[1ovesiick]

I DON’T LIKE HOW YOU PAINT ME. YET IM STILL HERE HANGING…

IMPORTANT INFO . . author amira notes that she/her is twenty, egyptian, uni student 'n a jjk/mha blog. ⓘ some content will be mature, so check the warnings on each piece.

LINKS . . . ABOUT. GUIDELINES. MASTERLIST. CLICK FOR 🇵🇸

© 2024 1ovesiick, do not plagarise, translate, or repost any of my work on other sites

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[avhira]

I could use some luck

[mrgrungusthefrog]

i could too

[1ovesiick]

you better work bitch 😛

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[avhira]

I could use some luck

[mrgrungusthefrog]

i could too

[splurtz]

EXTRA, EXTRA, ℛ𝓔𝓐𝓓 ALL ABOUT IT !

. . . 𝑇𝓞ℛ𝓤'𝓢 IN HIS FEELINGS AND HE CAN'T GET OUT OF IT :(

SUM. rumor has it that in an attempt to sleep with you, satoru gojo thought it would be a good idea to work at the same campus cafe as you! does he need the money? no! does he need your attention? well yeah.

CONTENT. MDNI. explicit sexual content. slow burn. kinda enemies to lover. oral sex. riding. unprotected sex. creampie. slight dom/sub undertones. lots of teasing. dirty talk. semi-public making out. mild angst from miscommunication. eventual fluff.

A/N. satoru art by uruyuuu ... malcolm todd is goated

you meet satoru gojo on a tuesday morning when the cafe is packed worse than usual. the line stretches all the way past the entrance, your apron is covered in dried milk splatters, and your patience is basically gone.

then in he walks.

satoru gojo is the kind of guy who makes the world bend a little just by existing. cocky without apology, charming in that infuriating way that has people falling over themselves, the type who never hears no because he doesn’t give them the chance to say it. and well he’s rich, he’s brilliant, he’s everything and he knows it, which is exactly why you hated him from the second you met him.

“one of everything sweet you got back there,” he says. “extra whip, extra shots, and throw in a smile for me while you’re at it, yeah? name’s toru by the way.”

you stare at him for half a second. he can’t be serious.

“do you even know how bad that’ll taste?” you mutter, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice. you start slamming cups and pumps because arguing with customers is a quick way to get written up, but god, this one makes it tempting.

the smirk on satoru’s face gets wider, those ridiculous sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a flash of those too-blue eyes.

“aw, c’mon princess. live a little. i like my coffee like i like my company—sweet, messy, and a little overwhelming.”

you nearly drop the cup. the audacity rolls off him in waves and when you finally slide the drink across the counter (extra everything just like he asked), he takes one dramatic sip and makes a face.

“too sweet,” he declares as he sets the cup down. “way too sweet. you tryna put me in a sugar coma or what?”

your eye twitches, “you literally asked for one of everything sweet. that’s what you got. if you wanted plain black coffee maybe you should’ve just said that.”

he leans in closer, elbows on the counter, completely ignoring the growing line behind him. “feisty. i like that, it’s almost cute.”

“cute?” you echo. “buddy, i’m two seconds away from spitting in your next drink if you don’t move.”

satoru throws his head back and laughs, you also notice a few girls in line giggle along with him. he then pulls out his card, taps it against the reader, and winks.

fucking asshole.

“that should be it, princess. and hey—i’ll be back tomorrow! maybe you’ll get my order right next time.”

you watch him saunter out, white hair catching the light, and you mutter under your breath the entire time you’re making the next customer’s latte.

you think that’s the end of it. that he’s just another entitled campus pretty boy who’ll forget your face by the time he hits his next lecture.

but satoru gojo doesn’t forget things that interest him.

and apparently, you just became interesting.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“hey, new hire starts today. show him the ropes when he gets here. he’s a fast learner, supposedly.”

you nod... you’ve been working at this campus cafe for almost eight months now. started right after your financial aid package came up short and you needed something flexible that wouldn’t kill your gpa. the pay is decent, the tips are better on busy days, and it beats retail. plus the free coffee reallyyy helps.

pops, your manager, has been running this place longer than most of the students have been alive on campus. he’s kind of aloof that borders on comedy, always saying the bare minimum while somehow making it sound like the most profound shit you’ve ever heard. you get along with him in that weird way where you trade sarcasm and he never takes anything too seriously.

“great,” you say, already dreading it. “i’m babysitting today basically”

pops snorts, “this one applied with a resume that looked like it belonged in a fortune 500. probably won’t last, but at least he’ll look pretty while he burns the milk.”

“so you hired him because he’s pretty?”

“i hired him because we’re short staffed and he said he could start today. pretty is just a bonus. try not to scare him off on day one, yeah? i don’t feel like doing interviews again.”

the bell above the door chimes. “oh look, there he is. right on time.”

you turn around and your stomach drops straight through the floor.

no. fucking. way.

satoru steps inside wearing the exact same black apron as you have, name tag already clipped to his chest slightly crooked.

he spots you instantly.

“morning, princess,” he says, voice carrying across the quiet space. “ready to teach me how to make that sugar coma special?”

you just stare at him, mouth half open.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.

satoru walks behind the counter, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s done this a hundred times. he stops a little too close, that familiar cocky energy filling up the small space.

“what? you told me to try plain black coffee next time. figured the best way to get it right is to learn how to make it myself. plus the tips here looked decent when i was scoping the place out yesterday.”

“play nice, both of you. i don’t want to hear any screaming before ten.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. “this is a joke, right? he’s the new hire?”

“looks that way,” pops says, shrugging. “show him the basics. registers, milk steaming, the usual. don’t let him break anything expensive.”

satoru leans against the counter looking way too amused. “don’t worry, i’m a fast learner. you’ll barely have to babysit. we're gonna be real good friends."

