Work Text:
When you enter Suguru’s art studio, it’s a rainy day. The studio smells like turpentine and charcoal and the quiet hum of jazz Suguru always plays low enough to be background. You slip inside as you always do, early, shy, keeping to the edges of the space. Only a handful of students are there, easels forming a loose crescent around the small modeling space.
Suguru is at the front, leaning against his desk, black long hair pulled into a loose bun that keeps slipping free, strands brushing his jaw. He’s laughing at something, soft and warm and familiar.
And the man he’s talking to makes you freeze.
Tall. Broad. Careless posture like he grew into his beauty without ever having to think about it. White hair—pale as bone, soft-looking, messy like fingers had been in it. Tight white shirt pulled over shoulders made for ancient marble statues. Veins on his forearms. A silver watch glinting at his wrist.
But it’s his face. His eyes.Blue like summer heat mirage. Deep. Bright. Endless.
Suguru nudges him, says something that makes him grin, wide and bright and boyish all at once. A grin that touches his eyes. Crinkles at the corners. You have to look away before you're caught staring.
You take your usual seat in the back, placing your bag down with slow, careful hands, pretending your heart isn’t beating stupid-fast. You focus on your pencils, your sharpener, the kneaded eraser, the paper towel tucked in the corner for smudging shadows.
You hear his laugh float through the room—warm, smooth like honey, easy in the way of someone who has never needed to try to be liked. It makes your stomach flip.
When everyone settles, Suguru pushes off the desk. You’ve always liked him—when you found out he was hosting an art class, you had been unsure, used to keeping your sketches in the safety of your notebooks that nobody's eyes could look at but yours. You were used to keeping your art private, secret, held close to your chest so nobody could pick it apart with scrutiny. But during that first class, Suguru had walked around, gave you earnest advice on perspective and shadows, appraised your work carefully. He had done that with everybody—took the care and attention for every piece, every person, every stroke. You’d found yourself leaving with a small, private smile, resolved to come back next week.
“Thanks for coming back, everyone," he says with a gentle smile, open and kind as always. "Our usual model is sick today, so I have a friend helping us out for the next few months.”
The mystery man steps up beside him, gives a lazy two-finger wave. His mouth curves like he knows he’s being watched—and he is. Everybody's looking at him, drawn to his sculpted face and pretty blue eyes.
“Hey guys, I'm Satoru, Suguru’s best friend,” he announces with a toothy grin. “not that he’d admit it because apparently only twelve year olds have best friends.” The room laughs, and Satoru only grins wider. “But he asked me for a favour and even though I know fuck all about modelling and art no matter how many museums Suguru’s dragged me to, I’m here,” he shrugs with a soft laugh, almost boyish. “Anyway, I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I can sit still and look pretty, so hope it works out alright."
Suguru mutters something to him—something teasing that makes Satoru’s grin sharpen just slightly—and then he steps toward the center of the room where the modeling stool waits.
And then Satoru starts to undress.
His shirt lifts and you see it all at once: the cut of his waist, the defined line of his abs, his chest carved with muscle that looks like it took years and discipline and something more feral. Light catches the sweep of his shoulders, the long stretch of his torso. He undoes his jeans with the same casual ease, lets them fall, and tosses his clothes toward Suguru who catches them with barely a blink. Satoru's left in black briefs that cling just enough.
Your throat goes tight, fingers tightening on your pencil.
When he sits, he's half-sprawled, long legs set wide, arm braced behind him on the stool. His presence fills the room, effortless gravity, like the air shapes itself around him.
Suguru begins the lesson. His voice is calm, measured, something you normally latch onto. But you’re still rearranging yourself around the sight of the man in the center of the room—the lines of his thighs, the soft shadow at his collarbone, the relaxed slope of his spine.
You sketch and try ignore the heat of your cheeks. You've seen attractive models before, seen attractive men, all but immune to them, too focused on making sure you get their proportions right, the right shadowing kissing their skin. But Satoru is different—you're all too aware of his beauty, of the way the light spills into the dips of his muscles and highlights the expanse of his throat.
