up open listings, when Seiko suddenly straightens up with a weird look on her face.

“Oh shit.” You glance over. “What?”

“I just remembered—my mum texted me this morning… Satoru’s flight from Japan is today.” You freeze, thumb hovering mid-air. “Seiko.”

“I swear I thought it was next week! But turns out she meant this Sunday, not next.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper, heart doing something traitorous in your chest.

She cringes. “Sorryyy. It’s not like he’s crashing in this room. He’s taking the guest one downstairs.”

“That’s not the point,” you mutter, flopping back into the pillows like the dramatic main character you are. “I need, like, mental prep. A warning! A buffer zone!”

“It’s been three years,” she reminds you, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not still—”

“I’m not.” You cut her off quickly, sitting up. “I’m not. I got over it.” You say it with the conviction of someone who has—not just because time passed, but because you actually did the emotional legwork. You remember how you’d finally told Seiko about your crush a few months after Satoru had flown out for that scholarship program. It was during a late-night snack run—Melonpan and slurpee in hand, parked outside the 7/11 under shitty yellow streetlights. Your voice had cracked halfway through the confession. “I think I had a thing for your brother,” you’d said, casual in that fake-casual way. “Like, a crush-crush.” And Seiko, bless her heart, didn’t freak out or make it weird. She just shrugged and sipped her drink like you’d told her the weather.

“Yeah,” she’d said. “That was kinda obvious.”

“Obvious?” you’d gawked. She’d snorted. “You stared at him like he was a Greek god who worked part-time at Uniqlo. And you got aggressively nice every time he walked into the room.” After that, the dam kind of burst. You ended up telling her everything—every humiliating thing you’d done in the name of Satoru Gojo. Like the time you spent twenty minutes curling your eyelashes before a family barbecue, only to blink so aggressively at him that your contact lens folded in half. Or how you once tripped over her cat trying to sprint to the bathroom when you heard his voice in the hallway—because you hadn’t shaved your legs and you simply could not be perceived like that. Seiko had listened to it all with a mixture of horror, amusement, and deeply affectionate judgment.

“You’re disgusting,” she’d said once, fondly. “But you’re my disgusting best friend, so I guess I have to love you anyway.” Now, three years later, you smirk a little at the memory. “I was like sixteen,” you say, brushing invisible dust off your shirt. “And he was older and cooler and looked good in white t-shirts. It wasn’t exactly hard to crush on him.” 

Seiko hums. “You also wore a push-up bra every time you knew he’d be home.”

“Don’t slut-shame me for being sixteen and desperate for attention,” you say with a grin.

“You also practiced putting on eyeliner with a spoon.”

“I hate that you remember everything.”

“You told me your soul left your body when he looked at your knees once.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up.”

“You tried to use cherry lip gloss as blush.”

“That one’s valid. TikTok taught me that.” Seiko laughs and tosses a pillow at you, and the room’s full of that deep, cozy joy that only comes when someone’s known you long enough to remember your awkward era and still wants to live with you. It’s quiet for a second after that. The breeze flutters in, catching on the posters still stuck to her walls—old anime prints, boy band photos from your middle school years, a collage of polaroids with all your worst angles and best memories. You sigh and glance at her. “So… what do we do if he actually shows up?” She shrugs. “We act normal. We’re adults now. You’re not gonna combust from seeing his stupid face again.” You both dissolve into uncontrollable laughter again, that warm, stupid haze settling in the room like an old blanket—the kind woven from late-night confessions and shared snacks, music blasting from your phones, and way too many years of embarrassing stories. And even with all the teasing, the grossed-out big sister act, the ridiculous confessions—you know she gets it. You’re not that girl anymore. Satoru Gojo might be coming back tonight. But you’ve grown up. Gotten your heart broken a few times. Learned how to kiss without thinking about someone else's older brother. You’re not that girl anymore. But you do still kind of hope your eyeliner holds up.

–

The first sign that something’s changed is the sound of the door. Not a knock—of course not. Gojo Satoru never knocked in his own house. It’s the familiar click-clack of the handle Seiko’s parents never replaced, followed by the solid thud of shoes on hardwood and the faint rustle of bags. And then, casually:

“Yo! I’m home!”

Your stomach drops. Seiko, still mid-sip of her Diet Coke, just blinks at you from across the living room. You’re sitting criss-cross on the rug, wearing a hoodie that may or may not have a bleach stain and socks with cartoon strawberries on them. The TV is paused on some half-watched dating show, and you’re surrounded by empty chip bags and your laptop, still open on a tab labeled apartments near campus cheap please.

“…You said tonight,” you whisper, already scrambling to smooth your hair down. “I thought it was tonight!” Seiko whisper-hisses back. “Mom must’ve meant this afternoon!” And before you can gather the scraps of your dignity and disappear up the stairs, he’s already in the room. Gojo Satoru. In the flesh. Three years older. And apparently, bulkier than God intended. He's in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and you hate that the first thing you notice is how tight the sleeves are around his biceps. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Forearms that probably didn’t look like that the last time you saw him. There’s a duffel slung over one shoulder and a Lawson bag in the other. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

He stops short in the doorway when he sees you. “Oh,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t know you were here.” You go stiff. “Yeah. Hey.” It’s weird. It’s so weird. You haven’t seen him since that summer—since the night before he left for that international scholarship program. And now he’s standing there like no time has passed, like his shoulders didn’t double in size and like your brain isn’t short-circuiting from sheer secondhand awkwardness. Satoru looks at Seiko. “You didn’t read my texts again, did you?”

“They were blurry photos of vending machine sandwiches,” she deadpans. “Forgive me for not decoding that.”

He shrugs, dropping his bags to the floor with a loud thump, going over to trap his sister into a bear hug, smirking when she squealed and said something about not being able to breathe.  “I said I was coming today.”

“No, you said, ‘soon.’”

“Well, I meant today.” There’s a beat of silence. You try not to look directly at him, as if eye contact will cause some sort of emotional combustion. You can feel how out-of-place you suddenly are—socks on the wrong foot, posture too stiff, heart hammering in your chest like you’re sixteen again. He looks at you once Seiko has scrambled out of his grip, hands shoved into his pockets. Not weirdly. Just… like he’s trying to remember something. 

“So how’s college? Seiko keeps me updated on the entire experience, but how’ve you been finding it? Big jump from highschool?” He asks, voice casual in that way that somehow makes it worse.

You nod. “Yeah. Um, good! Nice, I like it. Fun, even.” He raises his eyebrows slightly, impressed.

 “Nice. What’s your major?”

“Psych,” you say, then immediately hate how your voice goes just a little too high on the “-ch.” You clear your throat. “Psychology.” He nods again, the way people do when they don’t actually know what to say next. “Cool. Lots of reading?”

“Yeah. Um, way too much.” You try to laugh a little, like a normal person, but it comes out thin. You shift your weight. He shifts his. Somewhere behind you, a fly buzzes. “How was Japan?” you ask, because someone has to fill the silence before your ears implode from the pressure. He perks up a little, like he’s glad for the safer topic. “It was good. Really cool. I was in Tokyo for the most part, did this exchange thing with Todai—Tokyo University.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They had me in this physics program for my undergrad, working with some grad students on quantum optics stuff.”

You blink. “Quantum what now?” He grins, and you hate that it's still the same cocky lopsided thing it was at seventeen. “Lasers.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “Mostly just a lot of math and equipment malfunctions. The usual.” You nod, because you have absolutely nothing to add to that, unless your psych notes on Pavlov’s dogs suddenly become relevant to international laser research. The silence creeps back in, loud as ever. “Cool,” you say, again. Your default setting, apparently. He nods. “Yeah.” 

You both just stand there for a second too long, not quite looking at each other. Then—

“Wow, this isn’t awkward at all,” Seiko deadpans as she looks between you both, sipping her drink with all the grace of a sitcom character arriving to save a scene. You both instinctively reply, “Shut up,” in unison. Which only makes it so much worse.

Seiko just raises an eyebrow at you like you’re the one being weird, and mutters something about grabbing a snack before disappearing into the kitchen again. And then it’s just you and Satoru again. Standing in the middle of the living room. A full foot apart but worlds away. He shifts his weight, glancing around like he’s re-familiarizing himself with the space. The rug. The shelves. The old family photos that haven’t moved in years.It’s weird seeing him here again. Weirder seeing him like this. Older. Bigger. Built like he’s been bench pressing trucks for fun. His hair is a little longer now, swept back lazily, an undercut visible, and his whole presence feels heavier—not in a bad way. Just more… there. Same face. Same dumb grin. But it doesn’t feel like the same person anymore. And god, this is awkward. He clears his throat. “Well. I’m gonna shower.”

“Cool,” you say, like a robot malfunctioning. And trying not to imagine him naked. In the shower. Water running down his built body. He grabs his bag again, nods, and heads upstairs. Only when he’s gone do you let your whole body collapse back into the couch. Seiko reappears two seconds later with a bowl of cereal. You groan into your hands.

 “What the hell was that.”

She chews. “That was my brother. Looking like a protein powder ad.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. Did I act up?”

“You said ‘cool.’ Like someone’s dad.” You scowl. “Okay, well you forgot to mention he turned into a brick wall with legs.”

“Gross. That’s my brother.”

“You’re the one who said protein powder!”

“Yeah, and you looked like you were going to pass out just from seeing his arms.” You huff, closing your laptop screen with a huff.

“Shut up.”

–

It’s the week before uni starts again. The tail end of your well-earned university break—half spent in your disaster of an apartment with even more disastrous flatmates (you genuinely can’t even get into how bad it is without spiraling), and half in the cozy, warm bubble of your best friend Seiko’s family home. You still don’t know why she ever wants to move out of here. The fridge is always full, the floors are always clean, her parents adore you, and the water pressure in the upstairs bathroom makes you want to marry the plumbing. But there is one caveat to all this domestic bliss. Being in the house of your gorgeous, lovely best friend means now constantly being around her equally gorgeous, equally lovely older brother. Now, to be fair, you said you were over it. The crush. The obsession. The years-long pining that began in childhood and ended somewhere between your first college situationship and your second real heartbreak. It’s been three years since he left for Japan. Three years since you confessed the whole dumb thing to Seiko—who just blinked at you and said, “Yeah? It was so obvious.” Three years since you mentally filed away every mortifying thing you’d ever done in the name of impressing Satoru Gojo.

(“Remember when you wore that way-too-small bra and couldn’t breathe the whole day?” Seiko had giggled. “Or when you put on lipgloss just to ask him what time it was?” “Shut up,” you groaned, face down in her bed. “No, you shut up,” she’d laughed. “It’s endearing.”)

And it was fine. You were fine. You got older. You had experiences. You weren’t that girl anymore. But you’re also just a girl. A really hormonal, 20-year-old girl. With eyes. And a pulse. And a deeply cursed memory of the way he used to ruffle your hair like you were some scrappy little sister. So yeah. It’s complicated. Satoru Gojo has been back from Japan for a few weeks now—and oh boy, had he made his presence known. The living room and his upstairs bedroom have basically become dual command centers of chaos, filled with overlapping noise and endless energy. He’s constantly switching between the two, dragging Suguru along for the ride—also freshly returned and, much to Seiko’s unspoken delight, always over. There’s laughter echoing from the TV, loud cackling over dumb reels, or occasional testosterone-fueled howling whenever they’re deep in some Fortnite deathmatch or FIFA playoff. Sometimes you walk into the kitchen and there’s a stranger raiding the fridge. Sometimes you step into the hallway and trip over Satoru’s gym bag, which weighs more than your trauma. And god—he’s jacked now. Not like, oh he works out sometimes jacked. More like, I could throw a car if I wanted to jacked. Broad shoulders. Arms that stretch his t-shirts in unfair ways. Thighs that should be illegal in those loose basketball shorts. You hate that you’ve noticed. You hate that you still kind of care.

You’re coping. Barely. One afternoon, you’re sprawled on the living room couch with Seiko, sharing a packet of sour gummies and flipping between bad reality TV shows when the front door bangs open. “Back from war,” Suguru announces, tossing his keys on the entry table like he owns the place. “We got slushies,” Satoru says, trailing behind him, arms full of way too many drinks. “Someone help, I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Oh my god, why’d you get six?” Seiko says, hopping up. 

“They had a buy-three-get-three deal,” he shrugs. “Math, baby.” You linger behind her, offering a casual wave as Satoru spots you. He nods back, all easy smiles and post-gym glow, looking annoyingly good in a dark tank and sweats. His hair’s messier than usual, like he towel-dried it in the car and gave up halfway through. The four of you end up lounging in the living room, Suguru and Satoru on the floor, you and Seiko curled up on the couch. Suguru’s the first to start shit. “Remember when you two used to pretend to be spies and sneak snacks from the kitchen?” he grins, pointing at you and Seiko. “That was your idea,” Seiko fires back. “Yeah, but you were the one who tried to crawl under the dining table and got stuck between the legs of a chair.” You’re halfway through a laugh when Satoru adds, “She cried for ten minutes. Thought she was gonna die under there.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Seiko says, throwing a gummy at him. He snorts, catching it effortlessly. “I saved you. That makes me a hero.”

“She only cried ‘cause you told her cockroaches resided in the legs of that chair and they were gonna crawl all over her,” you say with a giggle. Satoru turns to you, mock offended. “I was building childhood resilience.” You all laugh again, the energy light and familiar and buzzing. But then—

Suguru smirks. “Honestly, the way you two used to follow him around like ducklings—”

“I did not,” you start, horrified.

“Sure,” Satoru grins, easy and warm. “You were like a little sister. Like I had two little sisters.”

Your heart doesn’t shatter or anything. You’re not a teenager anymore. But something still winces inside you. A slow, dull ache. Not because you wanted him to say something else—but because that confirms it. All the years of wondering, of analyzing every glance or moment, just shrinks down into a single, harmless label.

Like a little sister.

You catch Seiko’s eye for a second. She doesn’t say anything, but you know she saw the exact second your expression faltered. Back upstairs later, you’re sprawled on her bed again, half scrolling your phone, half dissociating into the pattern on her ceiling. “Hey,” she says softly, nudging you with her toe.

You blink. “What?” She winces, dramatic. “I am so sorry. If the guy I liked said that about me I would simply pass away.” You groan into her blanket. “Seiko, stop.”

“No like—why’s he so dumb? He didn’t mean it like that, I swear—he just says the first thing that pops into his head sometimes, you know how he is—”

“I don’t like him anymore,” you say firmly, sitting up. “Seriously. It’s not that deep.” But your younger self stings a little. Because now you know. It’s all been filed neatly into kid stuff. Little sister things. Nothing that ever reached him the way it reached you. You’re not hurt. You’re just… grounded. Suddenly and irrevocably grounded. Seiko flops next to you, throwing an arm over her eyes. “He’s an idiot. A weird, gym-rat, physics-nerd idiot. Weirdo. Total weirdo.”

You snort. “That’s a lot of hyphens.”

“He deserves them.”

–

The first week of uni starts with a heatwave. Everything feels sticky. Pavement melting under your shoes, tote bags sticking to your shoulder, the air around campus thick and weirdly scented with iced coffee and sunscreen and overpriced cologne. Your phone keeps warning you about the UV index. Every lecture hall feels either suffocating or like a freezer on full blast. It's a miracle you haven't already dropped out. Life feels like it's slipping back into place—until it doesn't. Because now Satoru Gojo is here. At your university. I mean, obviously, he was bound to. Something about an honours year. You knew it was coming. You’d heard Seiko mention it offhandedly over break. “He transferred in with Suguru, their credits aligned or whatever, I don’t know. Something about physics and—oh my god, are you listening?”

You’d nodded, but your stomach had dipped. And now he’s just… here. It starts small. A glimpse in the courtyard during the week. You’re sitting cross-legged under a shady tree with your friends when you hear someone laugh loud and obnoxiously behind you. You turn. He’s leaning against a bench, sunglasses perched on his head, grinning while talking to some third-years like he’s known them forever. His presence is so big. He’s always taken up space—but now it feels more deliberate. Like he knows it. Like he expects it. You don’t wave. He doesn’t see you. That should be the end of it. But then it happens again. In the campus gym, where you’re trying to kill time on a treadmill before your next tutorial, and he walks by, all sweat and tank top and biceps that really need to calm down. He’s fist-bumping the guy at the front desk. Later, you hear one of the girls in your class whisper, “That’s Gojo Satoru, right? The hottie in that physics thing in Japan?”

Of course he was. It becomes a pattern. You don’t even need to look for him—he just keeps showing up. In the science wing, at the club fair where he somehow ends up manning the booth for the rock climbing society and the anime club. He’s basically an unofficial campus ambassador by week two. People know him. Your university, for all its massive sprawl and fancy name, is crawling with alumni from your high school. It’s like a silent, unspoken network—people recognize each other, even if they don’t acknowledge it. It means Satoru doesn’t have to try that hard. The guys already like him. The girls—well. You hear his name a lot. For obvious reasons. Floating through stairwells. Written in notebooks with dumb little hearts. There are rumors, already, that he’s seeing someone from the bio department.

You tell yourself you don’t care. And for the most part—you really don’t. Your classes are packed. Your workload’s heavy. You’re constantly flitting from the library to lectures to the café where you work weekends, barely keeping your head above water. And still, sometimes, in the middle of it all—you’ll catch him across campus. Headphones in. Laughing with Suguru. Buying a stupid energy drink at the vending machine by the student union. Sometimes you think he catches you too. But you never talk. You see Seiko more often. She’s in a few overlapping courses with you, and sometimes you sit together on the lawn between lectures, splitting snacks, complaining about professors. She doesn’t bring up her brother unless you do. You never do. 

“Did you get that neuro reading done?” she asks one day. You nod, eyes flicking past her—to the quad where Gojo’s tossing a football lazily with Suguru and some guy from your econ lecture. Seiko follows your gaze, then groans, muttering, “God. He really is everywhere.” You snort. “He’s like a university cryptid.”

“Don’t give him that power.” 

You smile. But your fingers twist in your lap. You don’t say it, but part of you feels it—like you’re in the wrong timeline. Like you’re living in the aftermath of a story that never got its ending. He’s so comfortable here. Like he’s always belonged. Meanwhile, you’re still figuring out how to breathe around the memory of a crush you swore you let go. The closest you get to speaking is when you’re leaving your psych lecture one afternoon, earbuds in, digging for your sunglasses. You bump into someone’s arm and look up—and it’s him. He blinks. Then flashes you that old, toothy grin. “Oh. Hey.” You freeze, smile stiff. “Hey.”

He opens his mouth, like he might say something else—but then someone calls his name from behind, and he glances over his shoulder. “Catch you later, yeah?” You nod, and he’s gone. It’s stupid. So stupid. You shouldn't feel anything about a moment that small. But it stays with you, hours later. The heat of the hallway. The faint smell of his cologne. The way your voice felt weird in your own throat. You walk to your next class and pretend your heart isn’t fluttering like it used to when you were fifteen. You’re older now. You’re different. But maybe some things still live under your skin, soft and stupid and waiting.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Seiko texts you last minute asking if you can drop off the notes from your shared class.

can’t believe I forgot my entire folder at yours pls drop it off if u can i’ll owe u one xoxo

You type out a “dumbass ho” and stuff the folder into your tote bag. It’s not a big deal. Her house is barely a fifteen-minute walk from campus, and besides—her mum usually answers the door and immediately offers you snacks, which is always a win. What you don’t expect is for the door to open and reveal him.

Satoru. He’s in a black t-shirt and grey sweats, his hair a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times. There’s a faint shine to his skin, maybe from a workout, and he’s holding a water bottle like he was in the middle of something when the doorbell rang. “Hey,” he says. Just that. A flat, casual hey. Like he wasn’t someone who used to give you heart palpitations for fun. You blink, pulse suddenly louder in your ears than it has any right to be. “Uh—hi. I brought Seiko’s notes.” He nods and steps aside, letting you in. You’re immediately hit with the familiar scent of the house: something citrusy and comforting, and now… faintly laced with deodorant and aftershave. “She’s out,” he says, shutting the door behind you. “Went to grab some stuff from the store. She should be back soon.” You clutch the folder like it’s a lifeline. “Oh. Cool. I can just leave these in her room or something.”

He shrugs, walks past you, heading toward the kitchen. “You can wait if you want. She said she wouldn’t be long.” You follow hesitantly, standing awkwardly near the dining table while he grabs a glass and fills it with water. There’s a quiet tension hanging in the air. Not heavy, not hostile—just… weird. Like you’re both aware of the fact that you used to be on casual, even teasing terms, but now there’s too much time and space between then and now. 

“You want water or something?” he offers, without looking. You shake your head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He leans against the counter, takes a slow sip. The silence settles again, this odd in-between where neither of you knows how to talk like normal people. Then, he glances at you, eyes flicking briefly from head to toe. “You used to be shorter.” You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re still short,” he adds, lips twitching slightly. “Just. Less so.” You stare at him, genuinely unsure how to respond. It’s not an insult, exactly, but it also feels like a trap. If you protest too much, it’s pick-me behavior. If you act like you don’t care, it’s awkward. If you joke back, does that make it banter? Are we… bantering? You end up huffing out a weird little half-laugh, scratching your arm. “Cool. Glad my growth spurt was almost imperceptible.” He actually chuckles at that, a small sound that catches you off guard. “Didn’t say it wasn’t appreciated. You’re like—what? An inch taller?”

“Two and a half inches more,” you correct, instinctively defensive.

“That’s generous.”

 You roll your eyes and plop your tote bag down onto the chair, trying to play it cool despite the heat in your cheeks. “Glad to know the years haven’t dulled your talent for stating obvious facts.” He grins, and for a second—just a second—it feels almost normal again. But then it dips back into silence, and you both shift awkwardly in the space. He drinks more water. You pick at the strap of your bag. “So,” he says eventually, voice mild. “You’re studying psych, right?” You nod. “Yeah.” He nods back. “That’s cool. You like it?” You pause, debating how honest to be. “It’s… interesting. Not as glam as people think it is. A lot of research. Stats. Trying not to spiral about your own life because of 2000 word essays in the middle of cognitive lectures.” That earns you another short laugh. “Sounds about right.”

You look up at him, heart thudding in a weird rhythm. “What about you? Japan looked cool from the stuff you posted.” He shrugs, but there’s something almost sheepish about it. “It was good. Managed to complete my undergrad, thankfully. Lot of weird hours. Labs. Professors that hated when I was late. Which was often.” You smile, despite yourself. “Shocker.”

“I know. Me? Unpunctual?” He gives a mock gasp. The words settle in the air, kind of dumb and light—but they cut through the awkward tension just enough that something unspoken slips into place. Like, okay. This isn’t the same as before. But it’s not totally broken, either. Still, you’re hyperaware of every breath, every glance. This close to him, it’s impossible not to notice the slight sheen on his arms, the veins on his forearms, the fact that the Gojo Satoru who once teased you about having mismatched socks is now built like a Marvel superhero who occasionally gets mistaken for a Greek statue. He’s being nice. Not in a flirtatious way. Not in a performative way. Just… like a person. A guy who knows you used to be closer, but isn’t sure how to bridge the gap. A guy who probably doesn’t know you once practiced your signature with his last name in the margins of your math notebook

The front door creaks then, and you both turn as Seiko walks in carrying two tote bags. You both glance at each other, then away, and Seiko bursts into laughter. “God, you both are so weird. I hate it.” You shoot her a look. “You’re the one who made me come over because you forgot your notes.”

“Okay, but I had a lot on my mind,” she says airily, waving you off as she kicks off her shoes.

“You left a folder the size of a small child on my kitchen table.”

“I was in a rush!”

“Doing what? Lying horizontally on my floor and watching edits of Business Proposal?”

She gasps. “That was for my mental health. You know how much better I feel after seeing Ahn Hyo-seop.” Satoru, still leaning in the doorway with his water bottle, snorts. “Nah, she’s been like this forever. You’re braver than I am for entertaining her.” You blink, caught slightly off guard, and glance at him. There’s the faintest grin playing on his lips, like he’s enjoying this a little too much. Seiko glares at him. “Excuse me? Who asked you?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, casual and maddeningly smug, “if she forgot a folder, you know it’s probably still under a pile of her clothes or shoved between couch cushions or something. Classic Seiko behavior.” You can’t help it—you snort, loud and involuntary, and cover your mouth with your hand. “That’s actually so true.”

“Traitor!” Seiko gasps, swatting your shoulder. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Oh no,” Satoru says, mock-serious, “she’s right to switch teams. You’ve been doing this since elementary school. Remember when you swore you didn’t lose that permission slip and it turned out you’d used it to doodle hearts all over?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME,” she cries, dramatically throwing her hands in the air.

“You drew Suguru in a wedding veil,” he adds helpfully. You’re laughing now, a real laugh, the kind that warms your cheeks and loosens your spine. There’s something stupidly delightful about the fact that he’s joking with you. Siding with you. Even if it’s at Seiko’s expense. Even if it’s meaningless. But still. A twinge. A fluttery, ridiculous little swell of something in your chest that you stamp down before it can fully form. 

“Oh my god, I actually hate you both,” Seiko mutters, dragging you toward the stairs by your wrist.

“You love us,” Satoru calls after you.

“No, I tolerate you,” she calls back.

“Same difference.” 

You glance back one more time at him before Seiko hauls you up the stairs. He’s leaning against the bannister now, looking amused, eyes flicking briefly to meet yours—and for a moment, it’s not awkward or distant. It’s just… kind of nice. Then you’re being pulled into Seiko’s bedroom, and the door shuts behind you, cutting off whatever weird, fluttery feeling had started to creep up your spine.

–

"I swear," Seiko groans, shutting her laptop dramatically and tossing it onto the floor. "If I have to look at one more studio apartment listed as a ‘cozy urban oasis,’ I'm gonna cry." You snort, lying on your back and tossing a scrunchie at her head. "Maybe we should just live in a van. Free rent. Adventure. Character building."

"Shut up," she says, batting the scrunchie away. "You're too high maintenance to live in a van." You gasp, putting a hand to your chest. "Excuse me?"

She grins wickedly. "You need, like, twelve skincare products and two duvets to function."

"That’s just basic self-care," you argue, sitting up on your elbows. "You’re the one who needs complete silence and two white noise machines to sleep."

You open your mouth to throw another insult when the door creaks open without a knock, and in strolls Satoru, looking wholly unbothered, as usual. He’s wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair is messier than usual, like he just woke up from a nap or something. You really wish you didn’t notice how broad he looks now, or how easily he takes up the space when he steps in like he owns the place.

"Hey," he says casually, rifling through the desk drawers without really explaining himself. "Either of you seen my charger?" Seiko doesn’t even glance at him. "Which one?"

"The black one with the weird fray at the end. It's hanging on by a thread but it's my favorite." You shrug from the bed. "Haven't seen it." He makes a noncommittal sound and keeps searching. Seiko sighs dramatically, flopping onto her back. "God, I hate apartment hunting. It's literally the worst thing ever."

"It’s really not that bad," you say mildly.

"You're just zen because you don’t have to live with your parents and have them coddle you about coming home at 8pm," she snaps playfully. You’re about to argue when Satoru straightens up, tossing something on her desk—some random cable that’s not his charger—and says offhandedly, "I've got a friend who’s trying to lease out his place near the uni." Both your heads snap toward him.

"What," Seiko says, sitting up fast. He leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. "Yeah. It's a big three-bedroom. Nice kitchen, close to campus. Think he’s desperate to find people soon." You and Seiko exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Wait, close to campus?" she says, voice climbing in excitement. "That's exactly what we’ve been looking for!" Satoru shrugs. "I can text him. Tell him you’re interested." Seiko practically bounces in place. "Yes, yes, please. Tell him! Oh my god, you're a lifesaver." Satoru smirks a little. "You’re welcome. Bow down to me later."

You roll your eyes. "Don’t give him more of an ego, Seiko."

"I can’t help it," she says sweetly. "He’s doing the bare minimum and yet it feels like a miracle." Satoru scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You’re lucky I even mentioned it. I could’ve just let you two suffer and die in a moldy shoebox."

"You're such a hero," you say dryly.

"Finally, some respect," he says, flashing you a wink—so casual you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Seiko claps her hands together. "Okay, okay, when can we see it?"

"I’ll text him now," Satoru says, pushing off the doorframe. He’s halfway into the hall before he calls over his shoulder, "Also, I’m charging a finder’s fee." You grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits the doorframe and flops pathetically to the ground. You hear him laughing as he disappears down the hall. Seiko flops back onto the bed with a loud, theatrical sigh. "Holy shit, what if this is actually it?" You grin. "I'd be shocked if Satoru managed to help us not end up in a hellhole." 

The two of you dive back into excited chatter, tossing around potential decorating plans and screaming every few minutes out of pure relief that maybe, finally, the end of the apartment hunt is in sight.

–

A few days later, you’re sitting shotgun in Satoru’s ridiculously new, ridiculously shiny car—some black BMW that still smells like leather and money. It purrs like a cat when he taps the gas, and honestly, you're a little scared to breathe too hard in it in case you somehow depreciate its value. "Bro," Seiko says from the backseat, arms spread dramatically across the leather, "this is actually disgusting. Why does your car feel richer than my entire bloodline? And that’s saying something because I am part of your bloodline."

Satoru just shrugs, flashing a cocky grin as he taps the steering wheel. "Ask Dad. Mid-life crisis purchase. Shit happens when you graduate at the top of your class, Sei." You huff out a laugh, dragging your fingers across the touchscreen console, which looks like it could operate a small spaceship. You don’t even want to think about how many zeros were in the price tag. The city buzzes by outside the tinted windows, everything sharp and golden under the late afternoon sun. You watch familiar streets blur past, a little knot of excitement tightening in your chest.

Soon, you think. Soon no more nightmare flatmates. No more coming home to overflowing sinks and strangers passed out on the couch. No more psychotic flatmates who think doing the dishes once a week is a favor to humanity. No more passive-aggressive notes stuck to the bathroom mirror. No more coming home to blaring music and weird smells you don't want to investigate. Just you, your own space, peace. You can almost taste it. Seiko leans forward between the seats, tapping your shoulder. "Dude, we're literally gonna cry when we see it. Manifesting washer-dryer units. Manifesting no mold in the bathroom."

You grin. "Manifesting no one stealing my milk." Satoru snorts. "Your standards are tragic."

"Let us dream, Satoru," Seiko says. He just chuckles, pulling smoothly into the parking lot of a nice-looking building not far from campus. It's clean, modern but not pretentious, with a little courtyard in the middle and wide, sunlit balconies. Way better than anything you’d expected. He swings into a visitor spot and kills the engine. "Alright, my buddy’s inside. He's leasing out the place." You all pile out. Seiko practically skips toward the entrance, phone already out to take pictures, while you hang back a little, taking in the quiet street, the trimmed hedges, the general non-crackhead vibe of the neighborhood. The apartment is on the third floor. When the door swings open, you swear you hear angels singing. It’s big. Really big. Real hardwood floors. Tall ceilings. Massive windows that flood the space with light. A kitchen that doesn't look like it was last updated during World War II. Three bedrooms, a big open living area, and even a tiny balcony perfect for pretending you’re a functional adult with plants.

You and Seiko spin in place, speechless. "This is...this is so nice," you whisper. Seiko’s already got her phone out, snapping pictures. "We’re gonna die here. In a good way." Satoru leans casually in the doorway. "Glad you approve." You trail behind Seiko as she bounces around, peeking into bedrooms, mentally decorating hers already. Then, inevitably, the real conversation starts. "So, about rent," Satoru says, scratching the back of his neck. You and Seiko both turn to him warily, like two cats expecting a spray bottle. He names the number.

You feel your stomach lurch. It’s...more than you were hoping. Not impossible, but definitely more than ramen-once-a-day money. More like maybe-don’t-eat-at-all money. Seiko glances at you, and you can see the panic flicker across her face too. But before either of you can spiral, she speaks up quickly:

"It's fine! My parents said they'd cover my share for the first three months," Seiko says, waving her hand like it's no big deal. "Graduation-slash-moving-out present, apparently."

You blink at her. "Seriously?" She nods. "Yeah. They said it’s, like, a 'head start' thing. They’re even willing to pitch in a little extra for the whole place while we get settled—you know, just until we find better jobs and stuff." You stare at her for a second, like she’s speaking another language. "Wait, so... they’re covering you, and kind of helping me too?" Seiko shrugs like it’s obvious. "Just a little. Like a safety net. They trust us to take over fully after a couple months." You let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Three months. That’s enough time. Enough time to fix your mess of a resume, beg for more shifts, find something—anything—that paid decently near campus. Maybe you could finally stop living off sad frozen dumplings and caffeine pills. Seiko grins, reading the relief on your face like it’s printed in bold. "We’ll survive," she declares proudly. "You and me. Broke, but beautiful." You laugh under your breath, some part of your chest unclenching just a little. For once, the future doesn’t seem like this endless, terrifying drop-off. Satoru watches the two of you like you're some strange species he's never encountered before. His sunglasses are pushed into his hair, and the way his mouth twitches makes it clear he’s fighting a smile.

"You two are so dramatic," he says, shaking his head. "You’re literally way worse. You threw a tantrum when you found out dad was only paying your rent for only six months," Seiko fires back immediately. "That wasn’t a tantrum, dad promised me two years of rent." Satoru corrects dryly, but the embarrassed glint in his eye makes you glance away to make him feel less embarrassed, smiling helplessly. Rich people and their problems. It’s stupid, really, how something as small as that—him standing there, joking like it’s normal, like you’re all still those dumb kids from the neighborhood—makes you feel a little lighter.

–

The day you move in feels half like the best day of your life, and half like you're dying of exhaustion. The morning is a mess of cardboard, duct tape, and terrible weather—hot, sticky, humid. Sweat drips down your back even though you’re barely halfway through loading the cars. Seiko’s parents showed up for a little bit to help, cooing over their baby girl finally moving out, but they eventually left after a teary goodbye (on Mrs. Gojo’s part) and about thirty different "don't forget to eat real food" speeches.

Now it’s just you, Seiko, and Satoru. Satoru, who pulled up in his shiny Lexus and practically leapt out in gym shorts and a loose black t-shirt, looking like an actual paid model for casual athleticism. You tell yourself you don’t notice.

(You absolutely do.)

Your crappy old car is packed to the brim, and the front yard is scattered with the overflow—boxes stacked on the grass, a battered mini fridge, a whole pile of miscellaneous IKEA furniture Seiko impulsively bought off Facebook Marketplace. You and Seiko buzz with nervous excitement, running on adrenaline and bad convenience store coffee, practically vibrating as you unload your lives onto the pavement. "This is so real," Seiko keeps saying every five minutes, grinning like she's won the lottery. "We’re actually doing it!"

You grin back, feeling it too—that breathless, giddy thrill of something new beginning. Something that’s yours. But then reality slaps you in the face in the form of a very heavy box. You crouch next to it, trying to psych yourself up. It’s your kitchen stuff—or, at least, you think it is. It’s all starting to blur together at this point. You steel yourself, grip the bottom—and immediately regret everything. The thing doesn’t budge. You grunt, trying to shift it with your knee, and that's when you hear it:

A low chuckle behind you. "Need a hand?" Satoru drawls, sounding far too entertained. You whip your head around, heat rushing to your face. "I'm fine," you lie, through gritted teeth, already feeling your muscles screaming in protest. Satoru doesn’t even argue. He just strolls over, leans down, and—

Lifts it. Like it’s nothing. Like it weighs less than your backpack. You stare, mouth slightly open, as he straightens up effortlessly, cradling the box under one toned arm like it’s a loaf of bread. Jesus Christ. You hate yourself, genuinely, for how visceral your reaction is. Your brain short-circuits for a good three seconds—because what the hell, why is seeing a man carry heavy things so biologically attractive? It’s purely instinct, you tell yourself fiercely. Caveman brain. Biology. Nothing more. You absolutely, categorically, do not have a crush on Satoru Gojo.

(Not anymore.)

You huff out a noise—maybe a laugh, maybe a noise of despair, you’re not even sure—and scramble to grab a lighter box to follow him up the driveway. Inside, the apartment smells like fresh paint and possibility. The living room is bright, sun streaming through the wide windows, casting everything in a gold glow. The walls are still a little bare, and the kitchen is empty except for a lonely-looking microwave on the counter, but it already feels like it’s waiting for you. You and Seiko move like hyperactive squirrels, flitting from room to room, deciding what goes where, squealing when you realize your rooms have actual closets, screaming a little when you realize there’s a working dishwasher. Satoru mostly hangs back, ferrying the heavier stuff inside with annoying ease. You catch him watching once or twice—an amused, almost fond look in his eye—but every time you glance over, he just rolls his eyes like he’s too cool to care.

"Where do you want this?" he asks at one point, gesturing with a huge box labeled MISC (HELP) in your handwriting. "Uh—living room," you say, already bent over digging through another box. You don’t even look up. You also don’t notice the way the pretty cerulean hues track over your bent over form.

"Say please."

You whip your head up, scandalized. Seiko cackles from somewhere inside her room. "You’re enabling him," she calls out. Satoru smirks. "Mm, I’ve been lifting heavy all morning. Some manners would be appreciated, sweets." You toss a crumpled piece of newspaper at him without thinking, and he bats it out of the air easily, laughing under his breath.

It’s easy, you realize, surprising yourself. Awkward in the way all transitions are, but... easy. You catch yourself smiling more than you mean to. Feeling lighter, younger, almost stupidly happy. Maybe it’s the air of fresh starts. Maybe it’s just the high of freedom. You sigh, dragging the back of your wrist across your forehead, feeling the sweat stick and smear there. For a second, you swear you’re starring in one of those hopecore reels you always save at 2AM—the ones with strangers helping each other move houses, saving stray cats, planting flowers in busted city sidewalks. Wow. What an awesome life. You almost want to cry out of pure cinematic triumph.

"Alright," Satoru says, clapping his hands together once. "You think you two can handle the rest by yourselves? I promised Suguru I’d try out this new steakhouse thing with him." Seiko pops her head out from whatever random corner of the apartment she was currently fussing over, a suspicious-looking candle in her hand. She pins him with a look so unimpressed you almost snort. "Satoru," she says, voice flat, "your baby sister is moving into her first apartment and you have Suguru on your mind? Seriously? Sometimes I think you might actually have a thing for him." She shakes her head dramatically, huffing as she plops the candle down onto the kitchen counter and grabs a small tote full of your combined toiletries, marching off toward the bathroom to arrange your skincare armies in synchronized little rows. Satoru snorts, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Suguru’s hot," he mumbles, like it's just a random fun fact, "but he’s really not my type." You and Seiko roll your eyes in almost perfect sync.

"You're so weird," Seiko calls from the bathroom. "Beyond weird," you agree dryly, hoisting another box onto the counter and stretching your sore arms out in front of you with a wince. "Whatever," Satoru says breezily, scrolling through his phone with one thumb. "You’re just jealous you don’t have a Suguru of your own." Seiko pokes her head out again, narrowing her eyes. "Fine, Mr. Expert. What even is your type, huh? You look like you’d go for anyone with a pulse." You snicker into your shoulder, pretending to busy yourself with unpacking a box of mismatched mugs. You don’t even have to look up to feel Satoru’s wounded gasp. "First of all," he says, all whiny indignation, "I have standards, thanks." You shoot Seiko a knowing look, mouthing do you? She fights to hold in a laugh.

"I’m not about to stand here and discuss my love life with my little sister," Satoru adds, dramatically tossing his phone onto the couch like this conversation personally victimized him. He straightens up then, stretching his arms over his head in that lazy, catlike way he always does, a flash of skin peeking between his shirt and shorts. You glance away instinctively—because you are a normal person who refuses to acknowledge how unfair genetics can be—and focus very hard on peeling the tape off a box. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it—the smallest glance he flicks in your direction. Not obvious, not lingering. Barely there. A neutral, casual once-over, like he’s checking the room. And then, in a maddeningly even tone, he says, "Pretty people. That’s my type." Seiko groans, dropping a bottle of toner onto the counter with a thud. "You're so superficial," she accuses.

"Am not," Satoru says immediately, grinning like he’s proud of himself anyway. He scoops his phone back up, scrolling lazily, thumb flicking up the screen without real purpose. He glances over at you again—more obvious this time, flashing you a grin like you’re in on some joke with him. "Obviously personality matters too," he says, like it’s a casual afterthought. "I’m not trying to date a hot NPC." Seiko snorts. "Freak."

"Heh, best big brother in the world!," Satoru sing-songs. He grins wide enough for his cheeks to dimple, looking so pleased with himself it’s almost comical. Seiko tosses a roll of paper towels at his head. "Get outta here, loverboy. Go on your stupid steak date." "Steak is important to my wellbeing," Satoru says solemnly, catching the roll one-handed. "I’m a growing boy."

"You’re hitting thirty soon," Seiko says.

"After like– So many years. And I’m still growing," he insists, already backing toward the door with a shit-eating grin. You shake your head, laughing under your breath as he slips his slides back on and salutes you both lazily. "I’ll be back later to finish lifting all the heavy shit you two can’t handle," he calls over his shoulder. "Don't break anything while I'm gone." Seiko flips him off cheerily. "Break your face!" Satoru just laughs and slams the door behind him. The apartment falls into a kind of humming silence. You and Seiko exchange a look—and then both burst into helpless laughter.

–

So, it’s been three months. You stare into the fridge like it might magically grow a five-course meal if you just look pathetic enough. A lone carton of eggs, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, two apples that are definitely on their way out, and a single sad yogurt cup blink back at you. You sigh. Deeply. Existentially. Seiko appears beside you, yanking the fridge door wider open like that'll help. She lets out the most dramatic, heartbroken groan you've ever heard.

"Bro," she says, staring into the abyss. "We have nothing." You nudge the yogurt cup with a finger. It jiggles. Threateningly. "I think even the bacteria gave up," you say. Seiko closes the fridge with a thud and slumps dramatically against it. "I'm gonna combust. We had thirty-minute butter chicken twice this week."

"At least it was edible," you mutter.

"At least it was edible," she mocks you under her breath, whipping out her phone and scrolling angrily. After a second, she holds the screen out to you like she's presenting hard evidence. It's a Doordash receipt for forty dollars. For butter chicken. Again. You grimace. "I’m gonna be paying that off in my next life." Seiko growls under her breath and without another word, speed-dials her brother. You hear the faint ringtone buzzing and then—

"What now?" Satoru answers, sounding halfway amused, halfway put-upon. "If you're on your way back from campus, you need to stop by here first," Seiko says, cutting straight to the point. "Emergency." Satoru laughs, but it’s more out of habit than actual amusement. "What, you finally broke the toilet?" You lean closer to the phone. "Worse. We’re starving."

"Oh my god," he says, deadpan. "I'm serious," Seiko insists. "We have, like, apples and eggs. That’s it."

"Protein and fiber, sounds like a win to me."

"Satoru."

He sighs like you’re both his problem children. "Fine, fine. Text me what you want."

"Just food," Seiko says dramatically. "Literally anything. I'm not picky. I would eat wet cardboard right now." You yell, "Preferably not wet cardboard!" in the background. Satoru chuckles under his breath. "Alright, I’ll swing by. Try not to eat each other while I’m gone." He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Seiko flops onto the couch with the weight of a war veteran. "He's our only hope." You slide down next to her, feeling your stomach physically gnawing at itself. "God help us." 

Twenty minutes later, the front door swings open and Satoru strolls in like he’s just returned from a victorious hunt, two giant plastic bags dangling from his hands. "You guys owe me," he says, kicking the door shut behind him. "We owe you our lives," Seiko says gravely, already diving for the bags. You help him unload: a greasy box of yakisoba, a pepperoni pizza, fried chicken skewers, random sushi rolls, and—because of course he would—a pack of Hi-Chew candies. "God bless you," you tell him, mouth watering as you tear into a box. "You're welcome," he chirps, dropping onto the couch and slinging an arm across the back like he owns the place. For a few blessed minutes, the apartment is filled with nothing but the sound of wrappers crinkling and food being demolished. Seiko leans back after her second slice of pizza, groaning like she just got hit by a bus. "Rent is killing us," she mumbles around a mouthful of yakisoba. You nod, wiping your fingers on a napkin. "Literally murdering us. I think my bank account cried blood this morning." Satoru raises an eyebrow. "You guys just hit month four, huh?"

"Yup," Seiko says, popping the "p." "Dear parents cut me off like they said they would. I'm officially a broke, independent woman now." You throw your hand up for a high five and she smacks it. "At least you're employed," Satoru says, pointing a fry at you. "Kinda."

"Gee, thanks," you deadpan. He shrugs, shameless. "I'm just saying. Adulting is rough, bro." Seiko pokes at her plate, looking more dramatic by the second. "I don't even have an adulty enough job yet. I just pick up whatever shifts I can. And our rent is like a guillotine over my neck."

"Same," you say. "Except the guillotine is made of student loan bills." Satoru laughs under his breath, head tipping back against the couch. He looks way too relaxed for someone still technically in the trenches of his honours year. You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't seem stressed at all." He shrugs again. "I'm moving soon, actually." You and Seiko both sit up straighter, suspicious. "Moving?" Seiko repeats. "Why?" Satoru rolls a fry between his fingers, like he's thinking about it. "My place sucks. No city view. I'm over it." You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "That’s fair." You deadpan, hoping his brain functions enough to realise that he sounds really out of touch with reality right now. "I want something higher up," he says, waving a hand vaguely. Of course the dumbass doesn’t pick up on it. "Somewhere with a view, maybe a balcony."

"Must be nice," Seiko grumbles. "Manifesting," Satoru says, flashing her a peace sign. There's a beat of silence, all three of you chewing or sipping sodas, and then Satoru looks up at you two, slow and casual. "You know," he says, tone maddeningly light, "you do have a third bedroom here." You and Seiko glance at each other. Then back at him. Then back at each other again. "You’re joking," Seiko says flatly. Satoru grins. "Dead serious."

"You wanna move in with us," you say, like you're trying to process it out loud. "I mean," he says, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, "cheaper rent for all of us. You two stop struggling. I get outta my hellhole. Win-win." Seiko puts her pizza down, brows furrowed. "You wouldn’t be, like... annoyed?"

"By what, living with you guys?" He smirks. "I've tolerated you for twenty years, Seiko. I think I can survive." You lean back, studying him. "You sure? It’s not just, like, random strangers across the hall. You’d actually have to live with us." Satoru lifts his arms, draping them across the back of the couch. "I’m fine with it. Long as I get dibs on one of the bigger bathrooms." Seiko narrows her eyes. "No way, I’m not sharing the tiny one."

"First come, first serve," Satoru sing-songs. "That’s not how the saying works, we were here before you regardless!" Seiko argues. You laugh, shaking your head. "He'll just barge into whatever bathroom he wants anyway."

"Exactly," Satoru says, grinning wide. "Might as well make it official." Another silence stretches—this one heavier, but not uncomfortable. You glance around at the cluttered, half-furnished apartment. The cheap couch. The stacked textbooks on the counter. The faint smell of fried chicken hanging in the air. The way Satoru looks sitting here, like he already belongs. You share a look with Seiko. You both nod, tiny and almost at the same time. "Alright," Seiko says, picking her pizza back up. "You’re in." Satoru cheers under his breath, pumping a fist like he just won something huge.  You barely even register the words leaving Seiko’s mouth — You’re in — before a weird, fluttery rush lights up in your chest.

Living with you.  Satoru. Living here. Sharing a space. A bathroom. A kitchen. A couch. Seeing him stomping around in sweats and a compression t-shirt. Probably leaving the fridge door open. Probably pumping weights in the living room (hopefully). Probably existing. Constantly. You could go into an extreme probability crisis right now.  Your brain scrambles, short-circuiting at the images it’s pulling out like some deranged PowerPoint presentation. You squash it down instantly, ruthlessly. No. Absolutely not. This is fine. You’re fine. You don’t care that he’s attractive. That’s just biology. It’s science. You're immune. Fortified. Bulletproof. You pick up a slice of pizza and chomp into it aggressively, as if you can physically chew through the ridiculousness in your own head. Across from you, Satoru just lounges back against the couch, already looking way too at home — laughing at something Seiko says, his stupidly pretty profile catching the light. Your stomach does a small, unnecessary somersault. You blame the hunger. And capitalism. And the universe. Anything but yourself.

–

It starts with the sound of his key jangling in the door like it’s always belonged there. You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you in the same pajama pants you’ve worn three nights in a row, when it clicks open and he steps in — arms full of shit. Like, actual shit. Not even boxes. Just random crap. A pair of beat-up Nikes dangling off two fingers, an expensive backpack that looks like it’s been dragged through five years of war, a stupid Luffy pillow slung under one arm, and a tote bag that says Hotter Than Your Ex, Better Than Your Next in neon pink font. Seiko barely blinks. “You couldn’t use a box like a normal person?” Satoru just kicks the door closed with his heel and grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” It’s… real. This is happening. Satoru Gojo — your best friend’s annoying, stupidly hot older brother — is now your roommate. A fact that has not yet fully sunk in despite your best efforts to emotionally detach. You glance toward the hallway where the third bedroom has been sitting empty. Clean. Neutral. Ready. It’s his now. That’s his room now. And of course, within thirty minutes, he’s already got his crap everywhere. There’s a half-unpacked duffel bag in the entryway. A pair of sunglasses you swear you’ve seen him wear inside nightclubs sitting on the kitchen counter. An open Red Bull can next to the sink. A hoodie draped over the back of one of the dining chairs like he owns the place. His smell — some ridiculous overpriced cologne mixed with his laundry detergent — is wafting through the apartment like he’s been here for days instead of forty-five minutes. He’s not even trying to be annoying. It’s just… him. Loud, effortless, omnipresent him. And when he finally dumps himself on the couch next to you, legs sprawled and hair a little tousled from hauling stuff upstairs, he sighs like he just clocked out of work.

“God,” he mutters, cracking open a soda. “My old apartment sucked. This place’s light is so much better. My plants are gonna lose their minds.” You blink. “You have plants?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I have a monstera named Dog. And this succulent Geto gave me but it’s like… almost dead, so we don’t talk about her.”