˚⟡˖ ࣪

supervising satoru on his first day turns out to be exactly as annoying as you expected, except somehow worse.

he picks up the register faster than anyone you’ve ever trained. customers love him. older ladies compliment his “lovely smile,” frat guys clap him on the shoulder, and half the girls on campus suddenly decide they need an extra shot in their latte. every time someone tells him his coffee is perfect he makes sure you hear it, tossing the praise your way.

“did you catch that? she said it was the best cappuccino she’s had all semester. guess i’m a natural.”

“she was flirting with you, not rating your foam.”

“eh, same thing.”

he’s extra with everything too, especially the latte art. while you’re trying to keep the line moving he spends an extra ten seconds swirling hearts and little flowers into every cappuccino, sometimes even attempting tiny cats or stars. half the time they come out lopsided but he’s proud of himself.

one girl actually took a photo and posted it right there at the counter. again, satoru made sure you saw it.

“see? people appreciate the details. you should try it sometime instead of just dumping plain foam on top.”

“we’re not an art studio, gojo.”

he just laughs unbothered and keeps going. every time you correct him on something he listens for about five seconds then does it his own way anyway, but he never actually messes up. it’s infuriating how quickly he fits in.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

by the end of the first week you’re convinced satoru gojo was put on this earth specifically to test every last nerve you have left.

he shows up every single shift you’re on. the worst part is he’s actually good at the job. terrifyingly good even. 

you catch him quiet one afternoon working the espresso machine.

there’s something weirdly attractive about how easy he is when he’s focused like this. when he’s not the loud, cocky version that grates on your nerves. the quieter side. the way his shoulders relax, the small smile that sits on his lips when no one’s watching, the brightness that seems to live under his skin even when he’s not talking.

he’s stupidly pretty like that, when he's just simply existing.

it's like the whole world softens around him without him even trying. it pisses you off how much you notice it.

“you know,” he starts, “for someone who claims to hate me, you spend a lot of time staring.”

“excuse me. i’m not staring at you—im looking at the espresso machine.”

satoru steps closer to you. he’s tall, unfairly so, and he knows how to use it, looming enough to make the space between you feel smaller than it should.

“admit it, princess. you’re impressed.”

“sure, most trust fund babies last two days max.”

he laughs, “you think i’m doing this for the money? please. i could buy this whole campus if i wanted.”

did this asshole just flex on you?

“then why are you here, gojo?” you finally look up at him, arms crossed tight over your chest. “you don’t need the tips. you don’t need the experience. so what’s the angle?”

suddenly he reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“maybe i like coffee,” he murmurs. “or maybe i simply just like seeing you. either way… i’m not going anywhere.”

your heart beats faster, traitor that it is. you slap his hand away, ignoring the way your skin tingles where he touched you.

“touch me again and i’ll steam your fingers instead of the milk.”

“violent,” he says. “i like that about you too.”

before you can fire back, the bell over the door rings again and a group of students shuffle in, saving you from whatever stupid thing was about to come out of your mouth. you turn away from him fast, busying yourself with the register.

by closing time the cafe is empty except for the two of you. pops already left an hour ago, so now it’s just you wiping down the last tables while satoru sweeps the floor.

you’re stacking chairs when he appears beside you without warning, grabbing the one next to yours and flipping it onto the table. his shoulder bumps yours on purpose this time.

“so,” he starts, casual as ever, “what are you doing after this?”

“going home, i’m pretty tired… uh you?”

“boring, you're boring," he yawns, "lemme walk you back to your dorm to be safe.”

“i’ve walked myself home for eight months, gojo. i think i’ll survive without a bodyguard.”

“yeah, but now you don’t have to.” he continues, “c’mon, princess. one walk. i’ll even try to keep the pet names to a minimum.”

you study him for a long moment.

“fine,” you say finally giving in, “annoy me again and i’m pushing you into the nearest bush.”

“deal.” he holds up both hands in mock surrender. “but just so you know… i’m really good at dodging bushes.”

you roll your eyes at that, he never runs out of bullets. the two of you finish closing up in comfortable quiet. he locks the front door while you kill the lights, and when you step out into the cool evening air together, the campus paths are mostly empty, strung with soft golden lamplight.

satoru falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets. for once he’s not filling the silence with cocky one-liners. he stays at your side, occasionally glancing over like he’s making sure you’re still okay with this.

“you know,” he says after a few minutes, “i wasn’t lying earlier about liking seeing you.”

“seeing me glaring at you?”

“exactly.” he bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “it’s cute. you get this little crease between your brows when you’re annoyed. makes me want to annoy you more just to see it.”

“you’re weird, gojo.”

“and i’m also walking you home like a gentleman.”

you snort, preventing yourself from smiling. you would never hear the end of it if he sees it.

the walk to your dorm isn’t long. when you finally reach the front steps he stops, rocking back on his heels with his hands still in his pockets.

“working tomorrow, right?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“night, princess,” he says as he backs away. “sweet dreams. try not to dream of me!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you overslept like an idiot.

your alarm didn’t go off, or maybe it did and you smacked it into oblivion in your half asleep state. either way you’re rushing across campus because you completely missed the lecture you usually go to. now the only option left is this later section if you want any chance of catching up.

you slide into the back row just as the professor starts droning on about macroeconomic theory. you’re busy trying to catch your breath and fish out a pen when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

“well well well,” that familiar voice drawls, low enough not to draw the whole room’s attention. “didn’t know you were stalking me now, princess. following me to my lectures?”

you turn your head slowly and there’s satoru.

of fucking course he’s here too.