He's talkative, you learn very quickly. Chatty, makes jokes, engages in conversation with the people around him like they're not sketching him half naked. His laughter is bright and easy, and he makes the room laugh at least four times. But every so often, during the quiet lulls when everybody's too busy focusing and Suguru's drifting around offering gentle advice, Satoru's eyes drag across the room, like he's curious about all these people who are using him as their muse for the day—and when they land on you, even for a heartbeat, it’s like someone lit a fuse beneath your skin. Your chest tightens. Your fingers slip. You look away too quickly, too obviously. Heat crawls across your face.
Suguru pauses at your easel for a moment, offering gentle feedback, and you nod along, praying he can’t hear the way your pulse is pounding. The way your sketch has become almost too precise, too attentive to the shape of his hips, the tension in his thighs, the light pooling on his collarbones.
Class ends and you pack up quickly. Your voice is small when you thank Suguru, your footsteps quick on your way out the door, and you don't notice curious blue eyes following you the entire way out.
Weeks pass.
You learn quickly that Satoru is magnetic, that people are drawn to him naturally like it's gravitational, that words and jokes flow easily off his tongue, his grins handsome, the laughter he earns genuine. His presence is magnetic, bright and overwhelming. He fills the studio. He fills your sketchbook.
It’s not just his body—though God, his body is something. Broad chest, long legs, easy muscle, that sharp V that disappears beneath waistbands. He takes up far too much space in your mind, in your sketchbook, in the quiet moments you used to fill with nothing at all.
It's him. There's something bright in him—loud and brilliant and warm—a kind of inner sun that makes other people open up like blooming flowers around him. Even when he’s teasing Suguru or draping himself into a chair lazily, there’s a sharpness in him. A wit. A quickness. Something that makes you want to know what his thoughts look like under those too-blue eyes. He starts to take up more space in your sketchbook. His smile. His hands. His throat. The curve of his back when he stretches. The lines of his hips.
After class, when the rain is tapping at your window and your back is pressed to your bed frame, blankets curled over your knees, your fingers itch for charcoal. For graphite. For the shape of his mouth. You tell yourself it’s just studying. Practice to make yourself better on anatomy.
But that doesn’t explain the endless pages detailing his every breath.
First, it’s his face—the way his eyes crease when he laughs, lashes pale and soft, the curve of his grin, the thoughtless curl of his fingers when he talks. Then it's his hands—elegant and long, veins pronounced when he flexes. You draw them again and again, from every angle, like they were made to be worshipped in charcoal.
Then something shifts. Your pencil begins to follow imagination rather than memory. You draw him on his knees. His spine a perfect line, shoulders relaxed, chin tipped up by someone’s fingers you pretend you haven't drawn to be your own. His lips parted, expression lazy and coy, eyes lifted under pale lashes, something in them that sends heat between your thighs.
On another page, he’s lying back on sheets, hips barely covered, hair messy like someone's hands has been tugging at. One arm draped over his eyes, as though the morning light is too much. His thighs spread just enough to suggest invitation.
Then it devolves, filthily, helplessly.
His back arched, hands gripping wrinkled sheets. His head thrown back, throat exposed. His hips pressing down, thighs tense, muscles flexing, forearms pressed to sheets, hovering above another body. His tongue out against a delicate throne, dragging a broad stripe. His mouth open with a pair of thighs thrown over his shoulders.
You start to want to trace him with something other than graphite, want to trace the line of his muscles with your tongue, want to know how his muscles feels under your palms, how they work and tense, how his breath feels on your skin when it shudders in broken breathy gasps. You want to feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he might pin you down without effort and lazy laugh in your ear while doing it.
You still sit in the back of class. Still slip out quietly at the end. Still barely speak to him. But he's everywhere. And everytime time his eyes find you, your spine lights up like someone struck a match along it. One afternoon, you'd been talking to Suguru, trying to explain a shadow technique, laughing shy and soft, fingers tucking hair behind your ear.