“…I didn’t know you were a plant guy.” He glances at you, smug. “I contain multitudes.” From the hallway, Seiko yells, “You contain trash. Come get your crap out of the entryway before I put it all in a black garbage bag and throw it off the balcony.”

“Love you too,” he calls back lazily, then looks at you and grins. “So. Roomies now.” God. Roomies. You don’t even know what to do with yourself. Because this isn’t some sitcom. It’s not all fun and awkward hijinks. It’s the reality of him being around all the time. Late night cereal runs. Passing each other in the kitchen in weird pajamas. Accidentally hearing him sing to himself in the shower. Seeing him shirtless. Probably way too often. And you tell yourself, very seriously, that it means nothing. It’s all cool. You’re an adult. You don’t care. You’re not fifteen and hopelessly in love with his dumb pretty face anymore. But when he reaches behind you to grab the remote, warm arm brushing yours, rings clinking against the plastic of the controller, his cologne curling into your brain like smoke—

Yeah. You’re not surviving this lease emotionally intact.

There are, undeniably, perks to living with Satoru Gojo. First off, the rent. You’re paying less now — which is everything. That extra couple hundred a month? That’s groceries. That’s less existential dread. That’s the occasional iced coffee without hating yourself for buying it. It’s not glamorous — you still have to split utilities and sometimes get a little too creative with how long groceries can stretch — but you’re no longer crying every time your bank app loads. Small victories. But then there’s also… him. Not in a weird way. Not like you’re in love with him again. You’ve made that very clear to yourself. It’s just that — he exists loudly. Satoru’s presence is hard to ignore. Even when he’s not saying anything, he’s still there. Shirtless half the time because he “runs hot” (which is just his excuse to wander around looking like a Calvin Klein ad), hair always messy, a faint smell of whatever stupid expensive aftershave he’s wearing that day lingering behind him. You do your best not to look. You don’t always succeed. It doesn’t help that he goes to the gym at ungodly hours of the morning and comes back looking like something out of a fitness TikTok thirst trap. Hoodie tied around his waist, shirt sticking to his chest, headphones around his neck and a bottle of neon blue liquid in his hand like he’s sponsored by Gatorade. Seiko never comments on it — mostly because she’s used to him. She grew up with the guy. You did too, technically, but there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one and seeing him towel off sweat in the kitchen while asking if either of you finished the oat milk.

The second major perk? The car. You no longer have to stress about trains or getting soaked in surprise rain while walking to the bus stop. Satoru, as rich kid as ever, insists on driving all three of you to uni every morning. He’s not even annoying about it — it’s just what he does. One honk, and you and Seiko pile into the passenger and back seat respectively, the AUX already queued up. It’s stupidly convenient. You didn’t realize how much money public transport drained from your budget until you stopped using it. You still keep your bus pass topped up for emergencies, but it’s basically become a backup plan. Now, you just show up to class on time and dry, with Satoru occasionally handing you a leftover donut from his morning coffee run like he’s God’s gift to women. 

Which brings you to the third perk: the food. Satoru and Suguru have this thing where they eat out like every second night. You’re not sure if it’s because they can’t cook or if it’s just rich kid indulgence — but either way, you benefit. They always order too much. And they always bring back leftovers. So now, your fridge has a semi-permanent corner filled with half-eaten yakisoba, overpriced vegan cupcakes, gyoza from a food truck that Geto swears is life-changing, and once — a whole tub of cinnamon sugar popcorn from a rooftop cinema they randomly ended up at. It’s not the healthiest lifestyle, but you’re broke, tired, and too emotionally drained to cook half the time anyway, so you don’t complain. You and Seiko split it like war rations. Half a bao bun each. One cold gyoza that’s microwaved and devoured like it’s gourmet. A shared spoon of caramel pudding.

“Living the dream,” Seiko says one night, holding a lukewarm slice of truffle pizza like it’s holy communion. “You’re so dramatic,” Satoru says around a bite of strawberry mochi. You don’t answer, mostly because your mouth is full and also because you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with him in that damn grey tank top again. So yeah. Life with Satoru in the apartment is a little chaotic. A little loud. Full of dumb inside jokes and stolen food and last-minute Target runs. Sometimes he sings in the shower. Sometimes he talks to Seiko too loudly while she’s trying to nap. Sometimes he leaves his socks in the hallway or accidentally takes your phone charger. But he’s a familiar presence. He’s not unknown, which is the best part of having him in the apartment, and he’s always been a constant in both of your guys’ lives. So it makes everything worth it.

–

The physics wing feels different from the rest of campus—cleaner, somehow quieter, with that sharp antiseptic scent that clings to air-conditioned labs and too many equations floating in the air. You’ve never had much reason to be down here. The last time you stepped foot near this building was maybe during orientation week when you and Seiko were trying to figure out where the vending machines were. Now, a few months into the semester, you stand awkwardly at the glass doors of one of the labs, peering through to where a group of grad students crowd around a table. There’s buzzing—low voices, a light laugh, the sound of a wheely chair screeching slightly as someone scoots back. You spot him instantly. White hair disheveled like he’s been running his hand through it, sleeves rolled up, safety goggles hanging around his neck, leaning slightly over a notebook as he points something out to a guy beside him. God, he looks hot. But like, academically hot. Like the kind of guy you'd see in a random STEM girl’s Pinterest board titled "study aesthetic." You suddenly feel out of place in your hoodie and backpack, clutching your phone like a lifeline. Then someone notices you—of course it’s a girl. Tall, pretty, good skin, expensive earrings, and she’s nudging Satoru with her elbow and going, “Hey, I think one of your fangirls is here.” Your stomach drops. Fangirl?  Satoru looks up, squints a little through the glass, then when he sees it’s you, he snorts. “Nah,” he says loud enough for you to hear through the cracked-open door. “Sister’s best friend.” You offer a sheepish wave as the door opens a little more. He slides his notebook off the table and steps out into the hallway with you, all casual like he doesn’t notice the way you’re trying not to internally combust. “Shit,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I completely forgot I was supposed to take you two home today. Where’s Seiko?” 

“Group project,” you mumble. “They’re finishing something up in the studio.”

“Right. Studio kids. Always acting like the world will end if their poster isn’t trimmed perfectly.” He waves back toward the lab, calling out, “Tell Suguru I’ll text him about the readings. And tell Reina and them I’ll probably be at that party next week if I don’t crash out before then.” Someone inside laughs. “We’ll believe it when we see it!” 

Satoru rolls his eyes and then turns back to you. You’ve already started walking, and he falls into step beside you. The hallway is narrow, and when he shifts slightly to let a TA pass by, his hand grazes your lower back in that absentminded way—just a half-second of touch, but enough to send your brain short-circuiting. You pretend it didn’t happen. You’re fine. This is fine. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here, y’know,” he says as you both walk. “Could’ve just texted me again.”

“I did,” you say. He pulls out his phone, blinking at the screen. “...Oh. I have like thirty unread messages. Seiko’s been sending TikToks again.” You huff a laugh. “Yeah, you’re doomed.”

“I am,” he agrees, letting the door swing open for you as you step outside. The afternoon sun hits both of you, and it’s quieter out here, more open. A weird kind of silence falls between you for a second—not uncomfortable, but almost charged. You’re aware of everything. The distant chatter of students. The shift of your backpack against your shoulders. The way he’s walking just a little slower than you now, like he’s letting you lead the way. You can’t stop thinking about the fangirl comment. Is he that popular that he has a whole fanclub? Does that kinda shit even happen in universities? This feels too much like a shoujo anime. Or the way he so casually said sister’s best friend. Like that’s all you’ve ever been. Like it’s that simple. (And it is. You tell yourself it is.) Still, when he nudged you gently toward the passenger side of his car, casually tossing his bag into the backseat, you wonder if that half-second of contact had lingered for him at all. 

Probably not. You buckle in. He turns on the engine. The ride starts off quiet in the way late afternoons tend to be. The sky’s a mellow kind of gold, filtering in through the windshield, painting warm lines across the dashboard and your knees. The hum of the engine is low, steady, filling the silence with something that doesn’t need to be spoken over. Satoru drives like he does everything else—lazily confident. One hand on the wheel, the other resting against the door, fingers drumming to some rhythm only he hears. You’re scrolling through your phone half-heartedly, trying not to look obvious about sneaking glances at him. His profile in this lighting is unfair. Hair tousled like he’s been running it through his hands again, jaw a little sharp with the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek. And his arm, the one holding the wheel, flexes just enough with every turn and adjustment to make your brain short-circuit all over again. Not that it matters. Not that you’re thinking about it. Definitely not.

“So,” he says eventually, tone casual. “Did you end up getting paired with the group of doom or the semi-decent humans for that one communications elective you chose?” You blink, then groan dramatically. “Oh, the group of doom, hands down. I’ve basically become the parent. I write things in our doc and then go delete them hours later because no one else is contributing and I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

“That’s brutal,” he says, wincing in sympathy. “Honestly, the whole group work concept should be illegal. Like, I didn’t sign up to babysit strangers who forgot what Google Drive is.” You snort. “Preaching to the choir.” He taps his fingers along the wheel, turning the car down the side road toward your neighborhood. “We had this one guy last semester who literally submitted his part of our lab report as a picture of handwritten notes on lined paper. With a Dorito fingerprint on it. I swear to god.”

Your jaw drops. “No. You’re lying.”

“I wish I was. Suguru and I sat in a lab for three hours rewriting it while our TA walked around behind us like we were criminals.”

“You and Suguru sound like the worst combination,” you say, laughing. “Too much brain power. No accountability.”

Satoru smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when I’m struggling to remember what APA formatting is and you two are running a science empire.”

“I’m more of the face of the brand,” he says modestly. “Suguru does the actual work.” The car slips into silence again, this time a little softer. The kind that fills up with quiet comfort. You glance down at your phone again. No new messages from Seiko yet, just a screenshot she sent earlier of some random overpriced candle she found at the campus market, captioned smells good should i get? lmk.

“Still no update from her?” Satoru asks, glancing over.

“Nah,” you say. “I think her group’s holding her hostage.”

“She’ll claw her way out. Probably with a monologue about art and justice.” You giggle, and then you both fall quiet again, but this time it lingers. You glance sideways at him. He’s driving one-handed again, but he’s leaning a little more now, elbow resting on the window like he’s relaxed—like you being here isn’t strange or unexpected. You shift slightly in your seat, clearing your throat. “That girl earlier,” you say, not looking at him. “She called me one of your... fangirls.”

Satoru glances over, caught slightly off guard. “Yeah,” he says, then smiles. “She’s just being annoying. I don’t have fangirls.” You raise a brow. “Didn’t that one video of you go viral during university orientation and everyone on tiktok was asking which university this was so that they could come here?”

“Okay, correction. I don’t claim the fangirls.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “The Gojo name has power, huh?”

“I mean... I am tall, conventionally attractive, decent at physics, and have a sexy ass car,” he lists off, counting on his fingers with a smirk. “It’s a hard combo to resist.”

You scoff. “You forgot ‘humble.’”

“Oh, right, yeah. And humble,” he adds, laughing. Another beat passes. The street outside blurs with quiet houses and kids walking home from practice, and you almost forget what started this whole train of thought. But then, without thinking, you say it: “It didn’t bother me. The fangirl thing.” He glances at you again, more carefully this time. “Good,” he says after a second, voice softer. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m embarrassed of you hanging around me or anything.” You’re not sure what to do with that. So instead, you change the subject. “Do we have anything at home to eat?” you ask. “Or should I mentally prepare for a dinner of peanut butter straight out of the jar?”

“I think Seiko’s got some questionable microwave rice and like... a rogue banana,” he says thoughtfully. You groan. “We’re going to die.”

“I’ll stop by the corner place,” he offers. “Grab some katsu curry or yakisoba or something. You like those?” 

You nod quickly. “Love them. Bless you.” Satoru grins. “Told you I’m useful.” He pulls into the parking lot of the hole-in-the-wall place that’s somehow cheaper than anything on UberEats, and just before he gets out, he pauses and looks over at you again. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks. 

“With what?” You ask, looking thoroughly puzzled. He shrugs. “Me. Driving you. Being around. Existing in your apartment. I understand if it’s like weird with your best friend’s older brother just being around you all the time–”

You blink. “You live with us now, Satoru. It’s a little late to ask if it’s okay.” He laughs and opens the door, stepping out. “Fair enough.” You watch him disappear into the little restaurant, humming to yourself and feeling... weirdly calm. (But your chest feels warm anyway.)

–

The takeout bags rustle as Satoru unlocks the apartment door (somehow) with his elbow, a practiced motion at this point. You’ve each got one in your hands, plastic warming your palms through the handles, the smell of fried noodles and katsu curry already seeping through like sweet, spicy comfort. The elevator ride up had been quiet—at least in the way that being near him always hums with an odd undercurrent. Satoru had been scrolling on his phone, probably checking something stupid Suguru sent him, when his arm nudged against your shoulder. Not aggressive, just a bump. But it lingered for a second too long, a lazy sway of his weight into yours, like he forgot you were shorter, smaller—more affected by that kind of touch than he was. You hadn’t said anything. Just swallowed it and stared ahead at the doors like your reflection in the brushed steel held the answers. Now, stepping into the apartment, it’s dark except for the thin line of city light pouring through the blinds and cutting across the floor. You toe your shoes off while he moves to the counter and drops the food with a sigh.  “I swear this bag's leaking teriyaki oil all over my hand,” he mutters. You’re still standing there by the door, holding your bag like it’s something delicate, looking at the room a little longer than necessary. It’s quiet. Seiko’s still not back. The hum of the fridge is the only sound besides Satoru rustling through a drawer. And suddenly, for no reason at all, you think:

What if it was just us? The apartment feels different like this. Dim and soft. You can picture it so clearly—him coming home later than you do, shrugging out of his hoodie and tossing his keys on the counter, looking exhausted but smug from some lab win, shoes half on, hair wind-swept and eyes heavy with it. You imagine asking him how his day was, and he’d just lean back against the wall and say something dumb like “miss me?” before smirking and stealing food off your plate. You picture him walking past you in a towel after a shower—wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, water glistening down his chest, or maybe you both could shower together, or maybe he’d be the type to bend you over every piece of furniture in the house—and you have to blink, hard, because now you’ve accidentally spiraled into something bordering on indecent and you’re still holding katsu curry in a dim kitchen while he’s three feet away. Jesus Christ. You set the food down quickly, trying to physically shake the thought away as you move toward the cabinets. “Plates?” you ask, clearing your throat. “Top left,” he answers without looking up, still fiddling with sauce packets like they’re puzzle pieces. You reach up to the shelf, stretching on your toes a little. The cabinet is just barely out of reach, your fingers grazing the edge of a plate but not able to actually grab one. You mutter a quiet, annoyed “fuck’s sake” under your breath, just as the warmth of a body steps up behind you. You don’t even have time to turn.

There’s a snicker by your ear. “Need help, sweets?” You hate that your entire body reacts before your brain does. His chest brushes your back as he casually reaches around you, arm flexing as he grabs the stack of plates with ease. His hips press lightly—too lightly to be on purpose but too present to be ignored—into your ass as he leans in. Just a half-second of his weight against yours and your whole bloodstream short-circuits. He’s so close. So casually, blissfully unaware of how much you’re spiraling again. “Got it,” he says, voice smooth with amusement. “Thanks,” you manage to squeak, completely not like yourself. He places the plates down on the counter with one hand and then leans forward just slightly so he can look at you over your shoulder. “You good?” he asks, smiling a little too knowingly. “Fine,” you say quickly. “Totally fine.” You take one of the plates and focus very hard on opening the takeout boxes like your life depends on it, even though your pulse is doing jumping jacks and your head is screaming get it together. He just hums behind you, like he’s not noticing the complete inner meltdown happening a foot away, and grabs two chopsticks and a fork from the drawer. “Seiko said she’ll be home in like twenty,” he says casually, scrolling through his phone again and settling into one of the bar stools. “Group finally let her escape.”

You nod, handing him one of the boxes. He smiles and takes it, eyes on the screen, and says around a bite of yakisoba, “If you want more curry than rice just take mine. I like it drowned.” You stare at him for a second—just… stare. The stupid hair. The lazy voice. The soft lighting that makes the corners of his face look gentle. God. Living with him might actually kill you. 

–

It’s barely noon and the apartment is quiet in a way it rarely ever is. Seiko had texted something along the lines of “kill me I’m gonna be stuck in this library group hell all day,” and Satoru, as usual, was off somewhere—he mentioned errands, maybe gym, maybe campus, maybe both. You hadn’t really been listening when he said it over his coffee that morning, still half-asleep and trying not to drool on the kitchen counter. So now, for the first time in a while, you’re completely alone. No blasting TikToks from Seiko’s room, no loud slams of Satoru’s door because he still hasn’t figured out how to close it without shaking the whole apartment. Just you, the faint hum of the fridge, and the unmistakable theme song of Modern Family floating through the living room. You hadn’t really bothered with getting ready—weekends were lawless like that. Your hair’s a mess, there’s a scrunchie abandoned somewhere on the couch, and you’re wearing this soft, too-thin tank top you usually reserve for sleep and your most battered pair of lounge shorts that might as well be pajama bottoms. Honestly, you kind of forgot anyone else existed. You have a blanket pulled over your legs but it’s too hot to fully commit, so it’s half-on, half-off, like you’re being attacked by fabric indecision. You’re about two minutes into the episode when the front door swings open.

Satoru walks in, keys jingling, sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor. He looks fresh from outside—hair tousled from the wind, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, plastic bag of snacks in one hand, phone in the other. “Oh,” he says, eyes scanning the room. “Didn’t think you’d be here.” You sit up straighter, immediately pulling the blanket tighter over your torso like it’s gonna save you from embarrassment. “Yeah. I thought you were out all day.” He tows off his shoes lazily, drops his keys on the counter without looking, then tosses the plastic bag down on the coffee table. “I was. Grocery store line was hell. Also—” he eyes the TV “—is that Modern Family?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“I love Modern Family.” You arch an eyebrow. “Seriously? I thought you didn’t like sitcoms.”

“Yeah, but this one’s special,” he says, flopping onto the couch next to you with no hesitation. “Cam and Mitch remind me of me and Suguru.” You snort, trying to subtly tug your tank top higher over your chest. “That’s unhinged. Which one are you?” He thinks for a second. “I think I’m Cam.”

You stare. “Satoru, Cam is like… dramatic. He cries a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doing that.”

“I have feelings,” he says defensively, grabbing a snack from the bag and opening it one-handed. “You just don’t respect that.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, turning back to the TV. You can feel the body heat radiating from his side—he’s close, way closer than necessary on this big-ass couch. You’re acutely aware of every inch between you and him. Which is to say, not much. For a few minutes, it’s just the show playing. Comfortable silence. Except your heart is doing this stupid uneven thing because he’s right there. And it doesn’t help that at one point—just as Phil Dunphy is doing something ridiculous—you feel his eyes flicker to your side. And for the briefest second, maybe half a second, his gaze dips. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. His eyes are back on yours almost immediately, lazy grin still on his face like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just (maybe) looked at your chest. You’re not even sure it was a look. It could’ve been your imagination. It probably was. Right? You suddenly feel ten degrees hotter, curling your toes under the blanket like that’ll ground you. “You good?” you ask, trying to keep it casual.

“Yeah,” he says smoothly. “Why?” 

You shrug, eyes glued to the TV even though you’re not processing a single joke anymore. “You looked like you were spacing out.” He leans back on the couch like he owns the damn thing, all sprawled out with one arm tossed lazily over the backrest. His fingers dangle behind you, brushing the edge of your shoulder. Barely. But enough to make you hyper-aware of every exposed inch of your skin. You shift a little in your seat. It doesn’t help. His thigh is still resting near yours, solid and warm, his scent faint and maddeningly familiar—clean laundry, citrus shampoo, and that soft hit of spice from whatever cologne he throws on without thinking. The TV flickers, but you don’t see it. Not when you feel him like that. 

“Dunno,” he murmurs suddenly, voice lower than before. “Just thinking how wild it is that you’re Seiko’s best friend.” You blink out of your daze, glancing over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  He turns his head toward you, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks. His eyes flick down—so quick you might’ve missed it, but not really. A lazy sweep across your collarbone, down the slope of your tank top, the faint outline of your chest where the fabric clings too easily without a bra beneath it. And then his gaze flicks back up to meet yours like nothing happened. You’re suddenly burning. “You’re just… eh, you’re like different now,” he says finally, mouth tugging into something softer than a smirk, but still not safe.

Your throat goes dry. “You literally told me a few months ago I was like your annoying little sister.”  He huffs a laugh—low and amused, almost like he’s laughing at himself. “Yeah. People say dumb shit all the time. Obviously I didn’t mean it.” His voice is rough around the edges, like the words cost something. Like they meant something. And you—stupidly, helplessly—can’t tell if you want to shove him away or drag him closer just to find out what the hell he’s thinking. His knee knocks into yours, casual, but it lingers. You glance down at the spot where your legs touch. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you. You don’t want to. He leans in just a little, stretching his arm further along the back of the couch, fingers now brushing fully against your shoulder—his pinky grazing your bare skin. Not accidentally this time. You swear you feel the air shift between you. Charged. Tense. He smells even better up close. You can hear the faint scratch of his breath, the creak of the couch when he adjusts, the thump of your own pulse in your ears. The air in the room feels hotter than it should be. Maybe it’s the blanket, maybe it’s the body heat, or maybe it’s the fact that Gojo Satoru—Seiko’s brother, the guy who used to shove Cheeto crumbs in your face and call you gremlin—is now lounging beside you like he didn’t just casually imply he’s been thinking about you in a way that definitely isn’t brotherly. You try to laugh it off. Try to breathe normally. Try to keep your thoughts from careening off a cliff. But your skin is buzzing under the weight of what he said—what he meant—and it’s getting impossible to sit still. “I’m gonna—uh…” you start, voice a bit too breathy for your liking. “Grab snacks.” He hums, low and lazy. “Of course you are.” You don’t even look at him to know there’s a smirk playing on his lips. Smug. Fucking smug. You peel the blanket off your lap, heart already thudding in your chest like it knows something you don’t. As you rise to your feet, you catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—subtle, fast.

Satoru’s gaze dips. Straight to your ass. You freeze for half a second, spine locking, suddenly very aware of your little lounge shorts, how they cling when you move, how thin the fabric is. Your skin prickles. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just glancing around the room. Maybe he— But you felt it. And when you dart a glance back at him, he’s already back to facing the TV. Arms sprawled out. Cool and unbothered. Except—his jaw’s clenched a little now. One hand is flexing faintly against the armrest, like he’s trying not to react. And you swear, if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s the one trying to calm himself down. You walk to the kitchen way too fast, needing the distance, needing to get air because your thoughts are spiraling again. Did he really look? Was that just your brain on horny autopilot? Are you imagining this whole thing because you’re bored and he’s attractive and close and smells like sin wrapped in cashmere? You yank open a cupboard. It takes you a second to even remember why you came in here.

Oh. Right. Snacks. Behind you, the sound of the TV fills the silence, but your ears are still ringing with what he said. “Obviously I didn’t mean it.” Those words echo in your chest like a struck bell. Over and over and over. You grab a random bag of chips and pop it open just to keep your hands busy. You nibble one. You’re not even hungry. You hear the couch creak. He’s shifting. “Sooo,” Satoru calls out, voice stretched and casual like this is nothing, like he didn’t just nuke your brain two minutes ago, “you bringing those back to share or am I supposed to sit here and starve?” You roll your eyes, half grateful he’s still being a dumbass, half annoyed he’s pretending like your body language wasn��t screaming confusion and want and maybe something more. You return to the couch, tossing the chips between you both as you sink down. This time, there’s a full cushion between you, but the tension doesn’t go anywhere. He grabs a handful of chips without looking away from the screen. “You good?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” He doesn’t push. He just leans forward, his long legs spreading slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. The new position pulls his shirt tighter across his back, and it’s ridiculous, the way you notice the flex in his shoulders. The way your gaze dips now. You're no better than him. Your throat dries again. “So,” he says after a moment, voice still easy, still pretending, “what episode are we even on?” You glance at the screen and realize you couldn’t name a single thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes. “Uh. The one where Phil gets stuck in the portable toilet.”

Satoru laughs. “Classic. That guy’s so fucking dumb.” You nod, distracted. You keep catching yourself staring. At his jaw. His hands. That little shadow of stubble growing in because it’s the weekend and he clearly didn’t care enough to shave. You wonder what it feels like. What he’d look like if those same hands were pushing your head down on his co—

No. Nope. Abort. You try to focus on the TV. You try not to think about how he looked at you. How you’re now almost certain you didn’t imagine it. But then you feel his thigh bump yours again. Well, as much as someone can with a fucking pillow in between you both. Deliberate this time. Just the lightest nudge. You glance at him, and his eyes are still on the TV—but his lips? They’re tilted in the faintest, most devilish smirk. You bite the inside of your cheek and sit there in silence, knees barely touching, heat coiled tight in your stomach like a secret. The tension is coiled tight between you and Satoru—like someone pulled a rubber band back and is holding it in place, fingers twitching on the edge of letting go. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes too loud. You’re still thinking about the brush of his thigh against yours, about the way he smirked without really smiling. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the blanket.

Then—

The front door creaks open. “HELLO?” Seiko’s voice echoes through the apartment like a goddamn fire drill. “This house is full of the rudest bitches, I swear.” You sit bolt upright, practically yanking the blanket up to your collarbones as if she’s about to catch you in something. Satoru casually reaches for another chip, cool as ever. Seiko rounds the corner into the living room, dropping her bag on the floor with a theatrical huff. “I called you,” she says, glaring at her brother. “Like five times. Five. You told me to let you know when I was done!” Satoru lifts a brow, lazy and unapologetic. “I was busy. You survived.”

“I had to take the bus,” she groans, flopping into the armchair like she’s just returned from war. “The bus, Satoru. You know how many coughs I heard in ten blocks? You might as well have sentenced me to death.” You snort, trying to play it cool, heart still racing beneath your tank top. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m chronically disrespected in this house,” she declares, and then her eyes flick to the TV. “Oh my god, is this the one where Cam tries to be a clown at Luke’s party?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It just started.”

“Perfect,” she says, curling up under the throw blanket and stealing the chips off the coffee table. “God, you and I are literally Cam and Mitch.” You blink. Her and Satoru were eerily alike. “I don’t know how to feel about that.”  She shrugs. “We just have a shared delusional flair and a healthy amount of judgment, and I think that’s beautiful.” Behind you, Satoru exhales a soft, amused sound and stands up, stretching in that obnoxious way that pulls his shirt up just enough to flash a sliver of his toned stomach. You avert your eyes fast. “Well,” he says, voice easy, almost bored, “I’ll let you ladies get back to doing… whatever this is.” He takes a slow step back toward the stairs, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder—but before he turns completely, his eyes flick back to you. Just for a second. It’s subtle. Barely a second too long. But he holds your gaze—and that same faint, almost imperceptible smirk ghosts across his lips. It’s not a full smile. It’s a knowing one. And then he’s gone, padding upstairs without another word, leaving you sitting there with a fake laugh stuck in your throat and your pulse suddenly much louder in your ears. “Ugh,” Seiko says, mouth full of chips. “He’s so annoying. I cannot wait until he gets his own place.” You hum, pretending to agree, but your eyes linger on the stairwell he disappeared into.

Yeah. Annoying. If only it were that simple.

—

You’ve been staring at your reflection so long your own face is starting to look unfamiliar. Two skirts are flung across your bed—one black and slinky, the other plaid and shorter than you remembered it being when you first bought it. You keep switching between them, holding them up against your hips, spinning a little in the mirror, frowning. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It’s just a frat party. But it’s one of the big ones. The kind that gets talked about weeks after. The kind where even the art students who pretend they hate frat culture show up and get drunk on jungle juice in someone’s bathtub. You want to look good. You want to look good. Eventually, fed up with your own indecision, you grab both skirts and swing open your bedroom door, calling, “Seiko, I need you for like two seconds, I swear—”

You barrel straight into something warm and solid and—

“Oof—fuck, sorry,” you mumble, skirts slipping in your grip. Your hands are full, so you bounce off and stumble a step back. Satoru catches your elbow before you can completely lose balance, steadying you with one lazy hand. “Hi to you too,” he says, his voice edged with amusement. You blink. “Hi. Uh—sorry. I was just—I thought Seiko was still here.”

“She left like ten minutes ago,” he says, stepping back and glancing over your shoulder, toward your bedroom. “Grocery run or something. You’ve been holed up in your room forever.” You glance down at the two skirts in your hands and shift them awkwardly against your chest, heat licking at the back of your neck. “Yeah, I—uh—was trying to figure out what to wear.” His gaze lingers. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “To the party?”

You nod. A beat of silence. “You sound stressed,” he says, voice dipping a little. “What happened? You sound like you’re about to cry over a skirt.” You roll your eyes. “I just wanted her help picking one.” There’s a softness to his expression now. A twitch of his lips that looks suspiciously close to a smirk. “Tragic.” You groan and hug the skirts tighter to your chest. “This is stupid. I’m being stupid.”

“Nah,” he says, casually leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed now. “It makes sense. Lot of people are gonna be there. First party of the semester everyone actually gives a shit about.”

“Exactly,” you mutter, more to yourself. His eyes drag lazily from your bare thighs to your slightly flushed face. You’re still in the tank top you’d thrown on earlier—one of those thin, soft ones with lace on the straps.  “So,” he says, head tilted, eyes unreadable but fixed on you, “what are the options?” You blink. “What?”

“The skirts,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Let me see. C’mon.”  You roll your eyes, but your voice still comes out embarrassed. “I just wanted Seiko’s opinion.” He grins. “And instead you got mine. Brutal.”

“Yeah, I’m regretting it already.” He pushes off the wall with a little amused hum and steps closer. “Lemme see.” You raise an eyebrow. “You? The fashion expert?” Satoru shrugs. “Hey, I’m good at judging outfits. From the outside and the inside.” Your face burns. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You’re the one asking for my opinion while wearing a tank top that’s basically see-through.”  You make a sound of protest and clutch the skirts against you again. “Okay! Thank you, great, very helpful!” He doesn’t move. “I mean, either one would look good on you. You have—” He pauses, lips twitching, “—range.” You squint at him. “Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”

“Because you know me.”

You laugh, but it comes out breathier than you intend. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way guys at parties look. Not even like how he used to look at you months ago—distant, vaguely amused, older brother of your best friend. This look is different. Lazier. Focused. And then he just casually reaches out, like he’s done a hundred times before, but this time his knuckle grazes the bare skin of your arm when he adjusts the hem of the black skirt in your hand. “Go with this one,” he murmurs, suddenly closer than he was a second ago. “It’s a better choice.”

You swallow. “A better choice?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.” The air feels a little too charged now. A little too tight. You’re still, not sure what to say, barely sure what you’re breathing. And then, blessedly, he takes a step back, his expression shuttering into something light again. “Well,” he says, “I’ll leave you to your existential wardrobe crisis. Let me know if you need my expert fashion advice again.” You nod dumbly, skirts clutched tight. Inside, you drop the plaid skirt to the floor and stare at yourself in the mirror again. Somehow, the decision’s a lot easier now.

–

“What do you mean, Satoru can’t drive us to the party?” Seiko screeches, her voice echoing off the tile as she stalks around the apartment in a pair of clacking nude heels, aggressively tapping his contact on her phone. You lunge across the couch, snatching it from her before she rage-texts him something psychotic. “Seiko—calm down. It’s not because of the fight. Listen! He said he has a late lab or some shit, okay? He’s coming later.” She stares at you, lip curled in disbelief, before deflating with a dramatic sigh. “Oh.” There’s a beat. You watch her face as she recomposes herself—like she’s loading a new expression. A girl rebooting in real time. “So… is he sending us Uber money, or…?” You suppress a grin. “No need. Suguru’s driving us.” The shift in her demeanor is instant. You swear you catch a spark of actual electricity pass through her body. “Oh.” Now her voice is a full octave lower, soft, composed, perfectly pleasant. “That’s nice.” You snort, giving her a shove. “Nice try. But that fake ‘cool girl’ thing is not working. I know how long you’ve liked him, dumbass.” She squeals, spinning in a little circle like you just handed her a backstage pass to her dream concert. “Oh my god. You don’t understand—this is like the first time I get to hang out with him without Toru’s annoying ass being all over the place.” You roll your eyes. “You’re literally acting like a Shoujosei heroine right now. Tone it down before he thinks we’re taking you to the ER for heatstroke.”

But you’re grinning. She waves a hand, unfazed. “Whatever. This is my moment. I need it to be perfect.” You snort and smooth your hands over your outfit one more time. The black skirt he picked sits high on your waist, hugging you like a second skin. It’s short—dangerously so—but structured enough to look intentional. You’d paired it with a slinky backless top in that kind of soft fabric that feels cool against your skin, and lets just enough cleavage peek through to keep it casual.  You might’ve been dressing for yourself. But you’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t wondering what Satoru would think when he finally saw it. Seiko squeals again as she double-checks her lipstick. “Okay but wait. You said Suguru’s stared at me before. When? Tell me now. Don’t lie.” 

You shrug, all fake-casual. “Mmm. Like twice last week. When you wore that fitted top to the library. Also when you made that stupid joke and he actually laughed.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, hand flying to her chest like you just told her she’d been accepted into heaven. “I knew it. I thought I was delusional. But you just confirmed it.” You’re about to tease her again when a familiar honk cuts through the buzz of the apartment. “Speak of the devil,” you grin. Outside, Suguru’s car is parked by the curb, headlights casting long shadows through the blinds. You head out with Seiko, the cool evening air brushing against your legs as you slide into the backseat. Suguru, behind the wheel, turns slightly to look over his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you reply, amused as Seiko wordlessly climbs into the passenger seat like it’s her destiny. You swear she almost sits with a flourish. She twists toward him. “Thanks for picking us up. You look nice.” Suguru gives her a crooked smile. “You look nice, too.” You almost groan at the tension brewing already. You catch the subtle glance he gives her legs, the quiet, too-smooth “seatbelt” reminder as he reaches across to pull it out for her. She blushes, mumbling a thanks, and you just sink back into your seat, smiling to yourself like you’ve been let in on a joke no one else knows the punchline to. The ride to the frat house is filled with casual conversation—muted music humming from the car speakers, the windows cracked just enough to let in the city air. As Suguru pulls into a crowded residential street littered with double-parked cars and glowing red solo cups on curbs, Seiko leans forward to point out a spot. Typical frat party energy is already bleeding into the night—thudding bass in the distance, porch lights glowing warm, a guy doing a keg stand on someone’s lawn while someone else records with flash on. You smooth your skirt down instinctively as Suguru parallel parks like a pro, killing the engine with a low chuckle. You glance up at him just before stepping out, voice quieter than before. “Hey. Do you know when Satoru’s coming?” Suguru gives you a look—one of those slow, knowing, older-brother-type glances that feels like it sees more than it says. “Not too far away,” he replies, lips twitching. “You’ll see him soon.” He opens his door and gets out, and you follow, the air buzzing louder with the bass as you approach the house. It’s already full—bodies moving on the porch, music pounding out the windows, a mix of cheap perfume and sweat and smoke curling through the air. Inside, the light is dim, string lights casting a low amber haze over the crowd. People call greetings, red cups are pressed into hands, and the house is full of the usual noise—music, laughter, flirtation, chaos. You let Seiko tug you in by the hand, eyes scanning the room—not consciously, not desperately. Just… wondering. If he’d see you tonight. If he’d look.

Inside, the house is buzzing. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, someone’s dog is wearing a backwards cap for some reason, the music’s loud enough to rattle your ribs, and the air smells like a mix of weed, tequila, and Axe body spray. You and Seiko barely make it past the kitchen before you’re intercepted by a group of mutual friends from one of your guys’ shared elective class.

You’re nodding along, drink in hand, when you spot someone across the room—a guy you know from high school? Or maybe the library? The edges of memory are fuzzy from the noise, but you tilt your head and squint, trying to place him. “Wait—excuse me for a sec,” you say to Seiko, squeezing her wrist. You pivot, winding through the crowd, barely making it five steps before someone’s shoulder crashes into yours. You reel back instinctively, blinking up.

White hair. Too tall. Light eyes. Hoodie thrown lazily over a plain tee, but still looking like a full time model for Vogue. He smells like cologne and smoke and something faintly citrusy. “Wow,” you say automatically, blinking again. “You actually came.” Satoru smiles—lazy, tilted, boyish. Like he’s just been caught in something he enjoys too much to lie about. “Yeah,” he says. “Took an Uber. Not planning on being sober tonight.” You laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Same. But Seiko and Suguru are both staying sober, which is kind of impressive given the circumstances.” He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows exactly what circumstances you mean. “Ah. Right, right.” There’s a pause—just long enough for his eyes to drop to your legs. Then, casually, like he’s not saying anything crazy at all, he leans a little closer. “So… you wore the skirt.” You grin. “Yeah, I did. Is it nice?” He snorts under his breath like please, then runs a hand through his hair. “You know it is.” You roll your eyes. “You don’t even remember which one it was.” He pretends to be offended, placing a hand over his chest. “That’s actually insane of you to say. Of course I remember. It was this one. The black one. Little zipper on the side.”

You blink. “There was no zipper.” He squints. “Okay. True. I made that part up. But it looks like it could have a zipper.” You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your drink. You’re about to clap back when someone bumps into him from behind, sending him a half-step into you. His hand lands lightly on your arm to steady himself, just for a second—warm fingers, calloused from god knows what, brushing your bare skin. You both go still for half a beat.

Then he’s grinning again. “You having fun?” You nod. “Yeah. It’s actually a good party. Not too many freshmen. No one’s cried in the kitchen yet.” He laughs. “Give it an hour.” You don’t respond—just bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile at bay. His gaze lingers on your face for a second too long. Someone behind you pops a can of something and the fizzing sound makes you both blink.

“Well,” he says, standing a bit straighter, “should we find the others?” You nod, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the house. “Yeah. They’re by the pong table.” As you both start walking side by side through the house, you can’t help but glance sideways at him. He’s looking ahead, but there’s that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The same one from the apartment earlier. Knowing. Lazy. A little smug. A little dangerous. You finally make your way toward the makeshift beer pong table someone’s set up near the back of the frat house. It’s surrounded by half-drunken students, red solo cups, and a poor folding table that’s seen too many parties and not enough soap. You spot Ryomen Sukuna chatting to some girl—his chem lab partner? Odd, she was way too nice to talk to a guy like him— by the drinks table, his gaze unabashedly admiring her form. A cheer goes up as someone lands a shot, and you hear Seiko’s unmistakable laugh—shrill, excited—off to the left, where she’s clapping dramatically for Suguru, who’s currently in what looks like…? A competition to see who can stay in a handstand for the longest? Is that Toji Zenin with him?

“I was wondering where you ran off to,” Seiko says when she sees you. Her eyes briefly dart to Satoru, then back to you, and you give her a look that says: Don’t. Start. “Me and Satoru are gonna take a shot at this next game,” you say quickly, already setting your drink down and rolling your shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. Satoru raises a brow. “We are?”

“You scared?” He grins. “Nah, I’d win. I always win these.”

“You’re the one with freakishly long arms, so I guess I need to have more confidence in you,” you say, pointing at him. “You better land every cup.”

“I will. As long as you look pretty while doing the distractions.”

You blink. “That’s so sexist.”

“And yet, you smiled.” You try to smack his arm but he’s already ducking around you, grabbing a couple of ping pong balls from the table while the other team clears out. A small group starts to gather as you both step up to the table—probably because Satoru Gojo doing anything draws attention, but also because you’re not exactly subtle about whisper-arguing with him about technique. “Okay,” he says, tossing a ball up and down like it’s a warm-up. “We’re playing standard rules. Elbow behind the edge, reracks at 6 and 3, bounce shots count for two. You know how to play, right?” You make a face. “Sort of.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t come to college to learn about sports, Satoru.”

“It’s beer pong,” he groans. “It’s not a sport, it’s survival.” You flip him off, but you’re laughing. He lets you shoot first. Your ball clinks off the rim of a cup and bounces harmlessly to the floor. Satoru whistles low. “Strong start.”

“Shut up and make your freak arm useful.” He sinks the shot. Effortlessly. Doesn’t even blink. Of course he does. You sigh, already resigned to being carried. “Come here,” he says, waving you over like it’s no big deal. You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Your form’s all wrong. You’re like. Flicking it. This isn’t badminton.”

“I don’t flick—”

“Come here.” He’s behind you in a second. You feel his body brush against your back, the faint warmth of him just close enough to register without being obvious. His hand slides along your forearm, adjusting your grip on the ball.

“Relax your wrist,” he murmurs, and now his chin is practically over your shoulder. You swallow. “Like this,” he continues, his hand still guiding yours. “It’s more of a lob. Use your fingertips. Gentle. That’s it— ah, good girl. ” You try not to think about the way he says gentle. Or good girl. Or the way his breath is hitting your neck in warm puffs between words. “You realize you’re totally milking this under the guise of tutoring me,” you say, heart thudding faster. “Obviously.” His grin curls against your cheek. “You gonna shoot or what?”

You shoot. You land it. The group around the table erupts, laughing and shouting. You turn around, triumphant. “Holy shit—”

Satoru’s grinning, arms raised like he’s just coached a champion. “That’s my girl.” Your stomach does something very stupid at those words. You try to ignore it. The game continues like that—banter, shots, shoulder brushes, the occasional low “good job” from Satoru that lights up every neuron in your body. You’re not sure how much is the alcohol and how much is just him, but your face is warm and your hands shake a little more every time he reaches past you. At one point, someone makes a distracting joke and you miss horribly, groaning as the ball flies way off. Satoru leans close and mutters, “You need to take your revenge.”

“How?”

“Distraction tactics. Classic.” You eye him. “What, like flash a tit?” He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Jesus, no. I mean, you could, but maybe start smaller.” You giggle. “Like what?” He leans in again, voice lower. “Do that thing where you bend over to pick something up slow.” You look at him, deadpan. “Dude, what?” He shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m not blind.” You end up not bending over or doing whatever Satoru had been telling you to do, instead you just plainly smile at the guy on the opposing end of the table, hoping it does the job. And it does. Dramatically. And the frat guy across from you absolutely chokes on his shot. You land the next cup clean. What can be said? You’re extremely gorgeous. Satoru claps you on the back like a coach. “What’d I tell you? Iconic.” You’re both laughing too hard now. And a little too close. Eventually, the game ends—you win—and there’s a flurry of congratulations and another drink thrust into your hand. You feel light and flushed and way too aware of the guy still standing next to you like he belongs there. 

“You’re better at this than I expected,” Satoru says, sipping from his own drink now. “Yeah, I thrive under pressure.” You’re mid-sip of some questionably pink drink when Satoru leans down, tipping his head toward your ear so casually it makes your stomach do that stupid flutter thing again. “Yo,” he says, nodding toward a different room where you can see bodies shifting and crowding around a makeshift open circle. “What’s going on over there?” You blink. “Dunno. Is that… a dance circle?”

“Nah,” he grins. “No one’s moving that confidently.” 

You snort. “You wanna check it out?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says, and the way his voice dips just slightly makes it feel like he’s not just talking about the crowd. “Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. The two of you squeeze your way into the room, jostled on all sides by a sea of people shouting and laughing and pushing in toward the circle. The floor’s sticky, the air’s muggy, and someone bumps into your back hard enough that you stumble—and before you can find your footing, a flash of blue disappears ahead of you. “Satoru?” you call, but your voice is drowned out by a chant going up in the center. And just like that, he’s gone. You’re shoved toward the edge of the circle, almost tripping over a couch leg before managing to flop down beside some guy in a bucket hat holding a solo cup like it’s sacred. You glance around, heart racing, trying to spot that stupid head of white hair somewhere in the crowd. The guy next to you chuckles. “First time at one of these?” You glance over. “One of what?” He gestures with his cup. “Spin the bottle. Slash seven minutes in heaven. Slash drink whatever disgusting cocktail that bowl has if you bail. It’s a house rule.” You blink. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Don’t worry,” he shrugs. “You can decline. But then you gotta chug whatever’s in that punch bowl. And it’s, uh… unholy.” You look to the center where sure enough, there’s a half-filled bottle spinning on the floor like it’s trying to find a victim. A few people are already crowding behind it, sitting cross-legged like some cursed sleepover. And the punch bowl he’s talking about? It looks like someone dumped red Gatorade, vodka, pickle juice, and maybe NyQuil into the same pot and called it “edgy.” You whip your head around again—Satoru is, of course, lounging cross-legged on the other side of the circle now, chatting with some people you vaguely recognize from class. He looks like he belongs there, all sprawled limbs and lazy smirk, like this kind of chaos was built for him. When he catches your gaze, he waves. Waves. You shoot him a you left me to die glare. He mouths something back that looks suspiciously like, “Have fun.” Before you can get up and leave, someone shouts, “ALRIGHT! EVERYONE SHUT UP—RULES ARE THE SAME. SPIN LANDS ON YOU, EITHER GO IN THE CLOSET OR DRINK. NO BACKING OUT.” And just like that, the first spin hits a girl in a crop top and some guy who looks like he’s about to pass out. Laughter, whistles, cheers—then they’re stumbling off toward the dark little closet in the corner like lambs to the slaughter. You sit frozen, drink clutched to your chest like a life preserver. The bottle spins again.

Not you. Then again. Still not you. Then: you. You freeze, neck stiff as your name’s called. It’s some guy you’ve never seen in your life. He winks. You immediately reach for the punch bowl. The crowd yells as you choke down the mystery concoction. It burns like betrayal. Another few rounds go by. You watch people you know and people you don’t vanish into that cursed closet. You try not to count the minutes. Try not to watch Satoru each time he gets picked. And yet—you do. Twice the bottle lands on him. Both times he just laughs and reaches for the drink, wincing as he gulps it down. Your stomach does that thing again. You don’t want to care. Finally, the bottle spins, slower this time, teetering between two people. It seems to almost stop on the bucket hat guy next to you—until the neck slides a few inches more and lands squarely… on you. Your heart lurches. Then it spins again—and lands on him.

Satoru. It goes so quiet, you can hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards. Someone cackles. “Ohhhhhh shit—” 

You look at him. He’s already watching you, a crooked, loose-limbed smile stretching across his lips. “Alright, alright,” someone’s saying. “Or you can drink, but I’m warning you, the new mix is, like, fucking illegal.”

“Yeah,” someone else adds, “Toru, you already tapped out of two. You're out of lives.” Satoru throws his head back and groans. “Shit.” He locks eyes with you again. “Well?” you ask, voice a little smaller than you mean it to be. “You tell me,” he says, tone light but eyes dark. “Closet or cocktail?” You hesitate. You could back out. You should back out. But he’s standing already, towering in his black tee and the chain peeking out from under his collar, holding out a hand to you with that infuriating confidence. “Let’s go,” he says. “No way I’m drinking that pickle NyQuil bullshit. My kidneys are failing already.” A cheer erupts.

“SEVEN MINUTES STARTING NOW!” You feel someone gently shoving you forward, and then you’re walking—stumbling—toward the little coat closet with Satoru beside you, hand hovering behind your back like he’s making sure you don’t fall. Inside, it’s pitch black. You both tumble in, bumping into each other, the door slamming shut behind you with a click. It’s cramped. Shoulders touching. Knees knocking. You can hear him breathing. And somewhere outside, someone’s laughing like this is the funniest shit they’ve ever seen. You swallow. “Thank god Seiko’s not here,” you mutter under your breath. “Speak for yourself,” Satoru says casually. “I think this is character-building.”

“Character-building?” you repeat, incredulous. “Yeah.” His voice is low, amused. “We’re trapped. Small space. Zero distractions. Forced eye contact if there was any light.” You laugh, nervous. “This is not how I imagined dying.”

“If we die in a frat closet,” he says seriously, “I just want you to know it’s been an honor.” You laugh again, this time a little too loudly. You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until you shift and your knees knock again—his thigh against yours. Warm. Solid. “Is it hot in here?” you mumble.

“It’s definitely not cold.” You don’t respond right away. Neither does he. It’s suddenly too quiet. You can feel his gaze, even in the dark. And somehow, you know—you know—that whatever happens next will not be played off as just another party game. The silence wraps around the two of you, warm and humming and too dense to ignore. Your back hits the closet wall, and you swear you can hear your own heartbeat pounding louder than the music outside. Somewhere, someone yells about shotgunning a beer, and it sounds so far away compared to the stillness between you and him. Satoru shifts beside you, his voice low and careful. “Hey—just so you know, we don’t have to do anything in here.” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal. His shoulder brushes yours. “Oh,” you say. You try to sound neutral. Chill. Normal. You fail. “Um—no, it’s okay. We can do stuff.” He huffs out a laugh, and it’s so goddamn warm in the closet and so him that your cheeks burn on contact. “We can do stuff,” he repeats, teasing. “Wow. That’s seductive.” You groan and immediately bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god.” He laughs again, this time a little breathless. “Nah, I’m into it. Super smooth delivery.”

“I’m drunk,” you whine, still hiding. “I’m tipsy. I literally cannot be held accountable for anything I say.”

“Oh, now you’re pulling the legal disclaimer.”

“I’m gonna die in this closet. Like, emotionally.” He shifts again, and you feel it—his thigh pressing more into yours, his arm now behind your back along the wall like he’s boxing you in without even meaning to. Or maybe he is meaning to. Maybe this is the point. Maybe you’re just slow to realize it. He opens his mouth—probably to say something sarcastic and obnoxious, like always—but you don’t let him. You don’t know if it’s the cheap cocktails or the lingering electricity from that beer pong game or just how close he is in this tight little space, but your body moves before your brain can catch up. You lean forward and kiss him. You only mean to peck him once, test the waters, but the second your lips meet his, he responds. Hard. His hand finds your waist with immediate purpose, dragging you closer until your chest is pressed against his, the scent of his cologne and sweat and cheap beer swirling around your head like smoke. His other hand fists into the fabric of your top, knuckles brushing your ribs, and he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this, mouth hot and demanding and perfect. You gasp a little when his tongue brushes yours, and he swallows it greedily like he wants to hear that sound again. And again. And again. You’re vaguely aware that you’re making noises, little broken gasps against his lips, but you don’t care. You’re half in his lap now, one leg slung lazily over his as your back presses to the closet wall. His grip tightens at your hip like he’s trying to keep himself anchored, but it’s not working. He breaks the kiss just for a second—only long enough to breathe against your mouth. “Fuck,” he mumbles, voice ragged. “You taste like whatever’s in that drink. That horrifying punch. But you still taste good. What the fuck.”