“you wish,” you hiss under your breath. “i overslept, this is the only section that still had seats. don’t flatter yourself, gojo.”

he leans in a little closer, “sure, sure. keep telling yourself that. but here you are, sitting right next to me when there’s like twenty empty spots further down the row. coincidence? i think not.”

“there weren’t twenty empty spots when i sat down, genius. and move your arm, you’re taking up half the desk.”

“admit it. you saw my pretty head of hair from across the room and couldn’t resist. it’s okay, happens to the best of them.”

“you’re delusional,” you mutter. “i sat here first.”

“well i was already in this section.”

the professor’s voice fades into background noise while satoru keeps up his quiet commentary, whispering dumb observations about the slides or how the guy in the front row is clearly asleep with his eyes open. it’s annoying. it’s also kind of funny, in a way that makes the lecture drag less.

by the time class ends you’re packing up faster than usual, hoping to slip out before he can say anything else, but of course he matches your pace, rushing beside you as you both head down the steps.

“shift starts in thirty, right?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag strap. “you don’t start yours till later. go do better things, please.”

“nah, i’ll come with. what if you fall asleep on the way? need to keep you in check..”

“one, that’s not gonna happen. two, i didn’t fall asleep,” you protest, “i overslept. big difference.”

“same difference when it leads to you accidentally stalking me.”

“gojo.”

“princess.”

you guys keep walking, the silence only lasts a few seconds before he breaks it again.

“so what’s your major anyway?” he asks. “gotta be something serious.”

“business with a minor in econ. figured it was the safest bet for actually getting a job after graduation. plus the classes overlap enough that i can knock out credits without killing myself.”

he hums, nodding slowly. “it suits you.”

“what about you?”

“finance, technically. heavy on the econ side too—market theory, behavioral stuff, all that. my family’s been pushing it since i could walk. boring as hell most days but the numbers click for me.”

“huh,” you say after a beat. “explains why you’re weirdly good at the register. and the latte art, actually. ever think about taking art too? you could probably minor in it without even trying.”

satoru raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised you noticed.

“...art? me?”

he continues, “i doodle sometimes when i’m bored in lectures, it’s nothing serious. but yeah… the latte stuff is kinda fun.”

“just saying you’re good at it. might be worth adding to the schedule if finance ever gets too soul sucking.”

“most people just call it extra.” 

“it is extra,” you clarify quickly. “but it’s not bad extra. customers eat it up and you don’t suck at it. if you like that kind of thing, maybe you should.”

“maybe i will. only if you sign up with me though. can’t have you missing out on watching me be naturally talented.”

you say shoving his arm lightly. “in your dreams, gojo.”

“oh it’s definitely in my dreams,” he shoots back. “speaking of dreams, did you see me in your dreams last night? did i look good? hope i didn’t flutter your heart too much.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

it’s terrifying how easy it is to fall for satoru gojo’s charm.

you’ve been telling yourself for weeks that it’s just the proximity talking, that anyone would start to soften after seeing the same face everyday. but it’s been a month now since he first showed up and the annoyance you felt on day one is slowly fading away.

it’s disarming in a way that feels unfair, like he figured out exactly where your walls are thinnest and decided to camp there.

the thing about satoru is he never pushes too hard, even when he’s being impossible. sure, he’ll tease you about your order of plain black coffee (because he thinks you’re boring) but then he’ll remember how you take it on the days when you're stressed and slide it across the counter before you even ask. a month of this and you’ve caught yourself noticing the way his little habits. he’s a show off and obnoxiously aware of it, but he’s also the guy who stays late to help you mop even when his shift ended an hour ago, who quotes your professor’s driest slides back to you in a deadpan voice that makes you laugh despite yourself.

“morning, princess,” he greets, handing you a cup of coffee.

you smile as you take the cup, “morning, toru.”

his eyes widen just a little at the name, then the grin returns, brighter than ever.

“careful,” he teases. “keep calling me that and i might start thinking you actually like me.”

you blink. “what’d i do?”

“you just called me toru,” he says.

you freeze. “no i didn’t.”

“yes you did.”

“no. i didn’t.”

“yes you did. you said ‘morning, toru.’ clear as day. i heard it with my own two ears.”

“prove it or it never happened.”

“i heard it. that’s my proof.”

“you hear what you want to hear, gojo. it’s what they call selective listening.”

satoru straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. a dramatic pout settles on his face. bottom lip jutting out with his brows furrowed, those pretty eyes narrowing at you.

“selective listening? really?” he huffs, the pout deepening. “i’m standing right here, princess. you said it. you finally said it and now you’re taking it back? that’s cold. that’s actually cruel.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

“i didn’t say anything,” you reply, “you’re imagining things again. maybe you need less sugar in your system.”

he lets out a dramatic sigh and slumps against the counter. “you’re so mean to me. i make you coffee all the time, i stay late to help you close, i walk you home like a gentleman, and this is how you repay me? denying my existence? denying toru?”

the way he says his own nickname in that whiny tone is ridiculous. “say it again,” he demands, though the demand comes out more like a sulky request. “just once. call me toru again and i’ll drop it. i swear.”

“no.”

“please?”

“absolutely not.”

satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face before peeking at you through his fingers. “you’re killing me. slowly and painfully. i finally get a win… a tiny, beautiful win and you snatch it away like that.” he snaps his fingers for emphasis. “heartless… you’re heartless, princess.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “you’re such a baby when you don’t get your way.”

“i’m not a baby,” he mutters, “i’m a grown man who just got emotionally devastated by a terrible girl who won’t even admit she likes saying my name.”

you roll your eyes and finally turn back to face him, crossing your arms to match his stance. “fine, satoru. happy now?”

his pout vanishes instantly. “heh i’ll take it.”

all morning the teasing doesn’t stop. every time your eyes meet across the counter he mouths “toru” with exaggerated lips, making you glare at him. you don’t fight him with it though, that’ll be more tiring.

later that afternoon, you remember the big econ test is coming up in a few days.

