Chapter Text
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xix. I’m so fucked up please help me – rebzyyx
Two days.
You’ve managed two full days of blissful, infuriating, Satoru-free existence, and you hate how aware you are of every single second of it.
It’s been a tactical retreat on your part — calculated, intentional, and maybe just a little dramatic. You abandoned your usual library corner after realizing he knew exactly where to find you there (down to which outlet you preferred and how you always complained about the flickering light above table six). Now you study cross-legged on your dorm bed like a gremlin, surrounded by highlighters, half-open tabs, and one empty coffee cup you keep forgetting to throw away. You’ve started taking a longer route to class, one that adds a solid seven minutes but conveniently avoids the quad where he likes to sprawl out like he owns the place. It’s inconvenient. It’s inefficient. It’s working.
You’ve ignored all three of his texts.
The first was a lazy, lowercase “u up? ” sent at 2:13 a.m. on Monday, which you refused to dignify with even a scoff. The second came at a far more reasonable hour — 10:47 a.m. — and simply said, “So we’re doing the silent treatment thing, huh? ” which you also ignored out of principle. Though the third, on Tuesday, was the worst offender: a grainy, zoomed-in cat meme with a caption that didn’t match the image at all, like he’d panic-selected the first thing in his camera roll. You stared at it for a full thirty seconds before locking your phone and setting it facedown like it had personally offended you.
You told yourself this was anger. That this was discipline. That you were finally, finally not letting Satoru get away with whatever he wanted just because he smiled a little too prettily.
But in the quieter moments — when your playlist ends, and you don’t immediately start another, when your brain doesn’t have something else to chew on — it all comes back anyway.
The morning after plays on a loop, whether you want it to or not.
The way he’d panicked, like the night before, could be outrun if he just moved fast enough. Like if he didn’t look at you, didn’t say it again, didn’t acknowledge it, it would disappear. The sound of your own voice — sharp, controlled, colder than you think you’ve ever been with him — cutting through every half-baked excuse he tried to string together. The way he’d gone quiet when you told him to sit down and eat, actually eat, not just pick at something like he was hoping you’d forget he existed. The way you dragged him back to Party House afterward, ignoring the way he kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure which version of you he was dealing with.
And then telling him — firm, final — that he didn’t get to run from this.
Your bed has felt wrong ever since.
Too big. Too empty. Like something loud and chaotic has been ripped out of it, leaving behind a space that’s just… still. You’ve caught yourself shifting over in your sleep like you’re making room for someone who isn’t there, and that realization alone is enough to make you roll your eyes at yourself and bury your face deeper into your pillow.
You are avoiding him. That part’s undeniable.
But you’re also avoiding the quieter truth underneath it — the part of you that misses the chaos. The noise. The way he fills a room without even trying, like silence simply isn’t an option when he’s around.
Satoru is in no better shape.
Two days of radio silence feels very different on his end.
For him, it might as well be a psychological experiment.
Suguru had taken one look at him when he stumbled back into the house — wearing someone else’s hoodie, hair a mess, pupils still suspiciously blown — and, without a word, confiscated the good liquor and hid it somewhere with a “you’ll never find it.” Which was bold, considering Satoru had, in fact, found it before and is not afraid to do it again.
Still, even Satoru had to admit it was probably for the best, because whatever he had going on right now did not need to be paired with alcohol.
Kento had taken one look at him, said, “This seems like a consequence,” and gone back to whatever spreadsheet he’d been working on, effectively removing himself from the situation entirely. Yu, for his part, had hovered in the doorway for a solid minute before offering a hesitant, “So… you good?” and immediately retreating when Satoru laughed a little too hard and said, “Define good.”
He is, objectively, not good.
He oscillates between extremes like it’s his full-time job. One minute he’s pacing his room, running through increasingly elaborate plans to fix this — grand gestures, perfectly timed appearances, things he’s convinced will work because they always have before. The next, he’s sprawled across his bed, arm thrown over his eyes, convinced he’s finally pushed you past the point where even he can charm his way back in.
Which is… new.. and uncomfortable. Actually, it’s slightly insulting to his sense of self, if he’s being honest.
Satoru also checks your location more than he’d ever admit out loud.
The Find My Friends app — his idea, of course. He’d framed it as a safety thing months ago, all smug and pleased with himself when you reluctantly agreed.
“What if you get kidnapped? ” He’d said after the last round of makeup sex at Party House, as if that was a normal, everyday concern. “I’d need to know where to find you.”
You’d rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt, but you let him set it up anyway.
Now it’s the only reason he hasn’t completely lost his mind. Luckily for Satoru, you’ve barely left your dorm. He’s watched your little dot stay stubbornly in one place, occasionally shifting just enough to confirm you’re still alive and, presumably, still ignoring him. It’s smart, strategic, and deeply — deeply fucking irritating — but it’s also not enough because Satoru knows you. He knows you better than he probably knows himself. Better than he’d ever say out loud without immediately turning it into a joke. He knows your schedule down to the minute, your habits down to the small, unconscious things — like how you always sit on the left side of the room if you have a choice, or how you tap your pen twice before you start writing when you’re focused.
Which is why Wednesday is the only thing keeping him remotely sane.
10 a.m. EnviPhys.
Hall B.
Third row from the left. Seat by the window — the one where you always angle yourself just slightly toward the light without realizing it.
And the seat next to it?
His.
It has been since the second week of class, after your first hookup in your dorm, where Satoru had scanned the room and decided that you owed him for the damage you left behind on his skin. He’d dropped into the chair like it was the most natural thing in the world, copped your number with the smoothness of butter, and proceeded to tease you until he thought you were about to pass out.
That seat isn’t just convenient. It’s claimed. It’s familiar. It’s routine. A constant in a way he doesn’t have many of — just like you are. And two days of silence — no matter how pointed, how intentional — isn’t enough to convince him otherwise.
Wednesday cannot come fast enough.
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xx. ATTACHED! – d3r, kets4eki, proz
You time it down to the minute.
One minute before class starts — your carefully engineered buffer against small talk, awkward eye contact, and anyone trying to ambush you with “hey, did you do the reading? " before you’ve even emotionally clocked in for the day. It’s a system you refined through trial, error, and one deeply regrettable incident where someone tried to show you their notes, and you had to nod along like you understood while internally buffering like a dying laptop with seventeen tabs open and a mysterious YouTube video playing somewhere in the background.
You push open the door to EnviPhys already halfway in your own head, mentally preparing to nod at graphs you don’t understand, pretend the phrase “aerosol distribution gradient” isn’t personally attacking you, and maybe reward yourself afterward with an overpriced iced coffee that tastes like regret and caramel for surviving.
But then you see him.
Satoru is already there.
Of course he is.
Third row, left side, by the window — leaned back like the chair was designed specifically for him and him alone, one long leg stretched into the aisle like he’s either daring someone to trip over it or hoping someone does so he can sue for emotional damages out of boredom. His arm is hooked over the back of your usual seat, fingers draped there like he claimed it hours ago, and is now running a silent “reserved” system with absolutely no authority.
He looks completely at ease. Like he hasn’t been spiraling for two days straight. Like this is just another morning and not the first time he’s seen you since everything went spectacularly, catastrophically, embarrassingly off the rails.
Your stomach drops — but this time, you don’t hesitate.
Fine.
If he’s going to be there, then you won’t.
You don’t slow down, don’t give yourself time to second-guess it or accidentally make eye contact and ruin your entire strategy. You scan the room once and lock onto a seat two rows up, closer to the center. The lighting is worse, the angle to the board is worse, and you’re about ninety percent sure that’s the exact seat where someone once ate an entire tuna sandwich during lecture, crinkled the wrapper like it owed them money, and then loudly chewed like a documentary on marine life.
But it has one very important quality: it is not next to him.
Better yet, someone is already sitting in the seat beside it.
Perfect. A human buffer. A living, breathing obstacle. A civilian you are about to unintentionally involve in something they absolutely did not sign up for.
You pivot mid-step like you absolutely meant to do that, march up the aisle, and slide into the chair with quiet determination. Your bag hits the floor with a soft thud that feels way louder than it should, your laptop comes out in one smooth motion, and you open it like you’re clocking into a job you didn’t ask for but will perform with aggressive competence purely out of spite.
You don’t look back, not even a little.
Satoru, of course, notices immediately.
The moment you walk in, it hits him — sharp and electric, like his brain finally decided to start working again after two days of being profoundly unhelpful. And then, just as quickly, that focus shifts into something else entirely because you don’t come toward him. You don’t hesitate, don’t hover, don’t even do that thing where people pretend to check their phone while deciding where to sit. You see him—and then you walk right past like he’s a coat rack. Like he’s optional. Like he’s… ignorable.
Satoru actually stills for half a second, watching you reroute in real time, watching you pick a completely different seat like this is some kind of tactical maneuver you’ve been rehearsing in your head like a heist plan titled Operation: Avoid Him or Die Trying.
Oh.
Oh, so that’s what you’re doing.
You’re avoiding him.
It’s adorable.
Also incorrect.
Satoru’s gaze flicks to the person sitting next to you — a random guy, already settled in, notebook out, posture screaming, “I care about my GPA and also probably have a planner with color-coded tabs.” The kind of person who reads the syllabus for fun. The kind of person who says “great question” out loud when someone asks something obvious. The kind of person who has absolutely no idea he has just wandered directly into a situation that will emotionally inconvenience him for the next five minutes. The kind of person who does not realize he has made a critical, life-altering seating error.