You laugh a little, dazed. “You too.” Then he kisses you again—deeper this time, rougher—and it’s suddenly impossible to remember what the hell you were ever nervous about. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm flat and hot against your bare skin. You shiver, and he smirks against your mouth, like he felt it. “Cold?” he asks, voice muffled by the skin of your neck as he kisses along your jaw. “Shut up,” you whisper back, breathless. He doesn’t. His mouth is relentless. He kisses like he’s starving. His lips drag down the slope of your neck, his tongue wet and hot as it traces up the column of your throat. “God,” you breathe. “You’re so—”

“Yeah?” he grins against your skin. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Coward.”  You grin and push him back lightly, but it just makes him grin harder—until he catches your wrists and gently pins them beside your head, still smiling like a little shit. “You kissed me,” he says. 

“You let me kiss you.”

“Damn right I did.” And then he kisses you again, harder this time, like a promise. You forget where you are. You forget your name. You forget the stupid crowd outside or the timer ticking down. The only thing you know is his mouth, his hands, the heat that’s spiking through your body like wildfire. You moan into his mouth—and this time, he groans. Low. Rough. Dangerous. And you get the sudden, dizzying feeling that if someone doesn’t knock on this door in the next ten seconds, you might not make it out of this closet with your clothes still on. The closet is too dark to think straight. Too warm. His breath is hot against your skin, and your back’s pressing into the wall like it’s the only thing holding you up. Your legs are still half-draped over his, and his hand’s still under your shirt—his palm splayed wide across your waist like he forgot he put it there and now refuses to move. You’re kissing again before either of you says another word. It’s not careful anymore. Not testing the waters. This is all open mouths and low groans, tongue and teeth and the dizzying clash of teeth when one of you gets impatient. His grip shifts, and suddenly his hand is sliding further up, rough fingers grazing your ribs until his thumb just barely brushes under your bra. You freeze for half a second, the sharp spark of oh shit cutting through your haze. But then his mouth drags down your neck again, open and wet and hungry, and any coherent thought short-circuits in your brain.

“Satoru,” you breathe. You don’t mean to say it like that. You don’t mean to say it at all. It just falls out of you, broken and breathy and a little desperate. He groans.

“Say that again.”

“No.”

“Boo, party pooper.” You’re both smiling—giddy, a little drunk, a little overwhelmed—and he noses at your cheek before dragging you in for another kiss. This one’s slower. He licks into your mouth like he’s tasting you, savoring you, like you’re something he’s wanted for way too long and can’t get enough of now that he has you. His thigh shifts between yours and—god—your hips roll on instinct. You feel his breath catch in his throat. Your lips part against his, and that’s all it takes for him to move. His hands are on your hips, guiding you down onto his thigh again, and the friction makes your brain completely short-circuit. You bite back a sound, but it’s embarrassing how easily your body reacts to him. How natural it feels to rock against him like this—slow, messy, clothed, but blistering. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rasping low in your ear. “You’re really doing this, huh.”

“Don’t act surprised,” you mutter, head tipping back when his mouth finds that one spot under your ear. “I’m not,” he admits, voice rough. “I’m just—fuck—I’m so into it.” You’re both breathing hard now, the air between you sticky and thick with heat. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and that’s it. That’s the moment he slips both hands under your skirt, palms warm on your thighs. He squeezes lightly, like he’s checking—asking—and you nod, burying your face into his shoulder. “Touchy tonight, huh?” he murmurs into your skin. 

“Don’t be smug.”

“Impossible. I’m literally in a closet with you grinding on me. I win.” You shove at his shoulder, and he laughs, this quiet, messy sound that turns right into another kiss. His hands wander again, fingers sliding along the edges of your underwear with just enough pressure to tease but not enough to do anything. You whimper. Quietly. Against his mouth. He bites your lower lip. And that’s when there’s a knock at the closet door. You both freeze. The knock comes again—followed by a tipsy voice yelling, “TIME’S UP, CLOSET LOVERS. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT.”

You don’t even move at first. Just sit there. Half tugged up by him around his waist. Half undone. Breathing like you ran a mile. You blink at each other. He grins first. “That was like… two minutes,” he whispers.

“Swear to god, if Seiko’s out there—”

“We’ll lie,” he says, totally unbothered, smoothing down your skirt and grinning lazily. “You fell. I helped you up. We kissed a little. No laws were broken.” You snort, cheeks still on fire. But you can’t help it—you lean forward, just once more, and kiss him. Softly. Just one little press. He hums into it. Hands still on your hips like he’s not letting go the second the door opens. “You okay?” he asks, quietly this time. No teasing. No jokes. You nod. “Yeah.” And then you add, with a shaky laugh, “But next time we do something like this… please not in a literal party closet.” His grin is smug. “Next time?” You shove him again. He opens the door. And the second it does, a wave of music, noise, and light crashes in like you’ve broken the seal on a private, heated little world. You both step out—your hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen, heart racing—and pretend like nothing happened.

“Wanna make another bad decision?” 

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Bathroom’s unlocked.” You stare at him. He stares right back. You give a small nod, imperceptible almost, and then he’s grabbing your wrist, dragging you down the hall. You don’t even check if someone’s watching. You just move, fast, stumbling a little behind him as he shoves open the bathroom door and pulls you in behind him. Click. The lock slides into place. Silence. Your back hits the bathroom door. And Satoru’s right there—crowding into your space, bracing a hand beside your head like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he’s giving you that split-second window to change your mind. You don’t take it. Satoru spins you around and backs you up against the counter like he’s done this before—like he’s been thinking about it since the first time you argued over the last chocolate bar or something. His mouth finds yours in seconds, and this time it’s not playful. It’s hungry. Hot. Desperate. You tug on his shirt, dragging him closer, and he laughs into your mouth, breathless and boyish and so into it. His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms on bare skin, fingers playing with the hem of your black skirt like he can’t help himself. “You know, this skirt that you’re wearing? The one I picked out?” he mutters, mouth moving down to your jaw, then under your ear.

You nod, dizzy. “Uh-huh.”

“Good choice,” he grins, hands squeezing your ass over the fabric. “It’s fucking hot.” You whimper. Actually whimper. And he groans, like you’ve just undone him. “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re actually—”

Your skirt rides up. Your thighs part. And his body slots right between them. “You sure?” he pants, nipping at your lip. “We don’t have to—”

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. “I know we don’t have to.”

Pause.

“But I want to.” That does it. His mouth is back on yours before you finish breathing the sentence, and now his hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, under your top. Your hands tangle in his stupid white hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss and grind into you, hard enough to make you gasp. “Shit,” he mumbles against your mouth. “We should be careful.” You bite your lip. “Why?”

“Because if we keep going, I’m not gonna stop.” Your breath catches. You kiss him. Slow and deep. “Someone’s gonna notice we’re gone,” you whisper, even though you make no move to stop touching him. He nips your neck. “Let them.”

“Satoru—”

You don’t have time to laugh before he lifts you—just like that, hands under your thighs, and sits you on the cold marble counter. Your skirt hikes up to your waist, and his eyes drag down your thighs with an audible breath, eyes glancing over on the wet spot forming on the front of your pink panties, fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear like he can’t wait. You’re kissing again—hot and messy and open-mouthed—while his hand works fast, dragging the fabric to the side and letting out the dirtiest fucking sound when he feels how soaked you are.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead to yours. “All this for me?” You glare. “No, for Suguru. Obviously for you.” 

That grin—that goddamn smug Satoru Gojo grin—flicks across his face. “Should’ve known,” he says, fingers sliding over you now, teasing but desperate. “I really get you going, huh?” You moan, hips stuttering, hands fumbling with his belt now. “Toru—please.” That does it. The second you breathe his name like that, he’s moving—shoving down his jeans and boxers just enough, grabbing a condom from his back pocket like the cocky frat boy you know he is. “I swear,” he mutters, tearing it open, “I was not expecting to use this tonight.”

You give him a look. “Bullshit.” He laughs low. “Okay, maybe I hoped. Come on, haven’t been laid in ages.” Then? Then he’s right there, dragging your hips to the edge, rubbing himself against you slowly, teasing. Too slowly. “Satoru,” you whisper, grabbing his shirt, pulling. “Now.” He groans—and then pushes in, slow at first, filling you in a way that makes your whole body arch off the counter. “Fuck,” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t anchor himself. “You feel—Jesus.”

Your breath stutters out. “Move—please.” And he does. He fucks you like the party doesn’t exist. Like the music isn’t thumping just outside the door. Like someone won’t knock at any second. Hard, deep thrusts—his hand muffling your moans when they get too loud, your nails clawing down his back under his shirt. He kisses you through it, open-mouthed and filthy, murmuring curses against your lips like he’s losing it, too. “Didn’t think this would happen tonight,” he says between thrusts, voice ragged. You’re gasping. “Me either—oh my God—but don’t stop.” He doesn’t. If anything, he fucks into you harder, like your words lit him up, hips snapping forward, making you see stars. You cling to him, head falling to his shoulder, trying so hard not to moan too loud when he shifts his angle and hits just right.

“Satoru—”

“I know,” he grits out, kissing your shoulder, your neck. “You’re so fucking tight—shit.” The counter creaks beneath you. His hands are gripping your thighs, and you’re clinging to his shirt, and when you finally come—clenching around him, eyes fluttering—he groans like you just knocked the breath out of him. He follows fast. Gasping your name, forehead buried in your neck, hips stuttering as he finishes with a shudder and a string of muttered curses. The room falls quiet except for your heavy breathing. You’re still panting when he finally lifts his head, face flushed, hair messy, looking more fucked-out than you’ve ever seen him.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded. “Pussy is too good.” You smack his chest, still catching your breath. “Way to ruin a moment.” He laughs, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead resting against yours. Outside, the bass drops again. Inside, he kisses you—sweet, slow now. Like he wants this again. And again. You're still half-breathless when you peel yourself off the bathroom counter, shaky legs dangling before you touch the floor. Satoru leans back, hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised and glistening, grinning like he just won a game he wasn’t even supposed to be playing. You glance at yourself in the mirror and immediately groan. “God,” you mutter, fixing your hair with trembling fingers. “I look like I just got railed in a frat bathroom.”

“You did just get railed in a frat bathroom,” Satoru offers, obnoxiously proud. He’s zipping his jeans, running a hand through his tousled white hair, utterly unfazed. “Shut up.” You swat his chest as he snickers. “Fix yourself. Your hair looks like you’re Goku from Dragon Ball Z right now.”

He checks. “Oh. Shit.” You both burst into quiet, breathy laughter, like two kids caught in the middle of something reckless and brilliant. The bathroom still smells faintly like the citrusy hand soap, alcohol, and you—God, you—clinging to Satoru’s skin like perfume. You tug your skirt down. It’s wrinkled. Your thigh is slightly sticky. You don’t even want to think about it right now. “Wait,” you whisper, holding your arms out like a human barricade. “Are we going out together?” Satoru looks at you, then toward the door, considering. “Nah,” he says finally, lips twitching. “I’ll give you a 60 second head start. Real secret agent vibes.” He pulls you in before you can leave, pressing one last kiss to your mouth, slower this time, his hand cradling your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. When you pull back, you're flushed again. “Go,” he says, voice low. “Before I forget we’re trying to be subtle.” You open the door and slip out fast, stepping into the dim hallway. It takes you a second to adjust to the bass again, the flood of people, the bright overhead lights that make everything feel too real. You make a beeline toward the kitchen like you haven’t just been completely wrecked in the bathroom, grabbing the nearest cup you can find and pretending to drink something even though it’s mostly just melted ice and backwash.

Then—

“Yo!” Someone calls your name from across the room. Not Satoru. Just a classmate. You wave, hoping they don’t notice how warm your cheeks are. You’re mid-conversation when, exactly one minute later, Satoru wanders in from the other side of the room. Cool as ever. You both lock eyes for the briefest second—and he winks at you like an absolute menace before joining some people near the pong table. You swear your knees go weak all over again. As you’re sipping from your cup and attempting to regulate your heart rate, your phone buzzes.

Torustill taste u on my tongue lol

You immediately lock the screen and shove it into your pocket like it just caught fire. Across the room, he catches your expression. Smiles. Smug. Lazy. Like he owns the whole fucking house. You shake your head, lips twitching as you pretend not to look at him again. But you do. A few times. And each time, he’s already looking back. 

The car ride home is a blur of motion, low music, and the afterglow of too many drinks and too little inhibition. You’re squished in the backseat of Suguru’s car, shoulder-to-shoulder with Satoru as Seiko loudly insists on shotgunning—“I called it like thirty minutes ago, Satoru, don’t even try me”—and Suguru just raises a brow like why did I agree to this? You're half pressed against the window, the cold glass seeping into your flushed skin. Satoru’s thigh is warm beside yours. Too warm. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware—of him, of yourself, of the fact that less than an hour ago he had his hands under your skirt and his mouth on your neck. “Ugh,” Seiko moans from the passenger seat. “Suguru, drive slower. I’m gonna puke.”

“You said faster two minutes ago.”

“Well now I say slower. Unless you want vomit on your dashboard.”

Suguru sighs and taps the brakes. Beside you, Satoru chuckles low in his throat. It’s not even directed at you, but it ripples down your spine like a dropped match. He shifts, resting his arm casually along the backseat behind you, not quite touching—but close. So close. You try not to look at him. You fail. His hair is still tousled. There’s a mark—barely-there—on the edge of his jawline. You wonder if he noticed it in the mirror at the party. You wonder if he knows it’s from you. You blink away the thought and stare hard out the window as Suguru pulls up to your apartment. The car slows to a stop, and suddenly all of you are groaning and tumbling out, drunk and exhausted. “Everyone drink water before bed,” Suguru calls after you and Seiko, who are giggling as you shuffle toward the door. “Don’t be dumbasses tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mom,” Satoru mutters. You all collapse into the apartment like a pile of overripe fruit—sweet, bruised, and sticky with the night. No words. Just Seiko drifting into her room with a loud yawn, mumbling something about being glad she didn’t drink tonight. Satoru disappearing into his own with an unreadable look over his shoulder, and you stumbling into yours with your head spinning. The moment your door shuts behind you, you exhale hard. And then you feel it. The ache between your legs. The ghost of his mouth on yours. Your lips are swollen. Your hair’s a mess. And there’s a bite mark—not aggressive, but definitely there—on your collarbone. You don’t even change clothes. You just fall face-first into your bed and let the haze swallow you whole.

The morning hits like a truck. You wake up with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth and your thoughts screaming. What did I do? Your brain floods with flashes: the kiss in the closet. The way he’d looked at you in the bathroom mirror. His laugh, low and cocky. The stretch of his hand around your thigh. His voice against your neck—

You sit up way too fast and groan. Okay. Okay. Think. Was it just the alcohol? A one-time thing? He is a flirt. He does sleep around. But he didn’t flirt with anyone else that night. And he didn’t go into the closet with anyone else. And he kissed you like he meant it. You press your hands to your face. You don’t even know what you want. Do you want it to have been a one-time thing? Or are you hoping he’ll bring it up again? Are you hoping he’ll come knock on your door right now? You stare at your bedroom door. It’s way too quiet outside. No Seiko, no Satoru. You check the time—past noon. They’re probably both still dead asleep. But what if he’s not? What if he’s in the kitchen? What if you walk out there and it’s awkward as hell and he doesn’t even look at you the same? Your heart starts pounding. You’re suddenly, intensely aware that you’re still wearing that damn black skirt. It’s wrinkled and rides up your thighs in your bed like a cruel joke. You pull your blanket over your head and groan. Nope. You’re not going out there. Not yet. Not until you know what the hell to say to the boy who fucked you over a sink last night and then waved at you across the room like he hadn’t just ruined your entire life. You eventually force yourself out of bed. It takes a long, boiling shower, half a bottle of ibuprofen, and several internal pep talks, but you finally open your bedroom door and step into the hallway—blank expression, huge hoodie, and an unholy craving for caffeine.

The apartment is quiet. No Seiko. No Suguru. But you hear faint kitchen sounds—running water, a mug clinking against the counter. Your stomach drops. You turn the corner. Satoru’s there. Leaning over the counter with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, looking very not hungover. His hair is damp—he’s clearly already showered—and he’s in a pair of loose sweats, shirtless, like he doesn’t even know what modesty is. You almost turn around. But he glances up. And you’re already seen. “Oh,” he says, like you’ve bumped into him at the fucking supermarket, not—well. Not after last night. “Morning.”

You blink. “Hey.” He sets his phone down. You make a beeline for the coffee machine, not looking at him. You feel him watching you, though. And not in a last night way. Not in a “you looked so good riding me against the bathroom sink” way. More like… a confused “are we just pretending that never happened?” kind of way. You clear your throat. “You sleep okay?” He pauses a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says finally. “You?” You nod. Pour yourself coffee. “Fine.” Silence. You sip. He sips. The room is so quiet you can hear the tick of the old wall clock. “So…” you say, and instantly regret it. You don’t even know what you were going to follow that up with. There’s no “so.” There’s no normal segue into hey remember when you pushed my panties to the side and said I was making too much noise? You don’t even finish the thought. He scratches the back of his neck. “So,” he echoes with a crooked smile, “that was a party, huh?” You huff out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Yeah. Yeah, it… was.” Silence again. You glance over at him—and he’s looking at you. Not in a teasing way. Not flirty, not smug. Just… like he’s trying to read you. Gauge your reaction. His voice is careful when he says, “I didn’t think we were doing spin the bottle last night.”

“Oh yeah,” you say lightly, hoping your smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “That was a… surprise.” He hums. Sips again. Neither of you brings up the closet. Or the bathroom. You both stand there, drinking bad coffee in your shared silence, pretending like nothing did. And somehow that’s worse. You suddenly can’t stand it—the way your heart keeps jumping every time he shifts, like you’re waiting for him to say something. Clarify something. But he doesn’t. And you don’t. So instead, you mutter, “I’m gonna go back to my room.” He looks at you for half a second too long. Nods. “Yeah. Okay.” You carry your coffee out, heart beating stupidly fast. You shut your door behind you and lean against it like you just escaped something dangerous. Because you did. You escaped the conversation where he might’ve said it was a mistake. But now you don’t know if he wanted to say the opposite, either. And the not-knowing might just kill you first. You hear the shuffle of his feet in the hallway—his bedroom door creaking open, the sigh he lets out when he realizes the apartment is still quiet. But you’re already locked inside your room, sitting in bed in one of your oversized hoodies, a brutal hangover kicking at your temples. You don't even check your phone. You just stare at the ceiling, mouth dry, heart pounding. God. What the hell did you do?

–

By Monday, it’s not just a one-day silence. It turns into a pattern. You start rehearsing escape routes—routes that avoid the kitchen, the couch, his side of campus. You’re back to taking the bus instead of the ride he always used to offer, lying to Seiko with dumb excuses like “I left early” or “I had to drop by the post office.” When he passes you in the hallway of your apartment, you duck into your room before he can speak. He notices. You can feel it.

On Tuesday, you hear the jangle of his keys, the creak of the front door, and his heavy, dragging steps like he’s tired. You hold your breath when his steps pause in front of your door for just a second too long. Then they continue—out to the living room. You exhale only after the TV starts playing. You don’t know why you’re avoiding him so hard. Maybe it’s the embarrassment. The fact that you kissed him first. That you dragged him into the bathroom like a fucking hormonal maniac. That you wanted him. That he let you want him. You replay the way he looked at you in the mirror. The way he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. But maybe that’s just how he kisses. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You feel sick. And then there’s the other thing. The gnawing guilt of knowing this isn’t just some random guy. This is Seiko’s older brother. You practically grew up knowing him, teasing him, getting teased back. She’s known about your stupid little high school crush—but she never knew it’d turn into this. And even though she’d never be mad, a part of you feels like you broke a silent code. Like you crossed something.

So now you smile extra wide when you’re with her. Laugh too loud. Ask too many questions about Suguru, just to keep her focused on anything else. You don’t mention Satoru. You never do. And she doesn’t bring him up either, like maybe she senses something’s off. Satoru, on the other hand? He’s not playing pretend. By Wednesday, he’s straight-up glaring at you in the kitchen. You enter to grab a water bottle and find him already there, shirtless, hair tousled from sleep. He glances up from his mug of coffee, and his jaw tics when you avoid eye contact, grab the bottle, and turn around with barely a “Morning.”

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t ask what he means. You just shut your bedroom door behind you again and let your back make contact with your bed, heart racing in your ribs. Thursday at campus, he walks straight past you outside the lecture hall, pretending to text. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hi. You’d feel relieved, but instead you feel… a little sick.

By Friday, you start catching him staring. Not the playful stares he used to throw when you were snarking at him on the couch, or the amused glances during group study when you used to roast Seiko. These are different. Sharper. Tight-lipped. Like he’s trying to understand what the fuck your problem is and fighting the urge to demand answers. In the library, he walks in with two friends and pauses when he sees you sitting alone. For a second, your eyes lock. Your heart jumps. You go cold. He raises his brows just a little—like a challenge. Like he’s asking, So this is how it is now?

You immediately lower your gaze to your textbook.

You don’t look up again until you hear him walk away.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You know the creak of every floorboard by now. You time your kitchen runs for when he's in the shower. You fake calls on the walk home if he’s in the distance across campus. You’ve perfected the art of silence—of vanishing just before your name could leave his mouth.

You’re not proud of it. But you're not ready to talk either. Every time you see him—or almost see him—your stomach knots. It’s not just the fact that you had sex with your best friend’s older brother. It’s the fact that it meant something. At least to you. And now you don’t know if it did to him.

You don’t know what he thinks. You don’t know if he regrets it. You don’t know if he wants to do it again or pretend it never happened. You don’t know anything, and not knowing feels safer than asking. You avoid the kitchen unless Seiko’s there. You don’t ride in Suguru’s car anymore. You take the campus loop bus—even if it’s late, even if it’s raining, even if the seats are soaked and the heater doesn’t work. At least it keeps you away from him.

Every day, you pretend like you're fine.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to throw up when I mention Satoru?” Seiko teases lightly one afternoon when you’re curled up on the couch scrolling on your phone. You blink too quickly. “I do not,” you lie. “Yeah, you do,” she laughs, “like, every time. Are you two fighting or something?” You force a smile, heart thumping. “I just find him annoying. You know that.” She shrugs, unconvinced. “Okay, but you used to like him annoying. Now you look like you’re allergic to him.”

By Saturday, the tension is visible. Even Seiko’s starting to pick up on it—on how quiet Satoru’s become, how he doesn’t crack jokes like he used to, how the apartment suddenly feels like it has an emotional landmine buried under the carpet. And he’s not being subtle either. He slams more drawers. Leaves the fridge open longer than needed. One morning, you hear him mutter, “She’s literally acting like I murdered her family,” through the wall after you ducked out of the bathroom the second he walked in.

You curl into yourself. Guilt swarms you. Guilt for sleeping with him. Guilt for liking it. Guilt for making it weird. Guilt for hiding it. Guilt for lying to Seiko. Guilt for how you can’t look either of them in the eye anymore.

And the worst part?

You miss him. You miss the sound of his dumb laugh from the couch. The way he stole your fries off your plate. The smug smirk he gave when he caught you staring. You miss him when he's in the same room, and you miss him when he's not. But you're too afraid to fix it.

Too afraid of what it could become. Or worse—what it won’t.

It’s Sunday evening when it finally happens. You’d just gotten out of the shower, damp hair sticking to your neck, hoodie slipping too far off one shoulder. You’re halfway through towel-drying it in your room when you hear the unmistakable sound of the front door swinging shut and keys being dumped into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.

And your stomach sinks. You know who it is.

You freeze, listening. It’s late—Seiko’s staying at a friend’s dorm tonight, which means it’s just you. And him. In the apartment. Your heart starts to thump like a speaker at a frat house—deep, rhythmic, inescapable. You think maybe if you stay quiet, if you keep your lights off, if you just wait it out, he’ll go straight to his room.

But then—

Knock. Knock. Knock. Three sharp, deliberate knocks against your door. Not frantic. Not tentative. Just controlled. Frustrated. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Open the door,” he says through it. Calm. But not neutral. There’s heat simmering just beneath it. You don’t move. Another knock.

“I know you’re in there.”

A pause.

“And I know you’re avoiding me.”

You grit your teeth, lips parting. For a second, you contemplate telling him to fuck off. But you can’t bring yourself to say it—not when your whole body still remembers his touch, his voice in your ear, the way he’d held your hips like he couldn’t get enough of you. “I’m not,” you lie weakly, and it sounds like you’re underwater. A dry laugh.

“Right. You’re not.”

You stand frozen for a moment longer before your body acts for you. Fingers wrapping around the doorknob, turning it slowly until the latch clicks. You pull it open just enough to see him—his hoodie slung low over his head, eyes darker than usual, like the week of silence has worn down even his confidence. There’s a long silence. You shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

“Look, I—I don’t think we should talk about it, okay?” you mumble, eyes flicking away. “It was a party. We were drunk. It happened. Let’s just… not make it a big deal.”

His jaw flexes.

“You think I’m making it a big deal?”

You flinch. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward, his voice dipping lower. “You’re the one pretending it didn’t happen. You’re the one who’s been acting like I don’t fucking exist.”

You glance back toward the darkened hallway, heart pounding.

“I’ve just been busy, Satoru.”

“Cut the shit.”

His voice is low but harsh now, the syllables snapping through the space between you.

“I text you, you leave me to read. You see me on campus, and you bolt like I’m some fucking stalker. You won’t even look at me. What the hell did I do that was so wrong?”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s not—it’s not about what you did,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

He stares at you like he doesn’t believe you.

“I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know what that was, okay? I don’t know what it meant.”

His eyes narrow. “Why does it have to mean something?”

You blink. “Because it does.”

The words come out louder than you meant.

And then it’s quiet. Heavy.

You suddenly feel very, very tired.

“I just…” You swallow. “It’s hard. You’re Seiko’s brother. And you’re you. You’re, like, Satoru fucking Gojo. And I’m just—me. And I don’t want to be some… joke you tell your frat friends later.”

His face tightens.

“Is that what you think this is?”

You flinch. He takes a step forward.

“You think I’d fuck you in a bathroom at a party and then just go brag about it to Suguru or some shit?”

“I don’t know!” you snap, voice cracking. “I don’t know what the fuck to think!”

You feel it bubbling up now—hot, sharp, impossible to contain. A week’s worth of bottled-up emotion, self-doubt, mortification, and frustration bleeding into your voice.

“I’ve liked you since I was seventeen and you used to sneak Red Bulls during our tutoring breaks at your guys’ house—I didn’t even like Red Bull, by the way—and now we’re living in the same fucking apartment, and you’ve seen me in my pajamas and kissed me like you were starving for it and then we had sex, and then I had to wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t make my whole world tilt sideways!”

Your breath comes out shaky, chest heaving now.

“And you—God,” you choke out, eyes stinging, “you said nothing the next morning. Not even, like, a normal-person ‘are you okay’ or ‘hey, about last night.’ No. You made some dumbass joke about not knowing they’d have spin the bottle at the party—like that was the most significant thing that happened!”

You throw your hands up, exasperated and hurt all over again.

“And I just stood there like an idiot, laughing it off, because I didn’t know if it was casual for you or if I meant nothing, and meanwhile I spent the whole week overanalyzing every single second while you probably just carried on like it was any other night!” Satoru is silent. Frozen. Jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on you like he can’t believe you’ve been holding all of this inside. That you’ve been carrying it around like this pain belonged only to you.

“I felt like a fucking joke, Satoru,” you say quieter now, voice trembling. “And I didn’t know if I was allowed to be hurt. I didn’t know if I was overreacting. So I did the only thing I could do—I avoided you. Because if I didn’t, I think I would’ve cried or worse—told you I still wanted you, even if you didn’t feel the same.” The air between you two is thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. He takes a slow step forward, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse—real. “I didn’t know what the fuck to say,” he admits. “I woke up and I panicked. I thought if I made it casual, you’d feel like you had an easy out. Like it wouldn’t be weird for you.” You look up at him, throat tight. “Yeah?” you say bitterly. “Well, it was.”

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I know. And I’m sorry.” A pause. You don’t move. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he adds quietly. “I was trying to be cool about it, and I ended up being a complete fucking idiot.” You say nothing. He sighs.

“I should’ve just said I liked kissing you,” he says simply. “Because I did. I liked it too much, and it freaked me out.” You blink hard. Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He takes another step closer. “You weren’t a one-night thing,” he says, voice low. “You’re not a joke. You never have been.” A breathless silence. Your heart is pounding again—but for a different reason now. “So, we’re good now?,” he asks lightly. You manage a small smile. “Yeah.”

Another beat passes, and then his voice drops again—quiet, careful. “Can we stop pretending it didn’t happen?” You take a breath. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. Your skin feels hot. You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

He smiles—slow, crooked, a little relieved.

“Cool,” he murmurs, stepping past you with a brush of his fingers at your hip. “Now come out and eat. You’ve been emo all week.”

“Don’t call me emo,” you groan.

“Don’t ghost me, then.” You pause in the doorway, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. And despite the pounding in your chest, for the first time in days, something eases in your shoulders.

–

It starts off subtle. A shoulder bump in the kitchen. His fingers brushing yours when he passes the remote. You stealing sips from his drink even though you said you didn’t want one. But over the last few weeks, it’s become undeniable. You and Satoru have gotten so close. Not in the subtle, barely-speaking, ‘are-they-even-on-good-terms’ way you were for that agonizing, slow, emotionally repressed stretch of time—but in the obnoxiously familiar, joyfully flirty, constantly-hovering-near-each-other way that screams something happened, and they’re definitely doing it again. There’s no dramatic sit-down. No DTR talk. But it’s in everything you do. It’s the way he stretches out across the couch just so his legs rest over your lap when Seiko’s watching TV next to you, unfazed. The way you lean into him during group hangouts, like he’s a magnetic pull you don’t even fight anymore. Today, it’s the three of you again—Seiko, you, and Satoru—on a sunny late afternoon, draped across the living room in varying states of half-productivity and snack-crunching. He has his head dangerously close to your thigh on the couch, while he himself is sprawled across on it, flipping through something on his phone, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. You’re seated with your legs crossed, scrolling through TikTok and trying not to smile every time his ivory hair glints in the afternoon sunlight. 

Seiko’s half-watching a show but keeps glancing, suspicious.

“Okay,” she says suddenly, pointing her spoon at the both of you, “I swear to God you two were being emo little freaks like two weeks ago.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You literally wouldn’t even look at each other at breakfast, and now you’re basically spooning on the couch like that’s normal.” Satoru doesn’t look up. “I am a very cuddly person,” he says, flipping to the next Instagram story. You nudge him in the side with your foot. “He is not,” you tell Seiko, grinning. “I was gaslit,” she says. “You both made me think I was imagining the tension.”

“You were,” you and Satoru say at the same time. Then you both glance at each other and immediately start cracking up. “Unbelievable,” Seiko mutters, digging her spoon back into her cereal. “I should’ve known when he voluntarily washed a dish that something was up.” Satoru reaches up and steals a spoonful of cereal straight out of her bowl. “Hey!” she swats at him, “Get your own! Don’t touch my food, you asshole.” The rest of the day is just like that—subtle teasing, casual touches, too-long eye contact that gives everything away. When he gets up to grab snacks, he asks if you want anything with this easy, domestic sort of confidence. When you hand him your phone to look at a meme, his fingers graze yours on purpose. And when you walk back from the kitchen later, he slides over on the couch without a word, making space for you in that casual, of course you’ll sit here next to me kind of way. At one point, you’re both squished together, sharing the same blanket, knees knocking under it—and Seiko just stares.

She mutters, “I’m living in hell.” You and Satoru both just grin. 

–

You had the apartment to yourself.

Lectures had moved online because of some water damage in the psych building, so you were living the absolute dream: cozy hoodie, panties, blanket burrito, Modern Family playing at low volume, and a warm mug of tea in your hands. It was gray outside—light drizzle tapping at the windows—and you had zero plans to leave the couch bed you made in your room. That was, until you hear the apartment door slam shut. You freeze. It’s too early for Seiko to be back. And she would’ve yelled something dumb the second she walked in. Which means—

“Yo,” Satoru calls out, voice echoing down the hallway.

Shit.

You panic for half a second, adjusting your blanket like you’ve been caught watching porn instead of a sitcom. “I’m in my room!” you shout back, hoping he takes the hint. He doesn’t. Your door creaks open without hesitation, and you barely sit up before he’s leaning against the frame, one brow cocked, his stupidly gorgeous face framed by the light behind him. 

“Seriously?” you groan. “Ever heard of knocking? What if I was changing and I was naked?” He just grins, blue eyes flickering over you—messy hair, oversized hoodie, bare thighs, popcorn-stained blanket and all. “I've already been inside you,” he shrugs casually, stepping in like it’s his room. “What’s the difference, really?” Your mouth drops open. “Satoru—!”He plops down beside you before you can finish, laughing to himself as you bury your face in the blanket in mortified silence. “You’re unbelievable,” you mumble, trying to will away the heat crawling up your neck. He nudges your leg with his knee under the blanket. “So what’re we watching, sweetheart?”

You hesitate, because saying Modern Family out loud just feels embarrassing now. “...Modern Family.” Satoru squints at you, unimpressed. “Again? You’ve seen every episode like twelve times.”

You turn to face him, making a point of shoving popcorn in your mouth like it’ll shut him up. “And? It’s comfort TV. Sue me.” But he doesn’t argue. He just shifts lower, stealing a handful of popcorn and tossing a few pieces into his mouth while kicking his shoes off. You watch him stretch out beside you, long limbs taking up all the space, thigh pressing up against yours under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do you. Not until his hand slips under the blanket—just resting on your bare thigh this time, warm and casual, but very much intentional. You shoot him a look. “Seriously?”

“What?” he murmurs, not even glancing over. “It’s cold. You’re warm. Let me live.”

“Your hand is on my skin.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Oh, is that what that is?” You elbow him lightly, but it doesn’t make him move. If anything, he just sinks further into your side, his knuckles brushing slow, lazy circles against your thigh like he knows exactly what he's doing. Which—of course he does. “You’re the worst,” you mutter.

“I’m your worst,” he says, soft and teasing. You swallow. The blanket suddenly feels a little too warm. A long moment passes with the two of you just… lying there. Watching Cam and Mitch bumble through fatherhood while Satoru’s fingers trace delicate lines higher and higher on your leg, never quite crossing the line, but dancing at the edge of it. He’s so casual about it—like this is normal now. Like it’s his right to touch you, to be here, stretched out in your bed and smirking at you like you’re already his. But this time, he leans in and kisses your jaw—soft, slow, and maddeningly smug—you don’t pull away. You’re kind of surprised, you didn’t think he’d just… do that. Your face is still warm from his jaw kiss, but you try—try—to keep your attention on the TV. It’s useless. You can feel him watching you now, feel the soft trail of his fingers inching up your thigh again beneath the blanket. Barely touching. Barely even real. “You’re nervous,” he says quietly, amused. “Don’t like me touching you?” He hums playfully, squeezing your thigh.

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes.

“You are,” he insists, voice dropping. “You’re so twitchy. What, am I distracting?” You glare at him, but he just grins.

“God, you’re annoying.” 

He leans closer, chin resting on your shoulder, lips right by your ear. “You didn’t think I was annoying when you were moaning my name in that bathroom.” You freeze, body going still all at once. Then you punch him weakly in the arm, because what the fuck is he even trying to do right now. “That was so unnecessary.”

“Was it?” he hums. “’Cause you sound a little breathless right now.” You hate him. You do. Especially when his hand starts tracing the hem of your oversized hoodie, pushing it up so slowly your brain short-circuits. It’s featherlight, like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Instead, you clutch the blanket tighter as his fingers drag higher up your thigh, brushing over the edge of your underwear like he’s not doing anything at all. “Satoru,” you whisper, a warning—or a plea, you’re not sure. His mouth is back at your ear. “Mm, I love when you say it like that.” Then, casually, he lifts the blanket and looks. You panic. “Hey—!” But he’s smirking now, pupils darker, lips parted a little as he eyes your bare legs, the little black cotton panties with a small lace trim that were not meant for an audience today. “Cute,” he murmurs, like he’s impressed, like you planned this. “Didn’t take you for a lace girl.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary.” you whisper-shout, trying to tug the blanket back down—but he catches your wrist. His other hand slides fully under your hoodie now, across your stomach, warm and flat, and you whimper when his thumb brushes just under the band of your underwear. You shouldn’t let him. You really shouldn’t. But his voice is so low, so goddamn casual, as he says: “Want me to help you relax?” Your breath stutters. He shifts closer, practically between your legs now, his face inches from yours, and that cocky smirk is gone—replaced by something slower. Hungrier. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and your eyes flutter shut because this is so bad, but you don’t want him to stop.

And then—

You feel his fingers press down through the fabric, right against your core. You gasp, one hand flying to his chest like you could push him away—but you don’t. You curl your fingers into his hoodie instead. 

“Still watching Modern Family?” he whispers, like it’s a joke, like he’s not circling you over your underwear with unbearable gentleness. “You’re the worst person alive,” you hiss. “Mm, maybe,” he murmurs, lips grazing your cheek. “But I’m making you feel so good right now, aren’t I?” You don’t answer. You can’t—not when he’s pressing a little harder, rubbing small, unhurried circles into your clit above your panties, and watching your face like he wants to memorize it. And then—then—he moves down. You squeak, trying to grab at him, but he pins your hips with both hands and laughs into your stomach, breath hot against your skin as he pulls your underwear to the side.

“Relax,” he says again, and this time it’s softer. “Let me take care of you.” You suck in a breath, the kind that gets trapped in your throat and goes nowhere. He has your thighs spread, his palms anchoring them down to the mattress as he looks at you—really looks at you—with that ravenous kind of amusement. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your hipbone, lips brushing it like an afterthought. “No, I’m not,” you breathe, even though you definitely are. One slow kiss, then another, lower now, until you’re arching just a little, just enough. You try to close your legs, try to pull the hoodie back down, try anything to regain a sliver of control—but his hands just tighten around your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you. “Settle down,” he says again, voice dropped to something filthy. 

“God, you're always so wound up. Gonna eat that pussy so good you’ll become nice ‘n easy f’me.” And then you feel him lick a stripe up your inner thigh. Your whole body jolts like it’s been electrocuted.

“Satoru—”

“Shh,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like he’s focused. Like he’s thinking about what he’s going to do to you and not much else. His fingers trail back up, slow, pushing your hoodie higher, letting his knuckles brush your ribs. He mouths at your skin the whole way up—your stomach, your side, your breasts, paying extra attention to your hardened nipples—before dragging himself back down again with that same dizzying patience. "You're not stopping me," he murmurs, breath ghosting over your soaked underwear. “So either you really want me to behave badly or you're just shy about asking.” You cover your face with one hand. “Oh my god.”

 He chuckles, dragging his tongue over your inner thigh again. “That’s not a no.” And then he finally—finally—slips your underwear to the side and drags a single, long finger through your folds. You gasp—loudly this time—and his grip on your thigh tightens.

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost reverent. “You’re so wet.”

You can’t respond. You can’t even think. He takes his time, thumb pressing against your clit as his fingers prod at your entrance gently, teasing, but not thrusting them in. And then his mouth replaces his fingers. You cry out—like, actually cry out—as he licks you, slow and indulgent, like he's tasting dessert. One of his hands stays on your thigh, firm and possessive, and the other slips up to squeeze your waist, your breast, anything he can reach. And his mouth—god, his mouth moves in unhurried circles, like he’s savoring it, like he missed this. He drags his tongue up, swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving it a little suck, before dragging his tongue down to circle against your entrance torturously. You’re squirming again. But this time, he lets you. “Yeah,” he murmurs between licks, “that’s more like it. You sound so sweet when you stop pretending you don’t want me.” You bite your knuckle to keep quiet, but he catches your hand and pulls it away. “Let me hear you,” he says, more serious now. “I want you to be loud for me.”And then—he uses his fingers too. He slips one inside, knuckle deep as he pumps it in and out, adding a second one when he hears you whine his name. 

“That’s it, baby.” 

You writhe, head falling back into the pillows, one arm flung over your eyes as he builds you up with an obscene kind of precision—his tongue, his fingers, the soft praise he keeps murmuring in between. “You’re doing so good for me.” He harshly sucks at your clit again, all while his fingers are pistoning in and out of you, causing you to clamp down. “Feel how hard you’re clenching?” You're dripping. You’re trembling. You're seconds away from falling apart, and he knows it. But he slows down. You whine, hips rocking. “Satoru—”

He pulls back just a little, breath warm against your thigh. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you want.” You blink at him, dazed. "You're literally—inside me—"

He grins. “Still. Say it.” Your face burns, but your voice is desperate now. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Satoru,” you choke, “please don’t stop eating me out.” And he doesn’t. He keeps going until you fall apart for him, loud and shaking and so far gone that the only word on your lips is his name. You come, his name falling off your lips like a mantra while he continues licking and slurping until you quite literally yank his head off from between your thighs. And even then—he doesn’t move. He kisses you once, soft and slow, like he’s easing you back into your body. Then again, higher up this time, then again, like he can’t quite stop. Your hoodie is bunched under your arms. Your thighs are limp. Your body’s still trembling—soft and flushed and pliant—when he presses a kiss just below your navel and murmurs, “Told you I’d take care of you.” You barely manage to lift your head. “I hate you.” He grins against your skin. “Liar.” You want to respond. You do. But then he’s kissing his way up, slow and lazy, nudging your hoodie higher until it bunches just above your tits. You whimper into his mouth as he moves up to kiss you again, deeper this time, and while you’re distracted—dazed and gasping—he grabs your thighs and pulls them apart, slotting himself between them like it’s his god-given right. His hands palm at your breasts lazily, grinning when he feels you buck your hips against the bulge in his sweats, canines out on display as he grins down at you.  “Satoru,” you breathe, but he just smiles.

“Round two, baby.” 

You’re still in your hoodie and panties—just tugged out of place—and he doesn’t bother taking them off. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the band and pushes them aside again like it’s easy, like it’s familiar now. And then he’s grinding down against you, hard and slow, through his sweats, and you moan so loudly he laughs. “You that sensitive already?” he teases, rolling his hips again. “Shit—look at you. Still twitching.” 

“Shut up.”

“No,” he purrs, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw. “Not when you’re soaking through your panties like that. You think I’m gonna shut up now?” You try to glare at him. It fails. He grabs your hand, his plush bottom lip between his teeth, white lashes fluttering when you take the hint and squeeze him through his sweats.

“Mmf– Not that I’m pressuring you or anything, but sweets I need you–”

“You are not pressuring me, so please, hurry up before I genuinely explode.”

“Wow, so eager for me. Having my tongue in you wasn’t enough?”

“Just put it in already before I punch you—”

“Fine! But I don’t have condoms on me right now, used the last one up to fuck you on that sink, remember?”

“I don’t care, I’m on birth control anyways—”

Then he’s pushing his sweats down just enough, lining himself up—and you gasp, grabbing his shoulders as he slides in so slowly you think you might cry.  He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck—still so tight. Like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“Maybe I am.”

He laughs again, shaky and breathless. “Too bad. I’m not going anywhere. Other than this pussy.” He sets a rhythm—slow at first, deep and dragging, rocking into you like he wants to take his time—but the moment your nails dig into his back and your breath hitches, he growls and picks up pace. His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your collarbone, your lips—and all the while he’s muttering filth against your skin:

“You feel that? How good I fill you up?”

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all week, huh?”

“Say my name again. C’mon, baby. Say it while I fuck you.” You do. Over and over. At some point, he shifts—sits back on his heels and pulls you with him, dragging your hips into his lap. The new angle makes your vision blur. “Oh my god—Satoru—” “There she is,” he groans, watching where your bodies meet, sweat-slick hair falling over his forehead. “So fucking pretty like this. Gonna come again for me?” You nod helplessly. He just grins and thrusts harder. And when you fall apart a second time—loud and breathless and clinging to him like you’ll never let go—he follows with a broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he shudders and pulses inside you, the warmth seeping from his cock making you shudder. For a long moment, there’s only your breathing. Then, finally, he flops onto the bed beside you, tugs you into his chest, and says, “So… no head?” You groan. He laughs. And somewhere beneath the covers, his hand is already sliding down your thigh again.

“Round three?” he says, hopeful.

You smack him with a pillow.

He still ends up getting round three.

And then round four.

And then round five, until you both are so exhausted and sweaty that he almost falls asleep instead of getting up to wipe the copious amounts of him trickling out onto your thighs. Once you’re cleaned up, he flops next to you dramatically, limbs sprawled across the bed like a starfish, chest rising and falling. “I’m the love of your life,” he murmurs, trailing a lazy hand across your stomach. “You just don’t wanna admit it yet.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not filing a restraining order first thing tomorrow.” He fake gasps, curling into you like you mortally wounded him. “You’re evil.” 

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. “And you’re much more evil than me.”

“And yet.” He kisses your shoulder. “You let me hit five rounds.” You shove him again, but it’s gentle this time. Less of a shove, more of a pat. He takes it as an invitation to climb on top of you, settling there like a smug human blanket. “You’re heavy,” you complain, breath catching when his nose brushes yours. “You’re soft,” he says, grinning. You smack his arm again, and he laughs like this is the happiest he’s ever been—like lying half-naked on you, sweaty and spent, is the best part of his day. 

“Hey,” he says after a moment, quieter now, eyes still a little mischievous but softer at the edges. “I meant it, y’know. Earlier.”

“Meant what?”

“That I wanna take care of you.” 

Your breath hitches. He kisses your forehead like he’s sealing a promise. “Not just when I’m being disgusting.” You look up at him—this boy with starlight in his eyes and trouble in his grin—and your chest does a weird little flip. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he echoes, and grins so wide it hurts. “But just to clarify, I am still gonna be disgusting.” He’s tracing shapes on your back with lazy fingers. Random squiggles, probably. Or maybe dicks. It’s Satoru—you can never be sure. But then he pauses. And says, softly, “I’m serious though.” 

You blink against his skin. “About being disgusting? Yeah, we all know.” He chuckles, but it’s a breath short of his usual dramatics. “No,” he says, thumb brushing the curve of your waist. “About you. About this.” Your heart stutters, because the air suddenly shifts—goes tender and quiet and a little fragile. You pull back just enough to see his face. He’s looking at you. Not in the way he usually does—like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, or a joke he’s waiting for you to get. He’s just looking. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

“Satoru…”

“I like you,” he says, simple as anything. “Like, actually. Not just because you’re hot and I’ve seen your underwear drawer, totally on accident, I came to drop your take out in your room—although, bonus.” 

You huff a laugh. “Wow. You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m being vulnerable, asshole.” You grin despite yourself, heart pounding. “Sorry. Continue.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you, messy hair falling into his eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he says, voice lower now. “Didn’t think I’d end up catching feelings for my little sister’s best friend who constantly calls me a freak.”

“You are a freak,” you murmur.

“Right, but now I’m your freak.” You stare at him. 

“Satoru.” 

He snorts. “Okay, fair. But I’ve been gone for three years, and then I come back and suddenly you’re all grown up and hot and stomping around the apartment like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are burning. “And then,” he continues, brushing his fingers along your cheek, “we actually start talking again and you’re smart and annoying and make me laugh, and you’re just so perfect… Like, I genuinely cannot express it in words, and I was stupid to think that you were like a sister to me. Because you're really not. You're so, so far from that assumption of mine that I wanna write it out in an essay just to prove to you how badly I want you in the most romantic way possible and in the least sisterly way possible.” You blink. He looks down, lips twitching faintly. “And now I’m totally fucked, because I don’t not want you anymore. I just want this. You. Always.” 

You swallow, heart in your throat. “You mean that?”

“Dead serious.” He grins, but it’s gentler now. “Unless you’re about to reject me, in which case I was absolutely joking and this never happened.” You laugh, a real one this time, and you kiss him before he can keep talking—soft and lingering, your fingers curling in his hair. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with stars in his eyes. “Okay,” you whisper. “You win. I like you too. A lot. But for clarification I always liked you in a very non brotherly way.” He raises an eyebrow. “So… you’re saying I’m your freak now?” You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Regret.” 

But his arms are already around you, holding you tight. “Too late,” he murmurs into your hair, smiling like he just got everything he’s ever wanted. “You’re stuck with me.” You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep, dickhead.”

“I will,” he says, pulling the blanket down to kiss you. “Right after I cuddle the love of my life.”

“Gross.”

“You like me.”

“I do not.”

“You let me do unspeakable things to you thirty minutes ago.”

“…Shut up.”

“Love of my liiiiiife.”

“Seiko’s gonna murder me.”

“She’ll have to kill me first.” You roll your eyes, but when he finally lays down properly, arm slung around your waist, legs tangled with yours, you realize you're smiling again. Like an idiot. A very, very satisfied idiot.

You wake up the next morning, tangled in Satoru’s arms and covered in way too many bite marks to explain away, when—

“HEY—have you seen Satoru—”

The door bursts open. You jolt upright. Seiko stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, her mouth dropping open in real-time. You barely get out a squeaky “Wait—!” before—

“OH MY GOD!” She SCREAMS, turns on her heel, and is sprinting down the hallway. You immediately start panicking. “Satoru. Satoru. Wake up. She saw—she SAW—oh my god, we’re so done, she’s gonna KILL ME—”

He groans and pulls the blanket back over his head like a child. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, I fucked your sister’s brother! Wait—I am your sister’s—whatever! It’s over! It’s—”

“Relax,” he says, tugging you back down to the bed effortlessly. “C’mere. If I’m going to die today, I want to die cuddling.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums, nosing into your hair. “Good morning, girlfriend.”