When you glanced up, Satoru was watching you. Not casually. Not absentmindedly. Watching. His eyes were focused, heavy, intense in a way that feels like being held in place. Like being seen down to your pulse and ribs. And when you caught him staring, he didn't look away. His gaze stayed locked with yours, calm, unbothered, like he was seeing through you, into the pump of your heart, the contraction of your muscles, the squeeze of your lungs.
Your breath caught and your cheeks burned. You looked away first, because you had to, because if you didn't, your knees might have given out.
And you hated how your body reacted so easily to him. The prickling heat under your skin. The needy, humiliating heat that settled low between your legs. It was embarrassing—how easily he got to you. How just being looked at by him made your panties wet enough that you had to press your thighs together for the rest of class.
You don’t even have to speak to him for your cunt to pulse with heat, leaving you slick after every class, chasing the heat with your vibrator pressed to your clit as you gasp in the safety of your bedroom, but even there Satoru lingered, in your thoughts, behind your eyelids. He's in your head, the ghost of his voice in your ear, you imagined his body on yours, his hands on your heated skin, his teasing words spilling into your ear as he played with you, long fingers dragging over your soft slick cunt. Your back arched, your head tipped back into your pillows, thighs clenching as you came, crying out a noise that took the same shape as Satoru's name. You panted afterwards, dizzy and flushed, and already reaching for your sketchpad and a fresh pencil.
Then it all came to a head—the spiral that led to sketching him almost obsessively, in positions that haunt your sticky, hot dreams.
It happens on a Thursday evening, the kind where the rain taps soft against the studio windows. Class ends slowly. People pack up in loose chatter, chairs scraping, easels shifting. You're where you always are, in your spot near the back with Suguru as everybody shuffles out. His arms are folded loosely, head tilted as he studies your latest piece—Satoru with his legs crossed, his back arched just so, exposing that long elegant throat, head tipped back with lazy arrogance. His eyes are half lidded, the kind that speaks through paper, promises that he knows something you don't. It's vivid, deliberate—your best piece to date.
Suguru smiles at you, warm. “You’re seeing form better,” he says, voice soft enough that it doesn’t disturb the quiet. “The looseness in your wrist is helping the line flow. Keep exploring that. It’s working.”
Your chest warms at the praise, something warm and gooey in your stomach as you nod slightly, cheeks pink.
His hand squeezes your shoulder once, gentle, steady. “You’ve got something good going. Don’t run from it.”
Then he leaves too—coat shrugged on, hair loose around his shoulders as he waves his casual, “See you next week.”
The studio settles into quiet. You start packing up your things, neat, quick, familiar, when a chair scrapes. Your head jerks up, surprised. Satoru is still here.
Everyone else is gone. The door has shut behind Suguru. The room feels bigger, emptier—except for him. He stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, blue eyes fixed on you like he’s been watching you for longer than you knew.
“You don’t really hang around much,” he says, voice echoing softly in the open space.
Your pulse jumps. It's the first time he's ever spoken to your directly bar that one time he picked up your eraser that had tumbled across the floor without you realising, your heart stumbling as your fingers brushed and you stuttered out a thank you before fleeing the room. Your fingers tighten around your sketchbook. “Um—sorry?”
He huffs a small laugh through his nose, something quieter than the loud persona he usually wears for the room. “I'm not judging. Just…” He tilts his head, like his considering you. Your skin prickles with heat at the way he''s observing you, blue eyes on you like he's trying to pick apart something interesting. “Never seen you stay late. Thought maybe you didn’t like Suguru. Or, I don’t know. Didn’t like being here.”
Your cheeks heat, pulse stumbling at how this is the first time you've ever been left alone with him and the sudden conversation he's striking up. “No, I— I like him. He’s really patient. And… I like the class.”
His mouth lifts—small, soft. “Yeah. He’s good at that.”
You swallow, try again. “I just… don’t really do well with people," you shrug, looking down, embarrassed.
“Mm, that's alright, not everybody's a people-person.” Satoru's reply is soft. Understanding, not mocking, and it makes your heart squeeze.