“hey… have you studied for the test yet?” you ask knowing he has the same class, “the one for macro? i’ve been so buried here i barely looked at the slides.”

satoru glances over at you, one brow raised. “yeah, kinda. skimmed the chapters last night while i was pretending to pay attention in that boring finance seminar.”

you hesitate for a second before pushing forward. “did you happen to take notes for the lecture i missed last week? the one on monetary policy? my notes from the earlier section are trash and i can’t make sense of half the graphs.”

he thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “nah, i don’t usually take notes. everything sticks up here anyway,” he taps his temple with two fingers. “but my bag’s in the back room. go check if you want—there might be some loose papers or something i scribbled on. i’m not promising anything though.”

you nod going right away. satoru’s bag is tossed carelessly on the small table near the lockers. you unzip it carefully, feeling a little weird going through his stuff even if he said it was okay. there are a couple of notebooks, some loose receipts, and a few crumpled pages from lectures.

you flip through them quickly but nothing looks like the notes you need. then your fingers brush against a smaller sketchbook tucked near the bottom. you pull it out without thinking, flipping it open to the first page. it’s an unfinished drawing—pencil lines forming the rough outline of a face. no eyes yet, no mouth, just the shape of cheekbones and the suggestion of hair falling across a forehead. it’s surprisingly delicate, the strokes careful. you can’t tell who it’s supposed to be; the features are still missing.

it’s probably just some random doodle from class, and shove the sketchbook back where you found it. no notes on monetary policy so nothing useful.

you come back out, “couldn’t find anything. your bag’s a mess by the way.”

satoru shrugs, not looking the least bit surprised. “told you i don’t usually bother. you know—” he turns toward you fully, a mischievous glint lighting up his face, “i could teach you instead. i remember most of it. we could go over the graphs and everything.”

you raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “really? you’d do that?”

“yeah, of course,” satoru says without hesitation, “i’ve got the graphs memorized anyway, also will you hate me less after?”

you narrow your eyes at him, “for the record, i don’t hate you. i just think you’re annoying.”

“same thing,” he pouts, already reaching for a clean cup to start scribbling formulas on the side with a sharpie. “consider me your personal tutor, princess.”

and just like that, satoru found another way to get closer to you.

after closing, the two of you end up at a corner table with textbooks and laptops spread out on the table. the cafe lights are dimmed low, only the warm glow of the hanging bulbs left on, and it feels strangely intimate with just the two of you.

“see this curve?” satoru says, tapping the screen of his laptop with his pen. “that’s the liquidity preference curve. when it shifts like this—” he drags his finger across the trackpad, “—interest rates drop even if money supply stays the same. ya following?”

you lean in closer as you nod slowly, even though the words are starting to blur together.

“mmm kinda… keep going.”

for the next hour he walks you through every graph, every theory, every formula that’s been kicking your ass for weeks. he’s good at it. you like that he explains things in ways that actually stick with you.

satoru has always been scary smart. even as a kid, his past teachers would vouch to that. finishing exams in ten minutes, correcting them on accident, winning academic awards he didn’t even try for. now it’s the same. he barely listens in lectures, he literally doodles instead of taking notes, he zones out half the time, and still somehow walks out with good scores. 

when you get a question right he gives you this little proud smirk that you find cute. what’s more is that he doesn’t gloat when you slump back in your chair after a while, letting out a frustrated sigh and staring at the messy notes in front of you.

“god, i wish i could remember stuff as fast as you do,” you admit quietly, “it takes me forever to get things to stick. i have to reread the same slide ten times and still feel like i’m gonna blank during the test.”

“here’s a tip,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “stop trying to memorize it all at once. the brain hates that. instead, explain it out loud like you’re teaching someone who knows nothing. even if it’s just to me or the wall. it forces you to actually understand it instead of just cramming the words.”

he continues, “works way better than staring at slides until your eyes cross. trust me, princess. i’ve tested every lazy method there is.”

you look at him, a tiny smile pulling at your lips despite how tired you feel.

“you’re surprisingly good at this teaching thing.”

“only because it’s you. now c’mon, pick a graph and teach it back to me.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you come straight to the cafe after the test, the bell above the door chiming as you push it open with your shoulder. you weren’t even scheduled today, but you wanted to tell him how it went.

“....hey? you’re not on today, right? did i mess up the schedule?"

you slide onto one of the stools at the counter giggling, “test went better than i thought. like actually good.”

his eyes light up instantly at that.

“yeah? see that? knew how fucking smart you were.”

you nod, the excitement bubbling out before you can stop it. “yeah, the way you explained everything made it click in my head during the test. i actually remembered instead of blanking like usual.”

satoru lets out a low whistle, smile widening until it takes over his whole face. “that’s my girl. told you explaining it out loud works. see?”

“genuinely thank you.” 

“stay right there. we’re doing something to celebrate.”

you end up staying until closing. when the last customer leaves and your manager waves goodbye on his way out, satoru flips the sign to closed and turns to you with a nod.

“reward time since you aced that test, i helped a little, so we’re getting ice cream.”

“that’s your big celebration?”

“c’mon, there’s that place two blocks off campus that stays open late. they have that ridiculous pistachio with the chunks of chocolate. you’re gonna love it.”

when you reach the little ice cream shop, you find a small table by the window and settle in after ordering, the sweet cold already melting on your tongue. satoru watches you take the first bite with way too much interest, chin resting on his hand.

“good, right?”

you nod, licking a bit of pistachio off the spoon.