“You’re gonna make me throw up.”

“Speaking of,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, “any interest in morning sex? I feel like I didn’t fully appreciate round four last night. Too much of my blood was in my ears.” You slap his chest. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious—”

The door SLAMS open again. 

“MY CHILDREN!” Suguru’s voice rings out, loud and unrepentant. “I WIN!” 

You both sit up in bed, tangled in sheets, wide-eyed. There stands Suguru, holding up a phone like a camcorder. Seiko is beside him, arms crossed and pouting like you just ruined her birthday. 

“Suguru what the fuck—”

“Say hi to the camera!” he beams. “I bet Seiko fifty bucks you two would be together by the start of the month. Thank you for not making me lose money, I really needed this win.”

“SUGURU,” you yell, diving under the blanket like you can hide from your sins. “DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW.”

Seiko flops dramatically onto your bed like it’s her dignity that’s been compromised. “Couldn’t you have waited one more week to bang my brother? You had no self-control?” Satoru is laughing. Fully laughing, his head tipped back like this is the best morning of his life.

“Why are you mad at her?” he asks Seiko. “I’m the one who did all the—”

“NOPE!” Seiko shouts, throwing a pillow at his face. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving with the footage,” Suguru smirks, zooming in. You lunge at him with a second pillow. “SUGURU I SWEAR TO GOD—” Satoru just sighs contentedly, dragging you back into bed. “Honestly? This is better than morning sex.”

“You’re the worst person alive.” He kisses your cheek. “Love you too, sweets.”

–

Dating Gojo Satoru is somehow exactly what you expected and also nothing like it at all.

Because yes—he’s still cocky. Still dramatic. Still flirts with you like it’s a sport and throws your shared laundry onto the fan when he’s bored. But he also brings you coffee before your 9AMs, lets you wear his hoodies even though he grumbles about you “stretching them out with your cute little shoulders,” and texts you things like “missing u like crazy. come home and bully me 😞” when you’re gone for more than three hours. Seiko, naturally, has not let you live. “I literally can’t believe you,” she sighs one morning over brunch, watching you and Gojo bicker over who gets the last pancake like it’s her personal sitcom. “I brought him into this house and you betrayed me by falling for him.” You blink at her innocently. “Technically I was in love with him before I moved in.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“She’s gonna be your sister-in-law one day,” Satoru says with a grin, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “You should be happy.”

“I’m going to be sick,” she deadpans, sipping her coffee. “I don’t know who disgusts me more—you for dating her, or her for dating you.” You and Satoru just exchange a look. Then you make out across the table.

Loudly. Seiko drops her fork. 

“I’m leaving the country.”

Later That Week — Somewhere in His Car, 11:42 PM

It’s a warm night. The kind that clings to your skin and makes the windows fog up, even though all you’re doing is eating ice cream in the backseat of Satoru’s ridiculous Lexus like teenagers who just discovered kissing. You're wearing one of his shirts. He’s got his arm lazily around your shoulder, legs stretched out, cone half-melted in his hand. Music hums softly from the speakers—some dreamy indie song he said reminded him of you once.

“I used to wear bras that were too big just because I thought you liked girls with big tits,” you say, out of nowhere.

He chokes.

“What?”

You shrug, licking your spoon. “Yup. Used to stuff socks in them sometimes too. And I tried wearing eyeliner in like… freshman year. I looked like a raccoon. But I was like, ‘he likes girls with winged liner.’ So.”

Gojo is crying. Literal tears are in his eyes as he wheezes, “You wore sock boobs for me?!”

“I was thirteen and stupidly in love with your furby looking ass,” you grumble, face burning. “Nooo,” he says through laughter, clutching his stomach. “No way. You were cosplaying as a B-cup for me??”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“I’m honored. I feel chosen.” You roll your eyes, fake sulking. “And you didn’t even notice. Wow.” He wipes his eyes, still smiling like a menace. “Okay but to be fair, I was like… what, seventeen? If I had noticed, it would’ve been a little criminal.”

You groan. “Fine, I guess you’re right.” He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “But I notice everything now.” You narrow your eyes. “Smooth.”

“Did it work?” You nod, slow. “Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sit in silence for a second, ice cream long forgotten. His thumb grazes the side of your jaw as he looks at you like he already knows every version of you—the teenage one with stuffed bras, the sarcastic college version who screamed at him in group projects, the current one who’s still a little awkward when she’s vulnerable but learning to let him in anyway. “You’re my favorite person,” he says suddenly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And you can’t even pretend to be cool about it.

“God,” you whisper, burying your face in his hoodie. “Don’t make me cry while I’m holding a fudge sundae.” He laughs, pulling you closer, arms wrapping fully around your waist. “No promises,” he mumbles into your hair. “But I’ve got napkins.” You kiss him, soft and unhurried. He tastes like vanilla. The windows fog up a little more. Somewhere in the distance, your phone buzzes. Probably Seiko texting a third reminder that you “better not be defiling her brother in public.” But you ignore it. Because for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Just you, him, and a car that smells like waffle cones and warm cotton and a hundred what-ifs that have all finally, finally become yeses.

–

Bonus cause I’m the world’s best author or whatever

Five Years Later

It’s a warm spring afternoon. The kind of day where the sky’s cloudless, the flowers look fake because they’re so stupidly perfect, and everyone you love is slightly too drunk and happy. You’re in white. Obviously. Satoru’s in a custom tux, sunglasses perched in his snow-white hair like he thinks he’s a celebrity—which, okay, fine, he kind of is, judging by the way your cousin nearly fainted when he winked at her. Your fingers are still linked as you sit at the wedding table, watching the crowd buzz with post-dinner energy. The string lights are glowing. There’s champagne in your glass. He keeps leaning over to kiss your shoulder because he “can’t help himself,” and you keep swatting him away because the photographer is still here, but you’re smiling like a fool.

And then—

“Alright, alright, everyone, shut up—” comes Seiko’s voice from the speakers. You both freeze. Satoru immediately grins. “Oh god.” 

“She’s giving her speech,” you whisper, gripping his knee.

“I should be scared,” he whispers back. “She’s your best friend and my sister.” 

Up at the mic, Seiko clears her throat. She looks gorgeous, by the way—an elegant dress, her ivory hair so similar to her brothers glinting underneath the lights, champagne in hand, and a very pointed expression on her face. “So,” she says. “Hi. I’m Seiko. I’m the bride’s best friend… and unfortunately, the groom’s younger sister.”

Laughter. 

“I just wanna say—when I was little, I always dreamed of giving a speech at my best friend’s wedding. But I definitely didn’t think it would be this one.” More laughter. You bury your face in your hands. “Let me paint a picture,” she continues dramatically, starting to pace the stage like a stand-up comic. “It’s a regular Tuesday morning. I come out of my room, ready to microwave my sad breakfast. I’m on my way to the kitchen, when I suddenly spot my brother’s shoes and think, ‘Huh, why are Satoru’s shoes here, in front of (your name)’s room?’ Because my brother wasn’t supposed to be home. He had told me he was gonna be out with friends until the next morning. And his shoes sure as hell had never been outside my best friend’s room.”

Gojo groans next to you, forehead hitting the table. 

“And I think, ‘Oh no. Oh no no no.’ So I walk down the hallway. I open her bedroom door. And what do I see?”

Seiko pauses. The crowd leans in. She lifts her glass. “My brother,” she says, tone flat, “in my best friend’s bed.”

The room erupts.

Satoru’s face is in his hands. You’re laughing so hard your shoulders shake. “I screamed,” Seiko says dramatically, over the noise. “She screamed. He didn’t scream, because the bastard was asleep. And then I lost fifty goddamn dollars to Suguru, who bet me they’d get together before the end of the month.” Camera pans to Suguru in the crowd, smug as hell, arm around Seiko’s waist, raising his glass. “ And now,” Seiko says, grinning, “I’m standing here giving this speech, engaged to the man who profited off their hookup, and forced to admit that... I guess love wins. Or whatever.” Laughter. Cheers. Satoru clutches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Seiko softens. Just a little. “But in all seriousness,” she says, voice a bit shakier now, “you two are it. The real thing. And I’m so happy that my best friend is now officially my sister-in-law—even if I had to walk in on her mid afterglow to get here.”

Groans. Cheers. Chants of “SISTER-IN-LAW! SISTER-IN-LAW!”  You’re laughing through tears now, forehead pressed against Gojo’s. “I love you guys,” Seiko finishes, raising her glass high. “Now go make out or whatever. It’s your wedding.”  You blow your best friend a kiss, before leaning into your husband, his arm snaking around you to pull you to his chest. 

“She really brought up the bed thing,” you mumble against his chest. “She absolutely did,” he murmurs, nose in your hair.

 “And the socks in the bra thing didn’t get a shoutout? Unfair.” He laughs, holding you tighter. “Maybe we’ll save that one for the ten-year vow renewal.” You tilt your head up. “Think we’ll make it to ten years?”

 He smiles, wide and stupid and glowing.  “We’ll make it to forever.” 

 You kiss him, slow and full of everything. And the lights twinkle above like they’re cheering you on.

authors note: hi everyone! i hope u liked it LOL i sacrificed my sleep for this i hope it was worth it! i can finally prepare for my exams without the looming anxiety of posting this ^.^

[fanficgirl429]

Never Have I Ever (Adult Edition)

Prompt: The Thunderbolts decide to play Never Have I Ever. Much to Bucky's dismay Y/N becomes a little to willing to share about their sex life.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, 18+, minors do not engage

------

The Thunderbolts were somehow not blowing something up, which was impressive. Following a rare successful mission with zero civilian casualties and only one minor fire (which Ghost put out with a fire extinguisher and a smirk), they’d earned some downtime at Avengers Tower.

That’s how they ended up sprawled across mismatched couches and beanbags in the lounge, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and a game of “Never Have I Ever: Adult Edition” already spiraling into chaos.

Bucky sat with his arm slung across the back of the couch, Y/N sitting with her back against the armrest, legs sprawled across the couch and onto Bucky’s lap. Both of them were holding half drunken beers in their hands. 

Walker leaned in with a wicked grin. “Alright, next one. Never have I ever had sex in a quinjet.”

There were some groans, a couple of eye-rolls, and then two people drank: Yelena, with absolutely zero shame, and—Y/N .

Everyone turned.

Bucky raised his eyebrows and looked down at her, amused. 

Y/N  shrugged with a smug little smile. “What?! Don’t you remember we were stuck on a stakeout for 36 hours, and it was raining. I got bored.”

“Oh, I remember,” Bucky said, smirking. 

Walker cackled. “You got bored? What about Barnes? Didn’t think he had the stamina for mid-mission extracurriculars.”

Y/N  turned to the group, clearly tipsy and way too comfortable. “Oh, Bucky’s got plenty of stamina. I mean, you don’t survive a century of war and Hydra brainwashing without learning how to go for, like, five rounds in one night.”

There was a stunned silence.

Ava choked on his drink. “Five?”

“Depends if we count the shower,” she added, thoughtful now, as if doing math. “And the floor. Oh! And that time on the balcony. Though that one was more of a quickie, technically.”

Bucky groaned and buried his face in his hand. “Y/N …”

But Y/N was on a roll.

“You guys don’t understand,” she said, leaning forward like she was sharing state secrets. “This man is a menace. Silent, broody, acts all mysterious, and then he—”

“Y/N !” Bucky hissed, bright red now. “I swear to God—”

“—broke the headboard. Twice.”

Ava wheezed. “This is the best day of my life.”

Red Guardian was nodding proudly. “Good man. Strong arms. Knew it.”

Yelena pointed at Bucky with a raised brow. “You didn’t even flinch when she started talking about this. How often do you two—”

“Never have I ever had sex on a rooftop?” Ava interrupted. 

Y/N smirked at Bucky and took a sip of her beer. She nudged him and he reluctantly took a drink as well. 

“Damn, you two need to slow down,” Bob muttered. 

Walker grinned wider. “Alright, my turn. Never have I ever hooked up with someone mid-mission. Like, you know, while still technically on duty.”

Yelena raised her glass slowly. “Well, technically I once had a quickie between two ops. Had to keep it quiet though—Walker nearly blew our cover trying to be discreet.”

Walker feigned offense. “I was being respectful!”

Ava laughed. “Respectful? You literally banged on the door like a gorilla.”

The room erupted into laughter, and even Bucky’s tension eased, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he glanced at Y/N .

“Never have I ever been tied up during sex,” Ava said with a mischievous smile, her eyes sparkling with a hint of challenge.

Y/N casually took a slow sip of their drink, trying to hide a small grin, while Bucky let out a low, amused sigh before following suit and taking a sip himself.

Bob leaned forward, curiosity lighting up his face. “Okay, seriously—what haven’t you done?” he teased, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“I have to know…was Y/N or Bucky tied up?” Yelena asked. 

Y/N  smirked and leaned into Bucky. “Hey, what happens in Avengers Tower stays in Avengers Tower.”

“Unless Y/N decides to broadcast it like a podcast,” Bucky muttered.

“Guilty,” she said with a wink.

Another few rounds of “Never Have I Ever” confessions followed, each one more hilariously embarrassing than the last, much to Bucky’s increasing discomfort.

“Enough!” Bucky stood, gently lifting Y/N ’s legs off him like she was a landmine. “We are never playing this game again.”

Y/N  tilted her head back against the couch, grinning up at him. “You love me.”

“I love you less when you’re drunk and talking about my super-soldier stamina in front of everyone.”

“You love me most when I talk about your stamina.”

He froze, narrowed his eyes—and then bent down, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“Okay. That’s it. We’re leaving.”

A chorus of protests rose up.

“Nooo, come on!”

“She didn’t even get to the balcony story!”

“Bucky, come on, share one detail—”

“Do not encourage her!” Bucky snapped over his shoulder as he led Y/N  toward the elevator.

She gave the group a dramatic wave. “If the tower starts shaking later, mind your business!”

The elevator doors closed.

Ava turned to Yelenal. “Ten bucks says they’re doing it in there right now.”

Yelena sipped her whiskey. “Smart money’s on the elevator.”

[aleese1111]

homework and heart | yeon sieun x neighbour!reader

summary: yeon sieun is just trying to get through a study session without losing his sanity, but his lifelong neighbor makes that impossible—armed with sarcasm, zero personal space boundaries, and a habit of falling asleep on his arm mid-math problem. they argue like enemies, act like friends, and care like something they won’t admit.

warnings: [fluff fluff fluff] , mutual but unspoken romantic feelings .

author's note: i just know sieun would treat his girl like a delicate flower. everything about him (apart from his psycho tendencies) screams gentleman. the reader is sort of a tsundere or something. wrote this while listening to [ My Love Mine All mine - Mitski] . requests

“your handwriting looks like a drunk spider fell in love with a pen,” she said, peering over si-eun’s shoulder.

si-eun didn’t glance up. “you’ve said that before.”

“yeah, and it hasn’t improved.”

“you’re here for math help, not calligraphy critique.”

“i’m here for the free heating,” she declared, collapsing onto his bed like it owed her rent. “your floor heating is elite. i feel like a warm croissant.”

si-eun exhaled through his nose. “you’re supposed to finish the worksheet i gave you.”

“you’re supposed to stop being a fun vacuum,” she shot back, flipping onto her stomach and burying her face in his pillow. “why do you smell like laundry detergent and sad?”

he ignored that. “that’s page two. the functions review.”

she groaned into the pillow, her voice muffled. “why are you like this?”

“efficient?”

“emotionally unbothered.”

“that’s not a flaw.”

“it is when your only reaction to my suffering is to hand me a pencil.”

she sat up and tossed said pencil at him. he caught it midair without even turning his head.

“show-off,” she muttered.

“you threw it with the force of a butterfly.”

“rude. accurate, but rude.”

they sat in silence for a moment—her pretending to work, him actually working—until she groaned again and fell dramatically across the table, narrowly missing his open notebook.

“i give up. i’m becoming a flower shop cashier. i’ll name the succulents and everything.”

“you hate plants.”

“they hate me first. it’s mutual.”

“finish number five.”

“no.”

sieun said her name.

“make me.”

he leaned back in his chair, expression flat. “do your homework.”

she leaned forward, matching his energy. “make me.”

their faces were inches apart now, eyes locked in a silent, petty standoff.

“childish,” he murmured.

“lifeless.”

“stubborn.”

“robotic.”

“you still haven’t moved.”

“you blinked first.”

“that’s not how this works.”

“says who?”

“says logic.”

she rolled her eyes and dramatically scribbled on the worksheet. “there. number five. happy?”

he checked it. “that’s number six.”

“i hate you.”

“good. now do five.”

she cursed under her breath, then muttered, “you better carry my backpack at my funeral.”

“you won’t need a backpack if you fail this class.”

“then you better carry my coffin. same energy.”

si-eun glanced at her, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

she caught it and pointed. “there. you smiled. admit you like me.”

“i smiled because you said something dumb.”

“same thing.”

they didn’t look at each other after that. not directly, anyway. but she was quietly doing question five, and si-eun casually slid a bag of her favorite snacks across the table like it didn’t mean anything.

like always.

she got up without warning and dropped beside his chair, her chin resting on his arm, body invading his space like it was natural law.

“you need a break,” she muttered.

“you’re distracting.”

“good.”

he didn’t pull away. just let her stay there, still scribbling notes while her cheek pressed against the sleeve of his hoodie.

“you’re going to smudge the ink,” he murmured.

she shrugged. “you’ll rewrite it for me anyway.”

“that’s not how this works.”

she smirked. “isn’t it?”

they stayed like that, the sound of pen on paper and her breathing settling into rhythm.

she, of course, fell asleep fifteen minutes later. head still leaning against his arm, mouth slightly open, clumsy as ever.

si-eun didn’t move.

he just kept writing with one hand, while the other lightly tugged the blanket from the bed to drape over her shoulders.

outside, the sky finally decided to rain.

inside, there was peace—chaotic, uneven, stubborn peace. the kind only the two of them could create. the kind that made sense even when nothing else did.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ ,

[burgojo]

PRIMADONNA. GOJO SATORU / M!READER

summary. the easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach – in more than one way.

wc. 9k

tags. smut | dom top reader, sub bottom gojo, husbands gojo/reader, teacher reader. anniversary sex, "sir" for reader + "puppy" for gojo, oral (r. receiving), praise + degradation (gojo receiving), humping, riding, light s/m, bondage (wrists), overstimulation + multiple orgasms (gojo), belly bulge + size kink, crying, off-screen gojo in lingerie

"Satoru."

You smile, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

"If I don't get delayed, I'll be returning at night after my mission. It's a long plane ride back, so don't stay up for me, alright?"

Satoru was miffed, to say the least. How dare they steal away his husband on such short notice? You barely had time to pack a suitcase. And worst of all? It coincided with your anniversary.

For the first time in ten years, he would be spending that day alone. He wanted to be angry – angry at those spineless geezers cooped up in that musty room – but all he could really feel was disappointment. You'd been an anchor for so long that he felt listless without you by his side, throwing the weight of your name behind his whenever he did something he thought was right.

Whatever. At least he woke up to a 'happy anniversary' voice message from you that morning.

"An exponential is a function of the form f of x equals a to the power of x, where a cannot equal one, zero, or anything less than zero. You'll want to note down these eight laws on the board. I'd recommend putting them in a table at the top of a page so you don't have to go flipping for them in exams. I'll go through them one at a time."

Satoru drops the white stick of chalk for a pale blue one, which he then uses to scrawl a line of numbers in a blank space on the left side of the blackboard. "So – a to the x, a to the y equals a to the x plus y. This is a biggie! You'll see it a lot. When bases a are the same and the terms are multiplied, the exponents are added. Added. Don't multiply them."

"Sensei!" Yuji's hand shoots up into the air. "Why aren't they multiplied?"

"Great question!" He glances over the board, then erases a large chunk of old numbers in one fell swoop. Nobara stops writing immediately with an odd expression and Satoru laughs, waving a hand as if to dissipate her troubles. "You can copy off Megumi's notes for that example, Kugisaki. Just leave a space for it."

He continues, "Now, Yuji, we remember that an exponential is multiplying the base by itself a certain number of times, yes? Let's use two raised to the power of three. That's two times two times two. Now, if you have two to the power of four, that's two by two by two by two. Phew, what a mouthful. Are we tracking?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good! We'll multiply these terms now. Wait!" He raises a finger and splits the two strings of numbers into two sets of brackets. "Putting these brackets here to separate the terms for clarity... Anyway – because the base number, two, is being multiplied over and over—" He slashes a little multiplication sign between the two brackets. "Ta-da! You've got two multiplied by itself seven times, so the answer is two to the power of seven. Therefore, you can skip this whole process in your written answers and just add the powers! Yay!"

"That's crazy."

"When it clicks, it clicks, right?" Satoru snaps his fingers, and to Yuji's left, Megumi snaps out of staring out of the window. "No slacking, Megumi! I can see you daydreaming over there."

"Kinda hard not to with only three students," Nobara mutters under her breath. At least when she dozes off, it's not with her head turned ninety degrees and propped on a fist. Seriously – it's like Megumi never learnt to nap discreetly at the back of the class. Come to think of it, she's certain he's never hidden earbuds under his hair, either.

"Sorry," he murmurs nonchalantly. "I'm not a maths person."

"Megumi, you're tearing me apart."

He shrugs.

"Since what you're doing is obviously more important than listening to your awesome teacher, would you like to share with the class?" Satoru drawls with a shit-eating grin. He sets the chalk aside, dusting off his hands, and leans over his desk, hands flat and forming a triangle with his thumbs and forefingers. "Is there a girl, Megumi-chan? A boy? Ah, a teenager's first love – I still remember mine as if it were yesterday..."

"Cut it out, you're not that old." Megumi glances outside again. Satoru follows his line of sight, but nothing stands out to him. "There was a guy on campus. Looked like a weirdo."

"Oh, for the love of – do you not remember what a finger to the lips means?"

Behind his blindfold, Satoru's eyes shoot open. It's uncomfortable, but so is his face-splitting smile, so wide it hurts his jaw.

None of that matters. He explodes with joy.

"Baby!" he squeals. He launches himself with the speed of a fastball at the person standing in the doorway. It's a miracle nobody goes crashing through the opposite wall.

"You're back, you're back," Satoru coos, burying his face in your shoulder and squeezing your middle so tightly that your spine pops. "Oh, man, you have no idea how much I missed you!"

You laugh, a little wheezy from having the air knocked out of your lungs, and pat his back. A ring glints on your finger. He presses himself deeper into you and you have to brace to stop yourself from toppling over. You close your eyes and inhale the soft floral scent of his hair, which draws out all the tension in your body. Lord knows you've accumulated a lot of it recently.

"There, there," you hum, gently grasping the back of his neck to peel him off you. For the first time, you get a good look at him. He hangs from the nape of his jacket like a kitten, a big dumb grin on his face. His pale cheeks are flushed, and your heart races a little from his sheer excitement. It's flattering.

What a sweetheart.

"We can talk later," you murmur with a smile, setting him down on flat feet. "Just wanted to stop by to drop off your lunch."

He glances down at the lunchbox-sized insulated bag in your hand. He accepts it gently, cradling it like gold. "My lunch...?"

"Mm, that's right. I hate to imagine how you fared without me." You slip a hand into the pocket of your pants. "I'll cook tonight, okay? Anyway, that's all. Toodle-oo."

"Wait!" Yuji slams his hands against his desk as his chair screeches against the ground. "Did I hear that right? Did sensei call you 'baby'?"

"Yes," you say, and Satoru's heart flutters at the pride in your voice. "You must be Itadori Yuji, and you must be Kugisaki Nobara. Satoru spoke of you often. Nice to finally meet you – I'm Satoru's husband."

Nobara replies in kind with a little bow and a polite greeting. Megumi's the only one still sitting, sheltering his eyes with his hand as if he can hide from the inevitable embarrassment. She turns to Satoru with an accusing glare, her hands on her hips. "No way you scored a guy like that with your personality! What'd you do, huh? Promise him money?"

"He hasn't even introduced himself yet and you're already taking his side?" Satoru whines, both of his arms wrapped around your own.

"I can tell that he's a respectable and dutiful man. You, however..."

"I mean, opposites attract, right?" Yuji offers kindly.

"Yuji! Are you saying I'm not a respectable person?" He huffs. "I'm telling Suguru to work you guys twice as hard tomorrow morning. Ridiculous..."

Nobara jabs an accusing finger at him. "You're ridiculous. Which is why I'm so shocked that anyone with any sense would marry you."

"Thrice as hard."

"Easy," you murmur to Satoru fondly. "But he's right about one thing. I haven't introduced myself properly. My name is YN Gojo-LN. You'll have me as a teacher next year. Call me LN-sensei – helps avoid the confusion."

Satoru tugs on your sleeve with a pout. "C'mon... I like it when you use my name. They're not gonna get confused by it. After all, I am the prettier one."

"Hard disagree, sensei," Nobara says flatly.

You smile as Satoru presses himself further into your side, wrapping your arm around his shoulders. "Don't worry, darling. You're plenty good-looking to me."

"You think so?"

"I know so, my beautiful little lily," you say affectionately, pinching his cheek. He holds your hand to his cheek, leaning into it, and Nobara nearly gags at the dopey expression on Satoru's face and the way his leg kicks up behind him like a schoolgirl with a crush. She glances at Megumi with disbelief written on her face and jabs a thumb over her shoulder. He nods solemnly as you coo over Satoru, your voice light and bouncy like a summer breeze.

You turn your attention back to the three first-years, all looking far more attentive after their break from staring at slanting strings of numbers. "It was lovely to meet you – and good to see you, too, Megumi, I can see you slouching there – but Satoru is only one-out-of-eight exponential laws explained. I'm not about to be the cause of bad grades. Ciao, everyone."

Reluctantly, Satoru unfolds himself from around you, and you're quite surprised. You'd think he'd fight harder to keep—

He seizes your wrist in a steely grip and drags you out into the hall. He shuts the door on his students' exclamations.

Immediately, he collapses into your chest, rather more raw and vulnerable than earlier. You wrap your arms around him and coo into his ear, cupping the back of his neck. He sighs, short and sharp and a little shaky, and his breath puffs against your collarbone.

"I was worried I'd lose you," he whispers, hands gliding all over your body as if to prove to himself that you're all still there, warm and complete and ready to embrace him. "Those damn idiots, taking you from me. Especially at a time like this..."

"Relax, dearie," you hum, and the old nickname makes his lips twitch upwards. "I was your equal for a while. I won't keel over so easily."

"You took on two special grades at once and went in ill-prepared because they couldn't do their damn jobs. How am I supposed to trust them when they can't even count to two?"

"Then trust me," you implore, cupping his cheek. He's always been thin, but you're glad you're back. Maybe he'll be less cranky with some meat in his stomach. "Always said we'd get through this together, didn't we? That includes dealing with the elders. I've got your back, but let's not make problems now – not when we have Yuji to look after."

He sighs and pushes his cheek into your shoulder a little harder, rubbing his face into you like a cat. His hair tickles your cheek. His grip tightens, then loosens. "Ugh. You're crampin' my style. Rebellion suits me."

"Obedience suits you better," you murmur lowly, and Satoru shivers at the timbre of your voice. Your hand slips down to cup his chin, lifting his face to yours. His breath hitches. "Listen to me, Satoru. You know I'm right."

He exhales shakily as you dip your head, lips brushing his. He leans into it, trying to take more, but you turn away. "But—"

"Satoru."

Heat zings up his spine. Your nails dig slightly into his skin and he swallows harshly, burning up under the weight of your gaze. Half condescending and half tender, you rake your stare over him from head to toe. It lasts no longer than a second but Satoru's knees weaken anyway.

"Just don't do anything without me," you whisper, bringing his face closer to yours. You press your lips to his and he fists the front of your shirt tightly, gasping as your free hand glides down his waist to rest on the small of his back. He arches slightly and tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

He tastes like sugar and oranges and despite the not-so-sweet flavour of the coffee you had earlier, he devours you as if his life depends on it, tongue twisting with yours. He moans softly at the smoky roasted taste, dark and rich. Even after all these years, he marvels at how perfectly he matches with you – the yin to your yang, the shrike to your thorn. He'd be missing out any other way.

His heartbeat quickens. You can feel it beneath his ribs, his chest pressed to yours, and even through his thick clothes you can feel him yearn for you – the very essence of his bright soul twists and tumbles, reaching for yours. He is the orchid to your oak and just as needy.

Before you forget yourself and get too handsy in the middle of the school hallway, you draw away, tugging your hands back to your sides. Satoru whines softly with the loss of your touch and your lips on his. He lifts his face, lips pursed into a pout as he chases another kiss. You press a finger against his lips with a chuckle.

"Not yet, Satoru. You still haven't promised me."

He pushes your hand away impatiently. "Promise." He puckers up and leans in again.

You click your tongue and grab a fistful of his hair, keeping him at bay the same way you would with an overly-affectionate cat. You lift a brow. "And what are you promising?"

He groans, and you know he's rolling his eyes under his blindfold. "That I'm not gonna make trouble for us. I promise I won't square up against a bunch of geriatrics. Happy, baby? Can I get my kiss, now?"

"Only one more." You dip in, and Satoru hums appreciatively. You open your eyes again with a tiny smile. "There. Now, off you go. You have maths to teach, nerd."

"You're a nerd," he rebuts automatically. "You don't have to leave, y'know. Just sit in the back, like the principal does."

"I'd just be a distraction for you."

"But you'd make me happy. Come on. It's our anniversary."

"The answer's no, Satoru." You smile, tugging his hair gently, and his head feels light. He understands why they call it lovesick. "G'luck, sweetheart."

His bottom lip juts out and he crosses his arms, glancing aside. He ruffles his hair roughly as if to drag himself out of his own thoughts. "Fine... Will I see you later?"

"Mm. I'll take a nap when I get home and then start on dinner. I was thinking something Thai?" You touch his shoulder and he shivers slightly, fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist. It's endearing how infatuated he is with you. You fix his blindfold, smoothing out the sides. "Get home safely, Satoru."

"Yessir." He darts in one last time, sneaking in one last kiss on the cheek. He grins, playful and flushed, as you grumble something about being an 'enabler'. You lift a hand and begin to turn away.

When you're halfway down the hall, he calls out, "You better make it up to me, hot stuff!"

"You're spoilt enough as it is," you call back, eyes crinkling. "Toodles!"

Satoru hums a little tune under his breath as he steps back into the classroom, sliding the door closed behind him. There's a bounce in his step as he moves towards his desk, hovering over a textbook and flipping forward a few pages to find new equations to throw up on the board.

After a pause, with Satoru's soft humming the only thing filling the room, Nobara finally breaks the silence.

"So, sensei... are you gonna tell us what that was all about?"

He glances up, a clueless smile on his face. "Eh? What was what about?"

She stares, appalled. "Uh, the fact that you're married? To the coolest-looking guy I've seen here? He must really be something if he's got you wrapped around his finger like that..."

Megumi sits up in his seat, picking up his pen and ruler and busying himself with ruling new margins into his blank pages. "He's not much better than Gojo, Kugisaki. Together, they're both total fools."

"How can he be more of a fool than he already is?"

"You never mentioned a partner, Gojo-sensei," Yuji says, having clearly abandoned any notion of learning. His notebook isn't even open anymore. "How'd you meet?"

"I didn't take you for a romantic, Yuji," Satoru coos, though he tosses his piece of chalk onto the blackboard's ledge and dusts off his hands. He circles the desk to sit back against it, clasping his hands with a wide smile. "We met here, actually! He's older than me, and he was the one who gave me a campus tour and showed me my room. He was just as handsome back then as he is now. I liked hanging out with him a lot."

Yuji's eyes are wide with intrigue. "Oh! Were you high-school sweethearts? That's so neat, sensei!"

"In a way," he replies, voice soft with fondness. "At first, it was a political marriage. He has an influential name and a uniquely powerful technique, so our families thought it was a good idea to pair us up so the other clans would be less likely to stand against our decisions. We became good friends, so we grew to be alright with it – we were basically already living in each other's rooms, anyway. Marrying him meant I could eat his curry more often, so I was honestly pretty eager to move in with him after graduating."

"Really? You seemed like the type of person to be bad with spice," Nobara comments, tilting her chair on its back legs. "Guess I was wrong."

Leaning back, Megumi speaks around Yuji's body. "No, he is. LN-san often makes two dishes – one with spice, one without. He started when I was a kid, but he still does it for Gojo."

Nobara clicks her tongue. "What? Seriously – he's way too good for you, sensei! I can't believe this. The idea that someone like you had a boyfriend at my age when I don't... I'm, like, actually upset."

"I mean, I also gained two children shortly after, so maybe you should wait a bit for a boyfriend, Kugisaki," Satoru says thoughtfully, tapping his chin. Megumi's face reddens at the statement and his knuckles turn white around his pen.

"Don't say that," he scoffs. "Your marriage had nothing to do with the two of us!"

Pouting, Satoru wags a finger in his direction. "So rude, Megumi-chan! I'm telling your dad. No curry for you for a month."

He rolls his eyes and his mouth curls. "You're annoying."

Nobara snorts and hides her snickers behind her palm. She leans in Yuji's direction and whispers, "Guess he's got a favourite parent."

He nods in agreement. Clearing his throat, Yuji dutifully raises his hand, looking grave. "Sensei, if you're married, why don't you wear a ring?"

"Hm? I do! Wanna see it? Oh, of course you do, you asked," he says cheerfully. He thrusts a hand down the tall neck of his collar and pulls out a silver chain, off of which hangs a platinum band studded with tiny, glittering diamonds. He beams, turning the pretty little thing this way and that to catch the light. "His is more traditional, 'cause he's a fuddy-duddy, but silver suits my skin tone better and diamonds are a classic."

He unclasps the chain from around his neck, and Yuji and Nobara instantly shoot up out of their chairs to inspect the ring closer. They ooh and ahh over it, discussing the bevels and facets and whatnot. He slips the band onto his left hand and shows it off with a beaming smile, nodding proudly when Nobara remarks how well it really does suit him.

"Why is your face so red, Gojo?"

The abrupt question is Megumi's. Like clockwork, everyone turns to him, then turns to Satoru. In response, he only tilts his head with an oblivious smile pasted on his face – his white hair flops over, like a dog's ears. "Eh?"

Megumi sighs and lowers his gaze, scratching tornadoes aimlessly into the margins of his page. "You're terrible – it was two months, not two years. The separation anxiety is crazy."

"He does seem like the type to be clingy," Nobara whispers to Yuji.

"It's not sepa—he thinks it's cute!" he sputters, lifting his bejewelled ring finger as if it's his middle finger. "Look – he married me for it! Jeez, Megumi, you really know how to make a guy feel bad. And you know what that means."

Megumi's face scrunches. "You're gonna follow him around the house like a lost puppy for the rest of the day."

"Right you are!" says Satoru giddily. "I'm sorta disappointed you don't live with us right now. I could've made it so much worse for you if you and YN went out in public. You'd be begging to learn about exponential and logarithmic functions then."

He turns towards the board and claps his hands, startling all three of his students as the sound echoes through the room. "Speaking of! Rule number two: power x over y with identical base a is equal to a to the x minus y. Back in your seats, boys and girl – I hope everyone's awake now. Let's power through every rule before class ends! Heh – geddit? Power? Because – oh, you're all no fun. I'm funny. Let's continue."

—

With a jingle of keys, Satoru twirls through the front door. "Honey, I'm hooome!"

Your voice floats through the hallway. "In the kitchen!"

He kicks his shoes off and dumps his messenger bag onto the couch. He bounds into the spacious kitchen and slithers up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

With a chuckle, you take half a step back from the open flame of the stove. "Careful. It's hot."

"Not hotter than you." His voice is muffled against your shoulder. "Didja miss me?"

"Only a little bit. You are a handful." You stir the pot, picking shards of bone out of the broth. Satoru salivates. He can already feel the tender meat falling off the bone. "You're home early, baby. Dinner won't be ready for a while."

"Rushed back to see you." He kisses your neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of your cologne is heady and woodsy, and he's embarrassed to admit that he's used it on himself when the ache really got to him. "Maybe we can... spend some time together...?"

You laugh, the sound rumbling through your chest, and Satoru smiles automatically. "Eager little thing. You really want to do that now, when I'm obviously very busy?"

"Well, the veggies aren't a pressing concern," he points at the covered bowl, "and the soup's not done. Put it on low and you have both hands free to do things with me."

"And what 'things' would that entail, Satoru?"

"Fun things." He pushes his blindfold up, revealing his startling blue eyes. He looks up at you through his white lashes, a cheeky smile spreading across his face. "Things involving this," he points at his lips, "and this." He points at yours.

Because your hands are damp from dealing with the vegetables, you can't touch him, but you turn and lean in his direction and he drapes his arms over your shoulders. You hum, taking in his beauty like an old-timey knight with his secret lover. "Sounds a bit boring, honestly. We did that earlier. Any other ideas?"

His eyes widen with betrayal. "What—? Fine! This—" his lips "—and this." His hand lowers to the zip of your jeans, brushing over the front. His tongue flickers over his lower lip as he glances down, as if he's imagining it already, and you struggle to keep your composure. His eyes lift to yours. "Yeah?"

You draw in a breath. "Nah. You don't last long enough for that."

"Mou," he whines, brows furrowing, "I can! Just let me show you – y'know, I've been practicing. I've definitely gotten better."

"Whore," you mutter affectionately, slipping out of his arms to wash your hands. You tug your sleeves higher and Satoru sighs dreamily at the sight, cupping his cheek. "You seriously want to do this now? I could burn down the house on accident."

"Yes, I wanna do it now," he huffs, hooking a slender finger beneath his blindfold, as if showing off how long and pretty they are. "The house is insured."

"You – You're ridiculous, baby." You dry your hands and face him properly, gaze flickering over his body. He squirms slightly, fidgeting with his collar. "Hm... Suppose I say yes. What would you do?"

"Ah," he breathes, stepping closer. He places his hands on your chest, pretending to fix your collared shirt, and you rest one on his hip, tugging him in. He flashes you a flustered smile as he bumps into you. "Well, I'd, um – I'd kiss it."

"Mm."

"And I'd... lick the tip, 'nd..." He shakes his head and headbutts your shoulder, eyes squeezing shut with an embarrassed titter. "Babe, don't make me say it! I'll show you, okay? I'll show you how much I missed you. Spoilers: it's a lot."

"Well, when you put it like that..." You dial down the stovetop's heat until the flame is all but gone. Satoru's grin widens. "I'm interested."

He smirks and pecks your cheek, grabbing your hand and dragging you out of the kitchen. He pushes you down on the couch in the living room, taking a moment to shuck off his jacket and tug his shirt hem out from his beltline. He drapes himself over your lap, long legs bracketing yours, and places his hands on your shoulders.

Naturally, your hands come to rest upon his thighs.

He pauses. Have your hands always looked so large compared to him...? He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. His cock stirs in his tight pants.

You lean back with a soft sigh, stroking his thighs absently. Your touch borders on his ass when it shifts up his hips and his breath hitches. You lift a brow, seemingly unaware of his racing heart. "So? Now what?"

"Shut up," he mumbles, reaching to help pull your t-shirt over your head. "Just admiring my hubby, y'know? Most would be flattered. You're mean for no reason."

"A second ago you were ready to jump my bones." You allow him to toss the shirt on the couch beside you, and his hands run appreciatively down your chest and stomach. "Let's go back to that."

"Yessir," he says breathily. He meant it teasingly, but it comes out with a slight tremor in the middle. His cheeks flush as you grab the front of his shirt and drag him towards you.

He whimpers softly as you press his ass down against your lap, his lips trapped against yours. He rocks his hips. The half-hard bulge in your pants demands his attention, and he moans your name as you pop open his shirt roughly, hands exploring his soft, smooth skin.

"Excited, are we?" you murmur, nibbling the side of his neck. The wet heat of your tongue makes him shiver, nails digging into your shoulders.

"S-Says you," he retorts, gasping softly as your callused fingers find his nipples, cute and pink. He jerks, stomach tensing, and reaches for your belt shakily, undoing it defiantly. "Not f-fair. Fuck, be gentle..."

You shake your head, exhaling softly as Satoru manages to fish you out of your open fly. Your length slaps his wrist. "We can be gentle or we can be done in time for dinner. Your choice."

Twitching as you flick his chest again, he whimpers. "You..."

"I?"

He gulps, blue eyes trained on the thick cock in his hands. He grips the base and twists his fist up and down the shaft, brushing his thumb over the slick slit. You groan softly, switching your attention to the other side of his neck. He tilts his head with a tremulous sigh, allowing you better access to his fair skin.

"I really did miss you, you know," he says quietly, stroking you to full mast. "Your smile, your body next to mine when I wake up... and this cock. Nothing's better than your cock."

With a chuckle, you squeeze his hips, feeling them twitch under your grip. Cute – sensitive. "Yeah? My pretty doll missed my cock?"

"Mhm. Tried other things while you were away." He shuffles off your lap, sliding between your knees with ease. He gazes up at you, one hand on your thigh and one hand on your cock, and licks his lips, glancing away. His cheeks are red. "But nothing can get me off like you can. You always fill me up so good, always treat me right..."

He leans forward, wrapping his pink lips around the head of your cock. His eyes flutter shut and his tongue swirls around your slit – the taste of your precome curls a ball of arousal in his lower belly, and he widens his knees slightly in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn't help.

"Fuck, Satoru," you murmur, combing your fingers through his silver hair. His blindfold acts as a headband for his bangs, and you're afforded a full view of his creased concentrated brows and his wide-blown pupils. He bobs his head, thick lashes fluttering against his cheekbones, and swallows several inches of your cock.

But that's as far as he gets before he gags and pulls back, gasping wetly as his pale chest heaves. Nervously, he glances up at you, only to grow more desperate at the lazy grin on your face.

You prop your cheek on a fist. "What was that about improvement, Satoru? Seems about the same to me."

His frown deepens. "It's not my fault! You're just—"

"Excuses don't befit you."

His jaw snaps shut audibly. He reaches forward, taking your cock in both hands, and spits on it, smearing it down your length. You hum softly as he takes the tip into his hot mouth again, and his tongue flicks against the glans hungrily.

His nails dig into your thigh as he regulates his breathing, slowly bobbing his head down half of your length.

You have to hand it to him – he's gotten quicker at getting to this point. Still, he's shuddering, and he's clearly a mess, eyes glistening and lips slick with saliva. He looks small, shoulders pulled in, and so, so pretty as he chokes down your cock, determined to do it right.

"Oh, Satoru," you purr sympathetically, petting his hair. "Nearly thirty and you still can't suck cock to save your life... what'll I do with you?"

He pulls back with a slick pop, eyes wide and glossy. His voice is hoarse. "N-No, I can! I can, I promise, j-just let me try again—"

"You're my good boy, aren't you?"

The words die in his mouth. Head foggy, he nods, throat bobbing as he stares up at you.

You stroke his cheek, smiling softly as he leans into it and kisses your palm. "Let me fuck your mouth. Maybe your toys are just too small to be of any real help, huh?"

Ashamed, Satoru swallows, picking at his shirt cuffs. He inclines his head a few degrees, barely a nod, but he allows you to gently guide his mouth around your cock once more. He wanted to show you how much he loved you, how you wouldn't have to do all the work anymore, but there was something so addicting about the way you controlled his body that he was a little glad to have failed. His eyes slide closed as you grip the back of his neck and hold back his bangs, guiding your cock down his throat.

He moans softly, his own dick throbbing inside his pants as you hit the back of his throat. He swallows around it dutifully, grasping your thighs for balance as you pull him down on your cock.

"Good boy. That's it. Such a good boy f'me." Your voice is a low murmur, flowing in one ear and out the other. Satoru whines quietly, the vibrations making you groan, and saliva drips down your shaft. You lean back and lift your hips slightly, pushing into his mouth.

He gags slightly but settles quickly, tongue gliding against the velvety veins of your dick. Your grip on him is firm but gentle – if you let go, he'd slump like a ragdoll against your leg, no doubt about it. He rocks his hips pathetically against nothing, whimpering as you fuck his throat, and you take pity – you shift your leg between his knees.

He fists your jeans, knuckles white, and moans as he grinds against your leg, his cock throbbing against his zipper. His whimpers sound broken, choppy, in a way you recognise as gratefulness. Thank you, thank you. Your dick pulses and he swallows, drooling and panting with his lips stretched white around you. He swallows greedily around you, the shape of your cock distending his slender throat.

"It's okay," you hum, brushing the tears from the corner of his eye. "You don't need to do anything. Not when I'm here. You just need to be my pretty puppy, yeah? Let me take care of everything. I got you."

A rough shudder runs through his body. He shoves his cock against your leg. He twitches, hips jerking involuntarily, and you can't help the fondness in your voice when you coo at him.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

Carefully, you pull him off of you, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth as he pants, eyes clouded and hazy. His grasp on your leg tightens as you lean forward, placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Poor thing. Must be pretty pent up, huh?" You pull him up, and it takes a moment for him to find his balance. You tug his slacks down his hips, but the square something in his back pocket gives you pause. You dip two fingers inside and pull out a black packet.

"Condoms?" You glance up at Satoru, who looks anywhere but at you. "You planned this, didn't you? Dirty puppy."

He wrings his hands, finding his voice. "I-I'm sorry... I just – it's our anniversary, 'n' I thought—"

"You thought you'd be cute," you finish for him, and he nods with a soft pout. You reach in again and pull out another. And another. It's a row of them, separated by perforated tear lines, and his face grows red as you lift a disbelieving brow at them. You let the string of them hang from your fingers like a grocery receipt.

"Satoru... How many of these do you think we need?"

"I don't know! I'd rather be safe than sorry."

You chuckle and lean forward, pressing a kiss against his stomach. He cups the back of your head, slender fingers playing with your hair absently. "You're too cute. Wanna put one on for me?"

"You just like it when I touch you," he mumbles, but accepts the little square. He kicks off his slacks and underwear and takes a seat on your lap, tearing the packet open with his teeth at the same time. His eyes flick up to yours as he slides it down your shaft, his hands warm and pretty wrapped around you. He squeezes – you groan softly – and he whispers, "All done."

"Thank you, baby." You stroke his hips. He giggles in response.

"You can put it in," he murmurs, squeezing your shoulders as he leans forward and aligns your tip with his entrance. "I... Last night..."

"Hm." You watch him rub the tip against his hole – psyching himself up for it, you realise with a smile. "Was that before or after our call?"

His grip tightens. "Ah... After."

"Yeah?" Your smile takes on a dangerous edge and he gulps. "So, when you said you missed me..."

"S-Stop teasing me," he demands, his voice lilting with a whine. His brow furrows and he lowers himself on your cock, gasping as the head breaches his hole. The lube makes the glide easier, but the delicious burn of the stretch has his eyes fluttering and rolling back. The warmth... he's missed this. A toy couldn't have him shaking on his knees on the first thrust. Pain makes tears prick at his eyes. "Ohh, god..."

Satoru braces both hands against your shoulders, his toes curling in his black socks. He whimpers softly as you lean forward, pressing your chests together, in order to ease your cock deeper inside him. He rocks his hips, shallow and jagged, and presses his lips fervently to yours as he drops his hips and takes you all the way down to the base.

Tears prick at his eyes and he moans, long and loose and relieved. Your cock rests perfectly against his prostate, hot and thick, and every minuscule shift of his body has you rubbing deliciously against it. His cock throbs, dusky against his alabaster skin. His stomach flexes.

"Good?" you whisper, hot breath fanning against his throat. He shudders and nods, reaching back and spreading his asscheeks to swallow you deeper. His head falls to your shoulder as he lifts and lowers his hips messily, lips parted to gasp and pant softly.

You take over, hands big and rough on the creamy meat of his ass. There are new calluses on your palms, and a shard of annoyance cuts its way into the pleasured fog of Satoru's mind. Trying to appoint you clan leader through marriage – and therefore safe from the nuisance of arduous missions – had backfired fantastically, and now all those old coots know how much you mean to him.

Like, what was the point of marrying you to each other if you both still had to do the dirty work? Why couldn't he, as the strongest and least likely to complete the paperwork, simply come home to your kisses? You might hate him for making you do all the accounting and logistical work, but at least you'd be safe. He's very good at shoulder massages. The occasional assassin would be like swatting a fly to you.

"Sweetheart," you croon, snapping him out of his stewing displeasure. You grasp his chin in your hand and turn his face to yours, pressing a light kiss to the tip of his nose. He hums softly. "What's wrong?"

"I want you to be here every day," he whispers, pressing his cheek against yours. "Don't wanna have to make up for lost time like this. Drives me crazy."

"Oh, puppy... I know. But hey," you say, thrusting up into him and making him gasp, "you're hot when you're needy. And I'm all too willing to indulge you."

He clenches down around you. His cock twitches. "Mm, really? We could try using up all those condoms..."

You roll your eyes. "You're incorrigible."

"What does that – ah!"

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as you thrust up roughly into him and drag him down at the same time, his ass slapping your hips. He scrambles to brace himself, his cock dripping a weak spurt of precome on his stomach. His chest heaves, his face flushed and his eyes wide. His eyes are blown with lust, deep ocean-blue, and his lip quivers as you repeat it, fucking up into his soft, eager little hole hungrily.

Satoru pants, breaths rough and uneven, as he tries his best to ride your cock. But with every thrust, you slam against his prostate and knock the thoughts out of his skull. He stutters and moans, trying to repeat himself – because really, what do you mean he's incorrigible? – but you've got a wicked grin on your face that spells nothing but trouble for him.

"W-Wait," he squeaks out, arms trembling as he tries to hold himself up on your chest. "I'll—!"

"Come for me," you grunt, rolling his hips on your cock in a way that has his vision blooming with stars. "Lemme see you, Satoru. Let me see you, puppy."

He lets out a loud, sharp whine as his body jerks and his cock spurts, painting your stomach with thick ropes of white. The flush of his cheeks extends down his neck and chest, prettily pink, and he collapses against your chest, lazily rolling his hips and riding out his high.

Cooing his name softly, you pet his hair, which he melts into like pudding. His hum is like a purr when your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. "Good boy... so gorgeous when you come, aren't you? Did so well for me, sweetheart."