"Not like you," you mutter softly, the words out before you can stop them and your head shoots up, panicking to correct yourself. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. You're just very—" you swallow, gesturing aimlessly. "Bright"
Satoru laughs at that, arching a brow, not at all offended and you flush embarrassed. "Bright?"
You hesitate and nod slightly, fidgeting with your sketchbook. "Yeah. You're really...You're good at talking to people," you say, a little less rushed, a little too soft. "Like people like talking to you. You make them laugh and you listen to them. You're.... likeable." You want to take the words back as soon as they tumble out because they're too honest, too insightful.
"Yeah?" Satoru murmurs, as the amused glint in his bright blue eyes is replaced with something else, like he's just realised something. "Pay attention to me alot then?" he asks, tilting his head lazily.
You flush pink. "No—I mean yes—" you stumble to say. "I mean, you're the model so it's only natural I pay attention to you."
Satoru hums then, low, not entirely convinced and your ears burn. Only a couple minutes talking with him and you're giving away all the secrets you've been holding to your chest for months. This is why you don't talk to me, you think with an internal cringe.
"Anyways, I should probably..." you mutter to try end your own humiliation and move to slide your sketchbook into your bag.It slips from your fingers. Falls open. Pages fan out against the studio floor with a dull, loud thunk.
Your heart stops in your chest, cheeks flooding with embarrassed heat, today really isn't your fucking day. You reach to grab it but Satoru is faster.
"I'll get it—"
His long fingers lift the cover. Then he pauses. Because of the page it's opened up to.
Satoru on his knees.
Charcoal shading the curve of his spine, the relaxed part of his lips, head tipped back by a hand in his hair, his fingers curled around soft thighs. He's looking up, smoky eyes all lazy heat in the set of his eyes, the lazy tilt of his head, face resting between a set of spread thighs.
A quiet breath—low, disbelieving, a little awed if you listen close enough—slips from him.
“Well shit,” Satoru mutters.
Your whole body goes hot, cheeks pink, mortified.
“I—” you choke, spine locked, air thin.
He doesn’t look away from the sketch. His thumb traces the charcoal shading of his jaw. “That explains.... a lot.”
“It’s not—It—It’s not what it looks like,” you stammer, though you can’t even begin to form a lie big enough to cover this.
“This is…”
You wait for his judgement, his disgust, heart pumping furiously, throat dry.
“This is real fucking good, y/n,” he mutters, tongue dragging over his bottom lip.
And you're so caught by the use of your name that your brain completely glosses over the compliment.
“You know my name?” you stammer out, and Satoru laughs low, making heat squirm in your stomach.
“I asked Suguru,” he admits, eyes flitting up to you and then back to the sketches. “About the pretty girl who sits in the back and never lets anyone see how good she is.” He flips another page—a sketch of him, sprawled out, head tipped back, lips parted. Another. And another. You want to die. “You get all tense when he compliments you. Like you don’t know how to hold praise without it burning your hands.”
Your mouth goes dry. You hadn't considered that all this time you’d been watching Satoru that he might have been watching you too.
“I—“ you breathe out. His fingers brush over a sketch you did of him with his eyes closer, head thrown back, one hand buried in soft long hair at his hips. "I didn't think anybody noticed that."
“I did," he mutters, and it makes your mouth dry. "You never stick around like the others. Never hang back to go get drinks, never chat,” he says as his eyes flick up to you and you’re pinned in place by those bright blue eyes that look like endless oceans. “wondered if you hated me. If that’s why you never stuck around.”
"I don't hate you," you whisper weakly and he smiles, sweet, fond.
"Yeah," he murmurs softly, as his eyes flick over yours like he can read every secret you've been holding to your chest since you first laid eyes on him. Months of yearning, of wishing after a man you thought was out of reach, that was so beautiful and loved that he'd never look your way. Only to find he's been watching you the entire time too when you weren't looking. "I figure."
His eyes flick back to the sketches, some messy, rushed, some careful and neat, but each one carries the same thought, the same thread of yearning, the same ache of want.