“mhm sooo good.”

he laughs softly at first, but then his eyes drop to your mouth as you lick another slow stripe along the spoon to catch the melting edge.

his throat bobs once, “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.

you glance up, spoon still halfway to your lips. “what?”

satoru suddenly reaches out with his thumb, wiping a tiny smear of melted ice cream from the corner of your mouth.

“you can’t just do that,” he says, “licking the spoon like that, it’s unfair.”

“unfair how?” you oblivious ask. 

“because now all i can think about is how that mouth would feel on something else.” he says it so quietly, so casually too. now heat floods your face. you set the spoon down, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him. 

“sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smirk tugging at his lips says he isn’t sorry at all. “too much?”

you shake your head slowly, biting your lip to keep it from smiling too obviously. the warmth in your cheeks refuses to fade.

“.…i don’t mind?”

satoru’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “you don’t?” he echoes, leaning forward a little more, elbows on the table. “don’t do that, i’m already trying really hard to behave.”

“you never behave.”

“hey, i’ve been on my best behavior for weeks,” he protests as his hand finds yours on the table, “just waiting for you to admit i’m not so bad.”

you squeeze his fingers lightly, eyes meeting his. “you’re not.... most days.”

“most days? that’s the best i’m getting?”

“take it or leave it, gojo.”

he laughs under his breath then his free hand comes up, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “i’ll take it for now.”

satoru leans in slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

just like that his mouth meets yours, and the kiss starts soft but the second your lips part he doesn’t hesitate. his tongue slips in first, sliding against yours. he tastes like chocolate and pistachio, sweet and overwhelming in the best way. you kiss him back just as eagerly, fingers tightening around his hand on the table while your other hand finds the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric to pull him closer.

satoru makes a low sound in the back of his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, one hand still cradling your face.

suddenly the worker behind the counter clears his throat loudly, “sorry folks, we’re closing up. you two might wanna take that somewhere else.”

you pull back quickly feeling embarrassed while satoru pulls back just enough to laugh, not even a little embarrassed. “man sorry about that,” he says, “can’t help it. i’m irresistible and she’s a bit greedy tonight.”

you hit his arm playfully, face burning as you stand up fast. “toru!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next few days were different in the best kind of way.

well nothing much changes inside the cafe itself. everything is mostly the same. but satoru? he has zero shame now, and you’ve clearly unlocked something dangerous in him.

his clinginess is a whole new beast.

you’re at the register ringing up an iced caramel latte when he appears right behind you, chest brushing your back as he reaches for a stack of lids he absolutely does not need. his chin drops onto your shoulder like it belongs there.

“missed you during that eight a.m. lecture, princess. thought about skipping just to come bother you earlier.”

you elbow him lightly, “we have the same shift, toru. you saw me forty minutes ago.”

“forty minutes too long,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck before he pulls away. the customer gives you a knowing little smile and you feel your face heat up as you hand over the drink.

he does it constantly now.

during the slow hours he’ll tug you into the back room under the excuse of “checking inventory” and then spend the whole time crowding and kissing you.

“we’re gonna get caught,” you whisper.

“let them catch us,” he says against your mouth. “i’ll just tell pops i was giving you mouth-to-mouth.”

you laugh and shove him harder. “you idiot, he would never believe that.”

he only laughs louder and pulls you back in for one more kiss before the bell over the front door saves you.

the worst part (or maybe the best) is how he switched half his schedule just to match yours. you found out when he casually mentioned it during one afternoon, like it was no big deal.

“my advisor was pissed,” he told you, “said something about ‘not rearranging your entire academic plan for a girlfriend.’ i told her my barista girlfriend was non-negotiable.”

you stared at him. “you changed your schedule?”

“mmhm. dropped the early monday seminar and swapped it for the afternoon one. added a useless elective just so i could keep these exact shifts with you.” he shrugged, completely unbothered. “worth it. now i get to stare at you all day.”

you wanted to scold him for being ridiculous, but the way he said it made something warm bloom in your chest. so instead you just flicked his forehead and called him an idiot again. he caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your palm.

how freaking adorable.

sometimes he’ll slide a stool over so you can sit for a few minutes while he handles few customers alone, shooting you little winks every time you look up from your phone.

it’s how he takes care of you.

and you like when he takes care of you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

satoru gojo has always been pretty experienced with girls.

he’s never had to chase too hard. regular hook ups, quick flings during freshman year, girls who wanted the thrill of the rich pretty boy who never seemed to take anything seriously. he knew how to kiss, how to touch, how to make them feel wanted for a night without promising more than that. it was easy, fun, but never deep enough to stick.

none of them ever made his chest feel this tight. none of them made him nervous the way you do.

“is this okay?” he asks as his thumb brushes just under the edge of your bra, waiting, always checking even when his body is clearly aching to keep going.

“yeah…. it’s okay, toru.”

that’s all he needs.

he starts kissing you then trails his mouth down—his hands push your shirt higher, bunching it up under your arms. when he finally tugs your bra down, cool air hits your skin for half a second before his mouth is there.

satoru groans softly against you, the sound vibrating through your chest as he takes one nipple into his mouth. he’s gentle at first, lips closing around the peak. his tongue swirling before he sucks. a little harder, a little hungrier. 

your back arches without thinking, a quiet whimper slipping out. one of your hands finds his hair, fingers tightening in the soft white strands as he switches to the other side, giving it the same attention.

“fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your skin, voice muffled.

“mhmm.… it’s so good baby.”

“yeah?”

he presses open-mouthed kisses across the swell of your breast. his free hand cups the other one, thumb brushing over the wet nipple he just left behind, pinching lightly.

he’s thorough with it. every little sound you make seems to spur him on.

“still okay?” he questions, “tell me if you want me to stop, princess. i’ll stop.”

you shake your head, tugging him back down by his hair.

