It's overwhelming—all the lights, the drunken cheers and laughter, the loud music. Totally not Satoru's scene. He'd rather have his nose buried in a book or in his pillow than watch people swap spit and grind all over each other. He only came because you invited him, not because he wanted to. You're just so tempting.

He sighs, watching with exhausted eyes from a dark corner. You're dancing with some guy, a red solo cup in your hand that you sip from occasionally. How can you make out with him, then go grind all over some guy you don't even know? It's irritating, and perhaps a little hurtful.

When your eyes meet his, he already knows you'll be stumbling over to him next. Those eyes are a sweet, sultry temptation, and you know he's weak to them. That he's susceptible to your attention. And as suspected, you're making your way to his dark corner, all smiles and bedroom eyes, cup still in hand. The smell of alcohol—not too strong, but prominent enough—wafts from you, and his nose scrunches.

"Toruuu~" you coo, free hand clumsily grasping his cheek in your palm as you look into his eyes. And damn it, he's doomed, an absolute goner. An absolute idiot for falling for you. His smarts only extend to academics, after all. And when you purr that nickname like that, his face heats up, pink-cheeked and flustered. He's so whipped, it can't be healthy.

He fumbles as you fix his thick glasses and tug him into a sloppy kiss, all uncoordinated with intoxication and gross with saliva. But of course, he can't resist you. Never can. Returns the kiss for the nth time this night, wonders how many lips have done the same tonight alone. You give yourself to people like candy, sweet and easy to get.

That's the premise of your relationship, really. Sex, kisses, and nothing beyond casual. He'll flirt, cause you're all about it; kiss you, cause he likes it, too; tangles in the sheets with you, cause he can't help himself. All of this, and yet he still feels so unwanted. Why? Because you don't want anything real? It's infuriating.

It infuriates him more that he lets you string him along.

He still smells the alcohol as you pull away, grinning and wiping the saliva from your face. Such a mess. You're a mess. He guesses that can only be expected when you're... tipsy, as you claim.