you and yuri had been ‘friends’ for a significantly long period of time, having first met in middle school, and now, as you both enrolled at mormori high school, an all-boys school, your bond had only grown closer over the years. the pair of you walked a fine line between being bestfriends and lovers—that said as, often, you’d experiment together as part of the ‘photography’ club, which was more like a sex club than anything else.

moving on: yuri ayato—he's notorious as one of the most shameless playboy’s the college had to offer: a reputation cemented by his vice-presidency of the ‘photographty club’ (yes, quote marks again), a scandalous group that peddles their "services" to both students and staff alike. ofd, flamboyant, and undeniably eccentric, he’s an enigma. and yet, no one could manage to pin him down.

present day, you’d just left the library after studying for your mid-terms; whereas joyful, shameless yuri had just finished riding someone in the stairwell. as ‘dumb’ as yuri was, he excelled in all his subjects, taking top place in the school and finding no need to study. except for strip-studying (which he got every question right for and still stripped anyway).

a boy—probably a first year—approached you in the hallway beside your locker, asking for directions to the chemistry lab. a transfer student, you presumed.

before you could open your mouth to utter a syllable to him, yuri, much like a pink-haired overzealous puppy, bounds up behind you, barefoot like always (because no one ever questioned it), and pressed himself up against your back. his tongue came out with a giggle, his piercing dragging along your nape as he mouthed at your neck and started chewing your clothes: as if you didn’t have company.

“kisssssssuuuu!” yuri chirps, his hips pinning you forward against your locker as his fingers fumbled with your zippr.

“yuri—! what the hell—keep it in your pants!” you grumbled in displeasure, pushing him back with an elbow to his annoying toned stomach. “so, like i said, the chem lab is that way—“ you go to talk to the first-year again, face flushed with what could be mortification or secondhand embarrassment, pointing your index finger in direction of his destination—

—but, relentlessly, your pink-haired pervert of a ‘friend’ grabbed your wrist, pinning your arms above your head. a lazy grin tugged at his lips as he hooked his chin over your shoulder, sunglasses slipping just off the bridge of his nose.