“don’t stop,” you breathe.

satoru’s smile is slow and a little dazed before he leans in again, mouth finding your breast like he never wants to leave. he’s still careful, still checking in with every new touch, but the clingy, greedy part of him is winning tonight.

he’s making sure you feel exactly how much he’s been holding back.

clothes come off slowly after that, piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you. satoru lies back against the pillows, his hands resting on your hips as you straddle him. he’s hard under you.

you take the lead.

your palms press flat against his chest for balance as you shift your weight, lining yourself up. 

“fuck—” he breathes when you start to sink down, the head of his cock pressing inside you. his head tips back, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “you’re doing so damn good, baby.”

you go slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the stretch. the fullness is overwhelming in the best way, once you’re seated fully, you pause for a few seconds.

then you start to move.

you roll your hips experimentally, finding a rhythm that makes pleasure spark up inside you. satoru’s hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. he contains himself so he doesn’t take over. he wants to let you set the pace, let you ride him exactly how you want.

“that’s it, use me, baby. however you need.”

the words send a shiver through you. you brace your hands on his chest and start moving faster, lifting up and sinking back down. satoru’s eyes stay locked on your face, then drift lower to watch where you’re joined, the way your body takes him in again and again.

his grip tightens on your hips when you start grinding down instead of bouncing, circling your hips so his cock rubs against that sensitive spot inside you.

“a–am i doing good, toru?”

“god, yes,” he pants. “so pretty riding me like this.”

you feel a rush of confidence at his words. you plant your feet on the bed, hands still braced on his chest, and start riding him faster. your hips snap down harder and quicker as satoru’s head presses back into the pillow, a low, broken moan slipping out of him.

“you’re insane f–for this,” he groans, he sounds wrecked.

“shh you’re so big toru.” you whine too, “feel so soo good.”

you don’t slow down, continuing to ride him hard, bouncing on his cock like crazy. 

you feel the thick head of his cock kissing that spongy spot inside you, satoru’s fingers dig harder into the soft flesh of your hips anchoring himself while you use him. his abs tense and ripple beneath your palms every time you slam down.

“fuck baby, slow down or i’m gonna—” his words cut off into a guttural moan when you purposely clench around him. “oh you evil woman.”

you giggle in response letting out a high, needy whimper after. 

“im sorry,” you gasp, voice breathy.. “can feel you everywhere.”

satoru’s eyes roll back for a second. he looks a mess. his white hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth falls open on another moan.

“shit h-hahh princess, your pussy’s—ah so greedy tonight.”

you’re breathless, thighs burning, but the ache only adds to the pleasure. you brace one hand on his chest and reach back with the other, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in your palm while you keep bouncing.

oh you are so killing him.

“toru you’re twitching so much inside me,” you tease. “feels so good when you throb like that…”

he lets out a string of curses in response while your breasts bounce with every movement, nipples still shiny from his earlier attention, and satoru can’t stop staring, mesmerized and completely undone.

“i’m—i’m so close,” you say, “toru—come with me please!”

“yeah fuck, yeah— i’m right there with you, princess,” he replies, voice breaking on the last word. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast circles that match your crazy pace. “come on my cock, baby. mess with it…shit!”

the pleasure pushes you over the edge first, milking his cock as your orgasm hits you. satoru follows right after you, his back arches off the bed as he comes hard, thick spurts of heat flooding deep inside you. 

finally, you collapse forward onto his chest as both of you gasp for air. satoru’s arms wrap around you instantly, holding you tight against him. he presses open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.

“holy fuck… you just destroyed me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and awed. “never felt anything like that. you’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” 

you smile against his damp chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his racing heart.

“i think i like being in charge.”

“yeah? then next time you can tie me down if you want. just give me five minutes first. i think my soul left my body for a second there.”

you laugh softly, letting your eyes drift shut while his warmth surrounds you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“wait, since when has gojo been a barista?” you hear one girl say, laughing like it’s the funniest thing ever. “him out of all people? no fucking way.”

you’re drying your hands when voices filter in from the stalls behind you. two girls chatting loud enough that you can’t ignore it even if you wanted to.

the other one snorts, “i know, right? i heard from his friends that he only applied there to sleep with one of the workers.”

your stomach twists a little, but you tell yourself it’s nothing.

campus gossip is always exaggerated.

“he’s probably quitting soon anyway,” the first girl continues, “what’s a trust fund baby doing slinging lattes?”

“like play charming until he gets what he wants then bounce?”

their laughter echoes off the tiles as they leave and you're left staring at your reflection again. you rethink everything in the span of thirty seconds—was it all calculated? did he really just do everything to sleep with you? 

you show up to your shift pissy as hell, you hear satoru humming while he wipes down the espresso machine. he looks up waving at you, and normally that makes your chest warm. today it makes you want to throw a cup at his head.

“there you are,” he says, “you look cute when you’re all serious like this—did you run here or something?”

you brush past him without a word, grabbing the rag from the sink and attacking the already clean counter. satoru’s grin falters a little bit, blue eyes narrowing already picking up your mood.

“whoa, okay. bad day?” he asks, reaching out to touch you and you flinch away.

“don’t,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the counter, scrubbing harder. “just not in the mood, gojo.”

he straightens up, his cocky energy disappearing.

“gojo?” he echoes, “what happened to satoru? you’ve been calling me that for days. did i do something? because if i did, tell me so i can fix it. i’m not above begging, princess. i’ll get on my knees right here.”

