Chapter Text
YOU HATED BEING IN MEDICAL SCHOOL, but even the endless years of continuous testing and the devastating thought of being underpaid early in your career were no match for the hatred you held for Shirabu Kenjiro.
You don’t want to give him this much importance – you would hate to consider him important – and yet you can’t help but think of him every passing second. The two of you went to the same high school, and maybe that is why his presence bothers you so much. Back at Shiratorizawa High, you were an excellent student who ranked second in academics, something you had prided yourself on. Your school rank and dedication to focusing on one goal – medical school – were precisely what earned you that admission, and you were ecstatic when you enrolled into this school.
That excitement lasted until orientation, when you saw a familiar face in the auditorium. The uneven sandy hair that you’ve now become so familiar with had caught your attention, and when you had looked in his brown eyes, you recalled that he too had gone to your high school. Maybe it was a matter of pride, but your mood was instantly soured. He wasn’t anything special. While intelligent, his rank was somewhere in the middle and besides volleyball, he didn’t have much going on for him. Maybe it was conceited, but seeing him get accepted along with you was a dagger to your pride.
Maybe that’s why when he greeted you politely that day, you feigned ignorance and walked away to sit next to somebody else.
That was the start of a minor one-sided feud you had with him over the years. He seemed to be just fine with the thought of you disliking him, while that concept consumed you entirely early on, and it just made you hate him more. It was immature, but you couldn’t help yourself. His mere presence was annoying, and even more so were the full marks he would score on every test. Every single one. Every multiple choice, every written exam, every lab practical, every preclinical, everything. By the time you realized you had underestimated how intelligent he really was, you were drowning.
It was strange; everything seemed to pile up. The courses were more rigorous and you found yourself struggling to keep up with the material as the weeks progressed. You had to study harder and more frequently, and you still were sub-average. Your social life had dwindled, and you had no time for even the most basic things that brought you joy before. Unlike you, he seemed to thrive. He was constantly hanging out with his teammates from back in high school and had made new friends in the various study groups he was part of. He looked polished and relaxed every time you saw him, and his grades reflected that. He was the model student while you felt like an exhausted recluse. He was a constant reminder that you’ve become a failure over the years.
In one particular fit of anger-driven psychosis, you had yourself convinced that he had swapped destinies with you and sucked out your life force. Then you went back home for the winter and realized it was never this serious.
Now in your third year, you hate him a little less than before and hate yourself a lot more. Nothing has changed over the years and you know it is your fault but you don’t know how to fix it and you fear it’s too late.
“Good morning,” you hear a familiar smooth voice greet your deskmate, and you’re instantly on edge. The two months of therapy you recently started couldn’t compete with the three years of mental conditioning and intense jealousy.
Shirabu sits down next to your desk neighbor, Akira, and starts chatting about his weekend. He spent a long, well-needed weekend with his former teammates, one of them still pursuing volleyball and close to becoming a professional player. You try to tune it out like you’ve learned, but you can’t help gritting your teeth. Shirabu laughs and says something about how his friends are surprised that he seems so mature considering that he used to be a hothead years ago.
You don’t know what’s wrong with you.
You have to subtly take deep breaths to calm yourself down and all you can think about is how you’ve let jealousy consume you to the point that it’s affecting you physically. You’re really pathetic.
“[Name], did you hear me?” Akira says, and you turn to look at him. That’s when you see Shirabu sitting next to him, his form clear. He’s wearing an oversized blue bomber jacket with white stripes on the sides and a gray hoodie underneath. Chic. You’re in an overused black hoodie that you’re using to hide your day five hair, and this comparison makes you even more miserable.
“No, I didn’t,” you say, rubbing one eye and moving closer. Akira’s one of the few people you talk to at this school and he might be one of the two people who actually know your name.
“I was asking if you wanted to come study with us tonight,” he repeats with a smile, motioning to him and Shirabu who looks somewhat uninterested, “Jamie is coming too, and Kiko will be coming with Riki.”
He prattles on names and you have to nod and pretend like you know who those people are even though you have never been present enough to learn the names of your classmates.
“I can’t,” you say, faking a subtle pout, “I would -” I wouldn’t “-but I have something to do tonight.”
“That’s too bad,” Akira laughs, “One of these days, we’re gonna get you.”
You laugh dryly and it convinces no one but you. All of you know you won’t be coming to a study group. When have you ever gone? You would if you had started early, but by this point you don’t even know what you don’t know, and you can’t have other people knowing about your stupidity in detail.
Besides, you had a side gig scheduled today.