You begin to tug his blindfold down, as the rapid flickering of his eyes betrays how overwhelmed he is, but he shakes his head, nudging your hand to instead pull it off.

"No," he whines, raising his bright, flitting eyes to your face. They steady when they focus on your face, and his features soften. "Wanna see you. All of you." He exhales, a little shaky. "You still haven't finished."

"It'll be too much for you. Let's stop here."

He scowls. "How do you know that?"

"I—"

"Yeah, that's right. You don't. I can keep going." He lifts himself up on his knees until just the tip rests inside him, then drops back down. He swallows a whimper. "S-See? M'fine!"

Your brow furrows slightly as you hold him still. "Satoru—"

"Please," he interrupts, eyes wide and pleading. "Baby, please, I can do it. Want you to come, too, okay? I want to – because I love you."

You didn't think sudden love confessions in the middle of sex could be so hot.

A breathless grin makes its way across his lips when you glance away and sigh, your hands tightening on his waist. It's the perfect place to grab, slim and fitting just right against your palms. He places his hand against your stomach between his legs, arching his back ever so slightly.

"Well," you drawl, shifting slightly. His breath hitches as your cock brushes his prostate. "Then maybe you could show me how much you love me."

"You—" He lets out a bitten moan as you move his hips, helping him grind against you. "Baby."

In response, you only offer a smirk, eyes glinting.

He sighs shakily and nods, leaning back and bracing against your knees. The position tightens him up and you groan, head tipping back against the couch backrest. He traces shallow ovals over your lap, his hole fluttering against you with every tug.

"Feeling unsteady, puppy?" you remark, but it's softer than your usual teasing. You trace his ribs, thumbs brushing over his nipples. He whimpers.

"No," he breathes, quickening his pace. His half-hard cock smacks his stomach with every harsh drop of his hips, the reddened tip dripping and slick. "I got it."

It's hard to act as if the sight doesn't affect you. His lean muscles flex with every shift, and as he sucks in a shuddering breath, a bulge pokes his belly. The print of it appears and disappears with each roll of his hips.

"Fuck," you hiss, gliding your hand down and pressing a thumb against it. Satoru twitches and stutters at the sight, letting out a ruined cry when words fail him. His breath grows ragged as he rides you harder, eyes wet with need. The bulge in his tummy moves with him.

His white hair is dark silver at the ends, stuck to his temples. A thin sheen of sweat coats his body, shimmering when it catches the light. With his milky skin, it's as if he's been brushed with crushed pearls.

You reach up and brush a thumb against his bitten lower lip, plush and warm. He parts them and presses his tongue against the pad of your thumb, moaning as you push it in. He grabs your wrist, nails digging into your skin, and lavishes wet kisses upon it. His tongue swirls around your thumb as if it was your cock and he pants hotly, lips pursing ever-so-slightly around it.

Your cock throbs inside him. The beginnings of a smug grin tug at his pillowy lips, and his eyes flash confidently. They falter and roll back into his skull as you bury your cock inside him with a rough thrust – he melts into your touch, his pretty little cock pulsing and dripping precome down his shaft and balls.

"You're so good to me," you chuckle throatily, pushing your thumb deeper into his mouth. He moans sharply. The whiplash between your warm, caressing palm and the violence with which you fuck him makes him downright dizzy. "Maybe I should take long business trips more often."

At that, he lets out a wrecked little sob, shaking his head. He leans deeper into you.

"No?" He shakes his head again, cerulean eyes clouded and unfocussed as you force his hips up and down from tip to base, knocking the breath out of his lungs. "Oh, sweet thing..."

His legs quiver. He's barely holding himself up, his sensitive hole aching with the sharp burn each time you pull out. You press his face into the crook of your neck and he mewls as you tug his arms behind his back, your hands strong and firm. He feels powerless like this, buried in the scent of your sweat and cologne, and all he can do is moan.

He stiffens when something snaps around his wrists. He arches back, trying to spot it. "What—?"

"Sh-shh, puppy. You're too antsy. Gotta learn to take it slow." You smooth out his blindfold, twisted several times around his slim wrists. You glance down at him, your hair tickling his cheek. "Don't you?"

It feels like he's breathing soup. His heart hammers and he clenches around you, knees and feet scrabbling for purchase against the couch without the use of his arms. He whimpers, tugging at the bindings. His fingers flex. "Y-Yes, sir..."

"Good boy."

And god, do you take it slow. He's a mess in minutes, teary-eyed and trembling, as you use him like a toy, lifting and lowering him on your cock, which feels all too big and thick in his swollen, abused hole. He swears he can taste it. He babbles, his sudden orgasm going totally ignored even as he sobs and calls you everything under the sun ranging from his usual pet-names to your title. You ignore him, focussing on keeping your thrusts steady and even.

"Sir," he gasps wetly as his aching cock twitches valiantly. "Sir."

"Yes, puppy?"

His brain is melting out of his ears. Hot tears streak down his flushed cheeks, wetting your shoulder. It's humiliating, being trapped like this on your cock, and he can't help the new ball of arousal swirling low in his belly.

"Too deep..." He lets out a wet whimper as his cock begins to harden again. Oh, stamina. "P-Please – come already..."

"I'm trying pretty hard." You hum, rolling him in your hands like a scientist with their pet project. You sigh as if disappointed. "You're all loose – like a whore."

Choking out a devastated moan, he shuffles on his knees, walls squeezing and swallowing your cock with renewed vigour. "Sir, I'm – 'm not—"

"Please, Satoru. You already admitted to touching yourself while I was away – you couldn't wait just a few weeks for me to come home. If you were good, you would've kept your hands to yourself. You forget who this—" you lift his hips and tap his asshole, making him clench and whine "—belongs to."

Few weeks? Few weeks? Satoru wants to cry. It isn't his fault his love language is physical touch. Going cold turkey for so long was agonising.

"'M sorry," he whispers, eyes squeezing shut as you dance your fingers over his swollen cock. "O-Oh...!"

You huff, shifting on the couch. You hold him up, his delicate hipbones slotted into the V of your thumb and forefinger. "I know you are, but I'll remind you anyway. You belong to me."

You set a punishing pace, fucking up into him and dragging him down to meet your thrusts. His hair bounces and he cries out, arms flexing against the blindfold. His eyes roll back and he moans, open-mouthed, against your neck, broken little half-sobs punched out of his throat.

He can't get a single full word out. Even his cracked, ruined 'fuck, fuck, fuck' is peppered with whines.

Then your hand comes down, hard, on his ass.

His eyes widen. His mouth opens in a silent scream. He comes.

You groan as thin streaks of come splatter your stomach, his cock rutting against you through it. His hips jerk and he starts to sob openly when your pace only quickens, his ass rippling with each thrust. "Fuck, sir," he wails, "y'feel so good...!"

You massage his stinging cheek, whispering sweet nothings in his ear that float him away into a soft cloud of thoughtlessness. It's so easy to give up control to you – so easy to hand himself over. If he has nothing else to give, you will have him.

Even through the fog of pleasure, he remembers how to kiss you. He would know how even if he lost every memory. He moans into it, raspy and wrecked. His toes curl and bliss weighs down his bones as you groan his name and thrust up once, twice, into him, cock throbbing hotly against his soft, gummy walls. Finally, you sink into the couch, holding him close.

He lays there, slumped against you, as you catch your breath together. His eyes flutter shut, the image of your face as you come seared into his mind, and he giggles drunkenly to himself.

You were so good to him even when you were mean.

Gently, you ease his blindfold off his wrists, and he immediately wraps his arms around your shoulders protectively. You're his, and his only. He sits quietly as you clean up to the best of your ability with him on top of you, and he whines softly when you try to set him aside.

"Satoru," you try.

"I'm sore," he retorts, feeling your chest rise and fall with your breaths. His voice is deliciously ragged and raspy. "Fix me."

"No."

"Then I'm staying right here."

"The house will burn down."

"Let it."

Incorrigible. You sigh and lift him just enough to do up your zipper, then lift him in a princess carry and rise to your feet. Satoru purrs and clutches you tighter, rubbing his cheek into your shoulder as you carry him through the house. "Let's find you some new pants, sweetheart."

"M'kay."

"After that, you're on your own," you warn him, stepping sideways through the bedroom door. He uses it as an excuse to tuck his head in the crook of your neck. "I need to check on the soup. I'll call for you when dinner's ready."

"Mm..." He gazes up at you with a sugar-soft look in his eyes. He rubs his hazy eyes as you set him down on the bed to open up his extensive wardrobe. "But I need to set the table..."

"I'll do it. You just take care of clean-up, yeah?"

"Mhm." Satoru tugs the open sides of his button-up shirt closed and fixes the long hem over his milky thighs. He sighs softly, watching you gather his pyjamas with soft blue eyes. "It's really good to have you home, you know. Everything's back to normal."

"Is that right?" Your voice softens and you cross the room, ducking down to Satoru's level. Expectantly, he lifts his face, closing his eyes, and smiles as you brush back his bangs and press your lips to his forehead. "Then you better make sure to spoil me rotten."

He catches your hand before you can pull away. With a teasing, bitten-back grin, he lowers it, and tugs his shirt hem up. He places your hand on his thigh, dragging it higher.

"Like this?" he whispers, coy when he flutters his lashes at you.

Your fingers dig into the soft, sensitive meat of his thigh. He mewls softly, plush pink lips parting.

You tear your hand away, drawing in a sharp breath. "Fuck. Later. Soup first."

Satoru huffs and rolls his eyes, leaning back on his palms when you scramble out the door. "Stupid soup," he mumbles to himself petulantly. "Why would he eat anything else when I'm right here? Stupid noodles. Stupid husband."

A voice breaks through the silence from down the hall. "I heard that!"

"Good!" He collects the clothes you'd picked out for him, smoothing his fingers down the soft cotton patterns. "I ain't a liar!"

He mumbles a radio song under his breath as he tosses away the plain black boxer shorts into the wardrobe. A sly smirk flickers across his features as he pulls out a pair of baby-blue panties from a drawer, placed right at the front and tucked into a neat little square. It's a pretty thing, lacey and soft, and it sits nice and high on him, accentuating his slender hips. They make his legs go on for ages.

He tucks it into his stack of clothes with an innocent hum, and then off he goes, prancing into the bathroom with an extra pep in his step. He doesn't lock the door behind him.

Satoru understands that you enjoy taking care of him, pampering him like a princess even when he pulls your hair and takes your toys. You always will. It's a wonderful thing, to be loved so sweetly; no one else could do it better.

He needs to return the favour, he thinks, glancing at his clothes and the little secret they hide. Nothing feels like it could ever measure up to what you do for him, but he can do this, and it's a start. Perhaps it'll get him closer to being your equal.

[000oo00o0o0o]

NEW PHYSICS IDEA : Neutron negative charge - Positron in orbitals with Electron ? Any Ideas?

Hello Physics People of Tumblr!! These are some new ideas about molecular physics it seems to make so much more sense? What do you think! It has almost identical outcomes to the current math but big implications for gravity, time and radiation. It is a lot to read, check it out if you like or want to help! No schools of offices are responding about it via email, maybe you know?! The proposed ideas here are written as sentences, not questions but it has not been proven yet! Would you like to help or send this info to someone who can and is interested, feel free! :)

Proposals:

Neutron is negative charge

Positron is part of the orbitals with the Electron

NEUTRON AND POSITRON CANCEL OUT IN THE MATH

The Proton and Neutron are net positive, (nucleus)

The Electron and Positron are net negative (orbitals).

PHOTON is an Electron and Positron 'orbiting'. "Color" is the radius of the 'orbit'.

All periodic table of elements always have all 4 particles in equal quantity or are radioactive (a few notes on this below)

Radiation is Electron, Positron or both, aka PHOTON. (see below for more about photons & this idea as well)

The Earth has mass, aka more shared electrons/positron pairs, aka more positive charge. This positive charge is what we call GRAVITY.

As far as TIME: Positive charge = time is faster, negative charge = time is slower, so time dilation still applies.

It may be that we are close to the positive charge 'nucleus' of the Earth (more shared valence electrons via more "mass" means less negative net charge) and the electromagnetic field above acts like 'orbitals' w/ net negative charge (positron and electron slightly negative net charge, as ). The orbitals of our molecules are negative and are pulled toward the Earth and we call it 'gravity'. It is still time dilation as positive charge makes time go faster and negative slower. Time would be at absolute zero at the electromagnetic field at the perimeter of the universe, or close to it. Here, there is still the positive charge of the Sun pulling within the negative charge of the electromagnetic field, so time is not zero, but slow. The slowing of time is like a prism, but since it is not parallel (it is a torus shape?) no one could pass through because their molecules would be splayed out in time. Meteors would break up and congeal like magma on the other side, no problem for gas. Just a few thoughts on that!

Time is non-flat and space is infinite-flat and varies in overall 'size' based on the complexity of the system at the time.

For instance, quantum world and classical world have many possible outcomes, but only one thing happens. The other uncollapsed possibilities radiate away as SPACE. This may have a similar coefficient to the relationship between energy and matter; "the square of a large number" multiplied by "uncollapsed timelines" = "space".

Imagine slow motion lighting; it forks and 'tests' many areas and eventually one trajectory "happens" but the energy from the others was real and radiates away as HEAT in the surrounding atmosphere. That would be mechanical motion/momentum as heat. So, this is similar to the hypothesis here related to time, and expansion. Eventually, everything radiates away as photons or individual particles and each is far enough from each other so as to never interact again, and the timelines are identical again and there is only 1 unit of space again. Infinite bosons in 1 unit of space until they move apart and/or 2 things could happen but it doesn't immediately cancel back to a "stable" singular timeline etc. Maybe not be "infinite bosons in 1 unit of space" as much as many bosons in a significant minimum of space. That 'starting condition' may determine a lot for our world?

This would explain the bubble around the galaxy as well. For instance life on Earth has so many possible outcomes and only one thing happens. The other possibilities radiate away as SPACE. So expansion at a hot cloud is faster than a cold cloud of gas, and where there is life the expansion is huge. Does that explain polar orientation of satellite galaxies, if expansion is roughly emitted from a torus shape? A lot to think about! Are large voids a sign of life on a cosmic scale? Is our galaxy a rare example of a galaxy interacting with many galaxies on the periphery of the local bubble as it is a rare example of a galaxy with life?!

Superclusters (Great Attractor, Shapley Cluster) are the nucleus of a molecule that expanded during a "big bang" type event.

At that moment, did something like hydrogen or helium expand so much that the orbitals slowed down to the point that the positron and electrons were going slow enough to become classical and annihilate (more about photons below)? That would leave the neutron and proton or pair of them alone and that 'gravity' of the Great Attractor may be the positive/negative net charge of the nucleus?

Strong force and weak force are electrodynamics between Electron, Positron, Proton and Neutron.

Energy is stored between the orbitals and the nucleus.

Photons can remain exclusive in their interaction (not impact the molecule) while orbiting the nucleus, and can those photons be 'digested' (similar to the way plants may) when the water needs more particles for the orbitals? If the energy storage capacity is met "black body radiation" takes place and photons spill out, (in the case of water they have a diameter/frequency in the ultraviolet range). Red is not darker than black if you are not colorblind (if you get an infection in the 'cavernous sinus' cleared out) so the brightness of steel turning red for instance is energy spilling out that was added in with heat.

Strong force is clearly the proton and neutron having magnetic interaction, pretty straightforward.

Weak Interaction is this the electrodynamics of lets say a neutron (negative charge) trying to get through the orbitals and being repelled by the electron (negative), attracted to the positron (positive), repelled by photons between the core and orbitals (negative) and possibly pulling positrons close enough to the nucleus that protons repel it (not an "antineutrino" ... a positron)

4th & 5th Phase of Matter

Do molecules have more to do with the locations of nucleus, when on Earth, but can have more to do with orbitals further from Earth or any significant charge? In an area with a lot of charge (aka gravity) and/or a lot of turbulence (aka temperature and density etc) the arrangement of the nucleus shapes complex compound orbitals we could model with this new electrodynamics idea. Further out, do the racetrack-like inertias of the orbitals have less resistance to become larger and the nucleus is inside those shapes like a seed in a seed pod. Is a molecule as we know it more than a shrink-wrapped action-figure (shrinkwrapped by the orbitals?).

When a tree branch is close to the tree it is largely related to the center of the branch, but at a certain point it becomes stems, and leaves ie a 4th and 5th phase, which expand to fit their container but are basically solids?

Is "phase 5" a gas but, even though molecules are a couple meters apart, the molecules interact like a 3d 'solid' lattice, like huge jello water molecules? In which case if a bunch were a couple meters wide evenly distributed and a charge was introduced on one side, would the structure become asymmetrical, but remain transparent? Would the orbital shells have different characteristics at interplanetary space, interstellar space, intergalactic/cosmic space etc, as pressure and density goes down? Could water molecules be 10 meters across in places, and deform in a cool way based on charge characteristics around them from particles and the electromagnetic fields nearby?

When the ice-gas starts to move enough, can it become opaque, but still have characteristics where it is moving like a solid? In that case, does it become a solid (snow) which interacts-at-a-distance somewhat like phase 5 but opaque and solids moving together not individual molecules? Does it become an opaque liquid like clouds? Lots of observations to make about that and modeling of the different scales could be cool. Could dark matter be water molecules in this state, and at a certain radius from any star they vaporize, becoming 'non-interacting' but still impacting overall gravity aka overall charge? I suppose that wouldn't have to all be water? So is there a 3d ocean in the middle of the galaxy we call 'dark matter' - are we floating on it? Is there something similar around the Sun, such that those 'leaves' or 5th-state materials act differently beyond the frost line etc?

re: "Always equal amounts of 4 particles"

Something like copper for instance appears NOT to have the same amount of each of the 4 particles. The issue there is that there are 3 orbitals, so measurement from outside the orbitals appears to have more negative charge, so we would say "more mass". We will have to redo the periodic table, but its much easier! (Sort of an "Occam's razor" situation here?)

Photon ideas

The speed of the dance is the color or 'frequency' and the angular momentum has to do with the diameter? The "magnetic wave" of the photon is because we're observing the electron, then the positron, then the electron, then the positron, as it spins, producing an observation similar to 'magnetic wave'. The "electric wave" of the photon is the center of charge oscillating around the center of rotation, as the electron and positron are not equally charged. The center of charge is along a straight line between the two particles, but they may not be orbiting at 180 degrees? I still haven't exactly figured out how the fast-time of the positron and the slow-time of the electron exactly impact this arrangement.

Photosynthesis is based on a physical structure that 'observes' a photon long enough for positron and electron to cancel out, creating negative charge that interacts with positive charge of Earth.

Do photosynthesizing plants have a structure that 'observes' a photon, causing it to have a single, classical condition. The positron and electron usually cannot 'see' each other but have a center of charge and a yin-yang looking probability where each could be found. When they become classical they COULD interact, but by the time they've moved toward each other even the smallest amount - they are already quantum again! So do plants have a structure designed to capture the radius of the photon, and 1 planksecond later is the correct diameter to observe again after however far the particles have moved toward each other electrodynamically, and after how far they have moved toward the plant at the speed of light. Could that structure trace the geometry of the collapsing photon-remaining-classical until it cancels out, leaving a net negative charge (orbitals net negative, or positron/electron pairs net negative aka light has mass)

So, to reiterate; before the pair goes back to quantum mode, (during which time the electron and positron have no location and cannot annihilate) the plant structure bumps-observes the photon AGAIN. This would be related to the speed of light, almost like a planck-length later, there's a narrower portion of a cone-like shape tracing the distance the pair travel toward each other and continually 'observing' them. Ultimately, the two have a chance to meet and cancel out, leaving a net-negative charge. When that happens, it interacts with the positive charge of the Earth and the movement of energy 'turns on' the plant like a lightbulb?!?!

Do our lungs grab energy that way? Does our spleen grab excess energy off blood cells that were unused and incorporate it into our electromagnetic field (which is visible in a cool way in RGB if you do 10^15, 10^18, 10^21 or something similar for the RGB channels respectively. It'll look especially cool in color once we get the cavernous sinus cleared out! Until then we may check each of those ranges in the green channel or on all 3 the same for b&w).

Sea level is not rising, continents are pulled into the magma because nuclear proliferation is increasing 'gravity' aka the positive charge of the Earth by removing Neutrons from mineral layers? More on this below!

re: Radiation

(this last idea is a long one but has a few other ideas embedded as well. if you read this far, you might be intrigued! feel free to tell anyone or do your own research!!)

The idea is that radiation is "having extra neutrons or lacking them", and the electrodynamics associated with that negative charge. (These characteristics are particularly important when molecules bump or "observe" each other and a roll-of-the-dice configuration of the 4 particle types is specific and real.) The neutrons reduce the number of electrons by repelling the electrons. Sometimes positrons might get pulled with them. After the extra neutrons are in there and repel some electrons, the orbitals are less strong and more positively charged and the positive charge of the nucleus is no longer canceled out, so the radioactive material will repel the Earth and 'float' - as would a human who drank nuclear water.

If water has hydrogen at 104 degree angle to each other - does nuclear water have two neutrons in one hydrogen, one in each hydrogen, two in both hydrogen or two in one and one in the other? If all 4 states are examples of radioactivity, what are the other 4 angles at which the hydrogen would be found? How do they form liquid, ice and liquid clouds suspended in gas and what are the properties of gaseous nuclear material, in all 4 cases? How many positrons and neutrons might remain on each of the 4 types of radioactivity, statistically speaking, based on the 4 charge conditions?

If we ran millions of tests or 'observations' of a hypothetical molecule, eventually things like radioactive water decaying into hydrogen when "one damaged, 'radioactive' hydrogen takes proton from the other damaged, 'radioactive' hydrogen, such that it has 1 (or 2) extra neutrons and 2 protons becoming radioactive helium and releasing positrons and maybe a neutron as part of decay" could be simulated, and the probability of each outcome understood more well. That is an outcome that is frequently observed but until now, hard to explain.

The molecules of a nuclear rod for instance, have less even distribution of electron/positron pairs in the orbitals (compared to stable material) - when molecules bump into or "observe" each other, each momentary throw-of-the-dice arrangement of the electrons/positions has a net inertia which is increasingly unpredictable, as the orbitals are increasingly uneven. This means each molecule is like a little rocket ship getting propelled randomly, but not overcoming the bonds between molecules, and that internal momentum is related to mechanical HEAT. Currently we use that heat to drive a fan for energy (the energy is absorbed into gas above the solid nuclear material and the gas rises through a fan/rotor) - it would be 100s of times hotter and trillions of times cheaper to burn trash in a kiln. (people will pay you to collect garbage, so the cost is less than zero, so trillions times less than zero is MUCH less than the current nuclear costs, it is and very safe).

Nuclear material is not only dangerous because it's like a tiny 3d machine gun propelling particles in a way that's dangerous for scarring and dna damage etc, but also NUCLEAR MATERIAL IS EXTREMELY MAGNETIC AND DEFORMS THE ELECTROMAGNETIC FIELD OF THE ENTIRE EARTH.

This creates a pothole in the electromagnetic field trajectory, and that fills up with atmosphere. The moon goes by and 'splashes' up the atmosphere causing extreme low pressure. People die from horrible pulmonary experience, and may show a wound around the abdomen as the abdomen is being pulled in all directions by low pressure and cannot breathe etc. Then, an avalanche of atmosphere crashes in from around that low pressure cone, causing the exact thing in a ring shape for 100s of km around the site. This could all be modeled pretty easily. After this, avalanching atmosphere causes a high pressure event and any survivors' shredded lungs and stomach are compressed until they throw up and their bowels are forced out and die. Then the air that caused the high pressure splashes up again, causing low and then high pressure. When it falls back, that high pressure causes a ring wave that chases shortly after the low pressure wave.

This has been the way many people have died, and the issue with people floating away from nuclear drinking water explains a lot in a few different countries and areas.

The momentum from the blast eventually adds energy into the clouds and atmosphere, so large clouds hold together extra-strong, and get pressed flat over the electromagnetic field. The energy is stored as ultraviolet photons between the nucleus and orbitals and if there's too much it spills out. Everyone is colorblind (sphenoid/cavernous sinus infection) so the ultraviolet light (aka black body radiation, like when steel turns red, which is not darker than black fyi that's your red cone not working right because cavernous sinus infection and/or sphenoid sinus is pressing on optic chiasm) - the ultraviolet light spilling out looks dark grey aka "iron curtain". That big flat cloud causes extreme high pressure in the middle, low on the sides and kills many many people as well.

So many people have died and it has not been well documented because of the way it impacts a portion of the population over a large distance, so funeral homes have a few extra people per week for a while and no one notices the pattern. If you look at birth/death around WWII for instance the pattern is clear, it impacts the economy significantly as well. The great depression in USA was from people dying here and people selling 10-20% less goods each day, and rise the price to try and catch up financially, until everything "crashed" ? It appears that whichever areas have been attacked least recently are doing the most well today, but all regions have at some point within the last 250 or so years felt the impact of this.

Alright so - that's all a bit heavy duty, my apologies! Redefining the periodic table, simulating electrodynamics etc will take time, but will be exciting! The positron and neutron must have canceled out in the math before, but it's so so much easier and intuitive like this. Always 4 particles and always the same or else it's radioactive. We could model the way in which helium comes from radioactive water for instance; one hydrogen with a damaged orbital is observed/bumped with only positron for instance, (others being shared in the molecule but also missing) which propels the proton over to the radioactive hydrogen aka tritium, and it is helium w/ 2 neutrons already and now 2 protons. In that case it's really nuclear helium with 3 neutrons and 2 positrons, but the positrons may attract enough electrons to bounce the last extra neutron out quickly? Also how about super-saturated nuclear water; instead of one hydrogen with 1 extra neutron (deuterium) or 2 extra neutrons (tritium/radioactive) it actually may have 2 extra neutrons in both hydrogens?!? Lots of research and simulation to do, but once we establish charge for all 4 and the falloff of that charge…. We can do a lot and it should be really fun!

One other note about the nuclear solid material - if there is a lack of electrons and/or positrons, and one wants to break a rod or object it in half - it may be that the other half would have NONE of the orbital particles and basically cannot break. In the case that it does, it is grabbing xray/ultraviolet photons from all the water (vapor and liquid) around to fill up its own orbitals. As a result people see an xray flash BUT - the nuclear material IS NOT INCREASING THE EXPLOSIVE POWER in fact it requires more. "Nuclear Bomb" is just a way of saying they don't know what to do with nuclear waste - it was just a trick to cover up their mistake. The mistake is that nuclear material simply doesn't add up. Burning trash and construction debris in a kiln would produce more rotational energy than nuclear energy, not to mention hydroelectricity…

If the net positive charge of the Earth's core is balancing the charge of the bedrock, is nuclear material causing Earthquakes and Volcanoes and "Rising Sea Level" by causing an imbalance between positrons and neutrons (removed to make nuclear material)?! Is the the increasingly positive net charge (aka gravity) changing the distance of the bedrock from the center of the Earth?!? That would mean that SEA LEVEL IS NOT RISING, CONTINENTS ARE DROWNING IN MAGMA BECAUSE NUCLEAR PROLIFERATION IS INCREASING 'GRAVITY' AKA THE POSITIVE CHARGE OF THE EARTH?

We say that the center is solid iron HOWEVER, experimental forms of iron have been tested up to a certain measurable pressure; that limit is many many many times less than the hypothetical pressure at the center of the Earth. This means that we absolutely do not know what iron, or any material would do at that pressure… Maybe it is a very large number of protons and neutrons and the bottom of the magma layer is so hot it is a gas? (Earth's composition hypothetically being : Nucleus particles as a core, surrounded by gas surrounded by magma ocean with the continents sitting on it, liquid water on the continents and gas water as atmosphere with electromagnetic field aka orbital particles weaving through outer layers of atmosphere, (em field usually stabilizing the gas unless misshapen from radioactivity and/or radiated water clouds?))

Is radioactive material radiating atmospheric gas water such that the exposed molecules' orbitals become positively charged but the core is not negative as in nuclear water, because it has no neutrons? The repulsion of electrons by neutrons means increasingly positive net charge for physically adjacent materials (and people?!). So, that water has less "gravity" or even repells the Earth. Does that mean nuclear material is also ejecting water from the Earth permanently, possibly that the water molecules are put it into orbit while they slowly regains electrons from solar wind) and fall back? Could the net negative charge of the electromagnetic field hold the radiated aka 'unusually positive net charged' water in the sky, increasing air pressure? If the extra water is in the sky and not on Earth could the increase in air pressure be the cause of everyone having colorblindness-sinus-infection (sphenoid and cavernous sinus) as a child that gets infected and opacified? Could the increase in air pressure be the cause of dementia, when the ducts around the pineal gland get inflamed and eventually opacified such that melatonin comes out unexpectedly every 2-3 days causing dreamlike, sometimes dangerous/confused behavior mid-day? Could the damaged/radiated water being misplaced into the atmosphere be causing CLIMATE IMBALANCE - as too much water is stored in the sky and heat is stored in water? Antarctica, Greenland, Siberia, Canada, Norway, Sweden and Finland are freeze dried and Australia, North Africa, Gobi Desert, Mongolia, Turkmenistan, Argentina & Persian Gulf are dehydrated, meaning more than 50% of the known world is occupiable because of nuclear proliferation? Projections indicate the entire Earth will be unlivable because of this?! Can we stop ruining everything for no reason?!

Does nuclear water float on liquid-water but when it hits a glacier it freezes and is heavier than normal ice-water, falling to the bottom of the glacier making it deep blue color? Is that mass of frozen nuclear water radiating how many of liters of water into the atmosphere each day?! We could calculate this as well, at least approximately.

Is - a useless, weak energy source that kills billions and ruins the only planet with life in the known universe and costs so so much and thins out the atmosphere causing oxygen deficiencies for those nearby the material (as well as inverted waste from particle colliders) and increasing gravity in those areas with that material - "worth it"? Regrettably it is hard to be confident about some of these issues until we confirm the positron and negatively charged neutron, but you may notice here - figuring this out soon and publishing it could be a very important thing to do for humanity and the solar system and the galaxy! (If space radiates because of temporal dynamics and energy from unselected timelines - does the large "bubble" around our galaxy come from life on Earth specifically radiating space as the Galaxy dances us around Laniakea and Perseus Pisces? If we ruin our entire lives with useless proliferation will the Galaxy stop interacting with the expansion of the Universe at a cosmic scale? Is our Galaxy navigating from Perseus Pisces to Laniakea and avoiding interaction with Andromeda with this expansion behavior?! Of course it is hard to be sure about that one, but interesting to think about! How about is the polar arrangement of satellite galaxies, because the expansion is happening less at the poles, specifically much less within the perimeter where the electromagnetic field crosses the surface of the Earth - do we have a name for that boundary?!)

The issue is that they never finished the equation for nuclear material. If it takes 1000s of years of containment to wait for the material to go through cycles of half lives until it is safe, and we do not have any structure/materials that lasts that long; nuclear material WILL destroy the entire atmosphere eventually and all oxygen based life (the only such life discovered in the entire Universe so far?!) and quite *possibly* even disrupt some level of functionality at a cosmic scale? Is it worth the risk and deaths and cost? There may be ways to expose for instance radioactive 'tritiated' water to copper-64 (radioactive by product of lithium refinement which lacks neutrons, exhibiting different radioactive characteristics than tritiated water which repels electrons and possibly photons aka energy storage; that type of copper would collect photons and electrons but might grab neutrons from nuclear water (into which radioactive metals had been diffused) although it would want to be tested in very small quantities at first. Also… what is the story with the chemical structure model for the copper-64 molecules… a little suspicious… anyway they could never really do the math on it without the positron or realization that molecules with extra orbital layers show more negative net charge if tested from outside those orbitals but… I don't know, hopefully someday we can just get the math right finally. If someone used radioactive copper-64 for building or cladding, would it all fall apart if nuclear material or water was within probably a few 100 yards? Imagine all the metal structures of a building disappearing simultaneously !?! We need to figure some of this out soon!!!)

If enough uncontained radioactive material deformed the atmosphere for a week or two (moon passes overhead, displacing a calculable amount of atmosphere that would otherwise be held in place, 10-15 times at that point) we'd have such a disruption that that would be the end of all life on Earth (if the magnetic vector was strong enough to displace the right amount of air resulting in; oxygen imbalance and air pressure imbalance and probably the iron curtain flat, pressure cloud holding together unusually strong for gas-water, because of surplus energy spilling into the air above and friction as the charged material moves along the electromagnetic field itself, which increases in the wind not decreases). If material was launched and distributed over a large area it would be impossible to clean up, and if it was magnetic enough, again, - it would launch atmosphere high above the areas it should be, reducing oxygen and causing asphyxiation, as well as reducing electromagnetic protection, it would kill people with pressure waves, it would kill people with an 'iron curtain' cloud appearing anywhere and everywhere with pressure anomalies until something stops it, (and at that height above the surface it won't be buildings or trees etc) this would impact temperature and food production. Additionally, radiated water would get stuck above the electromagnetic field as discussed earlier. The South American Magnetic Anomaly may have caused El Nino, Lake Effect, air movement over Greenland blowing away clouds of water which have absorbed heat and moving them to North Africa and Saudi peninsula. If that's a nuclear-related issue, has it also set off a volcano covering most of Argentina in ash? Scary stuff.

As far as the idea that we can 'cancel out' types of surplus nuclear material - Copper-64, for instance, a byproduct of lithium refining, might cancel out with nuclear water, leaving behind nickel, zinc, oxygen and maybe helium with a neutron or normal water which shakes the 2 extra neutrons loose and gives it to the copper w/o decaying. One material has too many neutrons and the other has not-enough. Even if we collect everything we can and cancel it out, there will be some left that WILL destroy the atmosphere over the course of any couple of weeks of being un-contained. That means that there is currently a 100% chance that the existing material will kill all oxygen based life in the observable universe unless we live for 1000 years and keep patching up the equipment every few decades. There is NO REASON to make this problem worse!

Alright, that is a few ideas to think about! If there were people looking to highlight paragraphs/hypotheses, or print the email large and cut up individual sentences to divy up areas of research for thesis students etc, that would be awesome! Whatever works, but I realize it is a lot and it takes a lot of people to focus on each step in the math to paint the whole picture!

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Portgas D. Ace

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Oneshot: Ace x Reader Length: 14 K+ Rating: 16+

Having Ace as a soulmate is like dating a clingy campfire with feelings. He’s loud, loyal, and fully prepared to self-immolate if you so much as shiver, mentally or physically. He’s been obsessed since puberty—and yes, he still thinks spontaneous combustion is a valid love language. “If my soulmate’s cold, I’ll just set myself on fire. Easy fix.” Now you are scared and cold.

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A03 Link

-Bond Awakening-

It started innocently enough.

You are normal. At least, you try to be. You pay your taxes (when applicable), respect your elders (unless they’re creeps), and only scream into your pillow when absolutely necessary. You grew up in a modest village where nothing exciting ever happened—except, of course, for the fact that you’ve had a pirate in your head since age six.

You’re aggressively normal. You like toast. You do your taxes early. You read books in quiet corners and have strong opinions about brand-name toothpaste. You are average with a capital A.

At first, the bond felt innocent enough. There were brief flickers of emotion, bits of curiosity, and the occasional overwhelming urge to punch something and then apologize to it.

Then the voice started speaking in full sentences; chaotic, unfiltered, and alarmingly sincere.

“I hope he knows I love him even if I punched him. In the face.” 

“If I die, I want to die doing something cool. Like falling into lava to save a kitten.” 

“Do whales get lonely?” 

“If I set this on fire and run away fast enough, technically it’s not my fault.”

A loud voice. With zero filter. And no self-preservation instinct.

It wasn’t just thoughts. You had vivid dreams of eating everything within a fifty-mile radius. You’d wake up laughing at jokes you never told. Or screaming, because some distant, invisible dumbass decided to fight a Sea King at age ten.

You knew what it meant. The telepathic thread had been there since childhood. Most people got soft hums of emotion, the occasional comforting whisper. 

“Oi, how many push-ups does it take to break a tree?” “I should punch that guy. No reason. Just vibes.” “If I die young, bury me in meat.”

His name, as you eventually piece together through years of one-sided nonsense, is Ace. 

Full name? 

Portgas D. Ace

You’re just a normal, average person with a skincare routine and a deathly fear of taxes. Which is exactly why the universe, in its infinite humor, decided to tether your soul to Ace. He’s a human wildfire with the emotional processing skills of a stray golden retriever and the attention span of a sunburned raccoon.

His hobbies include: eating until death seems imminent, throwing hands with gods and warlords, spontaneous arson, and emotionally repressing every feeling that isn’t hunger or homicidal loyalty.

You’ve never met him. But you’ve heard him. He doesn’t know you exist. But you know him.

You know he doesn’t believe in soulmates. You know he eats like a vacuum. You know he cries alone at night and pretends he doesn’t. You know he got his first tattoo on a dare. And unfortunately… You also know that he once set a spider on fire to impress someone. (He regrets it. The spider haunted him in a dream. He whispered an apology three years later.)

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut

Age 7: "Do you think seagulls ever get depressed?" You were in math class. Trying to learn multiplication tables. Your soulmate, somewhere out there, was staring into the ocean like a tiny, unmedicated philosopher with a flair for existential bird-based melancholy.

You blinked. Raised your hand. Asked to use the bathroom. Sat on the toilet and whispered, “What?”

Age 8: "If I became a pirate, do you think they’d let me keep my blanket?" It was a sincere question. It made your heart ache. Not because it was sweet, but because you realized your soulmate was already planning his outlaw era.

Age 10: “If I get eaten by a sea king, tell Luffy I died hot.”

You were sitting in the back of the library, hunched over a weathered copy of Advanced Multiplication, when the voice echoed across your skull with all the solemnity of a soldier’s final words.

You blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

The voice—his voice—sounded older now. Still boyish, still rough around the edges, but with the kind of melodramatic resignation only a twelve-year-old could muster with such commitment. He sounded like someone who’d stared death in the face and decided to make it weird.

You turned the page. Pretended not to hear.

Other children had imaginary friends. You had this.

A borderline-delinquent who philosophized about death, grilled fish, and sea birds like they were moral arbiters of heaven and hell. A boy with a voice like fire and laughter, who once gave you a blow-by-blow breakdown of how to win a fistfight with a wild boar. He narrated everything. Bad decisions. Petty theft. Emotional spirals. The occasional hallucination.

You never answered. Not once. You were practiced. Well-trained. Unshakable.

But fate, as it often does, waited patiently to make you suffer.

-The Cold War-

Age 13:

It began with a whisper. Then a crackle. Then—suddenly, violently—“BOOBS.”

You choked mid-sip of your tea. Nearly stabbed yourself with your own pencil. The word reverberated in your head like a cannon blast, unfiltered and aggressively enthusiastic. There was silence. A stunned, terrible silence.

And then his voice, slightly breathless and awestruck: “I just… wow. That bartender was built like a miracle. Do you think she noticed me? Should I have said something? Was ‘You have nice elbows’ too weird?”

You sat motionless at the kitchen table, pencil still mid-stroke in a math equation you would never, ever finish. You could feel your soul physically detaching from your body.

Almost seven years. Seven. Seven years of absurdity. Of hunger rants. Of emotional crises about clouds that looked like parental neglect. Of vivid psychic broadcasts of every single dumb fight, scar, and mood swing.

But this? This crossed a line.

You stood. Slowly. Like a woman wronged. Marched outside. And screamed into the dirt like an ancient priestess channeling divine rage.

Somewhere, far away, a bird fell out of a tree from secondhand embarrassment.

“NO!” you yelled into the sky, fists clenched. “YOU DO NOT GET TO BE HORNY AND STUPID. PICK ONE!”

And somewhere, across sea and wind and sky— He heard you.

A pause. A stunned intake of breath.

“…Wait,” his voice said, softer now. “That was you. You talked. You’re real. Oh my god, who are you? Tell me your name. Tell me your location. I’ll find you. I swear—I’ll find you.”

You didn’t scream again. You didn’t cry. You didn’t faint. You simply answered, tone flat and final:

“No. I’m retracting my existence. Goodbye.”

And then you slammed the door—metaphysically, psychically, spiritually—and mentally filed a full restraining order against fate.

He did not take it well.

“Was it the boob thing? I swear I respect women. I mean—I don’t not notice them, but I’m not, like, a pervert. Just observational. Please respond. I haven’t eaten in four hours. I don’t know why that matters, but emotionally it feels important.”

You do not.

“If I die of heartbreak and/or starvation, tell Luffy I—wait. You already know. I died hot.”

By day four, he’d reached the melodramatic stage of soulmate grief.

“I’ve named the seagull that keeps following me. His name is Betrayal.”

You ignored him. You hardened your mind like iron. Practiced psychic silence like a religion.

But some nights, when the world was quiet and your guard slipped, you still felt the flicker of him at the edge of your thoughts: warm, restless, and ridiculous.

And once—just once—you heard him whisper through the bond, low and serious, voice heavy with something new.

“Please just let me know you’re okay. I’ll wait–”

You didn’t reply. Not then. But after the quiet way he whispered I’ll wait like a vow instead of a threat—you found yourself staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Overthinking. Trying very hard not to care.

And failing.

Just a little.

Eventually, grudgingly, with the emotional grace of someone returning to a party they swore they left forever…you let him back in. Not fully. Not warmly. Not with words so much as intention. But with conditions.

He wasn’t allowed to interrupt test days. No horny thoughts before noon. Absolutely no narrating your dreams back to you with commentary like, “Whoa, that one had symbolism.” And if he wanted to share his feelings, he had to at least pretend to have emotional self-awareness.

Naturally, he ignored all of this.

You became a master of selective tuning. His chaotic thoughts drifted through your mind like white noise: background nonsense you could mute with a blink. You mastered the sacred art of psychic eye-rolls.

He, in turn, began calling you “Mystery Babe” when you humored him and “Invisible Gremlin” when you roasted him into the dirt. You answered once in a blue moon. Just enough to ruin his day.

Like, “You fell off that cliff because you tried to flirt mid-backflip. Not because the ground betrayed you.”

Or, “Your idea of stealth is shouting ‘this way, boys’ at full volume.”

Or, worst of all: “I don’t dream about you. You sound like you smell like firewood and have impulse control issues.”

And Ace? He lost his entire damn mind. Delightfully. Publicly. Apocalyptically.

He became obsessed. Utterly, wildly, romantically feral.

Because now he knew you were out there. Real. Sharp. Hidden. The girl who outsmarted fate, ghosted destiny, and occasionally replied just to hand him his own ego on a silver platter.

You weren’t sweet. You weren’t eager. You weren’t simping.

You were just mean enough to be hot.

Like a mirage that tells you to hydrate and die.

And it was ruining him.

His crewmates noticed immediately.

“Is Ace talking to himself again?” “No, he’s arguing with his soulmate.” “…Does she answer?” “Only to mock him.”

They started calling you The Phantom. Deuce took bets on whether you were real. Skull tried to flirt with the empty air once and got psychically blasted with, “Not you, oil-slick.”

By week three of your emotionally distant reappearance, Ace had declared—loudly, mid-fight, while on fire, “I don’t need to find the One Piece. I need to find my soulmate, so I can formally apologize for my horny teenage brain and then ask them to punch me in the face.”

There was silence.

Then the enemy captain nodded solemnly. “That’s valid,” he said, before Ace knocked him out. And honestly? Probably the most emotionally mature thing Ace had ever said.

And you almost responded. Almost. But instead… You smiled. And went back to ignoring him.

Age 15:

“I’m gonna fight this volcano. I’ve got it. No regrets.”

It came in loud and proud, mid-afternoon. You were standing in line at the pharmacy, waiting for cold medicine, when your soulmate decided to challenge a natural disaster to a duel.

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. He kept going.

“If it kills me, bury me with snacks. And a sword. Even if I didn’t have one. Just for the drama.” You pressed your fingers to your temples like you could pinch the psychic connection out of existence.

He was persistent. And worse, he was charming.

In the most idiotic, reckless, infuriatingly loyal golden retriever way imaginable.

He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t smooth. He was a walking campfire with sass and a dangerously low number of self-preservation instincts.

You were not speaking, but still, he talked to you.

“If I ever meet you, I hope you hate me at first,” he said once, quieter than usual. “That way, I can earn it. I wanna earn it.”

“I’d probably ruin your life,” he admitted another time. “But like… nicely?”

“Maybe you don’t exist. Maybe I got the broken kind of bond.”

And then, worst of all, the one that landed like a stone in your chest: “If you’re real, I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

You hate that he sounds sincere.

Age 16: 

You are entirely convinced this man should be institutionalized.

You learn to live around him. You train your face not to react when he narrates his internal monologues mid-battle. You do not try to talk back. You’ve heard what happens when soulmates do that. It's called “dumbass feedback loop.” Two people yelling in each other’s heads until someone faints.

Instead, you simply exist. Quietly. Carefully. You’re old enough to drop out of school and change locations, which you do, and often. Use fake names. Pick villages with low foot traffic. Avoid taverns where Wanted Posters hang.

Ace, for his part, is infuriated by this.

He doesn’t know who you are. Doesn’t know where you are. Can’t even figure out your gender for the first ten years. He only knows you exist because he keeps trying to scream into the void, and you never scream back.

Which, of course, drives him completely insane.

He grows up.

You do too. You get better at tuning him out.

Until one day.

“I think I’m being followed. That guy has weird teeth. I might punch him. If I die, sorry, soulmate. I wish I had kissed someone.”

You freeze. Because it’s the first time he’s said anything that sounded like a goodbye. You don’t respond, and you find the words can’t break the door you’ve built open. But you stay up all night anyway. Eyes on the ceiling. Fingernails biting your palms.

The next day?

He’s fine.

“That guy was weird, but I gave him my sandwich. He cried. I cried. We’re friends now.”

You sob into your pillow.

Ace, Age 17: 

“Okay, look. If you’re real. If you’re out there. Just… tap something. Whisper. Blink twice mentally.”

You: (mentally blinking once, for spite)

You become excellent at mental firewalling. He starts testing you.

“Do you like meat? Just tell me that. I won’t track you down. Probably. If you don’t respond in 3 seconds, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and go commit arson in your honor.”

Eventually, he starts talking to you the way people talk to their diaries; with sarcasm and later, sincerity.

That’s when things get complicated.

Because, behind all the reckless noise and weird thoughts about trying to headbutt a sea emperor, there’s this ache. This softness you weren’t expecting. He starts wondering out loud if he deserves a soulmate. Starts apologizing when he’s angry. Tells you about Luffy, about Sabo, and his untimely death (you sob for hours). About the fire in his chest that never quite goes out.

He doesn't even know you're listening.

And you wish you weren’t.

Because now it hurts. Now you want to answer.

But you don’t. You can’t. You know what kind of people hunt soulmates, especially ones with D. in their name. If the Navy finds you, they’ll use you. If pirates find you, they’ll sell you. And if Ace finds you?

...You don’t know what he’d do. But it’d probably involve grinning, dramatic declarations, and upsetting explosions.

So, instead, you run. You hide. You exist in the margins. You watch from the edges of the news whenever you hear about Whitebeard’s crew. You silently cheer when you read about them protecting islands and sinking slaver ships.

You almost cry the first time Ace calls you “my tether.” And then he follows it with “which sounds weird and kinda kinky, but spiritually accurate.”

You throw a spoon across the room.

You talk to him for the first time—really talk to him—when you’re seventeen.

It’s been eleven years of chaotic background noise. Of pirate shenanigans, shirtless bragging, impromptu wrestling matches, and unsolicited thoughts about meat, knives, ghosts, fire, and, occasionally, emotional devastation disguised as jokes.

You’ve learned to compartmentalize him. A psychic raccoon rummaging around your mental trash cans. Sometimes loud, sometimes weirdly insightful. Always there.

But that year?

That’s the year you hear him cry.

You don’t even know what triggers it. You’re just heading home, a basket of bread in one hand, the sun warm on your shoulders, when suddenly the world goes sideways.

“Why does it keep happening?”

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s broken. Quiet. He’s not performing. Not cracking jokes. Just sitting somewhere, talking to no one. Maybe himself.

Maybe you.

“I keep losing everyone.” A breath. “First Sabo. Now the Spade Pirates.” He swallows hard. You feel it in your ribs. “I try to be good. But…”

Silence.

Then the whisper that shatters something soft in your chest:

“...Maybe I don’t deserve anyone.”

You stop walking.

Right there. In the middle of the road. The wind is gentle. Your throat is not.

You hesitate. For too long. Long enough to almost let it pass.

“You do.”

The word is small. Just one. But it slams into him like a cannonball.

“WH—NO WAY.” His voice skyrockets into disbelief. “You talked again! You—you heard all of that?! Forget it! UNHEAR IT. I sounded like a tragic romance novel. I need a redo.”

You roll your eyes.

“You sounded like a dumbass in pain. Which is slightly better than your usual dumbass setting.”

“Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

He doesn’t.

“Wait—WAIT—this is real. You’re real. You’re not dead or a voice invented by head trauma or—wait, you’re not a tree, right? I once emotionally confessed to a tree. It didn’t answer.”

You sigh. Pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I am not a tree. You absolute himbo.”

He makes a sound like he’s been physically electrocuted with joy. And just like that, Ace starts beaming across your bond. Not literally, but it feels like light. Like heat. Like a bonfire on a cold night that you didn’t realize you’d needed.

“This is the best day of my life. Please marry me. Or at least tell me your name. Or insult me again. I’d take any of those.”

You don’t give him your name. Not yet.

But you do say, “I’m not ready for you to find me.”

He pauses. Then softens.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ve got time. Just don’t disappear again, alright?”

-Emotional Fallout-

Age 18:

Ace joins something called ‘The Whitebeard Pirates’. 

You quietly wonder if it’s a strip club or a cult.

But now, you’re curious, committed, and listening at metaphoric windows in his mind palace. The crack in your own mental door widens. Just enough that you know unconsciously are transmitting some spare thoughts. 

Enough that you may accidentally transmit more details than you intend.