“nothing happened,” you lie, because admitting you overheard some random girls in the bathroom is affecting you feels stupid. “i’m just tired, you wouldn’t get it.”

satoru doesn’t buy it. he steps closer anyway, “try me,” he says softly, all the usual bravado dialed down. “i’m good at a lot of things, but i’m especially good at listening to you. baby, please talk to me. did someone say something? because if they did—”

“i said it’s nothing, gojo.” your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you see the way his shoulders tense just a little.

he nods, stepping back with his hands raised in that mock surrender. “alright, message received. whatever this is… we’ll figure it out later.”

well that didn’t happen.

the whole day you did your best ignoring him.

before he could even ask what you guys were doing after shift you made a cheap excuse to pops about how you felt sick (it was an obvious lie) and needed to leave early. pops just shrugged and told you to go rest. satoru watched you grab your bag, mouth opening to say something, but you were already out the door before he could get a word in.

later that night satoru is sprawled on suguru’s couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other gesturing wildly as he rants.

“everything was going so well, man. like actually well,” he groans, voice muffled behind his arm. “she's even initiating stuff, now she’s calling me gojo again? dude, fuck gojo. i hate that.”

suguru sits across from him, legs crossed, very used to satoru’s dramatic rants. he’s just not used to it being about a girl.

“so what happened?”

“i don’t know!” satoru sits up suddenly. “she flinched when i tried to touch her. flinched. like i’m some random creep.”

he drags both hands down his face, groaning louder.

“she even left early. made up some bullshit excuse to dip before i could even ask what we were doing after. she’s been staying at my dorm for days, suguru. my bed still smells like her shampoo. i had snacks stocked for her. and now she’s shutting down? i don’t get it.”

“you sure you didn’t do something stupid?”

“i swear i didn’t.” satoru flops back down dramatically. “i’m losing my mind. she went from soft and clingy back to hating me in like twelve hours. what the fuck did i miss? i really like her. like…. a lot. more than i thought i could.”

suguru hums, “if it’s not you, then maybe somebody else?”

“if someone said something to her i’m going to lose it,” he mutters. “i finally got her to let me in and now she’s pulling away again. i don’t know how to fix something when she won’t even tell me what’s broken.”

“look, relationships aren’t always smooth. problems come up, it’s normal. the difference is whether you actually talk about it or let it fester.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

your morning has been irritating as hell.

you woke up cranky, then you spilled coffee on your shirt while rushing, you had to change, and still barely made it to your first lecture on time. every little thing felt like it was piling up—the crowded hallways, the professor droning on about stuff you already knew, and the constant replay of yesterday, everything was just irritating.

so by the time of your second morning class, you’re already exhausted and on edge.

you pull out your notebook when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

satoru slips into the seat beside you without a word.

he's not even in this class.

he looks exhausted, there are faint dark circles shadowing the usual brightness of his gaze, his white hair is messier than normal like he rolled straight out of bed and didn’t bother fixing it. he probably didn’t sleep much, if at all.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he pulls a small sticky note pad from his bag, scribbles something quickly with a pen, and slides it over to you under the desk.

are you still mad? :(

you glance at the note, then at him. his eyes are already on you, waiting.

you write back, keeping your handwriting small.

no i was never mad

he reads it, eyebrows pulling together. he scribbles again, passing it back.

but you were. look at your mad face right now.

you feel the irritation flare again, but you keep your face neutral and write:

you shouldn’t even be here. im. not. mad.

he huffs softly as another note slides your way.

see. you clearly are. can we please talk after?

you stare at the words for a second longer. part of you wants to stay stubborn. the other part hates how tired he looks.

later.

satoru reads it and nods before tucking the sticky notes away.

the rest of the lecture goes, but satoru stays right there beside you the whole time.

midway through, he opens his notebook and starts sketching again. first he shows you a proper drawing of you. it's the same unfinished face you had seen weeks ago when you dug through his bag looking for notes. now it’s finished. your eyes are there and your mouth curved in a smile.

you admire how pretty he sees you. then he flips the page without warning.

the next sketch is completely different—you again, but this time with a exaggerated angry face. brows furrowed deep, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, tiny cartoon steam lines rising from your head. it’s ridiculous and accurate at the same time. he bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders shaking quietly as he watches your reaction.

you glare at the page and he quickly flips the notebook shut before the professor notices.

when class finally ends, the two of you walk across campus until you reach a quiet stretch of grass near the edge of the field, far enough from the main paths. you drop down onto the grass first. satoru follows, sitting close but not too close, giving you space.

he reaches over and plucks a small white wildflower growing near his knee. he twirls it once between his fingers before holding it out to you, a tired smile on his face.

you look at the flower, then at him. it’s stupidly cute.

you flick it away with two fingers and the flower flutters to the grass between you.

satoru watches it fall before finally talking.

“okay,” he says quietly, “talk to me. what’s going on? you’ve been shutting me out since yesterday and i’m losing my mind here.”

you pull at a blade of grass, twisting it between your fingers.

“when are you quitting?”

satoru blinks, caught off guard. “quitting what? the cafe?”

you nod, still not looking at him.

he lets out a short, confused laugh. “is that why you’re mad? you want me to quit? because if that’s it, i can—”

“no—” you cut him off fast, finally turning to face him. “did you only start working there because you wanted to sleep with me?”

the question hangs between you. satoru’s expression changes. hurt flickers across his face before he schools it.

“that’s what this is about?” he asks, “you think this whole thing was just some long game to get in your pants?”

you don’t answer right away, the gossip from the bathroom echoes in your head again.

“is that really what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i heard some girls talking in the bathroom yesterday,” you admit, voice low. “they were laughing about how you only took the job to sleep with one of the baristas. that you’d charm your way in, get what you wanted, and then quit once it happened. it sounded… exactly like something people would say about you.”

“fuck,” he mutters. “fucking gossips.”

“look, i’m not gonna pretend i haven’t had that reputation. people assume the worst. and yeah—back in freshman year i wasn’t exactly turning down easy attention. but that’s not what this is. not with you.”