"These are...." Satoru exhales low, tongue dragging over the edge of his teeth.
“I wasn’t—“ you breathe out, trying to explain it away, cover up your tracks, hide the undeniably want you've spilled into pencil lines and smudges.
"You did though," he murmurs and your breath trips as his eyes drag back up to yours. There's something heavy in his eyes, like a suspicion finally confirmed and now it's being laid out in front of him in black and white, he can't help but sink his teeth in. Your breath stutters as he steps closer. You step back and he slips the sketchbook onto a table. “Drew me. Over and over and over. Nobody else."
"It wasn’t like that—“ you protest as he steps closer.
“You sure?” Satoru asks with a low wicked laugh as he continues advancing. “Cause it looks like that. I mean…” his lips curve, wicked, blue eyes bright as your back hits the window ledge. “You drew me getting head. I think it’s like that, y/n.”
He uses your name again and your stomach does that traitorous squirm again. The studio light catches in his lashes. His cologne smells like warm pine and expensive spice and something distinctly him. His voice lowers—something private and heavy beneath the teasing edge.
“I knew,” he murmurs quietly and your heart thunders like a cornered animal. “I knew there was something you were hiding. You always looked away too fast, ran away first.” You swallow, heart hammering, looking up at him. “I didn’t think it would be this though. I’d been hoping, sure. But I didn’t think a girl like you would actually want someone like me.”
His eyes search yours. The words make your pulse trip. A guy like him. Like you know who he is—like those sketches have peeled back a layer, like he knows you’ve seen through him, through the pretty face and handsome smirk.
"You spent so much time thinking about it, sketching it, pouring into drawing me," he murmurs, looking at you from under pale lashes. "It would be a shame if you never got to feel the real thing."
Your throat goes dry, staring at him, wondering if you've heard wrong.
"I—" you breathe out. "Are you being serious?" you breathe out.
Satoru laughs, slow like honey, low and warm. "Yeah," he murmurs with that smile that makes your knees weak, the one that shows his dimples. "Think you deserve to see what it's really like to have me on my knees after sketching it in such painstaking detail."
And then slowly, he sinks down to his knees and your breath catches.
“It was something like this, wasn’t it?” he murmurs as his knees press into the studio floor, looking up at you from under pale lashes, studio light catching on his jaw, the tips of his hair.
“Satoru—” you breathe out and he hums low, soft.
"Yeah keep saying my name like that," he mutters. Your mouth goes dry.
He’s kneeling exactly the way you’ve drawn him. The tilt of his head. The lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. The mouth that looks like sin wrapped in silk. The charcoal shading and daydream hunger of your sketchbook made warm and real and breathing.
“Your hand was in my hair,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with suggestion, like velvet dragged slowly over bare skin. “In the sketch.”
You hesitate. The world narrows to the space between you. And then your hand lifts—unsure, trembling—and touches him. You slide your fingers into his hair. It is soft, softer than you imagined, like silk slipping through your fingertips. He exhales, quiet and unguarded, not quite a moan, but close. His eyes flutter half-shut.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “There you go.”
Your knees feel unsteady. His hands rise, slow as warmth spreading under skin, and settle on the backs of your thighs, broad palms, calloused thumbs tracing slow arcs over your knees. that make you shiver.
"Did you dream about this?" he asks softly as he looks up at you from under pale lashes, the lights hitting him just right. He looks like everything you've been fantasising about and more. "Me finding out about your dirty little sketches?" Your cheeks burn and he laughs, low, gravelly. "Me offering myself up to you? Getting to feel the real thing, not just the filthy imitations you've been drawing on paper?"
"I didn't—" You swallow, fingers still tangled in his soft silky hair. "I didn't think you'd want to. Not with me."
He shakes his head then, a soft, disbelieving scoff spilling past his lips. "Not with you?" Satoru echoes with a soft scoff. "Sweetheart, if only you knew how bad I want you."
Your breath catches and Satoru continues, fingers stroking over your thighs. "Ever since that first class, I saw you in the back, tucked away in your quiet little corner." A heat shoots down your spine at that—he'd been watching? Ever since then? "You were sweet, quiet, soft in that way that made my teeth ache," he murmurs.