Satoru stands, grabs his bag, and heads over without a hint of hesitation, like this is the most normal, reasonable course of action in the world and everyone else is simply lagging behind in processing speed.
You, however, don’t notice Satoru until he’s already there.
Not until a shadow falls over your desk. Not until the guy next to you shifts, looking up with mild confusion that escalates very quickly into something closer to concern, like he just realized he made eye contact with someone at the gym who wants to talk.
“Uh—hey?” Nameless guy says, clearly not prepared for whatever this is.
Your fingers pause over your keyboard, a bad feeling settling in your chest like you just watched a glass tip off the edge of a table in slow motion, and you already know it’s going to shatter and somehow be your fault.
Satoru doesn’t even look at you yet.
“Sorry,” He says to the guy, voice calm, even, and not apologetic in the slightest. “That’s my spot.”
The guy blinks. “I—what?”
Satoru tilts his head just slightly, like he’s being patient with a question that has an obvious answer, like this is a customer service interaction and he is both the manager and the policy.
“I sit there.” He adds, as if that clears up the confusion in any meaningful way.
“It’s not assigned seating.” The guy says, trying — bravely, heroically, perhaps foolishly — to hold his ground like this is a hill worth dying on.
It’s not.
And then he really looks at Satoru.
The height. The presence. The fact that Satoru looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days, but still somehow has the energy to ruin someone’s morning, afternoon, and possibly semester if necessary. There’s nothing overtly aggressive about him — no raised voice, no threats — but there’s a certainty there that makes arguing feel like investing in a clearly sinking Titanic-adjacent ship.
“…you know what, that’s fine.” The guy says quickly, already gathering his things like a man who has seen the future and decided he doesn’t like it. “I can just—yeah.”
Nameless guy fumbles his pen, almost forgets his backpack, grabs everything in a slightly panicked rush, and relocates two rows back with the speed of someone who has just decided that peace is, in fact, more important than principle, dignity, or seating consistency. But the whole time, you stare straight ahead, absolutely still, because there is no way. There is no fucking way Satoru just—
The chair next to you scrapes loudly against the floor as Satoru pulls it out and drops into it like it was always his, like this was inevitable, like gravity itself arranged this outcome.
You turn your head slowly, like if you move too fast, you might actually combust or say something that gets you banned from the building. And yeah, you actually might. The temptation is fucking palpable right now.
“Are you serious?” You whisper, sharp and disbelieving, like you’re trying not to cause a scene but also very close to causing a scene.
Satoru leans back immediately, settling in like he’s just gotten comfortable after a long day, one arm already draping across the back of your chair like proximity is not something he needs permission for, like personal space is a concept he read about once and chose to ignore.
“You moved.” He says simply.
“Yes,” you bite out, voice tight. “That was the point.”
“Mm.” He hums, glancing at your screen for half a second like he’s pretending to care about whatever you’re typing before looking back at you, faint amusement tugging at his mouth. “Looks like it didn’t take.”
You hold his gaze for exactly one second longer than necessary, then turn back to your laptop with a tight inhale, like you’re physically restraining yourself from saying something that would get you escorted out by campus security and possibly banned from higher education entirely.
The professor starts talking — something about air quality indices, maybe particulates again, maybe something about emissions — but the words blur together into background noise like elevator music for people with academic anxiety. Someone coughs three rows back like they’re auditioning for a medical drama. Someone else drops a pen and then takes an unreasonably long time retrieving it, creating a whole side plot you did not ask to be part of.
None of it matters.
Because Satoru is here.
Again.
Always closer than he needs to be.
And of course, he didn’t bring anything to take notes with. Not even a pen he can click obnoxiously to at least contribute to society in a small, irritating way.
“You’re unbelievable.” You mutter under your breath, typing with unnecessary force like your keyboard personally wronged you.
“And you’re bad at hiding.” He murmurs back, far too pleased with himself.
You ignore him — or at least, you commit to the attempt with the intensity of someone pretending not to hear their name being called in public.
You really do try to focus on your screen, on typing something — anything — that resembles notes, even if half of it is just you aggressively rewording the slide titles. Beside you, Satoru shifts. His shoulder brushes yours.
Once.
Then again.
Not accidental. Never accidental.
Your posture goes rigid. Your shoulders square. Your entire body language screams do not engage like a warning sign no one is reading. You purposely inch your chair away, slow and deliberate, like you’re trying to maintain some dignity in the face of this nonsense, but of course, Satoru follows immediately. You don’t even look this time — you just shift again, sharper now, jaw tightening. He moves with you again, a quiet, amused exhale slipping out like this is the highlight of his week.
This is a game to him.
Of course it is.
He’s going to keep pushing until you react. Until you snap. Until you give him something he can work with.
You stare harder at your screen, typing words you are absolutely not processing, refusing — refusing — to give him the satisfaction.
Satoru, meanwhile, is having a fantastic time.
The fact that you tried to dodge him—planned it, even, complete with a human buffer—is genuinely funny to him. The effort. The strategy. The absolute refusal to even look at him unless necessary, like he’s the sun and you’re trying not to go blind. He finds it cute and completely ineffective. The anger suits you, he decides. The restraint is even more so. He can see it in every detail — the tension in your shoulders, the way your spine goes perfectly straight, the tiny muscle in your jaw that keeps twitching like it’s begging you to say something unwise.
You’re not listening to the lecture. He knows you’re not. You’re listening to him. To the space between you. To every shift and adjustment.
So he closes that space.
His arm stretches along the back of your chair again, fingers brushing your shoulder in light, almost absentminded passes that are anything but. Then, slower this time, more deliberate, his hand drifts down. To your thigh, high up, literally just beneath the hem of your skirt. And you go completely still. It’s barely a touch, but it lands heavy and intentional. Like a quiet reminder — of the other night, of hands and heat and everything you’ve been trying very hard not to replay in your head at inconvenient times, like during lectures or while brushing your teeth.
Satoru leans in, close enough that his voice doesn’t have to travel, close enough that you can feel the shape of the words before you fully hear them.
“You really thought moving would work?”
Your breath catches — small, quick, traitorous — and you hate that it happens, but Satoru doesn’t. He notices it immediately. He can feel it in the way your body tenses, sees it in the smallest hitch you can’t quite suppress. A slow, satisfied smile pulls at his mouth as he leans back just enough to watch you try — and fail — to pretend this isn’t getting to you.
“You can’t avoid me forever, princess.” He purrs, voice low, threaded with something dangerously pleased. “You’re gonna have to talk to me sooner or later.”
There’s a beat.
A long one.
Just enough time for him to think he’s got you cornered. That you’re going to stay quiet. That you’re going to keep pretending.
But then you move, just slightly — just enough that your shoulder bumps his with actual intent this time, not something he can twist into his own narrative. Your hand stills on the keyboard completely, and slowly — finally — you turn your head. Your expression is flat, controlled, and dangerously calm in a way that should probably worry him more than your anger ever did.
“Yeah?” You whisper back, voice quiet enough that no one else can hear, but sharp enough to cut. “Funny, I remember you trying to sneak out like a coward two days ago.”
And that lands.
You see it — just for a second. That tiny flicker. The crack. And you don’t bother giving him time to recover.
“And now you’re what?” You continue, tilting your head slightly, gaze steady and unimpressed. “Stalking me through lecture halls because you don’t know how to have an actual conversation sober?”
Your eyes flick down, deliberately, to where his hand is on your thigh.
Then back up.
One brow lifts.
“Pick a personality, Satoru.” You add, voice still low, still even. “Because this one’s embarrassing.”
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xxi. u love it – sophie powers, $atori zoom
The lecture ends.
The sound of chairs scraping and students chattering breaks the tense spell. You slam your laptop shut with unnecessary force, the sharp clap echoing your internal rage, and shove it into your bag with the care of someone trying to win a game of Tetris with spite. You stand up, the legs of your chair screeching against the linoleum like a dying animal, ready to make your escape, but Satoru’s hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist. His grip is firm, unyielding. It’s not painful, but absolute, a brand of certainty you wish he’d applied to literally anything else in his life.
You freeze, your back still to him. Every muscle in your body tenses, a silent war being waged between the primal urge to rip your arm away and the deeply ingrained social conditioning to not cause a scene in a place that smells faintly of chalk dust and regret. You can feel the curious glances of the last few stragglers as they file past, their whispers a low, irritating hum.
"Let go." You say, your voice low and tight. It's not a request. It's a warning shot.
He doesn't.
Instead, his thumb presses gently against your pulse point, a maddeningly intimate gesture that feels less like a comfort and more like a mockery, like he's checking to make sure the engine is still running before he decides whether or not to total the car.
"We need to talk." His voice is just as low, a rumble meant only for you that somehow manages to both grate on your nerves and send an unwelcome shiver down your spine. "Now."
The sheer audacity makes you want to laugh, a hysterical, unhinged sound that you barely manage to swallow.
"We have nothing to talk about." You sneer, voice clipped with your rapidly thinning patience.
"Yes, we do." He pushes, his grip tightening just enough to make his point, the pressure a clear and present danger to your composure. "You can't just ignore me forever."