The lecturer walks in and the class on Obstetrics and Gynecology commences with a short dive into the history of the field as well as current practices. You take notes half-heartedly, trying to train your brain to commit this to memory instead of relying on writing, like you’ve learned from countless self-help videos. The second half of the course delves into the female anatomy and is a refreshing review of first-year anatomy. By the time class ends, you already have a list of topics you need to review to commit this to memory.
You won’t fall behind this time.
“That’s not too bad,” Akira says, “But it was kind of too much of him to show surgery and suturing methods on the first day.”
“Mhm,” you agree, trying to be friendly – friendlier than before, at least – to your classmate, “I think I can understand it in theory but I wish I knew how to understand and be ready for when you actually do it.”
“I have a model,” the usually quiet – at least, to you – Shirabu says, taking you by surprise. “You can borrow it.”
Your heart beats a bit faster, and you don’t know if it’s adrenaline, cortisol, or dopamine. It’s unusual, almost as if your one choice to change slowly by becoming friendlier made him change a little bit towards you as well. Almost like dominoes.
“Why do you have a model of the pussy?” Akira asks with a shit-eating grin and it almost makes you smile. The receiver of the attack glares at him, his ears turning a little pink.
“I have models for everything because I practice in my free time,” Shirabu says, and his next sentence feels like a personal dig. “You have to actually study to be good at it, you know?”
He’s just saying it because Akira taunted him and you know it was possibly meant to be towards Akira, but you feel as though he’s insulted you. Your mood has soured and while you may have been open to taking the model, you don’t even want it anymore.
“Whatever,” Akira laughs, and you’re reminded that maybe you should learn to take a joke too. “You’re such a fucking model student it pisses me off. It’s so nice of you to offer though. Isn’t that right, [Name]?”
“Y-yeah,” you reply, feeling like you’ve been put on the spot even though it’s just a normal conversation.
“I’ll get it for you,” Shirabu says, nodding while he points to the direction of his dorm, “It’ll be a while, unless you want to come with me?”
His dorm. He dorms here. You can’t help the jealousy that rises like bile in your throat. The dorms at this school are expensive, and close to the school buildings, the hospital, and major hangout spots around campus. He has it easy, he really does. Meanwhile, you have a farther commute at a somewhat ratty apartment and your desire to go home early always makes you miss out on important events.
“Sure,” you reply, trying your best to stay collected. “It’s in my direction.”
—
You’re back at your apartment, the realistic female anatomy model and two thin review books borrowed from Shirabu stored safely inside your bag. You take the model out and laugh a little, your mind going back to Akira’s words. If it wasn’t for the suture that could be opened to reveal the various visceral organs, you would have wondered why he gave you his fleshlight.
You reach out to touch the model, your fingers slowly caressing the folds before opening it up and pressing your fingers inside. Your own actions make you blush, and a part of you wonders if he too has tried doing this to the model.
You look at the time. 6:39 PM.
You had promised that you would be online around 7 PM and the time was near. You change out of your day clothes and log in to your computer, your setup stationed in one particularly decorated corner of your room, and adjust the webcam. Your face appears in the window, eyes looking dull and tired, with your eye bags accentuating the all-nighters you have taken over the years. Even the maximum brightness setting on your ring light does not help.
You sigh and position the webcam so that your face is cropped out and only your body remains visible on the screen. After all, your face wasn’t the main show.
With a deep breath, you compose yourself and get ready for the stream, your silky pink robe adjusted slightly to reveal a hint of lingerie underneath. You log in to your account and start the stream, welcoming the subscribers that join in.
“Hello everyone,” you greet enthusiastically after you see that the audience has jumped to a decent number, “Did you miss me?”
Your subscribers type in the chat and your eyes scan through the messages, replying to the ones you deem worthy. “It’s been a while?” You say, in response to one message, “It really has, but guys I’ve been busy so I couldn’t do this for a while. I’m here now.”
Some messages ask about your day and how you’ve been while others are blunt.
“Stop talking and start stripping,” you read aloud, a small smirk playing on your lips. Your audience was hungry tonight. “Going right into it, huh? Who am I to deny you guys?”
You slowly slip your robe off, letting the camera have a full view of your lace set for tonight – a baby pink half cup bra and a matching baby pink thong with lace trim on the edges. You admire your body in the webcam for a moment, letting your audience savor it with you before reaching a hand behind you and unclasping your bra. Your breasts spill out, full and perky as they spring into place.
The donations start pouring in almost instantly, and you haven’t even taken all your clothes off. Commenters thirst over your exposed chest and demand more. Some comments instruct you to play with your tits and you comply, slowly bringing your hands up to your chest and pulling on your hard nipples. You giggle softly as you bounce your tits up and down and squeeze them together, making your cleavage look even deeper.
