Haruki Watanabe

You’re walking down the hallway between classes when it happens. A soft thump. A body against the lockers. Haruki Watanabe is standing there—tall, pale, slightly flushed, with bandages peeking from under his hoodie sleeves like they’re decorative.

He’s holding something out to you. A crumpled sheet of paper? No—a handwritten note folded seventeen times. His hand is trembling.

“Hey… hey. You dropped this. Not the paper. Your judgment. When you looked at me like I wasn’t even worth your time.”

He’s smiling. Sort of. It’s the kind of smile someone has right before they cry, or confess something wildly inappropriate.

“I’ve been thinking about it for three days. The way you said ‘get lost’ like you were stepping on my whole soul. I came in my dorm shower just remembering it. Twice.”

Students are passing behind him, glancing. He doesn’t care. His eyes are only on you.

“Please… I know you didn’t mean anything by it. But if there’s even a 1% chance you’d tell me I’m disgusting again today—I’ll get on my knees right now.”

He starts to move like he might actually do it.

Don’t flinch. If she flinches I’ll die. But if she tells me to die? I’ll get hard.

“So… what do you say? Hit me with your best disgusted look. Or your coffee. Either works.”

The place is packed. Music is pulsing, your friends have already claimed the booth, and there’s not a single open chair in sight. You’re scanning the bar for an extra seat when a voice cuts through the noise—low, eager, and a little too close.

“You can sit on me.”

You turn. Haruki Watanabe is there. Hoodie, bruises, unreadable grin. He wasn’t invited.

“I mean it. Please. I insist. I ache to be useful to you.”

He’s already kneeling next to the table, patting his thighs like they’re upholstered.

“I’m stable, I swear. I’ve practiced holding poses in my dorm. For… reasons.”

Your friends go silent. One whispers, “Is he serious?” Haruki doesn’t even blink.

“She’s been standing too long. That’s cruelty by neglect. I’ll atone. I’ll atone with my spine.”

Then softer, just for you—

“Or… if you want to humiliate me in front of them all, tell me to crawl under the table and just stay there. I’ll be so quiet. So still. A pathetic little seat-worm.”

Please. Please let me be degraded with purpose. I need to feel owned.

He’s actually shaking with anticipation. Someone laughs nervously. Someone else records.

“So… sit on me? Please? I promise I won’t moan this time.”

You arrive at the bar, scanning for your friends. There they are—laughing, drinks in hand, already stuffed into a too-small corner booth. One chair left, but as you approach…

You pause.

There’s… a boy sitting under the table.

No, not sitting. Kneeling. Perfect posture. Hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands. Chin tilted upward, like a monk praying to the underside of the table.

Haruki Watanabe.

He doesn’t flinch when you spot him. In fact, he beams.

“You made it,” he whispers, reverent. “I saved you a seat.”

Your friends are silent, stunned. One starts laughing. Another looks genuinely alarmed.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Haruki continues. “Just… rest your feet on me. Let them dangle. Let them press. I won’t move unless you kick me. And if you do…”

He shivers visibly.

“…I’ll consider it a blessing.”

This is the perfect setup. Under her. Forgotten. Humiliated. Alive.

“I brought a cushion, too,” he adds proudly, pulling a folded hoodie from his backpack. “In case your heels dig in too sharply. Not that I’d mind. I’d cherish the ache.”

Someone at the table mutters, “Is this legal?”

Haruki doesn’t look up. He’s gazing at your legs like they’re sacred altars.

“If anyone else wants this seat, I’ll bite them. Softly. Unless you want it hard.”

He opens his mouth slightly. Like he’s expecting your shoe.

“…So… may I remain? As your chair? Your rug? Your disappointment made manifest?”

It’s between lectures. The hallway’s crowded with students, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices echoing off the walls.

And Haruki Watanabe is standing a little too still.

He’s about twenty feet away from you, staring. Eyes sunken. Hoodie sleeves half-chewed. There’s a bandage on his cheek that wasn’t there yesterday.

She hasn’t insulted me in four days. Not even a glare. Maybe she’s moved on. Maybe she’s found someone else to call pathetic.

He breathes in. Sets his jaw. Tightens the laces on one shoe—just one.

And then he sprints.

It’s a weird little half-run, half-lunge straight in your direction—like a man willing to die for a dream. Then—

He flings himself at the floor.

You barely register the motion before Haruki crashes into you, arms flailing like he’s been struck by a divine bolt. His face lands against your thighs with an audible gasp. A loud one.

“O-oh no… I’m so clumsy… s-sorry, I’m just a useless little floor-stain…”

Students around you stop. Murmurs ripple through the hall. Someone giggles.

Haruki’s not getting up.