"Let go." You say, your voice low and tight.
He doesn't.
Instead, he sighs, the sound heavy with frustration, and scrubs a hand over his face. When he looks at you again, his expression is one of weary finality, as if he's simply stating a fact he can no longer be bothered to argue about. It's in that moment of quiet resignation that he decides to speak, his voice low and devoid of its usual teasing lilt.
"You can't just avoid me." He insists, his grip tightening just enough to make his point. "It's messed up."
You turn to glare at him, and the look on his face — a mixture of frustration and that familiar, stubborn Gojo entitlement — is the final straw. He looks like he's solving a math problem, not navigating the emotional wreckage he created.
"Can we just move on, please?” He pleads, “It wasn't even that big of a deal."
The words leave Satoru's mouth so casually you almost think you misheard him, like maybe your brain, in a desperate act of self-preservation, auto-corrected his stupidity into something more palatable, like a request for the time. Key word being almost, because when it registers, when the full, insulting weight of his dismissal lands, your entire body is suddenly burning hot with a rage so pure it feels like a fever. You stare at him for half a second — long enough for him to realize he just lit a match in a gasoline factory.
“Wow.” You say, the word dripping with an icy sarcasm that could freeze hell over, hurriedly snatching your wrist from his grasp as if his touch has become radioactive. “Just wow. You are such a selfish ass.”
Satoru straightens immediately, his posture shifting from lazy dismissal to full-blown panic mode in 0.2 seconds flat.
“Hey—”
“No, don’t ‘hey’ me,” You cut in, your voice sharp enough to slice steel, “You don’t get to say something like that and then stand there like you just commented on the weather. You don’t get to minimize this.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“You literally just said it." You snap, enunciating each word with the precision of a surgeon. "The words came out of your face hole in that exact order.”
“I said it wrong.” He shoots back, already running a hand through his hair, a gesture you’ve come to recognize as his ‘oh shit, I’ve been caught’ tell. “You’re twisting it—”
You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, the movement sharp and aggressive, before throwing your hands up in the air in a gesture of pure, unadulterated exasperation.
“Oh, my God! ” You proclaim, your patience having drained away completely, leaving behind a brittle, angry shell. “I’m not doing this! I’m not standing here while you gaslight me into thinking I’m crazy for being angry that you confessed your undying love for me after a four-day bender and now want to pretend it's just a footnote in your epic saga of partying! I'm done! ”
You head straight for the door, your steps quick and purposeful.
“Wait—”
You yank it open and step out into the hallway, the sudden emptiness a stark contrast to the claustrophobia of the lecture hall. The door slams hard behind you, the sound a satisfying, final punctuation mark, and from behind it, you hear his voice immediately, a muffled curse.
“Shit—” He curses, the sound followed by the frantic rattling of the doorknob.
The door flies open again.
“[First Name]!” He calls after you, his voice echoing down the sterile, linoleum-tiled corridor.
You don’t turn around. You just start walking faster down the hall, your footsteps a rapid-fire staccato against the floor.
“[First Name], come here! ” He shouts, voice rising to an angry crescendo that bounces off the walls and makes a passing TA jump.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You push through the heavy glass doors at the end of the hall and step out into the bright campus afternoon, the sudden sunlight a brutal assault on your senses. You head straight for the parking lot, your eyes already scanning for your beat-up Ford Focus.
Footsteps echo behind you.
Fast ones.
“Hey! ” Satoru calls again, closer now. “Princess, hold on!”
You keep going, already making a beeline for your car.
By the time Satoru bursts out the doors after you, you're already halfway across the parking lot. You spam the remote start on your key fob like it personally insulted your mother and stole your favorite childhood teddy bear, but you can already tell that your car isn't reacting to the input.
Right, you still haven't gotten the stupid fucking batteries replaced. Out of all the worst possible times, this ranks somewhere between the Titanic hitting an iceberg and finding out your favorite pizza place closed five minutes ago.
You disassemble the key with the precision of a bomb disposal expert, pulling out the physical copy tucked into the fob like it's the last remaining evidence of civilization. You storm up to the door, jamming the key toward the lock with the finesse of a toddler trying to insert a square peg into a round hole. It takes more than its fair share of tries because your hands are moving too fast, because Satoru is currently running up on you like Ghostface if Ghostface strictly wore only Gucci and had a terrible sense of timing.
Finally, you twist the key and yank the handle — practically tearing the damn thing off the hinges as punishment for making your life harder than a calculus final written in ancient Sanskrit. You're just about to throw yourself inside when Satoru catches up. He slaps a hand on the roof of the car with the dramatic flair of a Broadway understudy, ducking under your arm with lightning-fast precision that would make a ninja weep with envy. He slots himself directly between you and the driver's seat, blocking the entire doorway like a human roadblock designed specifically to ruin your day.
"Baby girl, just listen to me for a second! " He pleads, panting like he just ran a marathon while carrying a refrigerator on his back, hands already flying around animatedly like he's conducting an orchestra of chaos. "We can work this out!"
Satoru's chest is heaving from the strain of chasing after you, and his plush lips are parted to accommodate that need for oxygen. His sunglasses have slipped down his nose, coming to sit rather crookedly at the tip, revealing his wide, panic-filled eyes that look like a startled deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. His face is still flushed and glimmering with the sheet of sweat laid over his skin like he just emerged from a sauna marathon.
Though, because you have suddenly decided that you have self-respect, you fix your stare to his face — glaring up at him like you're wishing him a lifetime of stubbing his toe on every piece of furniture in existence. And yeah, you kinda are.
"Move." You grit out, your voice sounding like you've been gargling gravel and disappointment.
"No! " Satoru barks as he steps forward, puffing out his chest like an angry pigeon. He leans down just enough to crowd your face with his own and a bonus finger of accusation that wobbles with righteous indignation. "We're not done here! You don't storm out when I'm talking to you!"
The fire in your veins surges, roaring to uncontainable proportions with the metaphorical gasoline this audacious little shit dumped over it while doing a victory dance. First of all, how dare he? Second of all, who the hell does he think he is? Third of all — does he think this is a rom-com where the dramatic chase scene ends in a passionate kiss instead of a restraining order? ‘Cause he’s very wrong.
Slap!
The sound cracks across the parking lot like a gunshot, ferociously ripping through the silence that you hadn't noticed haunting the space until now. The hit lands hard, sending Satoru's head snapping to the side and his sunglasses sailing over the top of your door to crash somewhere on the pavement with the tragic finality of a fallen hero. Your palm stings immediately, heat blooming across your skin like you just high-fived the sun, but you barely notice it over the white-hot fury pounding through your chest like a heavy metal drum solo.
Still, you shake it out, trying to will your hands to stop shaking from the adrenaline punching through your system like it's trying to win a boxing match. Your chest shudders with a barely restrained breath, words running a million miles a minute in your mind, but failing to flow out of your mouth because you're waiting for Satoru's brain to catch up with the plot twist.
Satoru stays frozen where he is, bent slightly over you like a broken action figure. His face is turned away from the impact, offering a close-up showcase of the bright red handprint taking form on his skin like a modern art masterpiece titled "Regret." His eyes are wide like all he can see is the highlight reel of the slap from multiple different camera angles, including one in slow motion set to dramatic classical music.
A slow second passes.
Then another.
He hesitantly lifts a hand up to touch his cheek like he's not entirely sure he's allowed to, like he's checking if his face is still there or if it's been replaced by a portal to another dimension. His jaw flexes, quietly popping like bubble wrap as he works out the tension that's lit a fire in his tingling skin. He turns back to look at you, eyes uncovered and startlingly blue in the open daylight now that his sunglasses are somewhere dying on the asphalt like a fallen soldier. They're glassy and wide with awe, and if you weren't so pissed off right now, you might've tossed a blanket over him like a paramedic treating a shock victim who just discovered that unicorns aren't real.
"You—" He starts, then stops, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "You just—"
His mouth opens again, like his brain is trying to reboot but keeps getting stuck on the loading screen. His hand is still cupped over the side of his face, fingertips pressing lightly against the angry red print blooming across his cheek like he's checking to make sure it's real and not just a very realistic temporary tattoo.
"Yes." You snap immediately, voice sharp enough to cut glass and possibly steel. "I did."
Your chest rises and falls hard as the adrenaline continues to surge through your bloodstream like a caffeinated squirrel on a sugar high.
"And if you don't move the fuck out of my way," You add, pointing toward the open space behind him like you're directing traffic in hell, "I will do it again. And this time, I'll aim for the other cheek so you'll have a matching set."
Satoru blinks.
Once.
Twice.
He exhales slowly through his nose, dragging his hand down his face like he's trying to physically pull himself together, before looking back at you again.
"You slapped me." He says again, like he's still trying to process the concept of gravity.
"Congratulations." You shoot back. "You're keeping up. Next up, we'll work on colors and shapes."
He glances down at you again, eyes narrowing a fraction. His jaw tightens slightly, like he's preparing for battle but forgot his armor.
"You're seriously hitting me instead of just listening for five seconds?" He asks, his voice dripping with the kind of wounded disbelief usually reserved for people who just found out their favorite character was killed off-screen.
"Listening? " You repeat, laughing harshly enough to scare nearby pigeons. "You weren't asking me to listen. You were telling me what I'm allowed to do, like you're the CEO of my life decisions."
"That's not what I said."