It’s not a scream. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even a thought meant for him. It’s a snort. Of all things. A quiet, private, mental snort of disbelief.

You’ve spent your whole life avoiding him.

And honestly? You’ve been excellent at it.

Fake names. Remote towns. A personal blacklist of any island that’s ever whispered “Whitebeard.” You were disciplined. Focused. Determined not to let your soulmate ruin your peace.

Because you knew too much.

You’d heard his thoughts since childhood—unfiltered, uninvited, and deeply, profoundly stupid. You’d heard him fart. Cry. Argue with seagulls. Wonder aloud if crabs feel jealousy. You’d built up a mental image of a human raccoon with fire powers and the emotional depth of a wet sock.

And for years, that was fine.

Until today.

When you see it, you’re at a sleepy little port, casually browsing a message board for work. A wanted poster with a familiar name.

You glance. Just a peek.

And freeze.

Name: Portgas D. Ace.

Bounty: Irrelevant.

Expression: A curl at this lips lifting up like sin.

The creature is hot.

And a pirate. 

But more important— He’s unethically hot. Shirt-open, jaw-sharp, lean-muscle, freckles-like-a-gift-from-God hot.

You envisioned a gremlin with muscles and zero self-preservation. You expected a 6-foot-tall disaster man held together by ego, duct tape, and barbecue sauce.

But this?

And he is divine punishment in man form. Shirt half-buttoned (barely). Freckles like stardust. Muscles that have never known a shirt that fits. A smile that should be federally regulated. 

And dimples. Dimples. 

He looks like he rolled out of a bonfire, forgot what a brush is, and still makes grown adults walk into walls. He looks like someone who would text “You up?” at 2 AM, and mean it platonically, then absolutely ruin your life in bed.

You sit on a bench. You stare at the poster. The wind rustles. Somewhere, someone sneezes.

You mutter, “Oh no. He’s hot. I am so screwed.”

Because now there’s a problem.

You’ve spent over a decade building immunity to his personality.

But no one prepared you for the smoulder.

And the worst part?

He feels it.

Ace is halfway through fighting a sea king when it hits. He literally pauses mid-punch.

“Holy crap,” he whispers. “They noticed me.”

Marco looks up. “Who?”

“My soulmate thinks I’m hot.”

He beams like the sun just kissed him. He fights a sea king out of pure euphoria. He gives a romantic speech to a palm tree.

And when he laughs—low and rough, like warm honey with a death wish—your brain short-circuits.

And he lets you have it.

“Hey!” Even his mentally transmitted voice is a problem. Sleep-rough and smug, “Miss me, baby? Bet you were thinking about me again. Don’t lie—I felt it. You feel really pretty in your head. Want me to walk you through it again?”

You tried everything.

Cold showers. Meditation. Punching someone for fun.

Nothing works. 

Because Ace is a wildfire in human skin and bad decisions.

And worst of all?

He knows.

“I’ll let you touch the V-line if you say please.”

You’ve considered hurling yourself overboard more than once. But unfortunately, Ace can swim in your head. And he’s always shirtless when he gets there. You’ve moved ten times. Changed names. Changed continents.

Ace? Unbothered. Thriving. Intensifying. He starts taking notes. (They’re mostly unreadable. But it’s the effort.) He’s narrowed it down. He knows you’re alive and that you move often. That you’ve been dodging fate with Olympic-level skill.

He’s not mad.

He’s impressed.

“You’ve been dodging destiny like a pro. Damn. Marry me.” Now he daydreams about meeting you mid-brawl. Or during a cursed artifact heist.

Or stealing the same apple off a rooftop and locking eyes like, “So… this is awkward.”

He doesn’t want a perfect moment. He wants you. Your weird live-stock obsessed brain and all.

And you? You still think he’s reckless, loud, and infuriating. But… maybe…Just maybe…He’s exactly your kind of problem.

Wait. WAIT.

You reel back.

He gets slapped into a rock. He barely notices. He is too busy grinning like a moron.

That’s it.

That’s the moment he decides: He is going to find you.

Before, it was passive curiosity. Now? It’s an obsession. Amusement. Intrigue. Hope.

Someone sarcastic. Someone real. Someone who thinks he’s an idiot (correct). Someone who sounds more like a human person than a divine blessing.

He’s doomed.

He starts doing things he never used to do. Asking questions. Collecting rumors. Not of his soulmate, because no one knows what he’s after, but about soulmates, connections, and how the hell does anyone find each other if they don’t want to?

You dyed your hair the moment his emotional compass started pinging your hometown. You moved when he began fantasizing about coastal bars.

You became an urban legend. The myth. The whisper. That one girl who’s just not answering back.

Somewhere out there, your soulmate has a reputation. He’s one of those with A Silent Bond’. Pirates dare him to try to find you. He drinks too much sometimes and mutters, “She’s real. I know she is.” Someone once asked if maybe you died.

He said, “She didn’t. She’s just better at this than me.”

And you are.

But lately, the voice has been quiet. Too quiet.

Which is why, one night, halfway through brushing your teeth, a warm, raspy thought slips into your skull like a dagger wrapped in velvet, "I think I found your hometown, but you’re already gone...You win… this time. But if I see you, I’m still keeping you."

And you choke on your toothbrush.

The next mistake in your proverbial abode being invaded comes quickly.

He first catches a glimpse of you by accident. And it ruins him for days.

The bond has always been mostly one-sided. Him shouting into the abyss, you offering the occasional snarky whisper like some irritated brain ghost with boundary issues. You’ve never slipped. You’ve never let anything real through. 

Until that day.

You were distracted. Tired. In the middle of patching a leak in your roof, your arms are covered in sap, and your soul is covered in rage because the only thing worse than your soulmate yelling about meat in your head is leaky ceilings during monsoon season.

And then, just for a flicker, you thought something too loudly.

You didn’t mean to. You were yelling internally about your ladder being possessed and made of evil wood spirits. You were furious with gravity. You were sweaty, sore, and covered in twigs.

And then, like a crack in a door.

He sees you.

Not fully. Just a snapshot, like the first page of a dream:

Sunlight streaking through wet leaves. Your face in half-shadow, eyes squinting up at a broken shingle. A smear of dirt across your cheek. Mouth pressed flat in focus. Your hand raised to swipe your brow, wrist wrapped in a red ribbon that was probably nothing but made his whole chest ache.

And worst of all: You are beautiful.

Not like the kind of “hot” he was always joking about. Not bartender-curvy or saloon-pretty or the fantasy women his crewmates dreamt up. You looked real.

Solid.

Warm.

Like someone he could come home to.

It knocked the breath out of him.

“...Whoa.”

The whisper was involuntary. Barely a word. More like a reverent exhale.

On your side, you froze.

Because you felt it. 

You felt the moment he saw. The way the tether between your minds trembled, like it had finally aligned. Like it was no longer just a voice.

It had eyes. And they saw you.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, a little broken. “You’re real. You’re—”

You smacked the bond shut.

So hard, it echoed.

You didn’t talk to him again for two weeks.

And Ace?

Ace spent those two weeks walking around like a man hit by divine lightning.

He tried drawing your face from memory. Failed. Got angry. Started sketching again. Asked Thatch if he’d ever had a religious experience involving a hammer-wielding forest nymph and a red ribbon.

Everyone thought he was concussed.

Marco eventually sat him down and asked if he'd been cursed by a wood sprite. Ace just stared at the table and whispered, “She’s incredible.” And because he’s somehow managed to wedge a figurative foot in the door jam, he gets more glimpses.

It happens at night.

You’re alone, exhausted, curled up in a too-small bed on a too-small island that doesn’t even have proper plumbing. There’s a storm outside, thunder heavy and close, and you’ve been pretending all day that you aren’t upset.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You lie there, trembling. Not with fear. Just with the quiet, suffocating ache of trying to stay strong all the time. And that’s when your thoughts falter.

You let your guard drop.

Across the sea, Ace jolts upright.

Because suddenly, you’re there.

Not a thought. Not a quip. Another glance.

Like a flash through water. You. In the dark. Hunched over your own arms. Quietly crying into a pillow.

Not sobbing. Not loud.

Just… cracking.

Soft and honest and completely unguarded. The window next to your bed is cracked open. The candle is burning low. Your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to the world.

You don’t even think of his name. But you feel him. And that’s worse.

And he feels everything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

For once, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches in that stolen second, completely still, as his chest fills with something heavy, protective, and utterly unhinged.

He sees you. The real you.

Not just the sharp voice. Not the teasing distance. But the person beneath it all. Fragile. Furious. Lonely.

“You don’t feel safe,” he realizes. “You don’t feel safe anywhere.”

You snap the bond shut again the second you feel him. It slams so hard he physically stumbles back on the deck of the Moby Dick.

“Hey—! No, wait—!”

Silence.

He doesn’t chase the bond. Not right away. He just sits there, staring into the storm, heart pounding like a drum.

And then, very softly, he whispers to no one.

“You don’t ever have to be alone again, you know. Not with me.”

You huff in annoyance, trying to pull the mental shutters down like you're closing a damn window, but no matter how much you lock them, he's still there, pressing against the edges of your thoughts like he's trying to squeeze through a crack. And damn it, it’s working. His mental presence fills the spaces you’ve tried so hard to keep him out of, and now you can’t stop yourself from giving him all these little snippets of your mind, no matter how much you want to.

And goddamn it, when he decides to stay on your stoop, refusing to budge, there's only so much you can do—the nerve of him. There’s something oddly endearing about how he doesn’t back off, even when your mental voice tells him to just leave. He likes hearing your rambling nonsense, which makes you even more annoyed.

But it’s not just that. It’s the gems he’s pulling from you now. The stupid thoughts you can’t quite hide. Like that one, for example. You thought, just for a second, that the man who joined the Whitebeard's crew was somehow more interested in your bond, for the social aspect of it all. Like maybe he'd just stumbled into your mental space for the friendship and sweet, sweet no-escape bonding time, right? 

It’s not completely irrational, right? Maybe a little delusional, but not out there. A guy that big with all that muscle? You really didn’t expect him to fit the “faithful romantic hero” trope—especially with “pirate” as his job title. He’s probably out there throwing hands and other things in every port he visits.

And every time something even remotely flirtatious crosses his mind, you bolt like your brain’s on fire, diving into farm animal facts just to avoid that embarrassing knowledge about what his hormones are up to behind closed doors.

He’s just not interested in you, carnally at least. Why would he be? You’re... you. He’s a famous pirate, a literal fire-bending golden retriever with abs and a fleet. He’s probably got a sexy fishwoman in every port. Hell, you'd fold for a sexy fishwoman, so why shouldn’t he?

But of course, he chooses the worst possible time to clarify. While you’re shopping. In public.

A thought slams into your brain like a meteor dipped in honey and sin.

“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

You physically jolt, and the egg vendor takes a step back. “You good?”

You nod, staring into the void. Because that voice—the one you haven’t heard in weeks—is suddenly awake. Smug. Dangerous.

“Not interested?...Not interested?”

A beat of silence.

“You’ve been dodging me for years like a criminal with a crush. You flinched when you saw my poster. You think I didn’t feel that spark? I felt your thirst, babe. It came through like a punch to the solar plexus.”

You grip the egg basket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You think I’m not interested? I’ve been tracking your emotional wreckage like a lovesick bloodhound with ADHD and a lighter.”

And then, of course, he gets descriptive.

Vivid. Uncomfortably so.

Your knees buckle a little.

“The things I could do if you’d just sit still for five damn minutes,” He practically screams, “And stop thinking about goats. Or cows. Or whatever weird barnyard tangent you go off on when you panic.”

You mentally scream, LIVESTOCK IS A COMFORTING TOPIC, and he laughs out loud in your brain.

It’s a warm, rough laugh that slides down your spine like a sin you weren’t ready to commit.

You drop your eggs.

And he keeps going.

“You think I’m not interested? Baby, I’ve imagined every version of you. Sarcastic. Half-dressed. Mud-covered. Covered in nothing but one of my shirts and bad intentions.”

Your ears go red.

“I’ve had to apologize to my crew for zoning out during a sea battle because you accidentally had a fantasy about kissing someone else. I almost torched an island.”

You drop your entire egg basket this time. Gone, like your dignity.

You storm home.

Slamming the door behind you, you flop onto your bed and shout into a pillow,

 “STOP DOING THAT!”

You hear him reply, far too smug,

 “Only if you stop pretending you don’t want me to.”

You assumed he was a eunuch. Fair. No normal man could be that energetic, that unhinged, that relentless without sacrificing something vital. There was no way a person who routinely set himself on fire for fun had enough blood left in his body to maintain… well, anything.

You’d once muttered aloud—after a particularly violent surge of his soul-linked thoughts.

“If this lunatic isn’t a eunuch, I’ll eat my shoe.”

To which the voice responded, chipper as ever, “Well, hope it’s chocolate-flavored, sweetheart, because I’m very much not a eunuch.” You rolled your eyes. Typical. He’d flirt with a cactus. It didn’t mean anything. But then, just after you bathed, exhausted and trying to sleep, he struck again.

The vivid mental image. Unsolicited. Graphic. Uncomfortably detailed. And so clear, it might as well have been seared directly onto the backs of your eyelids.

He wasn’t just not a eunuch. He was… a menace.

“Still think I’m not working, baby? Want me to describe how I’d use my very functional anatomy, or do you want a slideshow? Actually, hang on—let me tilt the angle. You’re not appreciating the scale.”

You tried to block him. You really did. But Ace had never once been deterred by logic, shame, or psychic boundaries. If anything, he doubled down.

“Hey, you’re the one who said I was built like a vending machine. Just thought I’d show you the snacks.”

You hated him. You hated how hot he sounded.

Hated that he was now giving himself full permission to know just how feral he was.

“Five minutes, sweetheart.

He could do things if you just sat still for five minutes.

He says it like a threat. Like a promise. Like he’s been waiting.

And you know he means it. Because every time you try to ignore him—every time you stubbornly pretend he’s not whispering sinful nonsense in your brain—he doubles down.

“Five minutes, sweetheart. That’s all I need. No interruptions, no running, no sassing. Just you, breathless and mine.”

You scoffed at first. Called him delusional. Told him to go flirt with a rock.

But Ace?

Ace just purred. 

“See, look at how you're so pent up, baby. I told you. Five minutes, baby. Sit still, and I’ll show you what it feels like when someone actually knows you.”

His words crawl through your mind like fire, igniting every nerve. You try to push them away, but it's useless. Ace has never been one to leave you alone, not when he’s this determined.

He’s not just talking. He’s implying, and it’s maddening. You could feel it in the way he speaks, like every word is a thread pulling you closer to something you know you’re not ready for.

But god, part of you wonders if you’re wrong. What would it feel like to finally just give in? To stop pretending you aren’t as affected as he’s been telling you?

You’re teetering on the edge. One more push, and you’ll fall.

The worst part? You’re already halfway there.

“I’ve been dreaming about you for years. I’ve had practice.”

It’s maddening. Every time he gets quiet, you miss him. Every time he returns, you want to strangle him.

And now you’re terrified. Because someday, inevitably, you’re going to sit still. Just for five minutes.

And if there’s one thing you are when you’re mad and emotionally cornered, it’s petty as hell. You ghosted this man for the sin of saying boobies. Now, for trying to mentally fondle yours? You’re going nuclear.

So, you go on dates. Ace live-commentates them in your head like a sports announcer with ADHD.

“Bro. His hands are sweaty. You gonna kiss that? Ask him who his favorite pirate is. If it’s not me, stab him. What is this guy’s deal with anchovies? Are you safe??”

-Branching Out?-

You tried. Honestly, you really tried.

But you’re done. Emotionally. Mentally. Hormonally.

You’ve spent your entire adolescence haunted by the gremlin thoughts of a pirate you’ve never met. You’ve heard his opinions on soup, his guilty cries over cartoons, and more than one deeply concerning mental image involving rope.

So, you decide—quietly, pettily, desperately—that you’re going to break the bond by seducing a perfectly nice, boring man with great shoulders and zero mess.

Everything is set.

You’re wearing something cute but functional. You’ve got dinner plans. The guy is sweet. Polite. Zero war crimes. You even lit a candle, for atmosphere.

You’re about to lean in and kiss him when—

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

Ace’s voice slams into your skull like a full-volume spiritual airhorn.

You blink.

The nice man asks if you’re okay, looking at you like you might suddenly sprout a second head.

You smile. Politely. Internally, you are SCREAMING.

“NOPE. UNACCEPTABLE. THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE HE APOLOGIZES BEFORE HE CUMS. IS THIS BECAUSE I MENTIONED THE CRAB DREAM? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS MIDDLE NAME—DOES HE EVEN HAVE ONE? WHAT IF IT’S TERRY?”

You try to push him out. Focus. The man touches your hand gently.

“I WILL SET HIM ON FIRE. I HAVE FIRE HANDS.”

You exhale slowly and say aloud, “Please don’t set him on fire.”

The man blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It is not nothing. It is a Sun God with no boundaries, loudly critiquing your sexual choices.

“I swear to GOD if he touches your waistband I’m going to hex his bloodline into extinction.”

You try again. Focus.

The man leans forward. He kisses your neck. It’s fine. It’s… nice.

And in your head?

“I HOPE HE FALLS OFF A DOCK TOMORROW AND GETS STUNG BY A SPITEFUL SHRIMP. YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIS HAIR. YOU’RE JUST DOING THIS OUT OF SPITE. YOU MONSTER. PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON BEFORE I WRITE A POEM ABOUT YOU OUT LOUD AND GET TATTOOED IN YOUR HONOR.”

The worst part?

You’re laughing. On your own bed. At the same time, a very confused man is gently trying to undo your shirt.

He stops, blinking. “Uh... are you... Okay?”

You wave him off. “It’s not you. I’m—ha—just mentally haunted.”

He leaves. 

Kindly. 

With a respectful bow (And possibly some trauma).

Two minutes later, Ace is smug and insufferable.

“So. Virginity status: Intact. Thanks to me. You're welcome. I’m a public service, honestly. Now that we’ve established that, can you PLEASE just let me take care of this properly and not with whatever beige sponge you dragged out of the alleyway?”

You groan.

He whistles.

“That better not have been a moan unless it was for me.”

You lie there glare at the ceiling, rage simmering.

“Don’t be mad,” Ace said, smug and unrepentant. “It’s not my fault you’re mine…And if I have to monologue in your head for six hours straight to keep you from letting some weak-jawed idiot put his hands on you, I will. Seriously, babe. All I’m asking is for you to wait until I can ruin you properly.”

You nearly screamed. Again.

And because you're a petty bitch with no control over things anymore, you decide to become mean. After all, it’s the only weapon left in your emotional arsenal.

You shut him out. Well, you try to. But you know it’s a cold war now. It’s inevitable. And your first strike? Completely accidental. As you stew in your indignation, a thought slips out—just a little too loud in your head.

“You’re like a damn stray dog that can’t stop following me. You’re lucky I don’t just leave you in the middle of the alley behind the Shimotsuki market and let the cats handle you.” You send a strong mental image of the said alley just to rub it in his face.

There’s a long, tense silence.

You feel something, but it’s so fleeting you can’t quantify it until he doesn’t reply. 

Radio silence.

You’ve hurt his feelings.

You assumed he was pouting.

Which, to be fair, is on brand. He feels like the kind of man who would sulk about you not liking the exact ratio of buttons on his open shirt.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself this was good. Mental distance was good. Silence was peace. You didn’t need the constant horny peanut gallery in your brain, anyway.

You could finally focus. You could finally think.

You could finally wear skirts without worrying about mental commentary like: “Babe. That hemline? You’re gonna cause weather.”

And because you're a certified bitch, you can’t casually reach out. That’s what you tell yourself, anyhow.

You didn’t know how to reach out. You didn’t even want to. You just kept your mental door cracked open a titch and hoped he was somewhere being dramatic about the situation with a drink in hand.

But of course, that’s not what happened.

-The Slip Up-

He was not pouting.

He was tracking you.

Because here’s the thing. That little “alleyway” verbal slap and mental image of a sad little garbage can? That wasn’t just a mean thought. You hadn’t realized it, but you had just transmitted an image of your direct location straight to him.

It was a soul-bond breadcrumb. A signal flare. A bullseye on your very mortal, very sexy location.

And Ace? Ace is a feral golden retriever with boobs radar and emotional tunnel vision.

The second you let that thought leak? He started sailing.

You don’t know any of this.

You’re still sitting there, pretending you don’t care, when in reality, you’ve unknowingly painted a target on yourself. You don’t know that Ace, with his relentless persistence, is already closing in.

You have no idea that the moment your mental slip happened, he was already at the helm of his ship, grinning like a maniac.

And you’re still sitting there, blissfully unaware, believing that silence is your reluctant victory.

-Home Invasion-

A month later, he finally, finally speaks.

“Hey.”

You don’t answer. Is it because you were relieved and had tears in your eyes? Of course not, and if it were true, you wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course, you’re outside, being a human being and trying to be normal, so you look like a loon.

You glance around the street like someone’s going to see you talking to no one, looking like a total mess. You try to pull yourself together, pretending nothing's happening. Maybe you’re just a little shaken. But that’s fine.

You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Ace?”

“You mad I went quiet?”

You cross your arms in the street, and a grunt escapes. A small child asks her mother if your mad or constipated.

He laughs.

“No worries,, babe, no hard feelings.” And there it is. That smug edge creeping back into his voice.

Your desire to punch him returns in full force.

And you can hear the grin before he says the next words.

“Bet you missed me though.”

You can feel your eye twitching. This asshole. He's already won. Again.

“You’re impossible.”

“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. I missed you too.”

You take a deep breath and hold back the mental floodgates.

You try to ignore the fact that your heartbeat’s a little faster than normal, that you’re fighting the urge to scream because you know what's coming.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And it makes you want to throw your wallet at the wall and hope a racoon doesn’t scurry off with it.

Then his next words drop like a bomb.

“You know," he continues, voice oozing with smugness, "I was just busy, sweetheart. You know, tracking you. No big deal.”

You freeze. Your blood runs cold.

Your brain short-circuits.

Tracking you.

The reality hit you like a freight train, its weight crashing into your chest. You hadn’t just let him know where you were with that stupid, careless mental slip—he’d been actively following your every move for a month. The very thought felt like you’d been exposed in ways you couldn’t possibly come back from.

The worst part? You couldn't even fight it. You knew exactly what he meant. You knew. The heat of his gaze, the way his presence lingered like a shadow over your thoughts. It was all too familiar, too dangerous.

And it felt mortifying.

You’d been trying to escape him, trying to block him out, yet all it took was a single slip-up—an image, a mental breadcrumb—and he was back, right where he wanted to be.

Without even realizing it, you screamed inside your head, “YOU'RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH.”

The laugh that followed reverberated through your mind, deep and smooth, like it had always belonged there.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

And then—you felt it before you saw him.

A heat, a wave that crashed against your skin like a sudden fever. The air seemed to shift. A flicker of danger, like lightning before the storm. It was that hurricane’s grin, that sun-warmed sin, wrapping itself around you like an invisible tether. You didn’t know whether to run or stay, but somehow, your feet were rooted to the ground.

And then—

“Hey.”

You looked up, and the world seemed to pause.

There he was. Portgas D. Ace.

Tall. Sun-kissed skin that looked like it had been burned by more than just the sun. His shirt was partially undone, revealing just enough of his chest to make your heart skip a beat. It looked like a war crime in the making.

And somehow, somehow, he was even hotter in person.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, mouth half-open, like a cat caught peeing on the rug. Was this real? Were you really standing in front of him, the man who had haunted your thoughts for weeks, months? You tried to form a sentence, tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless, “...You... You’re real?”

That smirk. That all-knowing, impossibly smug smirk. He tilts his head.

“You gonna say hi? Or just keep pretending you didn’t hurt your own feelings more when you’re trying to hurt mine?”

Your brain short-circuits.

You attempt something vaguely resembling a sentence, but it comes out more like, “What the hell are you—how did you even—this is illegal.”

He just smiles, all teeth and smugness.

“Soulmates, baby. And that pretty distinctive mental image you flung at me like a broom. Shimotsuki Market. Very unique. Very trackable.”

You’re about to hurl something—anything—at him, so you grab your wallet off your hip and throw it at him. It's a reflex, a desperate attempt to do something other than stand there like a dumbfounded idiot.

He catches it effortlessly. Not even a flinch. Not a hint of struggle. Just that damn smile, like he’s deeply pleased with himself, and unfortunately, his smugness is also hot.

You try to walk past him, determined to regain some semblance of control. But of course, he steps right in front of you, blocking your path without a second thought.

“You ghosted me for years, babe. Years. I didn’t even know if you had a face. Now you do. And it’s a really cute one. So. Hi.”

You freeze. The air between you crackles with tension. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you don’t.

You can’t. Not when he’s standing there, blocking the way out, with that impossible grin plastered on his face like he owns the world—and, apparently, your mind. 

You want to hit him. Yell at him. But all you can manage is a shaky exhale, your pulse racing, your chest tight. You turn on your heel, desperate to escape, speedwalking back to some semblance of sanity. You shove past him, making it look like you’re in control.

“Rude,” he mutters, his voice laced with amusement. “But hot.”

You keep walking, determined. You’re going to get out of here. But of course, he follows.

“You’ve got a cute limp when you’re mad. Did you know that? We should talk. Or fight. Or make out. Up to you.”

Your hands ball into fists. But you don’t stop. You duck into the alley behind the shop, hoping the cramped space might give you an edge.

He follows you like a cursed Disney prince with a death wish. You whirl around, practically snarling.

“What do you want?”

He stops. The grin fades, just a little. He shrugs, casual, like he hasn’t just been stalking you for a month. But it’s not casual. It’s like he’s pulling back a little, trying to act nonchalant while wearing a smug look that says everything.

“I want you,” he says, his voice lowering. “I want to know your name. Your voice. What you actually sound like when you’re not yelling at me in your brain.”

For a split second—just one—you forget to be mad.

You forget you ever tried to run.

You’re staring at him now, and for a brief moment, there’s no anger, no desire to escape, just... him.

But then reality crashes back in.

And without thinking, you reach into your bag, grabbing the dried herbs you’ve been carrying for no particular reason, and hurl a handful straight at his face. You don’t even register what you’ve done until they’re in the air, the sharp scent of crushed rosemary and thyme filling the space between you.

You don’t wait to see the result. You sprint. Your legs move faster than your thoughts, driven by a primal instinct to get away.

Behind you, you hear him cough. Then, his laugh—rich and dark, echoing through the alleyway. “You really think you can outrun me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even slow down. You’re not scared; you're simply trying to outpace the impossible situation you've somehow found yourself in. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat louder than the last. But the truth weighs heavily on you: you know you can’t outrun him.

He laughs again. It’s a sound that rumbles through the air, low and confident, like he’s enjoying every second of this chase. “You’re gonna be so much fun.”

The words shoot through you like lightning, but you keep running, pushing your body faster, forcing yourself forward, through the winding streets, away from the port, desperate for a glimpse of safety.

But he’s already there, lurking just out of sight, like a shadow that follows no matter how fast you move.

You dodge down side alleys, weaving through crowds of strangers, your mind running through possible escape routes, trying to think ahead. You board random ships, desperate for anything that might carry you away from him. You even bribe a fruit vendor with a handful of coins, praying it’ll distract him long enough for you to catch your breath.

And still, Ace finds you.

You dart into a nunnery, desperate for sanctuary, the heavy wooden doors slamming behind you like a barricade. You take a moment to collect yourself—twelve minutes, exactly, to hide in the silence. But when you peek outside, the inevitable happens.

He’s standing at the nunnery’s threshold, his grin wide and unrepentant, as if he’s never been bothered by anything in his life. He looks like he’s enjoying this chase a little too much, like the mere fact that he’s found you is some twisted game he’s winning. The game where you run, and he—always—follows.

You round a corner in a port city two islands later and hear it. 

“You run real pretty, sweetheart.”

You freeze, your feet stumbling over one another. Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel like a punch to the gut, the sound of them lingering in your bones. You try to move, but your body betrays you. You trip over your own foot, slamming into a nearby barrel to catch yourself.

Then you spin around.

And there he is.

Ace. Leaning against a post, relaxed, shirt half-open like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His sun-kissed skin glows in the warmth of the midday sun, freckles scattered across his chest like stars in a dark sky. The sunlight seems to conspire against you, highlighting every inch of him, making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s effortlessly cool—effortlessly here.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t need to. He just stands there, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, looking at you like he’s already won.

“Tired yet?” he asks, his voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

You throw a rock at him. It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He dodges it with ease, like he’s seen it coming a mile away. His smile only grows wider, smug and victorious. “Not even a little.”

Your pulse is thrumming in your ears, your muscles aching from the running, but you don’t stop. You take off again, sprinting into the bustling marketplace. The vibrant colors of the stalls blur past you as you run faster, heart hammering against your ribs.

But he’s still right there.

He follows you, but it’s different now. He’s not rushing. He’s moving with the casual grace of a predator, strolling through the crowd like he owns it. His eyes never leave you, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a brand, marking you as his.

And then the worst part happens.

The locals start noticing. They cheer, like they’re watching a game, their eyes tracking the two of you with growing excitement.

One woman shouts, “GET HER, PIRATE BOY!”

You wince, a knot tightening in your stomach as the crowd roars in approval. You can’t outrun the attention now. It’s everywhere. The eyes of the city are on you, and in a moment of absurd clarity, you realize they’re rooting for him.

“Great,” you mutter, grinding your teeth together, the sound of your frustration mingling with the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

Ace grins wider, clearly relishing the bedlam he’s created. The man never stops. Never slows.

Then someone starts placing bets. On you.

Great. Just great.

You vault over a fruit stand, your legs pushing you forward in a burst of desperate energy. It’s not graceful, but you’re fast—too fast to think. You hear Ace whistle, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Nice form. You always this athletic or is it just when you’re running from your problems—me—specifically?”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, and duck into a tavern kitchen, praying the staff are too busy to notice your disheveled, panicked entrance. The staff barely blinks as you slip past them, already halfway through the back door when—

He appears again.

Now he’s casually eating an apple, like he wasn’t just doing parkour across balconies and dodging flying fruit. He takes a slow bite, watching you with that maddening, self-satisfied smile, as if nothing had happened.

He doesn’t grab you this time. He doesn’t need to.

He just traps you.

He’s standing too close. That smile—sinful, smug, all-consuming—is never far from his lips.

“You done?” he asks, his voice low, amused.

You glare up at him, your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse quickening with the weight of it all. “No.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that crawls up your spine like heat. "Good."

And then, the moment you’ve been dreading.

He leans in.

It’s slow. Intentional. His breath brushes against your cheek. He whispers, his voice sliding against your ear like a stolen secret.

“Keep running if you want. I don’t mind.”

You feel the weight of his words, pressing in like a warning.

“Chasing you’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

And then the sucker punch:

“But eventually… sweetheart, you’re gonna trip.”

You freeze. For a moment, your knees go weak, and your brain short-circuits, like someone’s cut the power to your mind. You’re standing there, so close to him, your body fighting against every urge to lean in, to finally give in to the pull.

You almost kiss him. Out of spite. Out of sheer frustration. Almost.

Instead, you throw a spoon right into his face. It clangs loudly against his cheek, and you make a break for it, leaping through the window with as much grace as you can muster.

“WORTH IT!” he yells behind you, his voice loud and triumphant as it echoes down the alley.

You run. Because you can’t stop. You won’t stop. Not until you’ve lost him for good.

But in the back of your mind, there’s something else. A tug. A pull. The taste of his words still lingering in your thoughts.

-CAUGHT-

By nightfall, he’s still following you. Somehow. Unbothered by your death glares, your total silence, or the fifteen attempts you made to accidentally lead him into thorn bushes. He compliments the flora. Bleeds cheerfully.

You’re huffing, exhausted and borderline panicked, your legs aching from the constant running. You can feel your nerves fraying, the last vestiges of your patience worn thin. You’ve been at this for hours, your mind screaming at you to find a way to lose him, but no. There he is. Ten steps behind, like some kind of relentless golden retriever on a leash, with that insufferable, charming grin plastered on his face.

Ace looks pristine. The dirt doesn’t seem to cling to him. His hair’s a little tousled, sure, but it’s still perfect. His skin glows in the low light, and you can practically see the smugness radiating off him, his eyes dancing like he’s having the time of his life.

“You’re picturing me naked again, huh?” he says, his voice like molten honey, lazy and confident. “That’s the third time today. Just say the word, babe, and I’ll come up shirtless and apologetic.”

You growl low in your throat, gritting your teeth as you quicken your pace. This is not happening.

“Oh no,” he whispers in your mind, his voice slipping through like silk, dangerously smooth. “Was that... foreplay?”

You did not just…

The rage inside you flares, hot and violent, and you snap, throwing a rock at him. It’s the first thing you can grab, and the action is pure, unrefined anger.

You watch it sail through the air, and you’re almost satisfied with the aim, the sound of it connecting with him. But then you realize something.

He let it hit him.

You stand there, frozen in place, while he groans from the dirt, propping himself up on one elbow, still grinning like a damn idiot. And you, for some unknown reason, feel terrible.

He’s laughing.

“You know,” he says, brushing the dust off his clothes like this is the most fun he’s ever had, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, babe. You’ve got a hell of a right hook. Still hot as fuck though.”

You say nothing. Your brain has blue-screened. You’re physically incapable of processing this absurdity, this entire situation that you’ve been dragged into.

“You’re—wow. You’re stunning. And you’re standing there. And you’re not yelling at me or hating me or vanishing into mist.”

Still nothing. Your dignity is buffering, on its last thread.He blinks, his smile widening even more, if that’s even possible.

“Unless you are mist. I did hit my head pretty hard. Are you mist?”

You force the words out, your throat feeling dry. “No. Just disappointed.”

His grin widens—widens. Like he’s won something.

“Oh, thank god. That sounds like you.”

You try. You really try to stay composed, but he stands up, all sun-kissed skin and scars, the epitome of absolute menace. You feel your soul leave your body with a little ‘whoosh’ noise. And then, like he’s really not going to let you have any peace, he pulls a small, slightly squished bouquet from his pocket.

“I brought flowers,” he says, holding them out to you with an innocent grin that makes you want to scream. “Sat on them a bit during the fall. But they’re yours. Please accept them and also my eternal devotion.”

You take the flowers. Your hands are trembling, and you hate it.

You hate that you’re standing here, accepting flowers from this ridiculous, insufferable man. But, God, you hate even more that he’s standing there looking like a golden retriever with a heart the size of the sun—hot, fire-punching, fate-cursed, sweet as hell.

And worst of all? You hate that you like it.

You hate that you might even like him. Because, unfortunately, he’s a cutie. A dumb, fire-punching, fate-cursed cutie. And you’re just so screwed.

You flee, again.

Not in the dramatic, cloak-flapping, “I shall vanish into the mist” way you always thought you’d flee your soulmate—no, it’s more like a dignified power walk with panicked footnotes. You grab your satchel, muttering something about needing air, and fast-walk directly into the woods, hoping that the isolation of nature might give you a temporary reprieve from the storm of chaotic thoughts in your head.

But you’re not prepared for the soft voice behind you.

“Want me to carry that?”

You stop in your tracks. You turn, and there he is, right there, as if he’d materialized from the very forest around you. His freckles glow in the dying light, shirt offensively open like he’s trying to challenge every ounce of your self-control. The flowers—crumpled and hopeless—are still in your hand. And the other is already reaching for your bag like this is just a casual joint grocery run, not a soul-rupturing disaster.

“No,” you say firmly, pulling the satchel closer to you like it contains the last remnants of your common sense.

“Right,” he nods, unfazed. “Emotional support bag. Got it.”

You start walking again, forcing yourself to keep your pace. Your legs carry you with a tension that suggests both urgency and defeat.

And, of course, he walks beside you. Casually. Like this is just another walk in the park, like he hasn’t just smashed through a tree, declared eternal devotion, and handed you mashed flowers. Like this is his first time seeing your face, even though it feels like the most significant moment of your life.

He hums, lazily surveying the woods around you. “Nice woods. Quiet. Great for internal screaming.”

You grit your teeth, trying to ignore him, but the temptation to throw him off the trail and let your frustration explode is too great.

“You should leave,” you say, half as a request, half as a warning.

“I know,” he responds, too casually. “But I won’t.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “That’s called stalking.”

“That’s called fate,” he replies, totally unbothered. “Also, I’m very polite about it.”

You open your mouth, about to argue, when he cuts you off, adding with a teasing smirk, “I brought snacks.”

You close your mouth, your will to argue draining out of you like sand through your fingers.

The two of you walk in silence, the tension thick but oddly comfortable, until you finally reach your small cabin. You stop, spin around, and give him a dramatic flourish meant to intimidate—one last attempt at asserting some control.

“You are not staying here.”

“I accept your terms,” he says, already ducking through the doorway as though it’s his place now. “Great porch. Would die here.”

He pauses, looks at you, and for a split second, the smug grin fades. His expression softens, just a touch.

“Not that I’m planning to,” he adds, and something about the sincerity behind those words makes your chest ache.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling like you're losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Because no matter how many times you tell him to leave, every inch of him belongs here.

-Emotional Turning Point-

He fits himself into your life like he was always meant to be your super handsome supporting male lead, living on the fringes of your porch and decency.

You’re not sure how he does it; how Ace, with all his chaos and charm, has somehow managed to worm his way into your routine, making himself right at home without even trying. But there he is, lounging in that damn chair by your door, making himself part of your world with a grin that says he’s here to stay. He’s everywhere. Leaning in the doorway, poking his head through the window, eating snacks with that infuriatingly content grin on his face.

It’s not that you invited him in. Not really. But it’s almost like he was always meant to be a part of this life, somehow. You can’t get rid of him, and—goddammit—you don’t want to.

Every time you try to get some peace, there he is, leaning casually against the doorframe with an offhand comment that somehow worms its way under your skin. He feels like your life now, like some permanent addition, wrapped in the scent of summer and smoke, never asking for permission, always managing to make you feel like you’re the one who’s been missing something.

And it drives you crazy. But not the bad kind of crazy. The kind where you’re frustrated because you don’t want to admit you like this new reality.

He's also so kind. So genuinely good in a way that makes you want to rip your own heart out for how much you’re falling for it. He doesn’t just show up with a smug grin and a million dumb comments. Though, hell, he does plenty of that too, but there’s something in the way he’s just… there.

The way he notices the little things. The way he makes sure you’ve eaten, even when you try to hide it. The way he doesn’t just barge in but waits for you to ask, like he knows when to push and when to let you breathe. And the most infuriating part? He does it without expecting anything in return. He’s not keeping score. He’s not holding anything over your head. He just… cares.

Which is how, eventually, you find yourself giving in. You tell yourself it’s because there’s no other place for him to sleep. He can’t keep taking the porch chair, it’s too awkward. You tell yourself it’s because he’s not that bad, right? He’s harmless, right? Maybe having him in the guest room won’t be so terrible.

But you know the truth. You know you’ve softened. You’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re frustrated, the way he listens without interrupting. You’ve caught him quietly fixing the little things you forget; your broken door lock, the pile of laundry you’ve been meaning to fold. And you’ve realized, with a sickening sense of vulnerability, that you’ve let him in.

The guest room? That was just the final step. You’re a pathetic push-over, no denying it.

Because now he’s there. In your home. In your life. Not just as the irritating golden retriever you thought he was, but as the person who somehow made himself indispensable.

You snort, unable to hold back the laughter, the absurdity of it all finally catching up with you.

Ace beams beside you, that ever-present, infectious smile stretching across his face as if he’s just made the greatest revelation of all time. The night settles into a quiet rhythm, the tension from the past moments fading as he settles himself into your life like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Ace? 

Ace stays.

He stays in the most inconvenient, inconveniently endearing way possible. His presence weaving itself into the fabric of your day like a persistent, sun-warmed thread that refuses to be untangled. No matter how much you try to brush him off, he’s there, in the most Ace way imaginable: full of warmth, full of disarray, full of ridiculousness.

And then, of course, he decides to hit you with it.

He tells you who his father is exactly one week after deciding not to die for vengeance and two days after setting your entire pantry on fire trying to toast bread with his hands. You’re crouched by the pantry door, diligently trying to patch up the mess he’s made, when he flops down beside you with that same blissful grin, the one that promises you’ll never know a moment’s peace.

“By the way,” he says, his voice smooth and casual, “my dad was the Pirate King.”

You freeze.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you slowly lower the patching materials, every muscle in your body tensing in complete shock. 

The pause feels like an eternity.

Then, ever so slowly, you turn your head to face him. He’s still looking at you like he’s dropped a bombshell, waiting for the reaction. You blink once. Twice. And then, to his evident surprise, you simply say, “Okay.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, your voice steady, your expression a carefully controlled mask. “Okay.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something else, but then he hesitates. “Like… you don’t care?”

You take a deep breath, trying to recalibrate your thoughts. “Do you steal children?” you ask, your voice flat, as though that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

“No,” he answers, confused but amused.

“Do you bring Marines to my door?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, feeling the tension in your chest finally begin to loosen. “Then I don’t care if you’re the son of the Pirate King, a dragon, or the sea itself with legs. Just stop bathing in front of me.”

Ace makes a sound, like a duck being struck by lightning, eyes widening with exaggerated innocence. “That was ONE TIME.”

“It was yesterday.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

“You were singing.” You throw a wet cloth at his face without even looking at him, too tired to care about how ridiculous this is. “Also,” you add, as you wipe off the dust from your hands, “you have a birthmark. Not that I meant to see it. But it exists. And it is shaped like a banana.”

“OH MY GOD.”

He screams into the rag, the sound muffled and exaggerated, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

You keep working, the soft smile on your lips betraying the amusement you’re trying so hard to hide. You do care.

You care about the way he burns toast but guards your garden like it’s a castle. The way he talks in his sleep, thinking no one can hear him, and makes enough food for two even when you insist you’re fine on your own. The way he tried to give you his favorite dagger like it was a friendship bracelet—like you were meant to have it.

But you don’t care who his father is.

That man is dead.

Ace is alive.

And in the end, it doesn’t matter who his bloodline is. What matters is the idiot sitting beside you, grinning like he’s won the lottery and setting fire to his shirt trying to impress you by flexing in the sun. The one who, despite all the madness, somehow makes you feel like this chaotic, unexpected life is exactly what you need.

You might be losing the battle, but you’re definitely winning the war.

Ace knew he didn’t have a chance the first time he heard you spoke, and frankly, he’s never been one to deny fate.

Ace is the kind of guy who falls fast, and hard. And over simple things. It’s not a grand speech that changes him. Not a fight, not a dramatic stand in the rain, not a desperate plea to spare himself.

It’s something much worse.

You do absolutely nothing.

You make tea. You sweep the porch. You hang up wet laundry with that same quiet, suspicious side-eye you’ve been giving him since he crash-landed into your life like a shirtless meteor of emotional disorder. You don’t flirt. You don’t cry. You don’t tell him not to go. You just exist.

Like you’ve done for years, on the edge of war and wonder. Quiet. Clever. Alive.

And Ace?

He shatters.

Because now that he’s here, now that he knows your smile in real time and not just as a phantom curl behind his thoughts, now that he knows how you brew tea when you're nervous and fake a snort-laugh when you're amused and sleep with one hand under your pillow like you're still ready to flee.

He realizes something awful.

He doesn’t want to die anymore.

And if he goes after Blackbeard alone, that’s exactly what will happen.

So one night, while you’re bent over your little garden, muttering at a weed like it owes you money, he sits on the porch with his legs dangling over the side. The moon makes him look soft. Barefoot. Real.

He says, casually, like it’s nothing:

“I’m not gonna go.”

You don’t look up. Your hands are busy, pulling the stubborn weed from the soil, but you can feel the weight of his words like a distant thunderclap.

“Go where?”

“After Teach. Not alone.” He scratches at his hair, a rare softness in his voice. “I was gonna. I thought I had to. But then you made soup. And yelled at the laundry. And looked at me like I was a half-cracked egg someone left in the sun too long.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of an immediate response. You just finish pulling the weed from the ground and set it aside, carefully, as if there’s a cosmic balance you don’t want to disturb.

“That was not a look of affection,” you say dryly, still not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he grins, that damn grin that always makes your chest tighten. “But it made me realize I want to come back. I want someone to come back to.”

You stare at him now. Really stare.

And you see it.

Portgas D. Ace, fire-fist terror of the seas, Whitebeard’s reckless son, walking natural disaster.

He’s sitting still. And choosing to just live.

For himself. For his crew. And, impossibly, for you.

“I told Marco,” he says, quieter now, his voice almost unrecognizable with the vulnerability slipping through. “Let someone else bring him in. Or all of us. I’m not rushing into a trap because I want to feel like I deserve punishment. I don’t want to prove anything anymore.”

You blink. His words hit you like a wave, but the truth of it doesn't settle immediately.

“So you’re just... not dying?” You ask, the question slipping out without meaning to.

“Apparently,” he shrugs, still with that casual bravado he carries around like armor. “Real inconvenient. I’d emotionally prepped for a tragic death arc.”

You finally meet his eyes, watching as his smile falters just a little, just enough to let you see the weight he’s been carrying. And you realize, in that moment, you’re no longer looking at the man who sought death to prove something. You’re looking at a man who finally decided that maybe he deserves to live.

For the first time, Ace isn’t running. He isn’t running from his past, from his fate, or from the bedlam inside him.

He’s sitting still.

And that, in its own way, is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The silence between you is more than enough.

And as he sits there, beside you, in the quiet of your little garden and under the soft glow of the moon, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that Ace has made his choice.

He’s not dying for the sake of others anymore. Not for revenge, not for the memory of his father, not for any grand ideal.

He’s living. For himself. And, maybe, just maybe... for you too.

And for the first time, it feels like the weight of it all. His choices, his fate, the chaotic spiral he’s been trapped in has shifted. It’s lighter now, and somehow, so are you.

-The Climax-

The thing about being in love—actually in love—and having a soulmate who shares not just their heart, but their food, their dreams, and their increasingly unhinged commentary on everything from ocean weather to crab mating habits, is that eventually… you just give in.

You commit to the idea.

Not quietly. Not with grace. But with a dramatic, full-body sigh, hands thrown to the heavens like, “Fine, FINE, I guess I’ll be in love with you, you ridiculous golden retriever of a man.”

And that would be fine.

If he wasn’t so good at making you mad.

It starts innocently, as it always does, with Ace just being himself. Fixing broken stuff around your ship cabin without being asked. Replacing your rickety chair with one he definitely stole from somewhere nicer. Quietly fixing your shoes with leftover leather scraps. Roasting fish at sunrise and pretending it’s not for you, even though he offers the best cuts.

Which would be sweet. If he didn’t leer when you thanked him. If he didn’t lean in like, “See? You’d miss me if I died.”

Or worse.

“You like me.”

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

You do like him.

You like the way he absentmindedly hums when the sea is calm. The way he throws himself between danger and his crew without hesitation. The way he frowns when your hands are cold and warms them between his palms without comment. The way he talks about you to others, thinking you’ll never hear.

(You always hear. The bond makes sure of it.)

So when he saunters up, shirt undone, grin weaponized, holding a handmade seashell hairpin like he didn’t just crawl out of the ocean like a romantic cryptid, you lose it. He’s always is taller than you realize, and broader too. All sun-kissed skin, tousled black hair, freckles like spilled sugar, and that damn grin—lazy, lethal, and soaked in the smug knowledge that he’s been living in your head rent-free for years.

You get mad.

Not annoyed. Not flustered.

Mad.

That soul-warming, spine-tingling, irrational kind of fury that only one person in the world can summon from the depths of you just by existing.

Because how dare he.

How dare he worm his way into your life with that lazy grin and those too-soft glances when he thinks you’re not looking. How dare he make your heart thunder like a war drum just by standing there, shirt half-buttoned, freckles glowing like sin under the sun. How dare he know—know—how to soothe your anger and ignite it in the same breath.

And that’s when it happens.

That sharp inhale. That white-hot glare. That moment of eye contact held just a second too long.

He tilts his head. Smirks. You see it in his eyes; the gleam, the silent countdown to disaster. You know that look. That’s the look that means he's about to say something so stupidly hot it could derail your life and you'd still thank him for the wreckage.

You take a step back, instinctively.

He steps forward, all loose limbs and barely restrained heat, the picture of someone who’s already won.

“Run,” he says, voice all honey and heat, “and I’ll catch you.”

You snap.

You lunge. Not for anything romantic—no. For a punch. A real one. Right to that smug, pretty face.

You miss.

He doesn’t.

He catches your wrist like he was waiting for it, like he dreamed of this moment. His fingers curl around yours, warm and unshakable. You meet his gaze, ready to spit fire.

But he beats you to it.

“You’re everything,” he breathes, low and cracked. Like it hurts. Like it’s truth against his ribs. “Oh no. I’m so in love with you. I’m gonna ruin everything.”

You should run.

But your knees betray you, turning soft and stupid like seafoam on a summer shore. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears, drowning out every sensible thought. And then—oh gods—he leans in, close enough for you to smell salt and smoke, and his fingers thread through your hair. He murmurs something too dirty for daylight, and that’s it.

You’re gone.

“Five minutes,” you rasp, voice ragged with want and fury. “That’s all you get. Bring the fire or shut up.”

What follows is not logical. Or polite.

The next thing you know, you’re in his lap, breathless and burning, yelling, “This is your fault!” while your hands twist in his hair like you’re trying to strangle the ocean. And he’s laughing—laughing—like he just robbed the world blind and left the moon as payment.

“This is a mistake,” you growl.

He grins, eyes glittering like treasure. “Then let’s make it twice.” It starts with sass. Sharp words. Quicker hands. Your teeth graze his jaw. His lips find your pulse. Buttons scatter. 

But it escalates the second you grab a fistful of his hair and hiss, “I swear to god, if you laugh—”

And then, he moans.

You both freeze.

The silence is electric.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Your hand twitches, about to retreat.

He growls. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

“Oh,” he says, voice wrecked with sudden hunger. “Oh, we’re doing this now.”

He leans in. Breath warm against your ear.