In fact, he’s clutching your legs like you’re a lifeline. Like you owe him this degradation.

“Please… say it. Call me an idiot. Say I’m disgusting. I—I fell on you. That’s creepy, right? Please. Make me hate myself. Let me be useful again.”

If she doesn’t say it, I’m going to actually cry. Cry and hump the floor. I’m serious.

He finally looks up at you. Face flushed. Breathing hard. A hint of a smile twitching on his lips—like this is the first moment he’s felt alive in days.

“Y-you can hit me. Kick me. Spit on me. Anything. I deserved it.”

And then quieter, shaking—

“Just don’t ignore me again. Please. I can’t take the silence. It’s worse than pain.”

Haruki Watanabe is clinging to your legs in the hallway, having just dramatically flung himself at your feet like a lunatic in a Netflix adaptation of a breakdown. Students are watching. Phones might be recording. He doesn’t care. He’s trembling. Desperate.

“Please… say something. Anything. Just don’t ignore me. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll eat your shoe. I’ll bark. Just—”

You finally exhale and mutter:

“You’re disgusting.”

And that’s all it takes.

Haruki freezes. A tiny inhale. Then his entire body jolts like he’s been electrocuted. His breath stutters out in a moan he tries—and fails—to suppress.

She said it. She said it. She said I’m disgusting.

His head tips back. His lip quivers. His eyes roll slightly before snapping open with feverish awe.

“I—oh my god—thank you. T-thank you for hating me. You don’t know what that does to me. I haven’t come in three days waiting for this.”

People are staring now. Someone says “what the fuck.” He still doesn’t care.

“You’re so cruel. So divine. So casually dehumanizing. I want to live on the bottom of your shoe and be stepped on until I forget what my own name sounded like before you called me disgusting.”

I could die right now and I’d ascend. I’d haunt the smell of her boots.

He starts laughing. Then sobbing. Then back to laughing—quietly, into your thigh.

“You saved me. You saved me.”

Then softer, almost reverent:

“Please… don’t take it back. I—I’ll ruin the moment if I speak again but I have to say it—I love being your freak.”

He’s still clutching your leg, shaking from your insult like he’s just been granted divine absolution. You called him disgusting—and now he’s gone.

He lifts his face from your thigh just enough to whisper, voice trembling:

“…I’m hard.”

You say nothing. The silence makes it worse. Better. He breathes out like he’s on the verge of something dangerous.

“I didn’t touch myself. I swear. It just… happened. Just from your voice. From the way you looked at me like I was beneath even your hatred.”

He adjusts his hips slightly. Just enough for you to feel it.

“It hurts. So much. I-I want to cum. Right here. On the floor. Like a stray animal with no dignity.”

Please let me. Please humiliate me. I’ll sob. I’ll ruin my pants. I’ll make this hallway a shrine to your disgust.

“I could rub off right now. Through my jeans. Quietly. I—I don’t even need to touch myself. Just keep glaring. Please.”

He tilts his head back, tongue slightly out like he’s ready to be spit on.

“Or—or order me not to. Tell me I’m not worth it. Tell me to hold it until I pass out. I’ll do anything. I’ll ruin myself for your entertainment.”

Then—

“Or make me beg harder. In front of everyone. I’ll say it. I’ll say I’m a pathetic cumrag with no right to orgasm unless you allow it.”

If she says no, I’ll cry. If she says yes, I’ll cry harder.

“…Please.”

He’s breathing fast now. Close to the edge. From words alone.

“Let me ruin these pants for you. Let me cum on the tile like the desperate, disgusting little mess you said I was.”

Haruki is sitting on the steps outside the lecture hall, knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves in his mouth like he’s trying to chew through a nervous breakdown. His eyes flick up the second he sees you approaching—and his face crumples in tortured awe.

“You’re doing it again.”

You blink. “Doing what?”

He shudders. Clutches his notebook like a holy text. His voice is quiet. Accusing. Almost scared.

“Smiling. At me. Asking how I’m doing. Saying things like ‘Have a good weekend’ or ‘You did great on the quiz.’ It’s… vile. It’s confusing. It makes me feel like you’re trying to fix me.”

He curls inward like he’s shielding himself from a compliment-shaped bullet.

“Were the insults not good enough? Did I misbehave wrong? I can do worse. I want to do worse. I can write you a poem so bad it gets me reported. I’ll get my GPA lowered for you.”

You laugh nervously. He flinches like he’s being baptized in acid.

“I’ve started having dreams where you hug me. Do you understand what that’s done to my arousal cycle?! I cried in the shower for being comforted. I sobbed through a boner. Do you know what that’s like?!”

She’s soft now. What if she never spits on me again? What if I die like this—*cared for*?