"That is exactly what you said.” You fire back, “I was there. I have excellent hearing and a photographic memory for bullshit."
"I said—" He tries
"—that I don't get to walk away when you're talking," You cut in, voice rising like the tide during a hurricane. "Like you're my fucking father or something, except my father actually respects boundaries."
"I didn't mean it like that!" He wails, indignantly
"Then how did you mean it, Satoru?” You snarl, “Were you speaking in ancient Sumerian and it got lost in translation?"
He hesitates, just for a second. And that second is enough to send your irritation right back through the roof like a rocket ship to the moon of pure unhinged rage.
"Yeah." You scoff. "That's what I thought."
You grab the edge of the door and try to step around him, channeling the agility of an Olympic gymnast who's had way too much coffee.
"Now move."
He reacts immediately, shifting again and blocking the opening before you can slip past him, like a human game of Whac-A-Mole where you're the mole and he's the hammer.
"Baby, please—" He starts, his voice taking on the desperate tone of someone who's just realized they left the oven on at home.
"For fuck's sake, Satoru!" You scream, hands flying up in frustration like you're trying to signal an airplane that's about to crash. "Are you serious right now? Did you hit your head on the way out? Should I be calling an ambulance instead of trying to escape?"
"I just need two minutes!" He insists, running a hand through his hair again, the earlier panic bleeding back into his voice like a poorly done watercolor painting. "That's it. Two minutes, and then you can leave, princess. I swear on my limited edition collectible figurines!"
"You said that ten minutes ago!" You roar back, unable to stop yourself from getting in his face like an angry cat who just discovered its favorite scratching post has been replaced with a cactus.
"Because you keep running away! " He shouts back, shoving you back with the force of someone trying to restart a malfunctioning vending machine.
"Because you keep saying stupid shit! " You screech
And something inside you finally snaps. Not just a little crack, but a full-on shatter like a dropped mirror, and suddenly, there are a million angry versions of you all screaming for vengeance — thirsting for blood.
You launch at him — not a shove, not a warning. Full force, every ounce of you behind it like you're trying to personally restart the tectonic plates. Your shoulder crashes into Satoru's chest with a bone-jarring smack that echoes across the parking lot like a cannonball hitting a side of beef. The impact rattles through your arm and up into your shoulder, sending a jolt of "this was probably a bad idea" through your system.
Satoru stumbles backward, the surprise clear in the sudden jerk of his body, his feet scrambling against the asphalt like Bambi on ice. His back hits the side of the car with a heavy thud that makes your poor Ford Focus groan in protest, its suspension crying out for mercy like it just witnessed a crime.
"—Whoa—!" He grunts, startled, his voice cracking like a teenage boy's.
He plants his feet just in time, sneakers scrabbling against the asphalt to keep from toppling over like a poorly stacked Jenga tower.
But you're already on him.
Your fists slam into his chest in quick, furious bursts, each strike knocking the air from his lungs with a satisfying "oof" sound. Anger drives every hit, letting all your frustration pour out in rapid, relentless thumpthumpthumps that would make a heavyweight boxer proud.
"Are—you—seriously—this—"
Thumpthumpthump.
"fucking—"
Thump.
"dense?!"
Thump.
Each strike jerks his shoulders back against the car again, threatening your poor Focus' suspension with a metaphorical knife to the neck while simultaneously testing the structural integrity of both his ribcage and your patience.
Satoru hisses sharply as one lands squarely, his hands fumbling in a struggle to catch up to yours until his reflexes finally kick in like a computer that's been rebooting for an hour. His hands shoot out and clamp around your wrists midair, stopping another torrential downpour of swings before they can land. He maneuvers you both slightly away from the car, using your momentum to shift the fight like a martial arts master who's just remembered his training. Your hands smack against the roof of the car with a loud bang that makes you grit your teeth from the sting. Before you can pull back, Satoru pins your wrists flat against the surface. He leans slightly over you, bracing himself to keep you from swinging again, his face hovering inches from yours like he's about to deliver some profound wisdom or possibly just more nonsense — and yeah, it'll most likely be more nonsense.
Both of you are breathing hard now, chests rising and falling rapidly like you've just run a marathon through a desert made of angry bees. Hair sticks to sweat-slick skin, and you're pretty sure your makeup has achieved the look of a raccoon that's just lost a fight with a garden hose. Satoru simply shakes his head, messy strands of white hair falling across his forehead before he shifts his grip to one hand, leaning back against the car so that he can push them off his forehead with the dramatic flair of a soap opera star.
"Jesus, princess." He wheezes out, still winded. "You fight dirty. Did you take lessons from an angry badger?"
You glare back at him, chest heaving with the force of your rage and exhaustion.
"You're so fucking awful, Satoru!" You snarl, demanding, "Let. Me. Go. Before I start biting!"
You twist again, trying to free yourself like a fish on a hook, but Satoru's grip tightens, pressing your hands more firmly against the roof. He exhales sharply, letting his arms quiver slightly as he braces for the struggle like he's preparing for an earthquake.
"Not until you stop hitting me." He huffs, his voice taking on the whiny tone of someone who's just realized they've lost the argument but refuses to admit it.
"I'll stop when you stop being a stupid, selfish asshole! “ You shout, your voice cracking with the force of your emotions like a teenage boy's voice during puberty.
"Hey."
Both of you turn towards the new voice entering the chat like an unexpected guest at a dinner party where everyone's already screaming at each other.
“Is this guy bothering you?”
▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။•
xxii. mine – 1nonly
A car a few spaces down has just pulled in, its engine rumbling like a disgruntled dragon that just woke up from a nap. A guy and a girl are standing beside it now, watching the scene with open curiosity like they’ve just stumbled upon the finale of a nature documentary they didn't know was filming.
One of them — a short, broad-shouldered, and visibly irritated man dressed like a white dad at the community barbecue who lost a bet and had to wear his kid's cargo shorts — looks between you and Satoru with cautious eyes, like he's trying to solve a Rubik's cube that's on fire.
A girl stands beside him — Hanami, who you recognize from your Environmental Physics course with Satoru, a class you're pretty sure is just a sophisticated plot to make everyone question their life choices. She’s much taller than her companion, her long dark hair tied back and tucked neatly underneath a fake flower headband that looks like it was stolen from a garden gnome. She always dresses head to toe like Poison Ivy if she were a character from Strawberry Shortcake and had a serious vendetta against muted colors. Her arms are loosely crossed over her chest, and she looks like she’s about to jump Satoru with the mean glare she’s giving him, a glare so intense it could probably curdle milk from three states away.
You glance back at Satoru, who closes his eyes for half a second like the universe personally betrayed him by scheduling this public humiliation during his primetime drama hour. His nostrils flare with the force of a startled stallion, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck as he pointedly releases your wrists like they're contaminated evidence.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he pushes himself off the car, a move that's supposed to look casual but comes off as a teenager trying to hide a boner. He throws them a pointed look, his stare hardening into something that could cut glass, or at least give it a really nasty scratch.
You also take the time to adjust your shirt, feverishly tucking it back into your skirt with the frantic energy of someone trying to put out a fire with a single napkin. Then, you tug the strap of your bag over your shoulder so that it sits flush, a pointless gesture of normalcy in a situation that has rocketed past the event horizon of sanity. Honestly, you’re just straight-up stalling until these two magically disappear into the floor like they’re failed video game characters, before you’re forced to talk to them. Like, Hanami is super annoying already, always pestering you with questions about class when she all but corners you in the library with the tenacity of a bloodhound that's been promised a treat. You really don’t need her yappy appy ass involved in your personal life, which is currently a dumpster fire, clearly.
“Mind your fucking business.” Satoru hisses, his voice dripping with the kind of hostility usually reserved for people who cut in line at the DMV.
Hanami silently raises an eyebrow, a single, perfect arch that communicates a level of unimpressed usually reserved for cats watching their humans try to dance.
“Didn’t ask you.” She scoffs, her voice as dry as a saltine cracker left in the Sahara. "He asked her."
She tilts her head slightly, gaze drifting from Satoru to you. Her face softens with something that looks an awful lot like pity, and it makes your pulse stutter at the implication. Did Hanami seriously think that you didn’t have it covered? Ugh, see this is the problem with nosy bystanders, you swear! Now she knows that you’re fucking crazy. Awesome. Your reputation is now officially in tatters, and you haven't even finished your degree yet. You push off the car, clearing your throat nervously like you're about to give a presentation on the mating habits of garden gnomes.
“I’m fine.” Your eyes flicker away from her bashfully as you tuck your messy hair behind your ears, a gesture that does nothing to hide the fact that you look like you just wrestled a windstorm and lost. “You guys can go.”
“No, we won’t.” The guy announces, glower still fixed on Satoru like he's trying to set him on fire with his mind. “He should go.”
Ohh yeahh, you do know this guy! It’s Hanami’s boyfriend — Jogo or whatever — the boxer or something, which explains the physique of a fire hydrant and the temperament of one that's been kicked. She showed you a picture of him last week, though you honestly cannot remember why. For the plot, you suppose. Every story needs a random, pugnacious side character.
“You’re fucking joking.” Satoru lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “You’re actually fucking joking, right? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure she just told you it’s fine, in case your ears are filled with cement.”