“You like pulling hair? That’s cute.” His grin splits wide.“I like begging. Guess we’re both gonna be real happy tonight.”

What follows is a blur of limbs, heat, curses, and catastrophic choices. The kind of night you survive by setting fire to every good intention and riding the wreckage down together.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a surrender, a choice. And gods help you, he kisses like he thinks you belong to him. Because you do.

Clothes come off. Fast. Probably ruined. You don’t care.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a confession, a final surrender. Like you’ve been holding back the tide of him for years and now—now, finally—you’re letting it pull you under.

And gods help you, he kisses like a man who already knows.

Knows your mouth. Knows your breath. Knows the exact way you melt when someone touches you like a secret instead of a prize.

He tastes like heat and salt and promise. His hands are already on you; hot, greedy, reverent. Calloused palms splaying across your back like he's checking you’re real.

Clothes come off in flashes. Fast. Desperate. Buttons pop. A seam tears. His shirt gets tossed somewhere near the door and yours doesn’t survive the landing. He kisses the swell of your chest with something close to awe and mutters something that makes your toes curl.

You don’t care about the bed. You barely register hitting it. You only notice him, solid and searing and all over you.

Ace doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess. Every touch is sure. Every sigh you give him maps a path he already seems to know by heart.

And then he really starts.

And you forget how to breathe.

His stamina is, frankly, criminal. You lose track of time. Of position. Of your own name. You understand why other pirates don’t attack him without backup.

At one point, you're clutching at the sheets like they might save you. At another, you're biting his shoulder because apparently you’ve lost the capacity for language. Everything is hot and blurred and so good you could cry. You consider it. Then he bites your ear and you do.

You finally gasp, half-laughing, half-accusing: “Okay—okay, what the hell. You’ve done this before.”

He just grins, stupid and perfect and way too pleased with himself. “Nope,” he says, rolling his hips slow and smug, “I’ve just had years of theoretical training.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...What?”

“On you, sweetheart.” He leans down, mouth against your throat. “You think I haven’t been preparing? Please. I’ve studied. I’ve visualized. I had flashcards.”

Your brain misfires. Your body, meanwhile, is betraying you entirely.

“I hate you,” you whisper hoarsely.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth dragging over your shoulder like a satisfied wolf. “Sure you do. Hate me with your thighs again.”

By the time your soul returns from orbit, you’re sprawled across the mattress like a saint mid-apocalypse. Your body feels like it’s been lovingly struck by lightning. Repeatedly. You manage a weak sound. He’s already draping a blanket over you with far too much tenderness for a man who just detonated your nervous system.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

Or black out.

Probably both

You wake up warm. Sated. And very, very naked in his arms.

You stretch, blink blearily, then pause.

Something’s wrong.

You are on a ship. The ship is moving.

You sit up too fast and nearly topple over. Ace hums behind you, still half-asleep. “Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“…Was this five minutes?” you croak.

He yawns, kisses your shoulder. “Nah. Five was just to start.”

You scramble to sit up, fully panicking now, but he tugs you back down with one strong arm and starts kissing your neck like it’s not an international crime that you are being lovingly detained.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You blink. “Am I… kidnapped?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Let’s call it an extended honeymoon. With, like, minor hostage vibes.”

You hiss. He kisses your jaw. You slap his chest. He grins. You try to stay mad. You do.

But when he pulls you into his arms again, presses his forehead to yours and murmurs in your ear.

“We’re gonna make such a good team.”

Cue full body shiver shutdown.

You stop trying.

And somehow?

You don’t even want to escape.

-Honeymoon-

Cosmic Joke Status: Flambéed

You’re now stuck with a flammable himbo who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% commit arson for you just because someone looked at you funny.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like it. 

(Especially the part where he growls at people who flirt with you, like a very polite junkyard dog with abs.)

[whore4wroetoshaw]

pillowtalk (w2s x reader)

warnings: smut smut smut

the video.

you loved your boyfriend. he was it for you. and not in the fleeting, butterfly way. not a crush that faded when things got difficult. no—he was the one you could scream at and argue with and then fall asleep tangled in the same sheet an hour later. the one who knew exactly how you liked your tea, exactly how to get under your skin, and exactly how to worship every inch of your body like it was the only language he spoke.

and oh, my god. he was the best sex you'd ever had. hands down. absolutely zero contest. you’d look at him and think he was very vanilla, but the way he fucked you? slow, deep, possesive—like he was trying to carve his name into your bones and remind you exactly who you belonged to. it made you feral. 

so when he asked you—on camera, during a truth or drink sidemen video, the prick—“have you ever faked an orgasm with me?” and you didn’t say no like he expected you to… you picked up your shot of tequila, knocked it back, and put the glass down like you were putting a final nail in a coffin.

trust, he was good at pleasing you. the things he could do with his tongue... jesus. the man was skilled. it was just that one time. to be honest, it wasn't even his fault. you were just tired, your head wasn't in it, and you just didn't want him to feel bad. so, you faked a few shaky breaths, moaned out his name, and smiled through the guilt. and that was it. one time. forgotten.

"it was just that one time—i wasn't in the mood, y'know? stop laughing, jj." you tried to surpress your giggles because of the look on harry's face.

you thought that was the end of it. one shot. one simple, honest answer. the boys were already laughing and moving on—ethan reading the next question with a shit-eating grin, jj still laughing like he usually did.

but harry?

harry was staring. he didn't laugh. didn't even crack a smile. he sat back, eyebrows slightly raised, lips twitching like he was trying to solve a maths problem. his whole expression unreadable. way too quiet for harry.

the rest of the video felt long. every time he laughed, every time he smiled or chimed in, you could feel the weight of his attention still hanging off you. he didn’t say much after that, just finished the game with a casual shrug, fingers drumming on the table.

the car ride.

it was so fucking quiet. not in an awkward way. no tension between you as people—you were fine. it was fine.

but it was so quiet.

harry's eyes were on the road, hand steady on the wheel. the only sounds were the low hum of the engine, and the occasional turn signal.

but you could feel him.

feel his gaze flicker over to you at red lights. feel the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel. feel the heat simmering between you, hotter by the second.

so, you broke the silence. "what's going on in that pretty head of yours, hm? you're awfully quiet."

his knuckles tightened on the wheel. "hm? nothing. just... thinking."

"about what?" you turned your knees slightly towards him, now looking at his absolutely flawless side profile.

"you know what." his jaw clenched, a small smirk on his face.

you rolled your eyes. "haz, you're still on that? it was just a game. i don't even remember when it happ—"

he didn't look at you. "i'm just trying to figure out how i missed it."

"babe, come on. it was years ago, harry. you didn't do anything wrong. it wasn't about you. i swear." you laughed, reaching over to rub his knee as reassurement.

he looked down, and then up again. after a few moments of silence, he spoke, his voice lower. "i don't want you to feel like you have to perform with me."

"baby. it was one time. it's so insignificant that i don't even remember when it happened." you leaned over and brushed a soft kiss on his cheek.

after you reached home.

the front door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, and that was it. the match dropped.

he didn’t speak. just watched as you kicked off your shoes and turned toward him, still trying to act normal—casual—like your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.

you opened your mouth to say something—

but he was on you.

mouth crashing to yours, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. you stumbled back into the wall with a thud, gasping against his lips, his body crowding yours, warm and solid and desperate.

"fuckin' hell, y/n," he muttered against your mouth, kissing you like he was trying to devour your soul. "i'm losing my fucking mind."

“didn’t think you’d spiral this hard,” you breathed.

his hand curled around your jaw, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "i’ve been replaying every sound you’ve made with me in my head. every fucking moan. every breath. trying to figure out which one was a lie.” his voice dropped. “you realise how mental that is?”

you swallowed, chest rising and falling fast.

he tilted your chin up. “so now i’m gonna make sure there’s no confusion.”

before you could even react, his hands reached the back of your thighs, and he picked you up in a go. a gasp slipped from your lips as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, the pressure of his hard-on pressing firmly against your core through the thin barrier of your clothes. the contact drew a soft whimper from your throat—needy and unfiltered.

harry smirked against your skin. "that all for me, love?" he murmured, his voice rough as his mouth found your neck for the millionth time.

you just whined in response and grabbed his hair, latching your lips onto his again. he chuckled lowly, and carried you to the bedroom door, throwing it open.

he kicked the door shut behind him with a thud that echoed, not that either of you noticed—too lost in the haze of each other, barely making it two steps before tossing you onto the mattress like you weighed nothing. you bounced once, breath catching as you pushed yourself up on your elbows.

he climbed on top of you, hovering for a moment as he tried to take in your presence, his fingers trailing under the hem of your top.

that's it. you couldn't take it anymore.

"goddamn it, harry." you surged up and yanked his shirt over his head in one go, fingers fumbling in your haste, lips catching his halfway through. it was teeth and tongue and heat, and all of it tinged with frustration.

"a little bit impatient there, huh?" he laughed as he tugged your top over your head and tossed it somewhere behind him, already reaching for your jeans.

“can you blame me?” you huffed, breath shaky as you wriggled out of them, your hands everywhere—his neck, his shoulders, everywhere. "you've been staring at me with bedroom eyes all day long, bruv."

harry laughed under his breath—low and rough—as he popped the button of your jeans and slid them down—along with your underwear— in one swift movement, eyes trailing down the length of you like he hadn’t seen you naked a thousand times before.

you bit your lip, cheeks flushed, eyes flickering down for a moment before dragging back up to meet his. your hands moved slowly to his belt, fingers slipping beneath the leather and tugging with careful urgency—like you couldn’t bear another second but also wanted to savour it.

you pulled it free in one smooth motion, letting it drop off the side of the bed with a soft thud. your fingers didn’t falter—next came the button of his jeans, the slow drag of the zip. you felt him twitch beneath your touch, felt the tension ripple through his abdomen.

“you’re killing me, babe,” he muttered, voice low, reverent, as he watched your hands work.

“good,” you whispered, slipping your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and sliding everything down in one go. he kicked them off without looking, never taking his eyes off you.

there he was: all of him, exposed to you, his cock thick and flushed, already dripping with need. your breath hitched in your throat, eyes tracing over every inch of him. the way his muscles tightened under his skin, the deep v of his hips leading to his hard length. It was almost too much.

you reached out, wrapping your fingers around his cock, feeling the heat of him in your hand. you could feel the veins throbbing beneath your touch, his length heavy and solid in your palm. "please fuck me," you whimpered.

he let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately grabbing at your legs, pulling you to him as he knelt between your thighs. and just like that, he leaned forward, pushing your legs apart as he aligned himself with your entrance. his eyes flickered to yours, a silent question. you nodded, breathless, barely able to form a sentence.

harry didn’t need another word. he sank into you in one deliberate thrust, his cock filling you, stretching you in the best possible way. you gasped at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, and he groaned in response, his hand sliding to your hip to hold you in place.

jesus, even after years of being together, you were still caught off guard by his size every single time. “god,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, as he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to him. “you feel fucking perfect.”

harry didn’t waste another moment. he withdrew slightly, then slammed back into you with force, making you gasp as your body jolted from the impact. his pace was immediate, fast, relentless—he wasn’t holding back. every thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

you moaned out his name as your hands scrambled for purchase on his back, digging your nails into his skin. you gasped as you tried to meet each of his thrusts, your body working in perfect sync with his. there was no gentleness in this; there didn’t need to be. after all these years, neither of you held back anymore.

he gripped your legs tighter, pushing them up and apart to get even deeper, his hips snapping against yours with brutal force. every thrust hit you at the perfect angle, his cock filling you so completely that you could barely breathe. "oh my god, harry!"

you gasped, hips bucking as the familiar pressure started to build again in your core. the pace didn’t slow—if anything, harry pushed harder, faster, making sure you didn’t have time to catch your breath. his hands were everywhere—on your hips, your chest, your throat—as he fucked you like he owned you.

you felt your orgasm rise up, sudden and overwhelming. the sensation spread through every inch of you, every nerve firing at once as you came hard around him, screaming his name as you tightened around his cock. your whole body trembled, the force of it making your vision blur for a moment.

but harry didn’t stop. he was relentless, chasing his own high now, his pace never wavering as he fucked you through your orgasm. the tension was unbearable, and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he thrust into you with a final, deep stroke, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, his release spilling deep, filling you completely.

you both collapsed in the aftershocks of your highs, your body limp and trembling beneath him, as he kissed your neck, his breath ragged.

"oh my god," you heaved, recovering from your orgasm. "oh love, we're not done."

[tangledinlove]

silver moon’s sparkling (so, kiss me!)

pairing: mark grayson x fem reader 4.9k

summary: mark decides it’s totally normal to offer to be your fake boyfriend. you decide it’s totally normal to practice kissing for said fake relationship. (all in the name of friendship, of course.) ft. best friends in loveeee + a bit of fake dating

notes: ive been waiting to write a fanfic like this since tom hollands peter parker first showed up on my screen. title from kiss me by sixpence none the richer

“And you’re one hundred percent sure you’re not busy?”

“Yep.” Mark nods quickly, as sweet and sincere as ever. “Make that one hundred and one percent. Could probably multiply that by ten, too.”

You hate his stupid face.

He gives you a sheepish smile, his lips pressed together like he's fighting back laughter. Mark rocks back and forth on his heels while he blinks at you, waiting. He knows you’re going to give in. It’s just a matter of when.

“And you’re sure about your calculations there, Poindexter?” you press on, watching him swing open the door to his room. You stay rooted to the spot, unmoving on the hardwood of the hallway. “We both know how great you are at math.”

He frowns. “Jesus, you fail one quiz and your best friend thinks you don’t know how to multiply. For the fiftieth time, yes, I’m sure.”

“No, your best friend thinks you don’t know how to count. You’ve failed three quizzes, Grayson. There was the one on derivatives, and then the one on—”

“Okay,” he cuts you off before you can read off the laundry list of zeros on his report card. “Leave my grades out of this, please. I’m positive I’m not busy.”

Sick of waiting, he grabs the strap of your backpack and tugs you into the room, snickering when you stumble forward.

You roll your eyes at his manhandling and the way he drops your bag haphazardly on the floor next to his bedside table. Happy he’s gotten his way, he shuts the door behind you with his heel.

“I even left my phone downstairs!” He makes a show of turning the pockets of his sweatpants inside out. “There will be zero distractions tonight, I mean it. No calls, no nothing. I’m all yours for the next… five hours. Or so. Give or take.”

“It’s six PM. Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight, or something? Is that why I haven’t slept over in so long?”

He shrugs, his head tilting sweetly. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head at him, unamused, and he just smiles.

It seems like second nature to him when he pulls you forward and shrugs your jacket off for you. He ditches it on the ground the same way he left your backpack and corrals you in the direction of his bed, further away from the door.

“We’re going to watch this movie from start to end,” he promises, “and I swear the only thing that will take me away from you is if a bomb goes off and blows the both of us up.”

For the past few months, Mark Grayson has done nothing but prove to you that he’s decided to become a terrible liar, completely unreliable, and a bad friend. He’s started cancelling plans last minute, prattling off lame excuses about something he forgot he had to do. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you’ll get to listen to a rushed apology in a voicemail he leaves you.

Other times, you don’t even get a heads up that he’s ditching, and find out he’s ‘not gonna make it’ while you’re waiting for him to show up.

You haven’t spent more than a few hours a day with him since probably the start of the school year, and it sucks.

Mark Grayson sucks.

…And unfortunately, he’s your best friend. Which means you know just how sincere he is when he apologizes (no matter how shitty it is), and know just how badly he wants to make it up to you. He just has no idea how to follow through with it.

You sigh, flopping backwards onto his pillows. You focus on the sight of his ceiling fan instead of his presence at your right side.

The bed dips under his weight, and his frustratingly sweet smile comes into view. He plants one hand next to your head as he slips the remote into your hands, his touch lingering on the skin of your palms. “I swear on my life that I’m not going anywhere. Now, can you pick the movie, already?”

With the way he’s leaning over you, your mind can’t help but drift to the thought of how solid his arms are, all muscle and smooth skin right next to your face. He still hasn’t moved away, and your fingers twitch where they brush against his.

You want to shove him away from you. You also kinda want to kiss him.

Fumbling for the last scraps of your sanity, you reach up with your free hand and tug hard on his ear.

“Fine. Can you shut the window, though?” you ask, tilting your chin to where the pane is slid open.

He pokes you goodnaturedly, happy with your compliance. “Of course, Your Highness. Want me to feed you grapes, too? I can totally fan you with a giant leaf if you’re into that.”

Ignoring his quip, you watch him as he goes, your thoughts lingering on the way his shoulders roll as he stretches.

You get the urge to strangle him.

Not one, but two unwelcome thoughts about Mark in the span of a minute has to be a new record. His absence has made your mind go weird.

“Are you cold?” he asks, as the curtains settle against the wall again. It’s a serious offer when he says, “I could get you a hoodie, if you want.”

“No, thanks. But since your phone shut off, I’m half convinced a carrier pigeon’s going to fly in here to tell me you have to go.”

A look comes across his face while he squints out the glass, his eyes darting both ways down the street. “Uh—we’ll shut the curtains for good measure then, yeah?”

“Hm. Thanks.”

You choose a random romcom from one of Mark’s fifteen streaming services, and it’s forgotten about immediately after you put it on.

You lay propped against his headboard, and Mark sits with his back to the TV at the foot of the bed. The floor behind him is littered with popcorn he didn’t manage catching in his mouth.

“Walsh and Cassie?” Mark repeats, his mouth full. “You’re kidding.”

“Gross, Mark, chew first. You’re gonna choke,” you complain, poking your heel into his stomach.

He rolls his eyes while he swallows. “My bad. But can you blame me? Who caught them?”

You lean forward, grinning. “The soccer coach.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“I swear! They were just going at it in the parking lot after his game, apparently. Poor Coach M.”

Mark squeezes your calf where it rests over his lap, and you toss him another piece of popcorn that he’s lucky enough to catch.

A few seconds of exaggerated chewing later, he says, “I’ve really missed a lot at school, huh?”

“No shit,” you say, your eyes moving to the TV for the first time in a while. It’s a flashback to what’s probably the 80’s. “That’s what happens when you miss class half the time.”

He drags his knuckles against the skin at your ankle, smiling when you jerk, ticklish.

“I don’t skip school that much,” he defends, one hundred percent serious.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“Dude, you haven’t shown up in so long that someone’s started sitting in your seat in Spanish.” You brush crumbs off the blanket while Mark turns back to look at you, his brows furrowed. “He thought it was empty.”

He inches closer to you, confused. “What? Who?”

“Uh, Brian. You know him, he—”

He blinks. “That—the asshole with the mullet? He’s sitting in my seat?”

You make a face. “Are you being serious?”

All he does is move even closer to you, resting his hands on your bent knees, waiting for your explanation.

“He’s not an asshole, Mark,” you defend, picking a piece of fuzz off his sleeve. “And what was I supposed to tell him, no?”

His eyes morph into appalled pools of brown. “Yeah, kinda. Did you forget about that time he almost concussed me?”

You groan. There’s absolutely no way he’s bringing this up again. “We were eight and he accidentally hit you with a pitch in Little League.”

“Believe it or not, I was there. He was a little child asshole back then, too.” Mark squints at you. “And I still haven’t forgotten the way he was with you. Pushing you down slides and pulling your hair. What a dick.”

He says it so seriously, you’re kind of endeared. Mark’s really been holding a grudge against some kid for being mean to you ten years ago.

“Okay, fine,” you huff, trying to watch the movie around Mark’s massive head. He’s purposefully sitting in front of you like this to annoy you, and—is being this close to you really necessary? You tug at your sweater, feeling hot. “He might’ve sucked when we were kids, but he’s really nice now, okay? Even William agrees.”

“He’s got William on his side, too?” he cries, sounding downright horrified.

“Come on, Mark—”

“I can’t believe this. You’re letting this guy replace me.” He gives you a very pointed look when he adds on, “The next thing I know, we won’t be allowed to hang out because he doesn’t want us to.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” You place a soothing hand on his shoulder, though it’s not very effective. He’s still frowning, the thought of Brian weaseling his way into your lives irking him. “He’s fine. And he’s not stealing me away, he’s just—”

Mark stares at you, waiting for you to continue. The movie drones on in the background, playing a pop song from the early 2000s.

You blink at him, retracting your hand. You’ve said too much.

“He’s just… what?” Mark repeats, pushing you to continue.

“Nothing,” you insist, wanting to slap your hands over your face. “It’s nothing.”

You really hoped you wouldn’t have to have this conversation with him, but you’re just as shit at lying as Mark is.

You press two fingers to his jaw, trying to direct his gaze back to the TV, and find that you’re met with a surprising amount of resistance.

You poke at his neck. What the hell is this guy made out of?

“Whatever,” you continue, switching topics, “did your mom ever find that shirt I left here? The one with the stripes?”

“You can ask her when she gets home,” Mark says slowly, so close to you now his chest is pressed against your shins. “But c’mon. What were you gonna say?”

You feel pinned by his eyes. He looks half ready to physically drag the words from your larynx himself.

You slide up his headboard, practically sitting on top of the pillows. “It’s not a big deal. He’s just… we’re going out this weekend.”

You thought you had shocked Mark earlier with the news of your classmates’ parking lot hookup. Turns out, the expression on his face then would be nothing compared to the look he’s giving you now.

“You’re what?”

The sentence comes out so quickly, you wince. “He asked me out last week. We’re going to the movies.”

“And he asked you out… during Spanish class?”

“Yeah.”

Mark drags a hand down his face. Overdramatic and clearly distraught, he gets up from the bed to pace the length of his room. “I can actually never miss class ever again. Is this dick blackmailing you, or something?”

You roll your eyes, watching as he nearly wears a hole into his carpet.

“I just don’t get why you’re going out with him. Like, out of all the people that go to our school.” Mark sits back down on your left side and sighs like he’s just come back from a long day of work. “He sucks. And you’re just… the opposite of him.”

Ugh. He’s kind of cute, stressed out about this, his elbows resting heavy on his knees. The pads of his fingers massage circles into his forehead, like the thought actually pains him.

“Don’t worry, Romeo, I’m only doing it to get back at my ex.”

Mark turns slightly, an eyebrow raised. “What? What does he have to do with this?”

“He and Brian are best friends. I’m just being petty,” you admit. “He came into Giordano’s with his new girlfriend. Passed on a free table just so he could sit in my section.”

Even though he’s still clearly upset at the thought of your date, he still reaches over to rub your arm in sympathy. “You should’ve said yes when William offered to hit him with his car.”

You smile at him, sitting forward to squeeze his wrist. “It’s whatever. But I’m only going out with his friend to piss him off. We aren’t getting married anytime soon, so don’t worry.”

“I don’t care what the reasoning is. You deserve better than going out with a loser.”

Seated close enough now, you move a loose strand of hair out of his face. “I’m glad you think so. But I’m still seeing it through, so.”

Mark very clearly wants to say more, but you climb over him to grab the remote and crank the volume of the TV up, effectively ending the conversation.

You toss it back over to his bedside table and stare at him until he has no choice but to lay down too, your sides pressed together just enough that you can tip your head onto his shoulder.

Mark makes it all of fifteen minutes before he brings it up again. You feel his lips ghost by a few inches from your ear while the characters argue in a bar.

“Hey,” he whispers, before pulling back.

You hum.

“What if you got back at him in another way?”

“Mark, I already told you I’m not breaking any laws.”

“What? No. I meant… I think instead of going on a fake date with Brian, uh—”

You look over at him. His eyes are dead set on the screen again, though you can tell he isn’t actually watching.

“You could… Jesus,” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “Just don’t go out with him.”

The tail end of that sentence is lost somewhere in his head. You nod at him. “Because?”

“I could fake date you, instead.”

The two of you go silent.

Your eyes trace over every square inch of his face, looking for the slightest upturn of his lips, or the faintest twitch of his jaw — any sign that he’s messing with you.

All he does is look back at you, the beginnings of… embarrassment creeping into his features.

“I mean, he totally hated my guts, didn’t he?” Mark continues. “If we dated — uh, fake dated — it’d probably have the same effect.”

Your time with your ex had been… interesting. He’d only been your first boyfriend, but even you know it shouldn’t have been that much of a disaster.

The guy already had a mile long list of red flags, but what had truly ended the relationship was the way he had treated Mark.

From day one, your ex made it clear he had it out for him. The weird comments had started as just about him, like how he was shit at driving or had said something irritating. But it wasn’t long until the digs started including you and your friendship with him.

He was convinced you were acting like way more than friends, and out of fear of losing your first ever relationship, you ghosted Mark.

It ended up making you feel like actual shit, though, and only lasted a week. Even though you’d basically stopped seeing Mark altogether, your ex-boyfriend couldn’t go a day without bringing him up — there was always a comment about the way he was always asking about you, or ‘staring at you for way too fucking long that it was starting to get creepy.’

You came to your senses sooner or later, and in the end, Mark was kind of the reason you broke up with your boyfriend.

Now, the thought of pissing him off by doing something as simple as pretending to date your best friend…

It was all too perfect.

Your face splits into a grin. “You would… you’d actually be my fake boyfriend just to help me be petty?”

Mark nods, relief replacing the short-lived tension in his shoulders. “Yeah, I mean… I’d love to.”

You hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, weird.”

“I mean, it can’t be that hard, right?” His brows furrow, deep in thought. “What’ll I have to do, like hold your hand?”

“I mean, I guess. We’ll probably have to kiss a few times in front of him.”

This manages to catch him off guard. “Kiss?”

“If you’re cool with that. What kind of fake relationship would it be if we never kissed?”

There’s a few seconds of silence while Mark turns the thought over in his head. “Yeah. I guess you're right.”

His jaw clicks, like something’s still nagging at him.

“Is that okay with you?” you ask, and he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling lightly.

“‘Course it is. You’re you. It’s just kind of weird, knowing that I’m going to kiss you in front of your ex. The same one who threatened to show up to my house after I walked you to class once.”

You fake two punches to his chest just to see the upwards twitch of his lips. “Aw, don’t worry. You can handle him.”

“Pfft. I know that. But, what if he doesn’t buy it?”

Definitely a possibility you hadn’t considered. After all, you’d only seen your ex and his girlfriend last week. If this was going to work, you and Mark would have to convince him.

“We could always practice kissing, then,” you offer. “It could make it look more natural when we have to do the real thing. If you’re good with that.”

Mark shrugs. “Not a bad idea. We might as well go all out, right?”

“Right.”

The two of you nod in sync, mostly to yourselves, though you’re not sure why.

You think you’re trying to psych yourself up for what’s probably going to be the most nerve-wracking moment of your entire life. You have no idea what Mark’s trying to convince himself of.

You’re still sitting side by side, and your right arm feels like it burns where it brushes against his.

Demonic possession is the only way you can explain why you ask, “Could I sit in your lap?”

His lips part slightly, surprise coloring his eyes.

“I just—I think it’d be easier that way,” you rush to explain, your heart racing.

Mark nods again, shifting on his sheets so he’s upright against the headrest. “No, yeah. That’s cool. Great. Come here.”

He taps his knee and gestures for you to move closer, and you have to swallow to clear your throat.

You move on unsteady limbs as you shift to straddle him, sitting back against his thighs. You’re almost startled at how tense he is, the nerves radiating from his skin as you smooth your hands down his arms. His muscles are stretched taut—with stress or anticipation, you’re not sure—so you cup his jaw in the palm of your hand.

There’s the smallest patch of discolored skin on his right cheekbone, the remnants of a bruise he said he had ‘no idea how it got there.’ Mark shivers when you swipe your thumb over it, deep in thought.

“You don’t have to be so worried, you know,” you tease, guiding his hand around your waist. “It’s just us, right?”

When it doesn’t seem like a strong gust of wind is going to snap him in half, you return your hand to the smooth skin of his face.

Seated this close together, you get to watch as his eyes dart over your face, never settling. He inhales and seems to relax a little, tightening the hold he has on your hip.

“Yeah. I just don’t want to do anything you don’t like.”

A sudden wave of sadness washes over you. You’ve never felt so cared for like this, sitting with a boy who is sweet and wants to be good to you.

This is fake, you remind yourself. Mark’s just offering to help you out, as a friend.

“That’s why we’re practicing.” You lean close enough to kiss the apple of his cheek, and his eyes slide shut. “We’ll be pros soon.”

Mark’s hand makes its way to the nape of your neck, urging you even closer. He tips his head up, so close you can feel him exhale, his lips parted ever so slightly.

“We really don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to,” you remind him gently. Your faces are so close together you’d be kissing if you moved an inch. “I didn’t mean to throw this on you like this.”

You think back to ten minutes ago, when he’d been seated so far away an entire bed separated the both of you. You wonder how you ever had been happy without him so close.

“I want to,” he promises, one hand warm against your back. “I really want to. So don’t worry.”

“‘Kay,” you hum.

You’ve both been patient enough.

There isn’t any fanfare. Your head pitches down the slightest bit, and the two of you are kissing.

This one is quick. There’s no way it lasts longer than a few seconds — just a short press of lips while he cradles the back of your head in his palm.

His lips are soft, and it means you’re forced to exercise the utmost restraint to pull away.

You’re quiet at first, frozen at the reminder that you’ve just kissed Mark. For practice.

The tips of your fingers tingle like you’re having trouble breathing.

It takes a second for his eyes to open, but when they do, his gaze darts right down to your lips again.

You let out a sigh, your hand fisting around a tuft of his hair, and it’s like you watch his head clear in real time. Mark leans forward to pull you in, both of his hands reaching to hold your face.

The stream of consciousness going in circles around your brain shifts from normal, coherent thoughts to flashes of your best friend — his eyes, his skin, his voice, his… so on and so forth.

Mark kisses like he’s been deprived of something vital. He sucks lightly on your upper lip and you go limp, leaning heavy against his chest.

He doesn’t settle for a second. His hands roam your sides before going up to your shoulder blades or down to your thighs, and the cycle repeats, like he can’t sit still.

You feel warmth spread throughout your entire body, like molten rock was just poured into your bloodstream. You wish desperately that Mark had left the window open — you’re burning where you’re pressed against him.

Your hand not woven into the hair at the nape of his neck slides down his chest, and Mark groans against your mouth when the pads of your fingers graze over his sternum.

You wonder if Mark would consider a fake marriage, too.

It’s only when he moves to kiss along your jaw that you manage to catch your breath.

“You’re crazy,” you say, though it comes out as more of a sigh.

He slows but doesn’t stop, speaking into your skin. “Is this okay?”

You feel the vibration of his voice in your throat, and a shiver wracks your entire body. Reaching blindly behind you, you find one of his hands up the back of your shirt and place it over the left side of your chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Funnily enough, Mark looks… a little tipsy. His face is flushed red, and his gaze is a little unfocused when he looks up at you.

He smiles at you, somehow having the capacity to look shy after letting you pull at his hair and slipping his tongue into your mouth.

“We can’t have that,” he says coyly.

Your ears start ringing when he lowers you down against his bed sheets.

You only regain sentience some time later, when you get too tired to kiss and Mark moves onto laying a line of them down your sternum.

Someone’s lawn mower starts up outside, a low growling sound that cuts through the quietness of the room. There’s the screeching of tires and then the screeching of some sort of animal, and you find yourself tilting your head in the direction of the window.

“What was that?” you say, your head cloudy.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Mark answers, his mouth at the dip of your neckline. “This house isn’t burning down, and the movie’s still on, which means I’m not leaving this room.”

He’s so determined, you say nothing about how the TV is silent and let your hands smooth over his shoulders as your eyes slide shut again.

“Are you gonna kiss me like this in front of him, too?”

The mention of your ex doesn’t even sour the moment. You feel dizzy.

He shifts back over you to hum against your lips, his lungs made of fucking steel, apparently. “Sure. Against his car in the parking lot?”

He says it so casually, like he’s offering you the last of his fries, or offering to walk you home from his house.

“Funny.”

He laughs. “Can you blame me? I mean…”

Mark freezes, his hands unmoving where they rest on your side and on your thigh. His head pivots, and—

Down the hall, a voice says, “Mark?”

Your head is spinning. You blink, and you’re on the floor next to his bed, the side by his window and furthest from the door. The carpet tickles your shoulder blades as you try to reorient yourself.

What the—

Mark gets up on shaky legs, his eyes wide.

You can’t see her from the floor, but it is unmistakably Debbie standing in the doorway.

You think you stop breathing.

From where she’s standing, there’s no way she can see you where you lay frozen on the ground, but your heart drops anyway.

You can only imagine what the two of you look like, your shirt askew and Mark unable to focus with his eyes. The hair on the back of his head sticks out at an odd angle from how you’d been tugging on it earlier.

He gives his mom a tight-lipped smile, looking like he’s just fallen down a flight of steps.

“You’re, uh—you’re back early,” he says, kicking the sweatshirt he discarded earlier out of view.

There’s a heavy pause, and you thank your lucky stars that the heat of her scrutinizing stare is on her son and not you.

“I called you eight times, but you weren’t picking up. All the roads to the store are closed, so I took it as a sign to order in.”

“Sorry,” he rushes out, his face scrunching in a wince. “I left my phone downstairs on the counter. But, uh, that’s good with me.” He drums his fingers against his sides, a nervous tic. “I can call the pizza place.”

“What’ve you been doing?” she asks, so obviously skeptic it makes your head hurt.

“Nothing much,” Mark lies, as terribly as always. “Just watched a movie.”

“By yourself?”

“Mhm, yeah. Why?”

You glance up at the TV. It’s dark, but a few white words glow back at you.

Are you still watching?

There’s another few seconds of quiet while Debbie considers his words. “No reason. Could you also order some wings with the pizza?”

“Yep. Garlic parm?”

Debbie must nod, because the door creaks as she turns to leave. Mark turns around, running a stressed hand through his already mussed hair.

Before the door shuts, she pauses in the doorway.

As casually as ever, Debbie says your name.

Mark pales. You feel your soul leave your body.

“Uh, what about her?”

“Get her off the floor, honey. And ask her if she wants to stay for dinner.”

The door clicks shut behind her, sending the room into a stifling silence.

It’s only a few hours later, after you sit across from Debbie at dinner and pretend like nothing happened, that you finally ask, “Mark, how did we end up on the floor earlier?”

You’re on your new fake-boyfriend’s bed, watching him vacuum up old pieces of popcorn. Unlike before, his bedroom door is now cracked open a few inches.

He gives you a weird look before laughing, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Uh, I pulled you down, remember? I heard my mom coming up the steps.”

You think back, wracking your brain to the seconds before Mark’s mom walked through the door.

Weirdly, it’s all a blur. All you can remember is him kissing you before you registered the sound of the door opening, and then�� you were laying on the carpet.

“It felt like we teleported,” you say, for lack of a better description. You’d been on his bed one second, and somewhere else the next.

He laughs hard, even though you weren’t trying to be funny. “I’m such a great kisser you lost your memory, I guess.”

“Ew, whatever.”

—

notes: one of the scenes at the end is very loosely a spiderman hoco reference lol lmk if u can tell which one. also cartoon characters voiced by steven yeun have taken me many places… i love that guy

[d3stinyist1red]

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ɴᴇʀᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 𝟸

yan nerd who gets put into a group project with you and some other npcs, as he calls them, not paying any attention to neither of them, rather going to practically sit on your lap and cling onto you the whole period.

yan nerd who annoys the other members of the project bc hes js there helping you, letting only you copy, and they could literally hear the down bad things hes whispering in your ear (hes doing it on purpose bc he thinks they want u and he needs those bitchs to back off)

"Hey (nerd yan name), why arent you helping us as well? We literally having zero fucking clue what to do." One of the members asked, scrunching his eyebrows together in confusion.

yan nerd who ignores them and goes back to acting cringy to you as you look as if hes holding u hostage.

yan nerd who is an absolute loser that prob has greasy fried hair, ofc he calls u his alpha and its him and u against the world.. uhm so! this is insane!

yan nerd who literally hyperfocuses on anything u like, making himself liking it aswell. Js so he can “accidentally” bring them up in conversation, and see the way ur eyes lit up in surprise at the fact he remembered ur interests. Whenever you talk about anything you like, he quickly talks about it himself to make him seem more likeable to you,

yan nerd who in the middle of class, day dreams abt you literally with roses and hearts in background as you say "Your so hot~" (hes delusional pls..)

yan nerd who has had one gf but that was the start of his obsession with you and he was trying to stop himself with being obsessed

lets js say it didnt work bc when he was making out with his gf, he kept whimpering and moaning out your name...😭

yan nerd who tries to impress you with fun facts as he puts up his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s the type to text you random facts throughout the day, just to remind u of him

ɪʟᴜᴠᴍʏɢғʏ/ɴ

did u know that dogs have dreams?

I just wanted to let yk so when we have 10 kids, 3 dogs, and a cat together baby <33

yan nerd who over analyzes everything, every convo with u leads him to be in the dark of his room, smiling and delusionally think u need him in ur bed and that u def want him bc u looked at his lips for 0.01 secs

yan nerd who even practice conversations in their head before seeing Y/N again, trying to make sure everything goes perfectly. Though, whenever he go infront of you and actually try to talk to you, he loses all composure and says the first thing to mind. "Can u sit on my nos- I mean!"

yan nerd who lowk has rizz tho

“Hey, did you know sea otters hold hands when they sleep, so they don’t drift apart? Kinda like how I wouldn’t want to drift apart from you, baby" He says looking at you with the most down bad eyes, rubbing your thigh under the table as you try to pay attention to the math lesson

"bro unhand me"

"If i do, will you bounce on it?"

yan nerd who, nvm does not have rizz

yan nerd who is a loser who spends most of his time humping a body pillow of u <333

MORE COMING OUT SOON!!!!!

RESQUESTS ARE CLOSED

[izzyy-stuff]

heyy izzy! i don’t think ive ever sent in a request to you before but i absolutely love your work so i thought i’d send something in. could you please do a roommate!taehyun fic where he accidentally walks in on you while you’re in the shower but then decides to join you which then ends up in him fucking you while you’re pressed against the cold shower wall and one leg pulled over his shoulder so he can hit deep :)

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐇 & 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐘 - 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍

roommate!taehyun x fem!reader

in which what originally was supposed to be just a quick shower to help him relax takes a different turn when he walks into the bathroom and sees you already in the shower, deciding to relieve his frustration differently than he originally intended to.

wc 2.5k

warnings shower sex, unprotected sex + creampie, vaginal fingering, tiny mention of nipple play, oral (f. receiving), overstimulation, pet names, softdom!taehyun, biting/marking

↪ izzy speaks... I can't believe tae had zero works until now... like that's insane. I'm glad I can finally show it to you though. The writing process for this was for someone reason extremely SLOW. Everyone thank serene for being my life saver again and helping me get through whatever writing block I was feeling while writing this.

Kang Taehyun must have been the safest choice for a roommate ever. 

Unlike the other guys in your friend group, he was calm and knew when to shut up. Taehyun could cook, making your life a lot easier when he offered to make dinner as often as he could, and he was outside the dorm most of the time, too. If he wasn’t in the library studying after his lessons ended, you would find him in the gym, keeping in shape. 

He barely went straight to your dorm after school, so you had learned to get comfortable during your alone time. From using your living room for studying and making a mess with your papers and study books all over the floor, which he would have usually pointed out and told you to keep a system, to walking around the apartment with just your underwear.

So it wasn’t unusual when you sat on the couch in your living room in just panties and an oversized shirt you found at the bottom of your closet while cleaning up last week. You were surprised when you found it, confident you’ve never bought nor worn that shirt. But as you put it on, pushing your thoughts aside as there was no possible way of it being someone else’s if it was in your closet, you realized it was more comfortable than the garments you knew you owned. 

You have gone over the math formula hundreds of times and still feel like you see it for the first time every time your eyes land on it again. It doesn’t make sense. No matter how long you stare at it, the numbers and signs seem foreign. 

You sigh, slamming the math book shut and spreading out on the couch as a sign of giving up. You would have to ask Taehyun about it after dinner. But for now, you had other things on your to-do list for the day. 

Put your and Taehyun’s clothes into the washing machine (AND THANK HIM FOR DOING IT LAST TIME!!) 

Wash up 

Learn math 

Call your mom

You mentally cross out math, pretending it never existed. Still, you know you will have to come back to it. To this day, you weren’t sure why you decided to take another math semester when you didn’t have to. You were naive when you listened to your parents and signed up for “the only important class you will need in the future.” You had to scoff every time now when you remembered your mother’s words, knowing you wouldn’t ever need the formulas you were learning. 

Sighing, you get up from the couch and look around the living room. Looking at it now, you understand why Taehyun always wants you to have your work organized. It was a mess. 

Your fingers run through your hair before you pick up a few of your books and put them aside in the corner of the table so that other people can still use it. It also reminds you that you should clean around the house with Taehyun soon. 

But for now, there was the current to-do list you had to go through. 

You grab Taehyun’s clothes basket from his room, as you did many times before, kicking the door behind you so it would close before continuing towards your shared bathroom. 

Having a shared bathroom might have been the only disadvantage of living with Taehyun. You both tried to search for a bigger place so you could each get your own, but once you saw the prices, you both decided it was only a petite inconvenience. 

It doesn’t take you long to sort out all of his and your clothes by colors, leaving Tae’s underwear in the basket for him to do later on his own. You don't mind doing his laundry, just like he doesn't mind doing yours, but there are still limits to what you are willing to do for him. Even though those lines sometimes seem blurry in your eyes.

You aren't sure when or how it happened, but lately, you've found yourself wanting to step over some of the lines you had set for yourself when you first decided to room with Taehyun.

Maybe it was because of how comfortable you got with each other after half a year of living together. Perhaps it was because Tae had become your best friend over the years you knew him. Or, more likely, it was actually because of the amount of times you had seen him shirtless.

“We are friends, Ma. You don’t have to worry about me getting pregnant or something just because I am rooming with a guy. And you have met him many times. You know how Tae is.” You remember the call you had with your mom after you moved in, rethinking all your words. You were so sure back then that nothing could ever happen between the two of you, but a small part of you always wished for something else. 

You snap out of your thoughts, pressing the start button on your washing machine with a sigh. You step over the pile of white clothing you had prepared for the next wash, getting to the shower. You pull down your panties and shirt, hanging them on the empty peg beside your towel. 

♡⸝⸝ 

Taehyun was too exhausted to go to the gym tonight. He had enough. From missing lunch because he lost track of time while reviewing for his upcoming exam to completely forgetting about an assignment due last night. He just wanted to go home and relax for a bit before he would have to fall into the endless circle of studying again. 

So when he got through the door of your shared apartment, his first thought was to shower and go to sleep. He didn’t think much of what you were doing as he took down his shoes. Honestly, that was what he was the least worried about. 

Taehyun shakes his head as his eyes land on your books on the table, but then a smile creeps up his lips. You did listen when he scolded you about making a mess, after all. 

He looks around the apartment, trying to find you with his eyes. Eventually, his sight lands on your room, assuming you didn’t hear him coming in and were busy with your studies, so you didn’t come out to greet him. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

He doesn’t even properly register the sound of the washing machine as he walks toward the bathroom. For the first time in a while, his mind is finally blank, making him relax as he opens the door. 

Neither of you really realizes what’s going on until you drop down your shampoo, your eyes wide as you quickly try to cover your naked body upon noticing your roommate in the room. 

Taehyun’s cheeks could be mistaken for a tomato as his eyes travel from the bottom of your body to your face, swallowing everything he wants to say before even opening his mouth, stuttering. “I– shit, fuck– uhm, sorry,” he blurts out quickly, turning around so he wouldn’t face you. He doesn’t leave, though. 

 You can’t hear your own breath, nor his, as you stare at his back, your mind, unlike Tae’s, clouded with thoughts. “I wanted to shower. I’m– I didn’t know you were in here,” he says, you think. You’re unsure if any of the words actually reach your ears or if it’s all just in your head. Maybe he is just a figment of your imagination, too. He isn’t real. He isn’t standing in the bathroom with his back turned to you. 

“I’ve been so out of it today I just– I’m not sure what I am saying, to be honest. I didn’t mean to, though–” 

You cut him off, your words echoing in his ears. Still, he doesn’t believe what he just heard. “What?” He asks, his boba eyes making you feel weak in the knees as he turns around to face you again. “You wanted to shower and relax your mind, right?” You repeat half your question, your hands slowly falling to your sides. Taehyun bites his bottom lip, fighting all his inner demons to keep his eyes on yours. “Want to join me then?” 

You’re not sure what happens next. It’s all blurry in your mind. But the next thing you know, Taehyun’s hands are all over your body, “helping you to wash up,” as he said, but you both know that’s not what it really is when his hand just so innocently squeezes your breast. 

Your breath shakes as you feel him groan against your shoulder, sending shivers through your body. You tilt your head to the side, biting your bottom lip to prevent a moan from escaping your lips as he kisses your collarbone, his cold fingers playing with your nipples as if he had touched them thousands of times before, as if he wasn’t afraid at all of the sudden intimacy. 

“Tae,” you breathe out, and he only hums in response, his lips on your neck. “Are you okay with this?” He asks carefully, making it almost impossible for you to tell him no. So you nod, whining when his fingers trace down from your chest to your legs, making their way to your clit. “You’re so wet,” he mumbles. 

“S-shut up,” your voice shakes as you try to grind against his fingers, muffling your moan when he removes his hand. Your pussy clenches around nothing when your name leaves his lips, his kisses moving lower on your back until you hear him kneel behind you. You swallow a lump in your throat when his hands wrap around your thighs, the water drops on your back sending shivers through your body. “Mind bending over for me, sweetheart?” 

It feels unreal. Your roommate’s head between your legs, eating you out as if you were supposed to be tonight’s dinner, was all a little too much. You weren’t sure how long you could last. “Wait– I’m–” you try to speak up but end up swallowing everything you wanted to say when his tongue gets replaced by his fingers. You gasp, your hand slowly sliding down on the bathroom tiles as you begin to lose strength. You don’t think he notices, or at least he doesn’t do anything about it. His fingers pump into you so effortlessly, too. Somehow, it feels like he has been in your cunt many times before. 

Your first orgasm of the night is on Taehyun’s fingers, preparing you for himself. “Doing so well,” he coos, slowly standing up. It takes no time for his lips to find your neck again, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit. “‘S too much,” you whine, turning your head around to see him. His boba eyes are soft, full of love even, you’d dare to say. 

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes out when his eyes land on yours, immediately kissing you. You fall into the kiss, turning around to face him. Taehyun takes a step forward, making you press your back against the wet tiles. The water dripping between the two of you doesn’t seem to bother him a bit as he wraps your leg around his waist. 

You are still kissing him when he aligns himself at your entrance, thrusting into you without a warning. You gasp, breaking the kiss. His lips chase after yours again, but you’re too busy trying to get used to him to kiss him back. “So good,” he praises you again, his mouth moving to your jaw and chin. You tilt your head to the side, trying to keep as quiet as possible as he thrusts into you again, starting slowly, with his eyes on yours to make sure you are okay. 

You nod to him instinctively, and he thrusts into you right away, this time faster, harsher. It doesn’t take long for him to set a comfortable speed, and you can feel all his stress in each thrust. “I needed this,” he mumbles. “Needed you.” 

It almost passes unnoticed by you, just some out-of-mind praises, but you catch onto it, and his words get stuck in your head. “N–Needed me?” Your question comes out as a broken moan, making him groan. “The whole day,” he agrees, only thrusting harder. “Everyone’s been getting on my nerves,” he explains. “Couldn’t wait to come home to you.” 

The ticklish feeling in your stomach makes you uneasy. You’re not sure if it’s another orgasm building up or just an after-effect of his words. Honestly, it might be both. But before you can think about it properly, another thrust comes in, with a few mumbles about how perfect you are before you feel his speed slowing down again, letting you know he is reaching his limit, too. 

It only takes a few more sloppy thrusts before he cums inside you, both of you too into the moment to realize he should pull out. Taehyun’s head falls onto your shoulder, but he doesn’t stop holding your leg up, assuring himself he still feels you on his body. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he breathes out, and before you can answer, you feel his teeth digging into the skin on your shoulder. 

You gasp, “What was that for?” He only hums in response, as if he had no idea what you were referring to. “A mark,” he finally mutters, making your eyes widen. “Wanted to mark you.” He says it so casually, while his hand slides between your bodies, circling your clit slowly again. You swallow a moan as his finger makes its way into your pussy again, feeling the mixture of his and your cum sliding down your thigh. You need another shower. 

You stay still for a bit, his head resting on your shoulder and your leg wrapped around his waist while your fingers play with his hair to assure him you are still there, not saying anything. 

You step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself immediately. You keep your eyes on his naked body, rethinking your next moves. “I need your help with math,” you proclaim quietly like you normally would. “I’ll gladly help you,” he nods with a smile. So happy, and for what? He was never rude about it when you asked for his help, but it wasn’t like he would be excited, either. This time, however, he makes you question what’s going on in his mind. 

“Here,” he says, the same smile still on his lips as he hands you your shirt and panties. “I didn’t know you were already wearing my stuff, but I can’t say I would complain,” he teases you, and it all finally clicks. Of course, that’s why you didn’t remember owning the shirt. It wasn’t yours in the first place. “Uhm–” you panic, trying to find a good excuse, but it’s already too late because all Taehyun can think about is the adorable blush on your cheeks.

TXT ⋆✶ izzy's tags @beomiracles @seoulzie @adel222 @inkigayocamman @flowzel @love-be0m @virgo-and-libra @hwanghyunjinismybae @liaatiny @minaateez ✶⋆

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[angelbby555]

Division problems

Summary: Mickey attempts to help his daughter with math homework but experiences the canon event of making her sob with confusion (Mickey speaking in Spanish) Word count: 1.7k

⋆. ୨୧˚⋆

"No mija. You have to drop the zero. Tienes que bajar el tres para abajo." Mickey's patience was close to snapping. It was 10 o'clock and he wanted to crawl into bed but his 10-year-old daughter Angelica forgot to do her math packet that consisted of division problems.

"Pero porque?" The little girl's voice cracked like she was ready to cry any minute here at the dining table.

"Because 743 dividido por 25 no da dos. Te falta un poco de proceso princesa." Fanboy yawned. Before he used to go to bed around midnight but ever since his routine mimicked his daughters, he was in bed by ten o'clock now.