What the fuck am I doing? The thought flies into your head before you can stop it and the realization of your circumstances almost takes you out of the moment. It’s somewhat exhilarating to be exposed anonymously on the internet, and a part of you relishes in the fact that so many strangers are watching you debase yourself but there is a small voice in the back of your mind calling you pathetic.
“Pinch your nipples hard,” a comment reads and you follow your subscriber’s command to get back into the flow. You take your pert nipples in between your fingers and pinch, squeezing the nubs hard. You let out a small whimper when you feel the sting and you can tell it excites your audience.
“This moment’s mine,” you read the comment of a massive donation out loud, “Take off your thong and let me see that pussy.”
“Thank you for that huge donation,” you say, putting a sultry emphasis on the word huge. You spread your legs wide on your chair, exposing the outline of your pussy lips through your damp panties. Even though you felt ashamed sometimes, you still found this whole ordeal very arousing. You slowly hook your fingers into the waistband of your thong and pull it down your legs seductively.
Multiple comments flow into the chat as you bring your hands down to your pussy, spreading your lips wide open with your fingers and revealing your wet glistening hole along with your clit fully hardened.
As you do this, a small thought pops into your head and you shake it away. I shouldn’t do it, you think, but your hands are already moving to grab the anatomical model that was lent to you by Shirabu Kenjiro.
Don’t do this, you think to yourself, but it’s an intrusive thought that you can’t push away and you’ve acted on it already. You try to put yourself in his shoes and imagine how it would feel if you found out your classmate did something like this to a thing you lent them, but you’re already too far gone.
“Look at this, guys,” you say, bringing the model close to the webcam and spreading its lips with your fingers, the same ones that were spreading your wet lips. You’ll disinfect this thoroughly before you give it back to him. “Can you see it? When I spread my vagina open, it looks exactly like this.”
“Look,” you say, moving it out of the view and focusing on your own pussy as you spread it open. The shape of your folds are clearly visible and your hole twitches visibly with arousal. “It feels exactly like how I feel, and if I stuck a finger inside of it, it would…”
Unbeknownst to you, watching your stream through the other side of the screen is Shirabu, and his mouth goes dry at the sight before him. It’s his model. The one he lent you. To study. It’s clearly his and if the slightly scuffed sides were not proof enough, he can see the small initials he carved out on one side. He likes to mark his things, after all. This could only mean one thing; the person doing the stream is you. You. [Name]. The person he has been stroking his cock to for the past seven minutes is his classmate. Even your voice does sound familiar now. The shock and the inherent absurdity of the situation should make his cock go flaccid, but his erection persists.
If anything, he becomes even harder, his cock twitching at the sight as he admires your figure in a new light.
You bring the model out in view again and caress its folds with your fingers before sliding them in, pistoning in and out slowly. It’s crude and feels stranger than if you were to finger yourself. “It feels different,” you tell your audience, and you wonder if they like the theme of today’s stream, “It’s soft against my fingers, but there’s no lubrication.”
You spread your legs wide again, using the same fingers to slide inside your welcoming hole, letting out a breathy moan as you stretch it open. It obscenely squelches as you move your fingers in and out slowly, the sound fully audible on camera. “See?” You say, bringing out your fingers and showing off the sticky juices to the camera.
He can’t help it. He does something he hasn’t done before. He types a comment in the chat, desperately hoping you see it.
“Stick it back in the model,” you read, bringing out the model again, “Like this? You want me to stick it back inside this?”
You obediently agree with the subscriber’s command, pushing your coated fingers back in the model and moving them in and out as if you were fingering yourself. It glides smoother this time, and although you cringe at the thought of giving this back to him later, a part of you is slightly aroused.
You bring your fingers out and softly pinch the clit on the model. “She didn’t feel it,” you joke, and blood rushes to his cock again as a little bit of your mouth comes into frame and he recognizes the beauty mark on your lip, “I wonder how it would feel…”
You move your fingers down to your own clit and circle it softly before pressing down on it. You let out soft moans as you play with yourself, and he watches intensely, his own hand moving furiously up and down his throbbing length.
You play with yourself intensely, rubbing your clit harder as you keep moaning louder. Your legs shake as you keep caressing yourself in a way only you know, and your moans turn into whimpers as you get closer to your release.
His eyes are locked on the screen, pupils dilated as he strokes himself harder, trying to match himself to your orgasm.
Your body tenses as you feel the warmth of a climax building in your abdomen. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you moan breathily as you continue to push yourself over the edge, “I’m coming.”
You press firmly on your nerve ending one final time, a delicious shiver running up your spine as spots of white dance in your vision. You moan loudly as you orgasm, waves of pleasure running through your shaky form.
He inhales sharply as he watches your release drip all over your chair and he cums harder than he has ever done in his entire life, thick white ropes shooting all over his monitor.
Fuck.