“She’s obviously not fine.” Jogo’s jaw tightens, looking like he's trying to chew through steel. “You’re putting your hands on her in the middle of the parking lot in broad daylight! This isn't a WWE pay-per-view!”
“Excuse me?!” Satoru shoots back, stepping closer, hands raised in mock surrender like he's trying to calm down a very aggressive squirrel. “I’m not—”
“You are! You’re always doing this!” Jogo snarls, naming things on his fingers like he's reading off a very angry grocery list, “You did it to Mei Mei, you did it to Hanami—”
Your eyes widen as Jogo sticks an accusing finger in Satoru’s face, a gesture that is just begging to be bitten.
“Just because your parents fucked up in raising you to have humility, doesn’t mean the rest of the world needs to suffer for it! “ Jogo roars, his face turning an alarming shade of purple, like he's a human grape about to burst.
You stiffen, eyes flicking over to Satoru just in time to see the words land; and they land hard — harder than a piano dropped from a skyscraper, sharper than anything you’ve thrown before.
Satoru’s breath catches violently, a harsh intake that rattles his chest like he just inhaled a bee. His body jerks like he’s been tased, and the pang in your own chest confirms it. Every muscle tenses, shoulders snapping up to his ears, fingers clenching into fists so tight his knuckles turn white as a spike of shock races through his system. There’s a split-second flicker of hurt splashing over his face, raw and devastating, before his eyes dull and cloud over with a matte, unfocused glaze. His lips part slightly, as if to protest, but no sound comes out.
Shit, Satoru's mouth is too dry all of a sudden, like he's been eating sandpaper. He suddenly remembers the call two days ago, before he lost his shit and made you come pick him up. God, his chest feels tight again, like he's wearing a corset made of concrete. Satoru’s really bout to crash out for real, huh? Fuck, he’s so angry he can’t even see straight; the world has become a blurry, red-tinged mess. His body is so hot, like he's about to spontaneously combust.
Is Satoru gonna kill this guy? Yeah, he thinks he is. He's already planning the alibi.
You, on the other hand, have stopped breathing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Satoru quieter in your life, and you haven’t seen that look since—
Since he was in your dorm that night.
Suddenly, a memory that hits you with the force of a physical blow.
“Please don't leave me. Please. I know I fucked up, I know I'm a mess, but please—”
“I can't face them. They're so disappointed in me and I can't—I can't be what they want me to be—”
“M’ sorry I left. I shoulda stayed—I should've—I should've—"
"I love you, I love you, I love you—"
You can still remember the tears warming your skin where his forehead was pressed deep into your shoulder, like he thought that if he didn’t maintain constant contact, then you would disappear entirely. You can still feel the weight of him on your chest. Can still feel his body jerking with each gasp and shuddering with every sob. Can smell the sharp, acrid tang of tequila in the air like you’re still there in your dorm room and not currently standing in a parking lot after a screaming match that could wake the dead.
You don’t think.
You just move.
Before Satoru can reboot — before his mind can even register what’s happening — you’re already sliding in front of him, pivoting with the precision of a ballerina who's also a highly-trained assassin. One hand presses lightly but firmly against his chest, shoving him just enough to tuck him behind yourself like he’s a child to be protected from a playground bully and not a fully grown twenty-four-year-old man on track to become a nuclear physicist.
This is it.
This is the exact millisecond marking the loss of your fucking mind. Mourn as needed because all the rage that’s been building inside you for the past few weeks is once again exploding out of you as if Jogo had personally stuffed an entire pack of Mentos into your 2L Coke and then shaken it for good measure.
“Don’t you dare yell at him!” You snarl, eyes wild and gestures even wilder, like you're trying to conduct an orchestra of pure rage. “I told you and your trench-bodied girlfriend that I was fine! So I’m fucking fine! “
Your chest is heaving from the strain of cramming as many words as possible into one breath, your lungs burning like you just tried to inhale a chili pepper. Your hair is a glorious mess of frizzy [hair color] strands that demand justice and possibly a small claims court. Your thighs are still sticky from the mess that Satoru left between them not even ten minutes ago, a fact that feels both deeply intimate and wildly inappropriate given the current audience.
”But no, you gotta push! You gotta push and push and push! “ You continue, not taking a breath, your voice reaching a pitch that could probably shatter glass. ”You’re like a human pop-up ad for unwanted opinions!“
God, you feel disgusting. You feel alive. Your receptors have never been shot with as much cortisol as they are being injected with now, a chemical cocktail so potent it could power a small city. Your brain is barely keeping up with your mouth at this point, the connection between thought and speech having been severed entirely. You don’t know what you’re saying, but goddamn, you do know that if these sideshow NPC characters do not de-render themselves from the map, then you’re gonna catch a charge that will make for a truly fascinating story at your future parole hearing.
”If you do not pack your asses back into the car and get out of the parking lot right now,” You point past Jogo’s head at his car, your finger trembling with righteous fury, nostrils flaring, eyes burning with the fire of a thousand suns. “I swear on God that I will personally fingerfuck your tires with a switchblade! ”
Silence drops over the parking lot like someone hit mute on the remote control for the universe.
Behind you, Satoru hasn’t said a word; he hasn’t even moved. He’s still standing exactly where you shoved him, half a step back, shoulders still tight with the aftershock of everything Jogo just threw at him. His breathing is shallow, uneven, chest rising and falling like his lungs haven’t quite remembered how to work properly yet, but his eyes are locked on you.
Just you.
Because the second you stepped in front of him, the rest of the parking lot fell out of focus. He’s never seen you this angry before, not even close. He’d gotten you pissed off plenty the past weeks, yeah, but it was never like this. It was never… this.
Your shirt is sloppily tucked into that same black little skirt that he loves so much. You still reek blatantly of his Dior perfume. It's dizzying — intoxicating, even. Like, you literally just pimp-slapped this man for getting in your face, you actually put hands on him up against your car like he was some common whore, and now — now you’re getting into some guy’s face on his behalf. Satoru’s other hookups have let him get pressed for less. Much, much less. They would have handed him a ten-dollar bill and an Uber and told him to figure it out. Yet here you are, crashing out on some nosy bystander because the guy brought up Satoru’s parents.
It’s..
It’s actually.. really sweet.
Truly, Satoru would be blushing if he weren’t so shell-shocked.
It seems the other two are in the same condition. Hanami’s brows slowly rise toward her hairline, disappearing into her gnome-hat. The irritation that had been sitting on her face melts into something closer to stunned disbelief as her eyes flick between you and Satoru. She is clearly still wholly stuck on the words “trench-bodied,” and deeply, personally offended by them, probably already planning a passive-aggressive floral arrangement to express her feelings. Jogo, on the other hand, has taken numerous steps back, his eyes wide with the fear that the frothy spit flying from your lips may contain the rabies virus.
“Are you serious right now?” Jogo sputters out, incredulously. “I’m trying to help you.”
Your finger is still pointed at his car like a loaded weapon. While the other loosens its ironclad grip on Satoru’s wrist.
“I didn’t ask for your help.” You snap back immediately. “I asked you to leave. Are your ears ornamental? Because they don't seem to be functioning.”
You intertwine your fingers with Satoru’s, tugging him closer behind you without bothering to check him as he stumbles with a small huff of surprise. His hand is clammy but fits in yours perfectly.
“He was just pinning you against a car in the middle of a parking lot!” Jogo scoffs, gesturing wildly between you and Satoru, his movements jerky and accusatory.
“And now he’s not,” You shoot back with the smug satisfaction of a lawyer who just won a case they knew was bullshit. “Problem solved. Bye.”
Satoru cannot for the life of him decide if the blood draining from his face is going to his stuttering heart or his dick. He’s torn between sweeping you off your feet and stuffing you into your backseat or taking a knee right here on the asphalt to propose with a ring made of a bottle cap. God, you’re so fucking crazy. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life, and he once saw a flamingo fight a pelican over a hot dog — do not ask.
Jogo pivots, stuffing his hands in his pockets, shooting you a glare akin to a wounded animal’s. He scoffs, rolling his eyes and muttering something under his breath as he starts making his way over to his car, his posture screaming defeat.
“—crazy bitch.”
And you immediately fly right back off the handle, the handle having been ripped off its hinges and thrown into the sun.
“What the fuck did you just say to me, you stumpy little dirtbag?!” You snarl
You lunge for the guy, a move that is pure, unadulterated instinct, like a cat that’s just been sprayed with water. Only for two arms to suddenly enclose themselves around your waist. Satoru’s hands lock tightly at your navel, and he hauls you back with the ease of someone picking up a gallon of milk.
“What's your shirt size bitch!?! ” You holler, your voice cracking with the sheer force of your rage. “I’ll dropship the motherfuckers to your family! ”
Your feet kick against the ground, hands swiping through the air as if you plan to swim through the oxygen. Hanami is already sinking into the driver’s side at the speed of sound, her movements a blur of floral print and panic. Jogo has already whirled around, sprinting to the passenger side to all but jump in through the rolled-down window like a character in an action movie, and Satoru is cackling with pure, downright feral, almost maniacal delight.
“I will personally see to it that you become a hashtag! ” You ramble, your brain firing off threats like a malfunctioning gumball machine. “Twitter won't know what hit it! You’ll be a meme by morning! ”
“Go! Now!” Satoru calls to them, cackling, “She hasn’t had all her shots!”