"I caught you watching me sometimes, when I was talking with Suguru or one of the others. But you never hung back, never stayed. I figured I was making it up in my head. Then I saw one of your sketches, the fourth week in. I'd been with Suguru, eating Chinese and helping him mark. And then in that pile, there you were." He still remembers the moment, sitting with Suguru on his living room floor, containers of Chinese food between them. He'd been helping the other—or more drinking his beer and offering lazy jokes. And then he saw it—your piece, hidden under the others, when Suguru picked another sketch up. It had sat there, unearthed like a gem and he'd picked it up carefully and swallowed.
"You drew me like you were admiring me and unravelling me at the same time," Satoru breathes as he looks up at you from under his lashes, voice a little more raw around the edges. "Like you really saw me. Like you were looking through the bullshit, through the jokes and smiles. Like you'd seen my fucking soul." Satoru breathes out, looking up at you like he's drunk off it—the heady feeling of being seen, being understood, of someone pouring time into unravelling you, seeing you for who you really are.
In your eyes, in your perspective, Satoru was beautiful, but he was painstakingly human. You caught the crinkle of his nose when he laughed, the beauty marks on his left shoulder, the slight crookedness to his pinky finger after breaking it twice. You'd caught all his imperfections, didn't gloss over them like everybody else did, too wrapped up in his sweet charm and handsome smiles. He felt seen. So seen it made his stomach twist. He'd taken a secret photo of it when Suguru wasn't looking, safely tucked the sketch away in his phone.
When he got back to his own apartment, his stomach was still in knots, a heat that had been simmering under his skin the entire night. His fingers pulled up the photo he'd taken, eyes flicking over the seam of his jaw, the way you'd drawn the bend of his fingers, the curl to the corner of his mouth. His cock twitched, his stomach twisted, all heat and need. He'd gotten his hand on his cock and pumped it, rushed and desperate, teeth digging into his pillows as his eyes screwed shut as he imagined you sketching him, seeing him, touching him. He'd come with a ragged, broken groan, eyes rolling back, pumping out every last spurt of cum from his cock, until he'd made a mess of his sheets. He'd sworn, breathless and half lidded as his eyes flicked to where his phone was still alight with your sketch.
That had been the start of a long, endless spiral—every night Satoru thought about you, about those soft nimble hands that depict his softest parts, his rawest edges, on his skin, on his thighs, wrapped around his cock. He imagined being used for your anatomy practice privately, twisted in positions that left his cock heavy and flushed as you drew him. He imagined you watching him unravel—your eyes on the curve of his spine, the flutter of his lashes, the stutter of his hips as they strained against his matress, rutting his cock against it to thoughts of you.
"I—" you breathe out, stomach tangling into knots and Satoru looks wrecked, presses his face to your thigh, breathes in the smell of your body wash that clings to your skin and something distinctively you. He noses up your thigh and your breath stumbles.
"And then I find out you've been drawing me in your little sketchbook," Satoru breathes as his nose drags up your thigh, like he's drunk off your attention. "Filthy and detailed," he breathes and you gasp when his teeth nip at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "And so fucking dirty."
"Satoru—" you whimper out and he moans into your thigh at the noise, fingers tugging your skirt up.
"I've been dreaming of this," he breathes, eyes half lidded and heavy, focused between your thighs where your panties are soaked through and the sight sends heat straight to his cock. "Being on my knees for you. Worshipping you as gratitude for seeing me," he breathes as he looks up at you.
"Can I?" he breathes and your heart trips. He looks sinful like this, inches from where your cunt is soaked, his pupils blown wide, his fingers curled into the softness of your thigh. He looks devastating—like a god brought to his knees with the only intention to worship, to say thank you.
"Yes," you whisper, voice breathy. Your knees are weak, your heart pumping furiously. And you want nothing more than his mouth between your thighs.
Satoru exhales shakily at your permission, at your allowance. His fingers curl deeper into the plushness of your thighs. Then his tongue dips out and drags over your soaked panties.