Angelica's pencil eraser had reached to metal from how often she had used it that night. She started to erase 74 - 50 = 24 even though that part of the long division was correct.

"No mija, mija. No lo borres. Haci estaba bien. Nunca te dije que estaba malo." Angelica stopped erasing her work and stared up at him and her lips jutted out in a pout.

"¡Papi no te entiendo! ¡Usted no explica bien como mi maestra!" His daughter's voice came out in a high-pitched whine. When he saw the tears pooling at her dark brown eyes, Mickey felt like he was hitting his limit. He was tired and had work in the morning. Angelica wasn't understanding his long division explanation, and she still had 10 more problems left to do.

"No te quiero ver esas lágrimas o chillando." Mickey strictly spoke, on another day if he wasn't half asleep, he would have been more gentle with her. "You had todo el día to finish these problems. But you chose el último momento para terminar lo. Entonces no te quiero ver llorar."

Angelica bit her bottom lip at her father's scolding but her whole body was ready to break into heavy pants and sobs. When Mickey was younger and this same situation happened to him with his dad, Mickey remembered thinking that when he was older he wouldn't get upset about his kid not understanding math. Yet here he was experiencing a moment that almost every dad went through.

"I'm not- not- not gonna d-d-do my homework anymore w-with you." Angelica was sobbing so violently that her own words were cutting off. Mickey didn't even yell at her so bad for her to already be crying. But he hadn't realized that she was stressed out too.

"Okay, está bien. Ya nadie te va ayudar y aquí vas estar hasta la madrugada por ser irresponsable." Mickey was so tired he didn't even realize how heartbroken his daughter looked as she pinched her eyes together and wiped her tears.

At that moment the door softly opened then closed shut. You walked into the dining room wearing your blue scrubs after your shift at the hospital. After a full shift, his wife still looked gorgeous and put together. With your hair slicked back in a ponytail, and gold hoop earrings that complent your skin tone. Your eyes lively with a contagious smile.

The second Angelica saw you, she saw that as an outlet to escape this stressful last-minute math homework. Angelica pushed herself out of the wooden chair and went running to your arms. You hadn't even set your purse down before the 10-year-old arms were wrapped around your legs tightly.

"Why are you guys still awake-" When you noticed Angie's puffy eyes you turned to look at Mickey silently asking what was wrong. But Fanboy looked back at the math packet knowing he was about to be in trouble with you for accidentally making their daughter cry. "¿Ahi que paso? ¿Que te paso mamá?" His wife cooed, leaning down to wipe your daughter's tears. Mickey hated how you babied her, but he couldn't really say anything since he did feel terrible.

"¡Papi me-me-me regaño!" She violently sobbed.

"Baby I didn't even yell at her-"

"I don't want to hear it." You pointed a finger at Mickey making him shut up. Angelica sobbed into your stomach while you ran your hand soothingly on the top of her head as you peppered her black curly hair in kisses.

"No llores mí niña. Papi solo anda cansado y el ní sabe cómo divider tampoco." Your joke about Mickey not knowing how to divide which made your daughter giggle but it left him scoffing. Once Angelica had calmed down her heavy breathing, you kissed her one last time on the forehead. "Vaya te a la cama and put your pajamas on. Mañana vamos a ver qué hacemos con la tarea de mate."

"Okay mami." Angie wiped at her eyes and stiffly walked to her bedroom once you had dismissed her.

"You always gotta make me the bad guy huh?" Mickey could resist speaking up for himself, as he ran his hand through his jet-black hair.

"Well maybe if you didn't yell at her then you wouldn't have to be the bad guy." You walked closer to him.

"I wasn't yelling at her though!" Fanboy raised his voice since he was being accused yet again.

Your beautiful laugh reached his ear making him relax slightly. You placed your purse on the dining table and took a seat on his lap. Fanboy's arms instinctively found your waist, pulling you closer to him, his hand forced your legs to drape over his.

"What are we gonna do?" Mickey stared up at you like you held all the answers to his problems. Before you could respond Mickey leaned forward and rested his forehead on your chest. You placed your chin on his head and one of your hands threaded your fingers through his hair.

"I think you should apologize to your daughter before she thinks about running away from home." Mickey exhaled a laugh through his nose at your comment. "We can finish these division problems for her and then tomorrow we'll have to teach her the homework until she understands."

"I'm a terrible father huh?" Mickey pressed a kiss to the top of your breast before pulling away and gazing at you. "I should have been more patient with her. Or asked if she needed help earlier this week."

"No come on papi. Lo dos lo descuidamos con preguntarle a Angelica sobre su tarea. Pero si sos un padre increíble, solo estás estresado porque necesitas tu beauty rest." Mickey laughed at your spanglish and kissed your neck once more.

"Gracias por tu consejo y palabras mami. Now I will apologize to our daughter." Mickey tapped your thigh signaling for you to get up. "Meanwhile you finish these division problems up since alguien por aquí dice que yo no se como dividir." Mickey forced you to stand up with him, making you laugh.

"That was a joke, Papi." You smirked up at him.

"It wasn't a joke before when your daughter was crying. But it is now since you have to finish those problems up now huh?" Mickey aggressively smashed his lips on your cheek, moving away from you and down the hall. "Apurate también, ya quiero irme a dormir and get my beauty sleep."

You giggled making Mickey grin from ear to ear shaking his head. When he got to Angie's bedroom he softly knocked on the white door, before pushing it open. He watched her face fall when she saw it was him entering the room instead of her mom. She was already in her small bed in her pink button up pajamas.

"¿Estás brava conmigo Angie?" His daughter didn't answer, just crossing her arms, and looking toward the wall. "Dígamelo." Mickey egged her on to talk. He took a seat on the edge of the bed as she continued the silent treatment. "Sin miedo. ¿Qué pasa?" He threw his hands out when asking but all he was met was with silence. "Okay, that's cool. No, me hables." 

Mickey stared at her wooden drawer staring at all the trinkets and shopping toys she had on her dresser. After Mickey turned to face her, his hands went to her small belly and he started to tickle his daughter trying to get her to crack. Angie arched her back and squirmed letting out a shrieking laugh. Mickey was smiling too, as she was laughing and squirming so much.

"Stop! Me voy a ser pipí." She yelped. That's when Mickey calmed the tickling down not wanting her to wet her pants. Once Angelica sighed, she furrowed her brows together again putting her angry face back on. "Todavía estoy enojada." Mickey sighed at her words.

"Baby disculpame, me fue la paciencia. I was just really tired. No fue mí intención." Mickey hand found his daughters smaller once giving it a squeeze. "No me gusta ver te llorar tampoco." Angelica blinked at him hanging on to his every word. "Listen, la próxima vez que hacemos tu tarea de división no te voy a regañar. But you have to promise me that vas a preguntarme y reclamar cuando no entiendes algo. Capish?"

It took Angelica a second to respond before she nodded her head at him.

"Capish. Te prometo." She held out her small pinkie. Mickey interlocked his pinkie with hers feeling a satisfaction settle over him. 

"¿Y mí besito?" Mickey made a kissing noise and pointed at his cheek. Angelica leaned in closer and kissed his cheek, before throwing her arms around his neck in an embrace. "Ahí qué rico mi amor." Mickey dragged out, letting himself soak up the hug from his little girl. After he let go of her Mickey tucked her in and kissed her forehead goodnight.

"Te quiero muchísimo. Y no te preocupes de la tarea de mate, tu mamá te lo va ser." Mickey laughed, kissing her forehead again goodnight. "Buenas noches mi vida."

"Buenas noches papi!" She beamed as he moved out the room, flipped the light off and gently closed the door. Mickey retreated back to the table where you sat finishing the division homework. When you looked up at him you raised a brow. Silently asking what happened.

"It's all solved now. She is not mad at me anymore." Mickey smiled and you softly applauded him. Mickey moved closer to you. Located his hand on the table and leaned down to kiss you tenderly.

"Qué lindo." You said against his mouth.

First ever Fanboy fic I've written! I wrote the Spanish by myself... so if I'm missing a few tildes I'm sorry!

[cruel-seduction]

Tangled Loyalties (Part - 1) 

Summary: Transferring from Beauxbatons to Hogwarts should’ve been a fresh start—but being Draco Malfoy’s cousin made it easier to slip into the Slytherin elite like you belonged there. You had the confidence, the connections, the charm. Everything but control over the way Mattheo Riddle looked at you—like you were a challenge he couldn’t resist but never planned to keep. What started as sarcasm-laced flirting spirals into something raw. Real. And when he pulls away just as you let your guard down, you’re left sorting through heartbreak, bruised pride, and all the insecurities you swore you’d outgrown.

Content Warnings: Suggestive content, sharp tongues, emotional whiplash, insecure girl math, bad decision-making, and Mattheo Riddle being a delusional menace with too much jawline and not enough communication skills. Side effects may include thinking you're the problem. You're not. (But damn, it feels like you are.) ANGSTT!!!!!!!

Rain patted lazily against the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting a moody grey glow over the morning breakfast scene. Autumn had sunk its teeth into the Scottish countryside, and with it came wool scarves, steaming goblets of spiced pumpkin cider, and cold breath against enchanted windows. You sat cross-legged on the Slytherin bench, your robe draped artfully over one shoulder and a cashmere sweater—charcoal with green cuffs—hugging your frame. Your wand stuck out of your thigh-high boots. Unbothered. Iconic.

Pansy sat on your right, practically twirling her eggs with boredom, while Theodore leaned back on your left, one brow cocked as he tried to place bets on whether Draco would lose his patience with You were sitting in your usual seat at the Slytherin table, elbow perched on the polished wood, one hand lazily dragging a spoon through a bowl of porridge you had no intention of finishing. Your outfit was crisp: the regulation black Hogwarts skirt with knee-high socks, an oversized Slytherin sweater you'd stolen from Draco—he never noticed—and a glossy swipe of lip balm. Chic, effortless, just enough French rebellion to remind them you weren’t raised on this side of the channel.

One month. That’s how long it had been since you transferred from Beauxbatons. A month, and Hogwarts had already bent to fit around you like a glove.

Being Draco Malfoy’s cousin helped. The moment you arrived, everyone knew your last name. Pureblood, prestigious, the new girl with the sharp tongue. The Slytherins didn’t even question it—you were one of them from day one. It almost felt like home.

Almost.

Until Mattheo Riddle looked at you. You tried to ignore it. That tension. That current.

You weren't stupid. You’d heard the rumors. You’d seen the girls. The trail of lipstick-stained parchments he never read. The tearful confessions he never cared about. The smirks. The biting charm. The cocky swagger that made every hallway feel like his.

He was dark-haired, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, his tie always loosened like he didn’t give a shit, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking out over his veins. The kind of beautiful that didn’t try. The kind of beautiful that ruined girls.

And unfortunately, he sat across from you every fucking day. You tried to play it cool. It’s just flirtation, right? You weren’t falling for Mattheo Riddle. You wouldn’t be one of the girls in his headcount. No, thank you. You were raised better.

Oi—give it back, you prick,” Theo’s voice barked across the table, dragging your attention. Mattheo had snatched Theo’s toast clean from his plate and was eating it with zero remorse.

You glanced up, watching the two boys argue like dogs.

“I don’t see your name carved into the bread,” Mattheo said, voice low and amused as he tore off another piece, tossing it into his mouth.

“I’m going to carve my name into your bloody skull if you don’t quit acting like a feral—”

“I don’t respond to threats before noon,” Mattheo cut back smoothly, licking marmalade from his thumb with a glance so bored it almost looked lazy.

“You’re going to throw your back out sitting like that,” you said, dry as bone. Mattheo turned his head lazily toward you, one brow arched. “Concerned about me, darling?”

“More concerned you’ll break the bench with that inflated ego,” you replied, biting into your toast.

Mattheo didn’t flinch. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you fancy me.” You licked your bottom lip slowly, just to annoy him, the glint of your tongue piercing catching the dim hall light. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last option in Azkaban.”

His smirk deepened. “Then why do you keep staring, princess?” “Because I’m trying to figure out how someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon thinks they’re the main character.”

That did it. His jaw twitched. But instead of firing back, Mattheo leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze locked on yours with a look that was all heat and challenge.

“Keep going,” he murmured, low enough that only you heard. “It turns me on when you pretend you don’t want me.” You swallowed hard. Asshole.

And then Draco’s voice came to your ears probably saying something like “Eww, Mattheo. She is my cousin. At least talk like this when I am not sitting beside you.”

But you didn’t look away. And neither did he. 

It was infuriating, this push and pull. Mattheo—who had a reputation for breaking hearts like twigs, who claimed he hated drama but was always in the middle of it. And you? You weren’t about to be another name on his list. You were the storm, not the shipwreck.

Still, he made it so hard to breathe when he looked at you like that. You stood abruptly, adjusting your robe and grabbing your bag.

“Where are you going?” Mattheo asked, still lounging. “Away from brain damage,” you said sweetly. “Try not to miss me too hard, darling.”

His grin was wolfish. Dangerous. Oh, this was far from over.

✩࿐࿔ 

You’re late-night cramming in the deserted study alcove near the library wings. Books and parchment are strewn like battlefield debris beneath the weak glow of a single green-shaded lamp. The air is cold, so you’re curled up in your Forest green cardigan—Beauxbatons crest still glinting faintly—with your favorite pen in hand, determined to make those Arithmancy equations bend to your will. You’re almost convinced you’ve got it when—

A shadow drops beside you. Mattheo Riddle. His robes whisper against the stone bench.

“Let me study,” you mutter without looking up. He’s quiet for a moment—a smirk lurking just beyond polite. “I didn’t even speak. I’m just…admiring your beauty.”

Your head snaps up, eyebrows shooting. “Ew, that’s cheesy. What are you, Ben from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days? And he can say cheesy shit like this Because he is hot. ”

That smirk flickers, shades darker. “You don’t think I’m hot?? And who the fuck is this Ben guy? I’m a hell of a lot better than some Benny.”

You roll your eyes. “Aww, whatever makes you sleep at night.” Without thinking, your hand snakes forward, pinching his cheek and then smoothing over his dark curls. He inhales sharply, but keeps quiet.

He leans back, hench arms folded. “Noo… I have a reputation to maintain.” A devilish grin breaks on your face. “You want me to do that thing I do with your hair again, right?” You tease.

His posture goes rigid—recoil with pride. “Only if nobody ever finds out.” You cock your head. “What do I get in return?” He looks at you, dead serious. “You get to make me happy.” You turn your nose up in mock disgust. “…Pass.”

He shrugs, the silent threat of charm in his shrug. “Fine. I’ll get you whatever you want.” You savor the moment—pure victory.

He exhales and dips his head, resting it on the desk next to your books. His curls sweep across the wood. Without thinking, you reach out, your left hand gently massaging the back of his neck while your right hand scribbles bullet points on the parchment.

He exhales again, deeper. You glance at your notes, but his even breathing holds your attention. Then—silently—you realize he’s asleep, his lashes brushing his cheeks. An absurd, breathtaking intimacy settles in the room. 

You lean in.

Closer than you meant to, maybe. But his face—half-buried in the crook of his arm, those lashes low over hooded eyes, the boyish smirk barely clinging to his mouth—it pulls at something in you that’s never quiet around him.

His voice cuts through the moment, soft and teasing. “Trying to kiss me or something?” You scoff, lips twitching. “You wish.” But you don’t pull back.

You hover. Not far. Not close enough. And in that exhale between almost and inevitable, everything stretches—like time and space are folding just to fit the two of you in the middle.

Then you kiss him.

It starts hesitant. Careful, like you’re both too proud to admit how long you’ve wanted it. But it shifts fast—his mouth opens under yours like a secret he’s never let anyone read, like you’re the only one who ever tried.

Your fingers find his hair again, and he groans into your mouth. There’s no crowd here. No whispers. No egos, or sarcastic remarks. Nothing. Just Mattheo. Just you.

He kisses like he’s starved for it. Like he’s terrified of it. Like he’s already addicted to something he swore he’d never touch.

And it terrifies you too.

Because in that moment, your walls—those jokes, your pride, that repeated mantra of I’m not just another girl—they all splinter like glass. Melt under his hands like wax.

For once, it isn’t about who’s in control. It’s just breath and heartbeat and the fact that neither of you are pretending anymore. And maybe that’s what ruins it.

Because just when your lips part with a soft gasp, just when your eyes meet and he looks at you like he’s seeing every truth he’s always run from.. 

Mattheo bolts upright. His chair scrapes against the stone floor like a wound splitting open. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t offer a quip or grin or half-assed explanation.

He just leaves. And you're left there—hand frozen mid-air where his hair had been, lips still tingling, heart crashing hard into your ribs.

Shame creeps up your throat before you can stop it. It shouldn’t, but it does. Because you let him in. Because for a second, you wanted it too much. Because you thought maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t run.

The next day, you were sitting in the Potions classroom, the stale chill of the dungeon air clinging to your skin like shame. The soft scrape of quills and idle whispers from students settling in filled the space around you, but your mind was miles away—sinking, spiraling, unraveling.

Professor Snape hadn’t arrived yet.

You stared blankly at your textbook, pretending to read, but every word bled into the next, meaningless and blurred, lost under the weight of your thoughts.

Mattheo hadn’t looked at you once.

Not in the Great Hall that morning, not in the corridor you passed through where he was leaning against the wall with Theodore, not even now—where he sat two benches away, slouched in that infuriatingly casual way, talking lowly to Blaise like nothing happened.

Your thoughts weren’t even near that desk. They were chewing you alive.

Why did he leave?

That single thought had been echoing since last night like a cursed mantra. And now, sitting in this dimly lit room, the weight of it pressed harder on your chest than the dungeon air ever could.

Maybe you’d been stupid. Maybe you read too much into the way he looked at you. Maybe you thought the tension meant something.

Maybe you actually believed you were enough.

But now?

Now, you were just sitting here, heart splintering beneath layers of practiced perfection. And all you could do was try to keep your face straight. Because girls like you don’t cry in class.

The girl who made a whole identity out of being untouchable. But your hands were trembling under the table. And the truth was ugly: you’d spent years in front of mirrors picking yourself apart. Pulling at your waist like if you tugged hard enough, it might turn into something narrow and perfect. Sucking in your stomach when you walked past reflective surfaces. Comparing every angle of yourself to the girls who didn’t seem to try.

You weren’t soft enough, weren’t effortless. There were days your thighs felt too big, your voice too loud, your skin too real. Not porcelain. Not delicate. Just… you.

And for what?

You played the it-girl. The confident one. The sharp-tongued, unbothered one who laughed too loud and never let a boy mess with her head.

But you wanted someone to see through it. To see you under it all.

And you thought—god, you really thought—Mattheo had. The way he stared at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he let himself be soft in the quiet, even if just for a second. The way he kissed you like he needed to remember what breathing felt like.

But then he left. No words. No look back.

And it was like confirmation. Confirmation that you were wrong to believe you were anything more than another girl. That maybe he regretted it. Maybe he looked at you in the light and realized you weren’t perfect enough to keep.

Maybe he saw the stretch marks on your hips the other day when your shirt lifted. Maybe he heard the waver in your voice when you said you were fine, and it was too much.

Too real. Too flawed.

Your jaw clenched as you stared down at your potion ingredients. You wouldn't cry. Not over him. Not over anyone. You had your pride. Your walls. Your wit. And that was enough.

Except… It wasn’t, was it?

Not when the ache didn’t leave your chest. Not when your brain wouldn’t shut up. Not when even thinking about last night made your eyes sting and your throat tighten.

You blinked fast. Bit the inside of your cheek.

Mattheo was three seats down, arms crossed, that same casual lean in his chair—looking for all the world like nothing was eating him alive.

You didn’t look. You wouldn't give him that power. Because maybe you weren’t perfect. But fuck, you deserved more than silence.

And then, your gaze caught on something across the classroom. A Hufflepuff girl—laughing softly as her boyfriend tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Their knees were touching. His face was lit up like she was the sun.

You stared.And something inside your chest cracked—quietly, bitterly. You wanted that.

Not just the hair-tucking or the soft smiles. Not even the hand-holding. You wanted to be seen. Not the version you gave the world. But the real you. The one who hated her stretch marks. The one who had cried over dumb things like thighs and cheekbones. The one who didn’t feel like an "it girl" in the dark.

You wanted someone to notice the way your voice changed when you were nervous. The way you tapped your nails against the desk when you were overwhelmed. Someone to kiss you and not run the fuck away afterward.

But maybe that wasn’t in the cards for girls like you, huh? The ones who laugh too loud. The ones who don’t wake up pretty. The ones who pretend being strong are the same thing as being okay.Your fingers curled into fists on the desk as your teeth sank into your lower lip to keep it from trembling. You were fine. You always were. Until you weren’t.

Divider Credit goes to @bernardsbendystraws. I PROMISE THERE IS GONNA BE PART 2 AND PART 3 BUT I AM in writer's block y'all. I have to manage a lot of things. I have so much work. This I wrote cause I am having terrible cramps and can't study.

[nizhspo]

genre: nct imagine, fluff

pairing: employee!jaehyun x gn!reader

warning: none.

summary: in which you meet a cute boy at shake shack with donghyuck.

“and.. so i’m trying to explain to this guy that i want TWO tens back, not one twenty, but—” donghyuck pauses mid-sentence, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he notices you haven’t responded in a while. his burger sits half-eaten in front of him, forgotten for the sake of storytelling, his hands animated and hovering in the air like he was still in mid-rant.

you keep nodding, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder, mechanically dipping a fry in sauce like you weren’t mentally four exits down the highway.

“y/n, are you even listening?” he finally asks, a flat kind of betrayal in his voice.

“no.” you snort, barely hiding your amusement as you crunch into the fry.

he lets out a dramatic sigh, slumping back in the booth. “i didn’t even get to the good part, though.”

you glance at him, unimpressed. “oh, so the first 20 minutes was just the introduction, right?”

“right!” he perks up instantly, pointing at you like you just proved his point.

“wrong. because unlike you, i have shit to do today.”

“oh please,” he scoffs, leaning forward again to steal one of your fries with zero shame. “like you don’t just blah blah blah the first chance you get.”

“okay, and? that still counts as work!” you shoot back, snatching your tray a little closer to your side of the table.

donghyuck just grins, smug and satisfied, like he’d won anyway.

you’re mid-eye roll when you glance toward the pickup counter— half out of habit, half just to avoid looking at him— and then you freeze a little.

he’s standing there. the guy calling names out in a bored tone, except when he says your name. that part sounds different. softer.

his voice carries just enough over the low hum of the restaurant, the clatter of trays and muffled speaker music. his hair curls slightly at the ends, dark and kind of messy in that effortless way. there’s something about the way his hand rests on the edge of the counter, like he’s done this a thousand times, but right now he’s waiting for you.

“yeah, yeah whatever,” donghyuck mutters, still chewing on your stolen fry. “but if you see a guy that’s yay high that can’t do math, kick him in the knees for me.”

you’re barely listening now. your eyes meet the dreamy worker’s as he glances up from the counter. his gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary— just enough to make your chest tighten.

“gotcha,” you murmur, already sliding out of the booth.

you approach the counter slowly, trying to play it cool even though your pulse has other plans.

he’s leaning forward slightly, one elbow resting on the edge of the metal counter, hand loose around the paper bag that probably has your cheeseburger in it. his shirt— standard issue shake shack green, is rolled neatly to his forearms, the sleeves hugging the muscle there in a way that’s definitely not helping your concentration.

there’s a faint sheen on his skin, like he’s been dealing with a rush, but his hair still falls perfectly into place, one dark piece brushing the corner of his eyebrow.

“order for y/n?” he asks again, and this time he’s grinning: wide, confident, dimple flashing like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

you glance at his name tag: jaehyun.

of course it is.

you reach out to take the bag, but he doesn’t let go right away. instead, his fingers brush against yours— on purpose. it’s subtle, but not that subtle.

“hope the wait was worth it,” he says, voice low and a little amused.

“wasn’t bad,” you reply, trying not to let your eyes linger on his mouth, even though that smile is absolutely unfair.

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s sizing you up— but gently, like you’re a riddle he wouldn’t mind solving.

“well,” he says, still holding the bag hostage, “next time, you could just ask for me. might move you up the line.”

“that so?” you raise an eyebrow.

he shrugs, finally letting go of the bag, and the grin he gives you could probably ruin someone’s month. “perks of knowing the cute ones.”

you scoff under your breath, cheeks warming as you turn back toward your booth.

when you sit back down, donghyuck’s already watching you, one eyebrow arched, a suspicious fry halfway to his mouth.

“what was that?”

“what was what?” you say too quickly.

he points his fry at you like it’s a mic. “don’t play with me, i saw that little rom-com moment. homeboy was smiling. like, aggressively.”

you open the bag in front of you just to have something to look at, but he’s not letting it go.

“what’s his name?”

“jaehyun,” you mumble, pretending to study the receipt stapled to the top of the bag. “shirt sleeves rolled up, dimple, way too confident.”

donghyuck lets out a low whistle. “jesus christ. you didn’t even breathe before describing him.”

you glare at him, stuffing a fry in your mouth to shut him up. he only grins wider.

“you’re down bad already.”

you don’t answer.

you don’t need to.

but then, your eyes flick back to the receipt, mostly because it gives you something else to focus on.

right under the subtotal, scrawled in black pen just above the printed “thank you,” there’s a quick line of handwriting in slightly slanted print:

“next time, sit closer to the counter. - jaehyun :)”

you blink. stare. feel your heart drop into your stomach and explode into confetti all at once.

there’s a smiley face.

a smiley face.

donghyuck doesn’t even know what’s coming when you slowly slide the receipt across the table to him, deadpan.

he reads it. his mouth drops open.

“you’re doomed,” he says, eyes wide with glee. “and i love this for you.”

[camarei]

Nerd Reader x Nerd Nanami = smart power couple

you and kento were sitting at a corner table on a café, your eyes glued on your notebook, fingers fiddling with your pen.

“you’re so focused, working on how to divide zero now?” kento chuckles as he leans back.

“haha, very funny. if could divide zero, i’d be solving the world’s fundamental problems, not this stupid equation.” you huff.

you were preparing for an upcoming exam and you thought about inviting kento to study with you.

because why not, right?

“there’s beauty in the paradox of diving by zero, maybe you should just stop looking for the answer and let the question be.” he shruggs.

“so, you’re saying that i should just stop solving and just appreciate it? will that get me a passing grade?” you look at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“pretty much. though, to be fair, i get it. numbers don’t offer room for interpretation. but language—language is fluid. it can mean whatever you want it to mean... have you thought about math as a language?” kento suggests taking his drink and sipping a little.

“sure, math is a language. but it’s a language about rules. it’s all about structure and logic.” you refute, looking back at your messy math notes.

“if you look at it this way, math is a kind of poetry. just like a metaphor works in finding the unexpected connection between two things—math finds connections between numbers. patterns show up and suddenly something new appears where there was nothing before.” setting his cup down as he looked at you.

“you’re starting to sound like those motivational quotes that you find imprinted on the side of a coffee cup. you have a point, though i don’t think i’m gonna start writing sonnets about theorems anytime soon...” you laugh softly, scribbling nonsense on your notebook.

“i’ll take that as a win. i think you could give shakespeare a run for his money if you ever wrote a poem about prime numbers.”

“‘shall i compare thee to an irrational number? thou art infinite and never repeating…’” you say sarcastically.

“hey, don’t knock it until you try it. you could write a whole epic poem on pythagoras and his theorem, i guarantee it would have a bigger following than every other poems.” kento leans back on the chair again.

“yeah, yeah. you’re distracting me! go read whatever shenanigans you’re reading, you’re making me lose focus!” you lightly slap his shoulders.

nothing could beat moments like this, just you and him—throwing playful banters against one another.

and you did end up passing your test! but you’re not sure if you’re still gonna invite kento anytime soon knowing that he’s just gonna go off and talk about things that you really can’t comprehend...

who are you kidding? of course you’d invite him either way...

an: english isn’t my first language so this made my head hurt, i think i drained my brain juice and idrk how i’d portray this type of trope so i just went w it 😿 + i believe that kento is a english literature poem stuff kind of guy and becomes a yapper when that’s the topic, you can’t change my mind .

[absolutelykrillingit]

Get Illied

Some of my headcanons for my version of the inoverse

They are dear to me and I simply had to share :D

Illi McMillin

- 17 yr old

- She/her trans femme; no other labels but definitely not straight

- So sick of being in school

- Wants to be an illustrator / animator but has no clue how anyone actually gets such a job

- Makes little flip book animations of her and her friends but gets shy showing them off

- Miles (Mikey) was the one to discover this hobby when she abandoned her work on the dining room table to go to bed and awoke to him flipping through them

- Always wears the boys’ uniform because she hates how boxy the girls’ makes her look

- Struggles a lot with self image

- Draws herself how she wants to look but her friends would never know it wasn’t just art of how she normally looks if she would quit overcompensating

“Yeah it’s like me if I didn’t have to follow the lame ass dress codes”

“That’s how I’d look if I had a sick ass cape”

- It’s all about self perception because she looks more like how she draws herself than she knows

- This was part of why coming out was difficult

- Chronic nail biter and skin picker

- Only started painting her nails in an attempt to stop this

- No scab has ever been safe from her

- Allergic to pineapple

- Makes a killer grilled cheese and tomato soup

- Always a classic when Miles is sick (an all too frequent occurrence)

Miles McMillin

- 16 yr old

- He/him; bi

- Constantly ill or ailing in some capacity

- Racks up absences like coupon clippings

- Absolute garbage at math

- Plays croquet to be with the group, not because he’s particularly good or interested in it

- Huge horror movie buff

- Watched Illi’s world get rocked when they watched Carrie for the first time

- Floater friend to a lot of groups around school, but always solidly anchored to Illi and co

- Has a not-so-secret passion for hair

- Whenever someone has a dye or trim idea, they bring it to Miles

- Got really close with Percy once they started their tutoring sessions

- Sits through his ramblings about Illi only to go home and hear Illi talk on and on about Percy

- Politely nods along

- Sworn to silence by both of them, but Ray 100% knows everything because Miles cannot be expected to withhold this information from him

Percy Salinger

- 16 yr old

- He/him; bi if you made him choose a label

- True nerd of the group

- Tutors Miles in math because he’s in Calc & Miles is barely getting through Alg 2

- Gets good grades with zero effort kind of energy

- This absolutely does not keep him out of detention

- Consistently shoved into lockers that Ray and Miles have to rescue him from

- Illi says she would totally help but lacks in lock picking skills

- She’s always there to patch him up & maybe pick a fight if Percy doesn’t beat her to it

- Ray & Miles tag team because Ray keeps his hair pushed back with bobby pins that Miles can jam into the lock until it clicks

- Miles would never admit it, but he’s just been lucky with the locks & has no more lock picking skills than Illi

- Always carrying a book with him

- Former soccer kid

- Big fan of team sports

- Really likes lemonade and had an annual stand as a kid

- Homemade lemonade only because he’s classy

- Swears to Miles that he fell in love with Illi from the moment he saw her

- Questionable level of truth to this statement

Ray Ramirez

- 18 yr old (only about a month older than Illi but she absolutely lords it over him)

- He/him; ace & biromantic

- Illi’s childhood neighbor friends

- Helped her come to terms with her identity & eventually with coming it

- Aspires to cook well

- Takes “lessons” from the McMillins while Percy gives him commentary while sitting on the counter

- The initial leader in the group playing croquet

- His family had a kit sitting in the garage collecting dust

- Designated driver because he’s the only one with a license

- Drives the McMillins to and from school & has since his 16th birthday

- Afraid of heights and thunderstorms

- The only member of the friend group to successfully avoid detention (yet)

- Has a collection of DC comics that he generously loans out to his friends

- Intricately built library system to ensure nothing gets purloined

- Illi thinks she’s successfully stolen a couple editions but Ray’s just being nice and pretending not to notice

- Carries a box of colorful bandaids in his bag, which largely end up on Illi

- Enjoys scrapbooking

- Parallel plays with Illi by scrapbooking while she draws

- Serves as Miles’ confidant for any and all Percy/Illi drama

[persephone1700]

The boy is mine- Michael Gavey x Reader

Hello! This is the finale of the 3 part story of Michael Gavey x Reader.

I'm sorry it took so long for me to publish this. I had a couple of rough months last year and when 2025 started I made it to my purposes to write more, learn to do it better and publish more things I have in mind.

Special Mention to: @anukulee

Please enjoy!

Remember English is not my first language so be kind:)

Warning Tags: +18 ONLY , Smut, explicit content, Oral Sex (male receiving), Oral Sex (reader receiving), sex, swearing.

Part 1 Part 2

Michael’s POV:

By Saturday evening, Michael was seriously considering whether he was losing his mind or not. He had spent half the weekend recused in his dorm, staring at a math problem that didn’t make sense.

When did math become difficult for him?

Oh yes, around the same time he’d been foolish enough to start daydreaming about a spoiled brat who clearly wasn’t wasting a single thought on him.

The problem wasn’t just math, gods knew it was the easiest assignment he had this semester, but the constant stream of memories about her… The what ifs clouded his mind and derailed every attempt to focus.

Sighing, he made his way down to the nearest pub on campus. Soon enough, Michael found himself nursing his third pint, a petty attempt to drown his shame and stop thinking about her.

As he took a sip, he noticed you and Felix at a table in the background, drinking and laughing with your friends. 

The sight made his blood boil.

God, what’s next? Were they going to appear on his morning cereal too?!

His frustration bubbled over and he knew he needed to do something, anything, to get his mind back under control. 

The memory of your touch, your laughter, was too fresh… too intoxicating to let go.

A spark of boldness flickered within him, likely fueled by the pints he'd nursed earlier so he gathered up every ounce of courage to approach your table.  He expected to be ignored, or worse, laughed at. But when he reached the table, his words stuck in his throat. 

Farleigh spotted him first. “Go away, you little perv.”

Your gaze met his, and Michael’s jaw clenched.

“Knock it off, Farleigh,” you snapped, then turned to him with a smile. “Hey, Michael. How are you?”

“Oh, is this the creepy math genius Ollie’s been talking about?” Felix chimed in, his curiosity piqued.

Michael’s eyes zeroed in on Felix’s arm draped over your shoulders. The sight struck him like a gut punch, heat rising from his chest to his neck. His fists clenched at his sides as his focus narrowed on how Felix leaned in closer to you, laughing in that effortless, casual way that grated on Michael’s nerves.

All logic abandoned him, replaced by a smoldering jealousy that twisted in his stomach. Seeing someone else so comfortably close to you…it was driving him mad. 

And it was Felix, of all people. The wanker would tire of you eventually, discard you when he pleased. You deserved better. Someone like him.

Before you could step in, Michael’s words broke through. “Yeah, that’s me. And you’re the plonker failing every class and paying off teachers for grades.”

The words left his mouth easily, bitter and satisfying, and though it wasn’t the greatest insult, he knew Felix would hate the truth in it. For a fraction of a second, Felix’s brows furrowed before his grin widened, clearly entertained by Michael’s bluntness.

“Well, aren’t you charming?” he chuckled. “What can I say? I’m all about enjoying life.”

Farleigh snorted. “ Oh Felix but our little perv right here wouldn’t know about that, he is the one who needs to loosen up and stop watching us from the dark corners. "

You shifted in your seat, preparing to stand and pull Michael away from the situation.

Felix raised an eyebrow, catching the movement, and added, “Tell you what, Miguel… that's your name, right mate? Why don’t you come to the party at the student hall tonight?” He left cash on the table, flashing Michael a smug smile, the mispronunciation of his name landing with a deliberate sting.

Michael rolled his eyes, his suspicion flaring. He’d expected hostility or indifference from Felix, not this casual invitation. 

Was it a setup? 

Another ploy to humiliate him?

Farleigh’s laughter faded, replaced by a scowl. “What? Are you serious?”

A silence fell over the group, everyone waiting for Felix to reveal the joke, but it never came.

Farleigh snorted again. “What is this, a freak show?”

Annabel got up with a huff, walking over to Felix. “Come on, Felix, you can’t be serious… haven’t you already befriended the other one?”

“Besides, that one is a scholarship kid!” she sneered. “It’s pathetic! People will think anyone can just join us, and they can't!”

You cut in, your tone sweetened with fake kindness. “Oh dear Annabel but I thought you hooked up with that ‘scholarship kid,’  the night Felix dumped you?.”

Annabel’s mouth opened, but she had no comeback. She sighed, grabbing India’s arm, and stalked off with Farleigh trailing behind.

----

Michaels head was working hard as he tried to come up with an answer that may as well determine his future.

Did he really wish to hang out with Felix and his stuck-up friends? No, obviously. 

He wasn’t Oliver. 

But he cared about getting closer to you, even if it meant stepping out of his comfort zone for a night.

Does he have anything better to do? Certainly not. 

He would just be in his room, eating scrunchies and staring at that stupid problem due for Monday.

It was a choice: drown in his loneliness for the rest of the weekend, or take a chance and figure out what the hell was going on with you. He needed to know where he standed.

So he agreed to go.

To his first party. Ever.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Felix's POV:

Of course Felix's intentions were not innocent at all. Normally, he would never have invited a tosser like Michael to a party, but what Ollie had told him about the "weird math genius" was hard to ignore.

You’d taken a peculiar interest in Michael, and it was driving Felix mad with curiosity and suspicion. 

It had been a long time since the two of you were together, but somehow, Felix found himself missing you in more ways than just a friend would miss another friend. He started feeling neglected and he needed to know why.

Just that week, you had fought over something, and when he kissed you, you pulled away. It was a surprise for sure, it hit him like a bucket of cold water. Not a single one of the girls he had kissed ever pulled apart, so  he realized then that you must have your eye on someone else, like a predator eyeing a small animal.

He couldn’t help but feel both curious and possessive over his best friend.

He hated that he missed you, hated how you lingered in his mind, and hated even more that his curiosity was shading into something darker, a desire to control the way you looked at him again.

Were you seriously  drifting away from him?

And because of that?

He thought back to Saltburn and all the years the two of you had been close. Your families were friends and he couldn’t even remember a time when you weren’t around. His mother, Elspeth, always beamed when she saw you, gushing over how you’d grown.

Of course he’d noticed it too. How could he not?

It was hard to miss the soft curves your body had developed.

And as he grew older, that easy friendship turned into something that fed a different kind of need. Yet, no matter how many times he tried to turn it into more, you insisted on keeping it simple: you knew his reputation and you wanted to prioritize your friendship above every other feeling, no matter how amazing the sex was.

Despite the countless girls he held in the palm of his hand, he found himself missing you lately. The sting of you pulling away whenever he got too close,  left him with a frustration he couldn’t shake. 

He needed to know if Michael had something to do with this. As much as he hated the idea, he wanted to confirm his suspicions.

And so, here he was, extending an invitation to a guy he barely tolerated, for all he knew this Miguel guy may turned out to be a sociopath or a killer… Still he did it all for the chance to know what was really going on between you and the little bastard.

Venetia got up from the  table and followed Farleigh and the others outside. Just as Farleigh passed Michael, he tossed him aside and Felix felt a little satisfaction watching him press his lips in a tight line. Then he swung his arm casually around your shoulders,  and steered you towards the door. 

Just for the fun of thinking how much it would get to the tosser.

“Oi! You're just gonna sulk there all night, or are you coming, Miguel?” Felix called back with a grin.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Michael’s POV:

Michael's fists clenched as he reluctantly followed. The cool night air brushed against him, and the dim street lamps cast long shadows along their path to the student hall. He could already hear the faint thump of music, getting louder as they approached, mingling with the sounds of laughter and murmurs from people smoking on the lawn. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling the sharp sting of being out of place.

Rich kids and their privileges. 

He forced himself forward, but a nagging thought kept clawing at him: Why the hell did he agree to this?

Too deep in his thoughts, suddenly  he looked up and realized he’d lost sight of the others. Panic clawed at his chest, and his gaze jumped from one unfamiliar face to another. Strangers laughed around him, louder than they needed to, shadows seeming to mock him. 

Even Annabel’s presence would’ve been a comfort. 

What if this was their plan all along, get him here, then ditch him, expecting him to disappear? 

The thought dug in, but his resolve only hardened. No way would he let Felix Catton play him like that.

Just as his frustration began to simmer into anger, he spotted you near the building, pouring a drink and locked in a heated argument with Felix. Felix's scowl said it all: he was not enjoying himself. Curious, Michael moved closer, catching the tail end of the conversation.

Felix’s voice sliced through the thumping music. “Why do you care so much if we make fun of him?!”

Your answer was sharp, a tone Michael hadn’t heard from you before. “Because not everything is a joke to me, Felix! Maybe you should try taking people’s feelings seriously for once.”

Felix's bitter response came instantly. “You want to talk about feelings? What about mine, then?”

“Oh, come on, Felix! I’ve known you for years! Do you really think I can’t tell when you’re lying?” You shook your head, frustration flashing in your eyes. “You don’t feel that way about me, you’re just upset I turned you down.”

Felix’s voice dropped, his gaze hardening. “Come on, you can’t really like him… he’s a knob. Besides, when we are at Saltburn this summer you know I am the one you will be fucking!”

“Well, I do like him!” you shot back, your voice firm. “So quit the act.”

A small, twisted satisfaction curled in Michael’s chest as he watched the exchange unfold. Seeing Felix squirm was rare, and he couldn’t help but savor it. But then, as if sensing him nearby, you turned and spotted Michael.

“Come on, Michael,” you called over the music. “This party is dead boring. I’m sure we can find other ways to make our own fun.” You snatched a bottle from the table, giving Felix a pointed look, before walking over to Michael and taking his hand, pulling him toward the building.

Michael stole a glance back at Felix as he let you lead him inside. Felix stood there, fuming, looking every bit the fool he was.

Oh my my my, how the tables had turned.

The atmosphere inside was hazy, a faint scent of smoke clinging to the air, the hallways were only partially occupied, with a few students smoking, flirting, and sipping on drinks, you were barely paying attention to your surroundings as you led Michael deeper inside the hall into the dorm rooms.

When you finally reached your room, you opened the door and let Michael in. He took a look around and noticed the wooden floors, your desk beside your window along with a big bookshelf filled with books, the closet on the opposite wall, and in the middle a big bed with lavender sheets.  

The room looked pristine. As he had imagined it would look like. 

Not that he had ever imagined or fantasized how your room looked like. Nope.

Definitely not that.

You released his hand and popped open the Champagne bottle, sending the cork flying into a nearby couch. The fizz bubbled over, spilling onto your hand. Without hesitating, you took a deep sip straight from the bottle and held it out to Michael.

“Excuse my manners,” you said, a trace of anger lingering in your voice. “I’m not in the mood to be questioned.”

Surprised but saying nothing, Michael took the bottle and drank. Your eyes danced over him as he took a careful sip, the slight burn of the champagne catching him off-guard.

“Are you mad?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“At me? For coming here?”

You shook your head, a scoff escaping. “No, not at you. Actually, I was hoping you’d show up.” Your expression softened slightly, though a hint of irritation remained. “It’s my friends, the ones I am mad at. But you... I think we have some unfinished business, don’t we?”

Michaels cheeks turned pink and he awkwardly nodded.

“Don’t hold back on me, Michael,” you said, your gaze challenging. “I didn’t bring you to my room just so you could stand there.”

He swallowed a big gulp,  flush creeping into his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he set the bottle down and took a step closer, bolder than before, drawn to you by something he couldn’t name.

The air thickened between you both suddenly aware of the thrill of the moment, the faint sound of muffled laughter outside.

Your fingers traced a line up his arm, slowly, lingeringly. “Tell me,” you whispered, voice teasing as you leaned close, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “Do you still think about… last time?”

Michael’s breath hitched, his hands twitching as if he didn’t know whether to pull you close or keep his distance. The memory of your touch, the intensity of it, filled his mind, making it harder to think clearly. He felt the darkness closing in, a dizzying pull of desire and fear all tangled together.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, barely able to meet your gaze. “I can’t… I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“Good,” you said, drawing out the word, letting him see the hunger in your eyes. You moved closer, pressing your body against his, feeling his breath catch, his hands tentatively settling at your waist. 

“Then let’s not waste time,” you whispered, reaching up to tilt his chin, pulling him into a kiss, slow, searing, as if you wanted to torture him.

For Michael, it was overwhelming, intoxicating. Every sense was heightened, the soft scrape of your nails on his chin, the warmth of your breath against his skin. You moved with practiced ease, guiding him, teasing him.

You let your hand trail up Michael’s chest, feeling the nervous tremor beneath his shirt. “Do you want to pick up where we left off?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper.

Michael swallowed hard, his eager nod unmistakable. “Y-yes… yes, please,” he managed, his voice a raw edge of desperation.

You gave him a smirk, brushing a finger along his jaw. “Good boy.” Your voice softened as you gestured toward the plush bed. “Go sit down, right there.”

He obeyed, settling into the bed with a quiet intensity. The dim lights of the lamps cast long shadows over you as you slowly lifted your shirt up, revealing your breasts, then you began to undo the buttons of your skirt, letting it slide down to the floor. 

Michael’s eyes followed your every movement, wide and hungry, his breath hitching with each piece of clothing you let fall to the floor. His gaze devoured you, lingering on every inch of newly exposed skin until you stood before him, wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air.

His lips parted, awe and disbelief flickering in his eyes.

"Touch me," you murmured, stepping closer, positioning yourself between his knees. His hands hovered for a moment, unsure, trembling slightly as they found your skin. His touch was light, almost reverent, until you guided him, his fingers trailing over your breasts, growing bolder under your silent whimpers.

A mischievous spark lit your eyes as you sank to your knees. Michael watched, his breath shallow, as you unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down, along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, already hard and eager for you.

 You wrapped your hand around him, stroking him slowly at first, teasing him, before quickening your pace. His head fell back with a deep groan, but he lifted it again, needing to watch you, the sight of your mouth taking him in, inch by inch, making his hips twitch involuntarily.

Tears pricked your eyes from the stretch as you worked him with your mouth and hands, your gaze never leaving his. The muscles in his stomach tightened, his abs flexing, and you knew he was close. But you weren’t ready to let him finish. Not yet.

With a final, deliberate suck, you pulled off him, leaving him throbbing and desperate. His eyes snapped open, confusion and frustration flashing in them.

You rose to your feet, sliding your panties down and stepping out of them gracefully. He barely had a second to take in the sight before you climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He helped you, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside. It was that stupid burgundy shirt with the "That's how I Roll" joke written on it. You rolled your eyes, such a dork.

The moment his mouth was free, he claimed yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. His lips tasted like champagne, sweet and heady, while yours carried a saltier flavor, his own taste lingering on your tongue.

His hands wandered, gripping your ass, pulling you tighter against him. His cock pressed against your wet folds, and you moaned softly into his mouth, the friction deliciously unbearable.

When you broke the kiss to catch your breath, his lips trailed down your neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses over your collarbone and chest. Your head fell back, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked lightly around your nipple, drawing a gasp from you.

You pushed him back against the mattress, taking control once more. Grasping his cock, you lined him up, teasing him by rubbing his tip along your slick entrance before slowly sinking down.

Michael groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. His hands gripped your hips tightly as you adjusted to his size, the stretch burning in the best way.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he murmured, voice strained.

You began to move, rolling your hips, setting a slow, deliberate pace. His hips bucked beneath you, meeting your thrusts, his awkwardness melting away with each rise and fall.

Michael’s hands slid up your waist, guiding your movements, his confidence building until something darker flickered in his eyes. Without warning, he sat up, wrapping an arm around your back and flipping you beneath him.

You gasped, the sudden shift leaving you breathless. He hovered over you, his eyes locked on yours,  hunger written all over them. He spread your legs wider, positioning himself between them, and thrust into you hard.

A broken moan escaped your lips as he pinned your hands above your head, his hips moving with newfound determination. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, blending with your gasps and his ragged groans.

Sweat beaded along his neck, a single droplet trailing down to his chest as he pounded into you. With a new and deeper thrust, you moaned beautifully and he knew he had found that perfect spot inside you , the one that made you see stars,  and he hit it over and over again, making your body tremble beneath him.

"Right there, Michael," you begged, your voice barely a whisper.

His lips curled into a wicked smirk. He doubled down, driving into you with relentless precision, his cock dragging against that spot until you were a writhing mess beneath him.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, he pulled out, flipping you onto your stomach. He grabbed your hips, lifting you up, and landed a sharp slap on your ass. A startled moan escaped you, and he chuckled darkly.

"Such a brat," he murmured before pushing into you again from behind, filling you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out, the new angle making you feel him impossibly deeper. His hands gripped your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding your body back against him as he fucked you harder and faster, chasing both your releases.

Your body trembled, thighs shaking as you felt the coil in your belly tighten.

"I... I’m close," you gasped, voice breaking.

Michael groaned, thrusting even harder, his rhythm faltering.

Your orgasm slammed into you, walls pulsing and tightening around him. He cursed loudly, his hands digging into your hips as he followed, spilling inside you with a final, shuddering thrust.

He stilled, his breath ragged and uneven, before slowly pulling out.

"Shit... I didn’t even ask if I could cum inside," he stammered, his voice shaky and unsure.

The shy boy resurfacing.

You laughed softly, turning to meet his worried gaze. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess, and his glasses had slipped down his nose.

"It’s okay. I have an IUD," you reassured him with a smirk.

Relief washed over his face, and he smiled sheepishly.

"Wanna get cleaned up? You can stay the night" you asked, nodding toward the bathroom.

Michael’s smile shifted into something more mischievous. His hand curled around your waist, pulling you down against him.

"Who said I was done with you, spoiled girl?"

 You raised a brow, smirking. "Didn’t think you had it in you, nerd."

His grin widened, eyes dark with promise.

"Oh, I’ll show you just how much I’ve got left darling," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and teasing before trailing kisses down your body.

He slid off the bed, sinking to his knees between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider. His eyes never left yours , dark, hungry, as his tongue dragged slowly along your slick, sensitive folds.

A shiver ran through your spine, your body arching into his touch, his name falling from your lips in a breathless moan.

Gods… what have I gotten myself into?