You writhe in his arms like a fish on a dock, a very angry, very vocal fish. You claw at his forearms, kicking your feet through the air like you’re drowning in air. You push against his arm, and that goes nowhere. You shove his face back, and that only serves to create more areas to hit. All the while, you curse him, his bloodline, his future children, and the horses his ancestors rode in on. You demand freedom from your bondage. You vehemently defend the moral justifications behind murder in the second degree to him. And Satoru just laughs and laughs until tears start to prick in his eyes, his body shaking with the force of it.
The nosy duo rips out of the parking lot. Their bumper just barely misses you and Satoru by inches before they drive off, tires screeching, music already blasting, and finally disappear into the night, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust and your shattered dignity.
“I had that, you stupid—selfish—son of a bitch! ” You screech, your voice hoarse. “Put me down! Right now! ”
Satoru is a wheezing cloud of dust behind you. He doubles over, body still shaking with laughter. His grip on you loosens, hands coming to rest on your hips for support rather than restraint. His forehead settles on the back of your shoulder, and you can’t help but blush. Your heart is still hammering in your ribcage like it’s trying to escape, but your brain has finally caught up with you now that they’re gone. Your eyes widen, and one hand sluggishly drifts up to cover your mouth in horror.
Did you really just..?
Your eyes trail, and your head turns to accommodate. You peek over your shoulder at the human puddle of laughter and current thirteenth reason why giggling gleefully behind you. He wheezes, his hands catching on his knees just in time for you to jump away from him like he had burned you.
“Satoru!” You cry, stomping your foot childishly, a move that is both futile and deeply satisfying. “Don’t laugh, you ass! That was awful! ”
“Th–That—” He gasps, voice breaking apart mid-sentence as he curls forward again, shoulders shaking. “That was—Jesus Christ—”
Satoru collapses onto the pavement in a heap, wheezing like his lungs might actually give out and file for divorce from his body. His legs are unable to hold him up underneath the weight of his own dopamine, apparently. He looks like a puppet whose strings have been cut, a very lanky, very amused puppet. You turn your back to him with a frustrated groan, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes as if that will somehow magically reverse time and make you a normal, well-adjusted person who doesn't threaten to sexually assault tires.
You whirl around, mortified.
“Dude, this isn’t funny! ” You wail, exasperatedly, your voice cracking like a pre-teen's.
Satoru honestly feels like he’s going to pass out. One hand is pressed to his stomach, the other braced against the asphalt like the earth itself is the only thing keeping him anchored to reality and honestly, yeah it pretty much is. Every time he tries to breathe normally, another laugh punches its way out of him, a physical betrayal by his own diaphragm. He can’t help it.
“This is so embarrassing! “ You declare, kicking a stray rock across the pavement with the force of a professional soccer player. ”She’s in EnviPhys with us! We have to see her next week! I cannot drop that class, Satoru. I need it! My GPA is already hanging on by a thread!”
Satoru finally manages to push himself up onto one elbow, his face red and tear-streaked from his laughing fit.
That was a mistake.
Because the second he looks at you again — sees your wild hair, still heaving chest, face flushed red with rage and humiliation — another wheezing laugh rips out of him.
“You—” Satoru points weakly at you, trying and failing to compose himself. “You told him you’d—”
“Don’t say it! ” You snap immediately, pointing right back at him like a threat, your finger trembling.
But that only makes it worse. Satoru tips backward onto the pavement again with a strangled cackle, one knee kicking helplessly against the ground. He’s a mess of limbs and laughter.
“Finger—” He chokes, clapping a hand over his face, but the laughter still leaks out between his fingers. “Fingerfuck his tires—oh my god—ahaha—! ”
“Stop it!” You wail, pacing faster now, a frantic caged animal. “I was under duress! It was a cry for help!”
“You were an animal! ” He wheezes, peeking through his fingers at you.
“I was defending you!” You argue, your voice rising in pitch.
“I didn’t ask you to threaten vehicular assault! ” He cackles, his voice muffled by his own hand.
“Well, you weren’t doing anything!” You fire back, defensively, throwing your hands up in the air. “You just stood there! You looked like a crash test dummy that just got its feelings hurt!”
That actually makes him pause, though not for long. It’s just enough that the laughter falters for half a second, and he pushes himself up to sit, wiping at the corners of his eyes. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“You’re right.” He says hoarsely, still grinning like an idiot who’s just won the lottery and also maybe suffered a minor head injury. “I was too busy watching you lose your entire fucking mind.”
You groan and drag both hands down your face, smearing whatever is left of your makeup into a modern art masterpiece of despair. “I cannot believe that just happened.”
“Oh, it happened.” Satoru says immediately, his voice full of glee.
You glare at him, but he just grins wider, his teeth flashing in the dim parking lot light.
“And,” He adds, voice still shaky from laughter, “that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
You freeze, your head snapping back toward him so fast you’re surprised you don’t give yourself whiplash.
“…What?”
Satoru pushes himself to his feet, brushing asphalt dust off the back of his jeans with a few lazy pats. He’s still smiling, still a little breathless, but there’s something else creeping back into his expression now, too — something warm, amused, and a little dangerous. Something akin to the look he’d gotten right before he suggested you skip your last class and go find a secluded spot on campus to "discuss quantum entanglement" in the most physical way possible.
“You heard me.” Satoru says, tilting his head, a slow, deliberate movement. He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s replaying the entire meltdown in his head frame by frame, savoring every moment. “You went absolutely rabid, princess.”
Your face burns, a heat that has nothing to do with anger.
“That’s not—” You start, but he cuts you off.
“You threatened to destroy his car.” He interrupts, taking a step closer, the space between you shrinking.
“He called me a bitch!” You defend, shrinking underneath his stare, your voice losing its edge. “He insulted my character!”
“You said ‘trench-bodied.’” He snorts, leaning down
It’s not enough to crowd you, not yet. Really, it’s just enough that the space between you shrinks into something charged and warm again, the air crackling with unspoken things. You place a hand over his mouth, trying to retain some of the initial space, a flimsy barrier against his overwhelming presence.
“That one was justified!” You insist, gesturing vaguely in the direction they’d left in like it’ll somehow help your case, “She's annoying! All she does is yap! It's like her only personality trait is being a human-shaped parakeet!”
Satoru snorts, leaning back from your hand. He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face for a moment before flicking to that hand — one of the two that had been grabbing him earlier — as it sinks to his chest, firmly pressing in a stern reminder. Then his gaze flicks back up to your face, the corner of his lip curling into a lopsided smirk. He lowly hums a chuckle, chin tipping down as close as your arm will allow him.
“You grabbed my hand.” He says suddenly, his voice softer now.
Your brain short-circuits, unable to download the enormous file of information he just dropped on you in four words when his perfume is already clogging up your olfactory receptors, making it hard to think straight. Your mouth dries immediately, mind suddenly running on E.
“I-I don't know what you mean!” You stammer, flustered, your heart doing a weird little flip-flop.
“When he showed up,” Satoru continues, softer now, like he’s still piecing it together himself. “You grabbed my hand.”
He nods toward the general direction they left in with a sheepish smile, like he’s almost embarrassed by the notion. And yeah, to be fair, he kind of is. He’s still figuring it out himself, really. Thinking about it makes his stomach do little flips that threaten to throw him off balance, but at least he can hold onto you instead of falling over. You’re so warm on him. He wonders if you think he’s warm, too. He certainly feels pretty warm, like a human-sized space heater that's perpetually set to 'high'.
And yes, you do.
Satoru’s very warm right now, like a furnace. He’s always warm — always subconsciously burning off energy the same way he burns through his credit cards, you’ve come to learn. And it’s actually rather distracting, if you do say so yourself.
Shit, what were you talking about again?
“I—well—”
“And then you tried to murder him.” He adds, a playful glint in his eye.
Your eyes flicker to his lips, before you glance at the fading hickeys littering his neck, a constellation of your own making. Awh, geez, they definitely saw those, didn't they?
You blink a few times, eyes darting back to his stupidly pretty eyes.
“That is not the correct sequence of events!” You disagree, shaking your head, trying to regain some semblance of control.
Satoru laughs again, quieter this time. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting around a few places before settling back on you. He flashes you that same crooked smile that makes your stomach do gymnastics.
“Still.” He says, bashfully, a rare sight. “Thanks, princess.”
Your eyes narrow with suspicion, not trusting this sudden shift in tone.
“…For what?” You ask, your voice cautious.
His eyes widen for a split second, as if your question had solidified the gratitude — made it too real for him to handle. And yeah, it definitely had. Satoru quickly fixed his usual charm back into place, having decided that he’d had his fill of emotional vulnerability and all that sappy shit for one night. He hadn’t forgotten you storming off earlier. He still needed to rectify that for sure.
“Nothing. Come here,” He dismisses, leaning down until his lips nearly touch yours to murmur, “Need you.”
Satoru pulls you closer, pressing your lower half tighter into his, and you gasp. He snatches your hand from his chest, firmly guiding it down to the bulge in his slacks with a cocky smirk, the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your palm.
“Wh-What?” You choke out, “Right now? ”
He nods his head excitedly, eyes twinkling with mischievous glee. He hums a wordless mhm, indicating that yes, he really means right here, right now. And you nervously glance around for any other possible bystanders, your body already betraying you with a jolt of excitement when the solid, warm outline presses into your palm. It seems that, thankfully, the parking lot is relatively deserted, but still! This man is an absolute fiend with a lust meter that fills faster than you can say "public indecency."