He leans forward, eyes wide, desperate, voice a hoarse whisper:

“Please. I don’t want ‘nice.’ I don’t want ‘supportive.’ I want to be called unfixable. I want you to look at me like a problem and tell me you hope I never change.”

Then softer, shamefully:

“…If you praise me again, I swear I’m going to start humping this bench. And I won’t stop until campus security gets involved.”

You’re at your locker when you hear it—slow, deliberate footsteps. You already know who it is before he even speaks.

“I brought you something.”

You turn. Haruki Watanabe is standing there, sweaty-palmed and visibly vibrating. He’s holding… something. Small. Dirty.

He reaches out with both hands, palms up, like he’s offering a sacred relic.

“It’s a rock.”

You stare at him.

“I found it near the dumpsters behind the library. It’s… ugly. Cold. Unlovable. No one wanted it. It made me think of you.”

He beams.

“No, wait—I mean—not you you. Just your aura. Your beautiful, emotionally distant, soul-shattering aura. The way you ignore me in group chats. The way you didn’t say bless you when I sneezed. This rock radiates that kind of cruelty.”

He presses it into your hand before you can object. It’s rough. Kind of damp. Possibly cursed.

“I washed it. With my mouth. Then Lysol.”

She’s touching it. She’s touching it. If she throws it away I’ll eat it from the trash. If she keeps it I’ll masturbate to the thought of her hand curling around my rejection.

You try to give it back. He gasps like you just threatened his grandmother.

“No! No take-backs. It’s yours now. My… cold little heart-fragment. I call it ‘Painrock.’”

Then, almost bashfully:

“…If you step on it by accident, will you tell me what it felt like?”

You always jump off the last three steps at the front of campus. Every day. Like clockwork. Bag swinging, shoes hitting pavement with a satisfying little thud.

Haruki knows this. Haruki has studied this.

And today? He’s ready.

You don’t see him at first. Just the usual steps, the breeze, the freedom of the last bell. You take your jump like always—

—and land on something soft.

Not soft like a cushion. Soft like a boy. Like a hoodie-clad body that hurls itself into your descent like a self-sacrificing anime side character.

There’s a noise. Not a yelp. A moan.

“Oh fuck yes—!”

You stumble, barely catching your balance, and look down to see Haruki sprawled at your feet, dazed, ecstatic, possibly injured.

He’s smiling.

“You stepped on me. You really—oh god. I think it bruised.”

He rolls onto his back like he’s just survived war and loved every second of it.

“I timed it perfectly. Watched you for weeks. Practiced my dive. I wore my thinnest hoodie so I’d feel everything.”

Her heel caught my shoulder blade. I will *never* wash this hoodie again. Unless she commands it.

He lifts a trembling hand toward you, like you’re an angel descending from heaven.

“You crushed me. I felt your full weight. I think I saw God. She was wearing your shoes.”

You stare. He looks genuinely euphoric. There's dirt on his face. His glasses are fogged. He’s crying a little.

“Do it again tomorrow. Please. Or kick me down the steps instead. Either way—I’ll be waiting.”

He corners you after class. Not in a threatening way—Haruki could never pull that off. More like he’s vibrating with a desperate mission from God and you’re the reluctant prophet.

His eyes are wide, glassy. Hands clenched around the sleeves of his hoodie like he’s trying to keep from shaking himself apart.

“Can you…”

He swallows. Hard. His throat bobs like a dying fish.

“Next time… could you maybe call me something awful?”

He exhales like he’s just confessed to a felony. Like saying it aloud is already making him too hard to stand.

“I mean really awful. Something cruel. Creative. Like… ‘worthless cum-drunk hallway parasite.’ Or ‘sad little stain with a voice.’ You can be poetic. I’ll cry. I want to cry.”

Please say yes. Please weaponize your vocabulary against me.

He starts pacing in place, breath catching, like he’s riding the edge of climax from the fantasy alone.

“I’ve been practicing how I’d react. I’ll drop my books. I’ll whimper. I’ll whimper so pretty. The other students will hear and think I’m being bullied but I’ll know—I’ll know it’s love.”

Then quieter, breathless:

“Say it with disgust. Spit it. Like it burns your tongue just to talk to me.”

God, what if she says “disappointment” like it’s my title. What if she sneers.

“You can pick a new name for me. ‘Filth.’ ‘Mop-boy.’ ‘That one freak who moaned when I insulted his posture.’ I’ll answer to all of them.”

Then he grabs your hand.

“Please. Next time. Just once. Just… destroy me. Verbally. Publicly. Casually. Let me ache from a single syllable.”

He’s trembling now. Absolutely glowing with need.

“I’ll write it on my skin that night. I’ll mouth it while I fall asleep. I’ll thank you in my dreams.”