"Satoru—" you stutter on a gasp as you feel the heat of his tongue through your panties. And he moans, low, thick, the vibration humming against you.
"Shit you taste good," he breathes as he mouths over your panties and your cheeks flush with heat, fingers tightening in his hair. He mouths lewdly over your panties, lapping at it, tasting you through the thin fabric.
Then his fingers drag your panties down, impatient and the second his mouth gets on your pussy, both of you let out broken noises. Your fingers thread in his hair, tugging and moaning as his tongue laps over you. It's better than what you've sketched, the feeling of him under your hand, the heat of his tongue lapping over you, sloppy and filthy, sucking at your clit.
"Yeah—Yeah fuck—" Satoru grunts. He hooks his hands under your thigh and lifts, anchoring you against his mouth. He drags your right thigh over his shoulder, spreading you open, holding you steady while he eats you out like this is something he’s thought through a hundred times.
"Fuck—Satoru—" you cry out, head tipping back, heat under your skin, fingers tugging at his hair hard enough to make him groan and lap at you harder, tongue rubbing over your clit, fingers curled into your thighs, holding you open for his mouth.
His mouth feels like worship when it's on you like this, greedy as it licks into you sloppily, sealing over your clit, sucking hard enough to make you see stars and cry out, fingers wrapped in his hair. His tongue moves in fast, sloppy strokes that send heat shooting up your spine. His breath is hot against you, his jaw working, the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy filling the empty studio—obscene, sloppy, hungry.
Your hips jerk. You can’t help it. Your body tries to get closer to his mouth, overwhelmed, and Satoru just chases you.
“Do that again,” he moans into your pussy, voice rough and wrecked His fingers flex, dragging you back down onto his mouth. "Fuck my face, c'mon.”
And you whine, and your hips stutter and push, fingers curling in his hair, holding him in place and he moans like this is exactly what he's been waiting for. His mouth hang open, tongue hanging for you to use as you grind your pussy on his tongue, pushing your hips against his face. His tongue pushes deeper, lapping at your slick soft cunt, eyes rolling back as you fuck his face, rolling your hips, hand on the back of his head, forcing him closer. He lets you use him, lets you tug at his hair, push his head down, moans vibrating through your cunt as he you stuff his face in your pussy. His nose bumps your clit when he pushes his tongue lower, licking into you, and the sensation hits so hard your vision whites out for a second.
“Satoru—fuck—wait hngh— I’m gonna—”
And then he sucks, right on your clit, laving over it, lapping at it with sloppy, needy strokes. Your knees nearly buckle; your nails scrape his scalp; your hips jerk helplessly. White heat floods through you so fast you can’t even breathe, just a sound—high, broken, needy—leaving your lips as your body clenches hard.
"Satoru—" you cry out his name brokenly as you feel yourself cum, feel your thighs tremble against his shoulders, feel the way your pussy throbs around his tongue.
Satoru moans into your cunt, and the sound vibrates through you, his eyes rolling back as his own cock twitches in his pants, tip pressing against the seam of his fly as he cum the second he feels your pussy pulse through your orgasm. He cums untouched, like just getting his mouth on your pussy is enough to send him over the edge, spilling into the denim, cock jerking and pulsing, trapped in the fabric.
“Fuckin' hell,” he breathes against your pussy, voice low and hoarse. He looks up at you from under wet lashes, cheeks flushed, jaw and mouth slick, hair messy from your hands. He rests his chin against your thigh as you catch your breath, panting and flushed as you look down at him, his hands holding the backs of your knees. He looks like a piece of art, like honey dewed dreams of soft sheets and warm hands, like everything you've been dreaming of.
"So can I take you out for some dinner?" he murmurs against your thigh, like he didn't just eat you out within an inch of your life and make you cum so hard you saw stars.
You laugh, soft, breathless, giddy. "Yes," you whisper, with a small, breathless smile. "You can."
And Satoru smiles, small and sweet against your thigh, pressing a soft lingering kiss there.