Speaking of which, Satoru surges forward, lips attaching to your neck when your guard is down, and you choke out a surprised whimper. Your hands snap to his shoulders to push him away despite the wetness already pooling in your underwear, a traitorous response to his assault on your senses.
“Ah, Satoru! ” You cry, though there's very little heat behind it. “Why are you always doing this in public?! Have you no shame?! ”
“Sometimes I need you in public.” He answers between love bites, his breath ghosting hotly over your neck, his voice a low rumble that vibrates straight through to your core. “Isn't my fault you're so sexy.”
You’re already melting into a puddle, desperately trying to remember the reason why you were mad at him earlier, only to keep coming up empty. Was it this? It couldn’t have been for this. Your anger feels like a distant memory, a story someone else told you. All that you can seem to focus on is the way that his hands are wandering around everywhere, grabbing and squeezing every part of you like you’re a limited-edition stress ball he just won at a carnival.
Satoru straightens, head swinging around to catch your lips with his, the kiss a messy, desperate clash of teeth and tongue.
“Fuck, princess.” He rasps against your lips when he pulls away for air, his fingers flexing into your hips. “Is your car still unlocked?”
“Y-Yeah, it’s—” You stammer out, a squeal ripping out of you in interruption.
Satoru quickly reaches down, his hands hooking underneath your legs to hoist you up. They hook around his waist automatically, like magnets finding their other half. He stumbles for a half-second, his laughter vibrating against your chest as he regains his balance, a testament to how hard you made him laugh just moments before.
“You’re heavy.” He grunts, but the grin on his face is pure, unadulterated bullshit.
“Put me down, you lanky demon!” You squeal, but your arms tighten around his neck.
“Nope.” He says, popping the 'p' with obnoxious cheerfulness as he carries you the few steps to your car door.
He fumbles with the handle for a second, his coordination shot to hell from laughing so hard, before finally yanking it open. He unceremoniously dumps you onto the backseat, your legs dangling out as he follows you in, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid thud that echoes in the enclosed space.
▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။•
xxiii. MISA MISA! – CORPSE, scarlxrd, kordhell
Satoru doesn't waste a second.
The moment the car door clicks shut, the world outside ceases to exist. It’s just you, him, and the suffocating, electric air in the cramped backseat of your Ford Focus. He’s on you, a solid, warm weight pinning you to the worn leather, and the air between you feels electric, charged with something dangerous. His mouth is on yours before you can take a breath. The kiss is desperate and messy, all teeth and tongue and barely restrained violence. He's pushing you backward, and you're pulling him forward, your hands fisting in the front of his ridiculously expensive shirt. His hands are everywhere at once, shaking so badly he can barely grip the fabric of your skirt. He's pulling at it with a franticness that borders on violent, yanking it up around your waist with a rough, impatient sound that makes your pussy pulse.
"Shit." Satoru rasps against your lips, his voice thick with awe and a lust so potent it’s dizzying. "I can't believe you. Threatening to slash his tires for me... you're a fucking menace."
You want to snap back, but his fingers are already sliding beneath the ruined lace of your panties. He finds you slick and swollen and so unbelievably ready for him that a choked, broken moan escapes your throat before you can stop it. He circles your clit with the rough pad of his thumb, a slow, deliberate circle that has your hips bucking up to meet him, a silent, desperate plea for more.
"Look at you." He murmurs, his voice a low, smug rumble. He dips two fingers inside you, and the easy, wet slide makes him groan. "So fucking wet for me. Was it the fight, princess? Did getting all worked up for me make this tight little pussy soak itself?"
"Shut up." You gasp, but it has no heat. It’s a weak, breathy thing that only makes his smirk widen.
Satoru curls his fingers just so, stroking that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
"No, I don't think I will." He purrs, his thumb still working your clit. "I think I wanna hear you. I wanna hear what a mess you are. I wanna hear how much you missed me. How much you wanted me to bend you over and fuck you stupid right there in the lecture hall."
His words are filth, but they’re the truth. Every single one. A fresh wave of arousal gushes around his fingers. He feels it, his eyes widening in mock surprise.
"Oh, you like that, don't you?" He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Tell me, princess. Tell me how much you like it."
"Go to hell!" You manage, your hands fisting in his shirt, trying to pull him closer, to bridge the maddening gap.
Satoru chuckles, a dark, delicious sound that vibrates through your entire body.
"Not until you answer me." He slows his fingers, the lazy circles on your clit becoming a maddening, feather-light tease. And it’s agony. "Say it. Say you wanted it."
"Fuck you." You whimper, arching your back, trying to get more friction.
"Say it." He demands, his voice dropping, all traces of humor gone, replaced by a hard, commanding edge that sends a thrill straight to your core. "Or I'll stop. I'll leave you here, dripping and desperate, and you can finish yourself off. Is that what you want?"
The threat is real. You know he’ll do it, just to prove a point. The power dynamic shifts, and the realization that he holds all the cards right now is both infuriating and utterly intoxicating. Your pride wars with your desperate, clawing need.
"I wanted it!" You finally gasp, the words torn from you, a humiliating, thrilling confession. "I wanted you to fuck me!"
"Good girl." He smirks, the praise a balm and a brand.
He rewards you by picking up the pace, his fingers pumping into you faster, harder, his thumb pressing down firmly on your clit. The tension coils in your stomach, tight and hot and impossibly fast. You can feel your orgasm building, a wave cresting higher and higher.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?” Satoru taunts, “Admitting you're mine. Admitting you're a greedy little thing who needs my cock."
You’re so close, teetering on the edge, your entire body trembling. Just a little more, one more twist of his fingers, one more—
And then he stops.
He pulls his hand away completely, leaving you empty and aching. A cry of pure, unadulterated frustration tears from your lips. Your eyes fly open, and you glare at him, panting and disheveled. He’s just watching you, a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face, his fingers glistening with your arousal in the dim light. He brings them to his own lips, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly, deliberately licks them clean.
"Satoru, we are not starting this again—" You start, your voice shaking with rage and need.
"Patience, princess." He chides softly. "You don't get to come yet. Not until I say so."
He finally hooks his fingers in the ruined lace of your panties and rips them away completely, the sound barely audible over your ragged breaths. The cheap fabric gives way like paper, and the sudden, cool air against your soaked, heated flesh makes you gasp. He shoves his slacks and boxers down just enough to free himself, and your breath catches in your throat. He's magnificent. Hard, thick, and flushed a deep, angry purple, the head already beading with precum. He wraps a hand around his own length, giving it a slow, lazy pump, his eyes never leaving yours.
"See what you do to me?" He murmurs, his voice hoarse. "This is what you do to me all the time. Walking around in those little skirts, looking at me with those eyes. You're fucking torture, you know that?"
He doesn't ask for permission. He doesn't need to. He lines himself up, the blunt head of him nudging against your slick, swollen entrance, and the sheer, arrogant confidence in his posture makes your head spin. He’s going to ruin you. Again. God, when will you learn?
Satoru slams into you in one brutal, deep stroke that steals the air from your lungs, forcing a punched-out cry from your throat. The car rocks with the force of it, the suspension groaning in protest. There's no gentleness, no preamble. This is a frantic, desperate claiming, a physical manifestation of the fight, the fury, the possessive terror from moments before. He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust hard and deep, the sound of skin slapslapslapping against skin, the wet, filthy squelch of your arousal, and the creak of your car's suspension filling the air. It's messy, primal, and so fucking good it hurts.
"Mine." Satoru snarls, his voice a low growl that vibrates through your chest.
His hand wraps around your throat, not to cut off your air, but to hold you in place, to make you look at him, to ensure you have nowhere else to go. His thumb presses gently against your pulse point, a terrifyingly tender counterpoint to the brutal way he's fucking you.
"You're fucking mine, you crazy, beautiful, violent bitch." His words are filthy, a litany of praise and possession that only fuels the fire building in your core.
This is what the anger has become. This is the only way it can be resolved. You meet his thrusts, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt, raking down his back. You want to mark him, to leave him as wrecked as you feel. He leans down, his mouth crashing against yours, and it's all teeth and tongue. He bites your lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang mixing with the taste of his mouth and the lingering scent of your own arousal. It’s a perfect, messy, beautiful disaster.
"Tell me." He grunts, his pace becoming erratic, his control clearly fraying. "Tell me who this pussy belongs to."
"You! " You gasp, the word torn from you. "It's yours, you asshole! "
"Damn right it is." He groans, his hips snapping forward, hitting a spot so deep inside you that you see stars. "Gonna fill you up, princess. Gonna make sure you're dripping with me all night. So when you get home, you can still feel me. Still smell me. So you remember who you belong to."
Every nerve ending is on fire. The friction is overwhelming, his cock dragging against your inner walls with a precision that feels both malicious and divine. The coil in your stomach tightens, winding impossibly fast, pulled taut by the filthy words he's muttering against your skin, the way his thumb is stroking the side of your neck, the sheer, overwhelming reality of Satoru Gojo losing all control inside you. The world outside the steamed-up windows doesn't exist. There's only the cramped space, the smell of sex and sweat, and the blinding, all-consuming force of him.
