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Thank goodness English is a fairly straightforward class, because Komaeda finds it so easy for his focus to drift away from the words the teacher is saying. Contradictorily, it’s the teacher himself who pulls his attention away.
It’s not like Komaeda can help it, he thinks to himself (though he knows the teacher can’t really be held accountable, either). Komaeda’s gaze focuses on the way his fingers grip his marker – expertly, lightly, using it as a pointer to trace the relationships between Ophelia and Polonius and Laertes and Hamlet – the way his collar opens just a little too far, his tie a little too loose, as if the articles of clothing dislike covering such a perfect neck. Komaeda would like to kiss that neck – he’d like to bite it, like to hear that sweet, stern voice raised in a drawn out moan of pleasure, would like to hear his own name cried out.
Wherein Hinata is Komaeda's English teacher, and both of them do a lot of lusting.