"Fuck, you feel s’good." He pants, his voice ragged, each word punctuated by a sharp, brutal thrust. "Always s’tight. S’fucking perfect f’me."
His hand tightens almost imperceptibly around your throat, a silent reminder of his control, but you can feel the tremor in his arm, the strain of holding back. He thinks he's in charge. The thought is so absurd it almost makes you laugh.
"You're so—nngh—talkative." You spit out, your voice a strained, breathy taunt. You tighten your legs around his waist, using the leverage to slam your hips up to meet his next thrust, taking him even deeper. The move surprises a choked groan out of him. "Is that all you got, S’toru? All that—hah—talk about chain reactions, and you fuck like you're afraid to—Fuck, oh god—break me?"
His eyes flash, a dangerous, predatory light igniting in their depths. He pulls back, his hips stilling for a heart-stopping second, leaving you impaled and aching. The hand on your throat loosens, slides down to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a false gentleness.
"Oh, princess." He murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You have no idea what you're asking for."
He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and damp.
"You want me to break you? S'that it?” He growls, ”You want me to fuck you so hard you forget your own name? So all you can remember is mine? "
Satoru doesn't wait for an answer. He pulls out almost entirely, leaving just the tip of his cock inside you, a maddening, teasing promise. And then he slams back in, so hard and so deep that the car lurches, your head hitting the door with a dull thud you barely register. He sets a brutal, unforgiving pace, a relentless pounding that pushes the air from your lungs with every thrust. The wet, filthy sounds of your bodies joining are obscene, echoing in the small space. Squelch, slap, squelch, slap.
This isn't just sex; it's a punishment. A reward. A goddamn war.
"Is this—ah—b-better?" He snarls, his voice a raw, guttural sound. "Is this what you wanted, you little m-masochist? You like it when I'm rough, don't you? You like it when it hurts—hhff—hurts so good."
You can't form words. All you can do is hold on, your nails scoring deep red lines into his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. He hisses in pain, a sharp intake of breath that's followed by a low, guttural moan of pleasure.
"Yes, fuck, yes! " He gasps, his rhythm faltering for a beat. "Do that again, baby. Hurt me."
The request is so unexpected, so raw, that it sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated power through you. You dig your nails in deeper, raking them down his shoulders, feeling the fabric of his shirt tear and the satisfying catch of your nails against his skin. He cries out, his head falling back, his neck a long, vulnerable column in the dim light. The sight of him, lost in pleasure-pain, is the most erotic thing you've ever seen.
"That's it, princess—nnggh." He encourages, his voice a strained, desperate whimper. "Mark me. Make me bleed. I want to feel you tomorrow. I want to s-see your scratches—hhah—when I'm in the shower and remember... remember how you fucking wrecked me."
He's giving you the keys to his own destruction, and you gleefully take them. You raise a hand, not to push him away, but to grab a fistful of his snowy hair, yanking his head down to yours. The move is violent, possessive. He groans, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing inside you.
"You—ah—You like that?" You snarl into his mouth, your voice a venomous whisper. "You like it when I pull your hair, you fucking animal? What's next, ‘Toru? You want—ngh—me to hit you again? You want me to slap that stupid—Oh God—"
His eyes roll back in his head, a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crossing his features.
"Fuck, yes." He chokes out. "Anything. Everything. Just don't stop. Please, princess—hnnngh—don't ever stop—hhah—"
He's completely undone, and it's the most beautiful sight you've ever witnessed. The great Satoru Gojo, the genius, spoiled party rat who can calculate decay rates in his head, has been reduced to a pleading, whimpering mess in the backseat of your car, all because of you. The power is intoxicating, a drug more potent than anything you've ever experienced.
You release his hair, only to drag your nails down his chest, popping a button off his shirt in the process. You lean forward, sinking your teeth into the hard muscle of his shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a perfect, indented ring of your teeth. And he cries out, a raw, guttural sound that's half pain, half pure, unadulterated bliss. His control shatters completely. He starts fucking you with a wild, abandoned ferocity, a complete loss of rhythm, a desperate, primal rutting. The car is rocking violently, the world outside a forgotten blur. There's only the searing heat, the overwhelming fullness, the exquisite friction of him dragging against your most sensitive spots with every chaotic thrust. The sound of skin slapslapslapping against skin is obscene, wet and loud, and underneath it, you can hear the sound of your arousal, the slick slide of him squelchsquelchsquelching inside you. God, you're so wet it's dripping down your thighs, making a mess of your car seat, and Satoru seems to notice because he moans.
"Fuuck." He snarls, his rhythm changing, becoming deeper, more deliberate, each thrust a punishment. "Two days—hhah—you ignored me for two fucking days—hhnng—do you have any—any idea what that did to me?"
The question hangs in the air, thick with rage and need. His hand on your throat tightens just enough to make your pulse leap against his thumb.
“I called, I—mmmff—I texted, and you left me on f-fucking read.” He grunts, each word punctuated by a sharp, brutal thrust. “Do you know—Shit—do you know how many times I had to go to the library bathroom and jerk off—hah—thinking about you? I was going insane. "
His confession is filthy and raw, and it makes your walls clench around him. He feels it, groaning as his hips snap forward with renewed force.
"Fuck—You like that, don't you? You like knowing you had that much power—nnggh—you liked torturing me, you bitch." His other hand slides down, gripping your hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "H-How about this then? I was in—ah—Yaga's lecture—and he was talking about thermal equilibrium—and all I could think about was the heat—hhngh—the heat of your cunt w-wrapped around my cock. I had to get up and leave. I had to go to the bathroom and cum—nnghh—cum thinking about your tight little pussy."
The car is rocking so hard you're surprised it hasn't tipped over. The windows are completely steamed over, the world outside reduced to hazy, meaningless shapes. All that exists is this: the brutal stretch of him inside you, the filthy words pouring from his lips, the overwhelming, all-consuming need.
"Say you're sorry." He demands, his voice a low growl. "Say you're sorry for ignoring me."
"Never! " You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in.
Satoru chuckles, a dark, broken sound. He slows down, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in with excruciating slowness. It's torture. It's bliss.
"Wrong answer." He slams into you, hard and fast, setting a punishing rhythm that steals your breath.
The sound of skin slapslapslapping against skin is a frantic, wet beat, a drumbeat of pure, primal need.
"Say it." He snarls, his voice threatening a crescendo
"Go to hell!" You cry, your back arching, your body begging for more, even as your mouth spits defiance.
"Say it! " He roars, his hips snapping forward, hitting a spot so deep inside you that you see stars. "Say you're sorry—sorry for making me wait! Say you're sorry—hah—for being such a fucking tease! "
"I'm sorry! " You finally scream, the words torn from you, a humiliating, thrilling confession. "I'm sorry, Toru! I'm sorry! "
"Good girl." He groans, the words reverberating through his chest and into yours. His head lolls back as his eyes roll up into his head. "I'm gonna cum—oh fuck, princess, I'm gonna cum. Cum with me. Cum f’me—hnngh—like you should have two days ago."
His command is all it takes. The coil in your stomach snaps, a blinding, white-hot explosion that rips through you with the force of a tidal wave. Your orgasm is violent, all-consuming. Your back arches off the seat, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your body convulses, waves of pleasure so intense they border on agony crashing over you again and again. Your cunt clenches around him in rhythmic, pulsing spasms, and that's all it takes to send him over the edge with you.
Satoru buries himself to the hilt with a final, brutal thrust, his body going rigid as a guttural groan is torn from his chest.
"God, yes! " He roars, voice cracking from the strain, "That’sit, princess. Yes, I’m—oh—"
You feel the hot, thick flood of his release as he spills into you, his cock pulsing deep inside you, marking you from the inside out. It seems to go on forever, his whole body shaking with the force of his orgasm, and he's making these broken sounds against your neck that are half moans, half sobs. He collapses on top of you, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering with the aftershocks. He's still inside you, still twitching, and you can feel his cum starting to leak out around his cock. It's messy and wet, and you should probably care about your leather seats, but everything is just… wow, right?
For a long moment, the only sound is your combined, ragged breathing, the frantic hammering of your hearts slowly beginning to calm. The air in the car is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the coppery tang of his blood on your lip. You're sticky, sore, and thoroughly, completely wrecked. And you've never felt more satisfied in your entire life.
Satoru lifts his head after what feels like an eternity, his blue eyes soft and hazy in the dim light, all the hardness and anger replaced with a dizzying tenderness that takes your breath away. He gently kisses the corner of your mouth, the bite mark on your lip, his touch impossibly gentle after the violence of moments before. He looks at you like you're a miracle, a masterpiece of chaos and fury that he has the honor of witnessing.
"Hi." He whispers, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips.
"Hi," You whisper back, your voice hoarse.
He gently brushes a stray strand of hair from your sweaty forehead.
"We're getting dinner tomorrow." Satoru says, his voice still rough but firm, an undeniable statement of fact. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion. It's a declaration.
You just nod, too exhausted and too thoroughly, blissfully fucked to argue. You’d probably agree to go to the moon with him right now if he asked. And Satoru’s grin widens, that familiar, cocky, devastatingly charming grin that started all this.
"Good." He whispers, leaning down to kiss you softly, a sweet, gentle press of lips that's somehow more intimate than the frantic, desperate fucking. "Because I'm tired of you running away."