“when i walked into that cafe the first time, i was just fucking around. i saw you looking annoyed and thought it’d be fun to push your buttons. but then you pushed back and i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.”

“so i came back. then i applied for the job because i wanted an excuse to see you more. not to sleep with you and bounce—to actually be around you. i stayed because every shift with you made the day better. even when you were glaring at me. especially when you were glaring at me.”

you glance away, toward the empty field. “you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“and risk you telling me to fuck off on day one? no thanks. working there let me prove i wasn’t just fucking around. also you know that's not me.”

he pauses, then adds, “and yeah, i wanted you. i still do. i want all of it.”

satoru leans forward a little, elbows on his knees.

“i switched my entire schedule around for you. i told you how my advisor thinks i’ve lost it. i turned down better internships because they’d mess with our shifts. if all i wanted was sex, i wouldn’t still be here begging you to talk to me.”

“so no, i’m not quitting,” he says quietly. “not unless you tell me to. and even then i’d probably just sit outside the cafe and wait for you like a loser. but i’m not here because it’s convenient or because i’m trying to win some game. i’m here because i like you. a lot. more than i thought i could like anyone.”

he reaches out slowly, “i’m not gonna push if you need space. but tell me what you need from me right now. yell at me, ignore me, whatever. just don’t shut me out and leave me guessing.”

you stare at his open hand for a long moment. the irritation is still there, tangled up with the embarrassment of letting petty gossip get to you.

finally you sigh, shoulders dropping.

“i hated thinking it was all fake,” you mutter. “that the second you got what you wanted, you’d disappear and i’d be the idiot who fell for it.”

“not fake,” he says immediately. “none of it.”

you hesitate, then reach out and flick his open palm lightly with your fingers, enough to make him smile.

“you’re still annoying,” you tell him.

“yeah?” his grin comes back. “good.... means we’re getting somewhere.”

“you look like shit, by the way.”

“didn’t sleep much,” he admits, shrugging. “kept replaying yesterday trying to figure out what i messed up.”

“sorry for being so gullible.” you says knowing how that’s all on you.

“as long as you stop calling me gojo when you’re mad. hurts more than it should.”

you roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway.

the two of you stay on the field a little longer, the conversation flowing—back to classes, to stupid customer stories from the cafe, to nothing important at all.

when you finally stand up to head back toward campus, he falls into step next to you like always.

“so,” he says after a minute, voice casual again, “still mad?”

you glance sideways at him.

“not as much.”

“progress,” he declares, grinning. “i’ll take it.”

“hey,” he murmurs.

you turn to face him, he’s pouting extra hard....

“can i please kiss you now?” he pleads, “please. please. please”

instead of answering with words, you step forward, slide your free hand up to the front of his shirt, and tug him down the rest of the way.

satoru meets you halfway.

his hand comes up to cup the side of your face as his lips move against yours. he kisses you gentler than usual and you kiss him back just as softly, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

when you finally pull apart, foreheads still touching, satoru lets out a shaky little breath against your mouth.

“thank you,” he whispers, the words barely there. his thumb brushes your cheek once more. “fuck, i missed that.”

you smile against his lips.

“don’t make me flick another flower at you.”

he presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead before straightening up.

“next rumor, i’m spreading how badly i’m in love with you and how you equally feel the same and can never live without me.”

© splurtz 2026 — all rights reserved.

[sukunahs]

victim of luck | gojo satoru

pairing: gojo satoru x reader

summary: while the chances of meeting your soulmate are one in a million, you were lucky enough to stumble across yours with fairly little effort.

unfortunately, fate has a way of being cruel, and your destined partner also happens to be your clan’s worst enemy.

word count: 13.1k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, soulmate au, forbidden love, star crossed lovers, childhood friends to lovers, blood, major injury, anxiety, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, familial disappointment, yearning

a/n: thank you to @hellicify for requesting this, I had a lot of fun writing it! It was originally meant to be enemies to lovers but I grew too attached to them being more romeo and juliet-esque!

hope you all enjoy! first long gojo fic hehe.....kinda nervous.....

The first time you met Gojo Satoru, the whole world stopped. 

You’d been only seven years old, encountering him at a meeting of all the prominent clans within Jujutsu Society. Your eyes had met his electric blue ones, and your little heart had exploded with emotion that you’d never known possible. It was a desire to reach out to him, to cling onto him. 

It was a desire that he shared, clear in the way that his stubby hand reached for yours, an unspoken connection formed between the two of you with a singular look. The moment was gone as soon as it arrived, with his caretaker pulling him away harshly, barking at him not to associate himself with anyone from that clan. 

The same lecture was given to you by your parents, harshly reminding you that anyone with the name Gojo was the enemy and not the sort that you wanted to tangle with. 

They were fiends, and you always had to remember that. 

But for some reason, despite the lessons you were given over the next few years pertaining to your family’s history and feud with the Gojo clan, you could never manage to find understanding in their outlook. Not when every single night had you picturing those bright blue eyes that had stared into yours with such wonder. 

The next time you saw Gojo Satoru, you were eleven years old. 

It was in a similar setting as before - a convergence of clans, but now that you were older there were less eyes on you, more freedom to roam about the grounds upon which the convention was being held. 

You found him beside a pond, staring out at the rippling water in silence, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He’d jumped ever so slightly as you approached, frustration present in his furrowed brow, only for his expression to morph into wonder at the sight of you, a wide grin crossing his graceful face. 

“It's you!” He exclaimed. His eyes were lit up, excitement bubbling within him. If he were a dog, you were sure that he’d be wagging his tail with great enthusiasm. 

“It’s you,” you responded with a tilt of your head, grateful that he remembered you. You’d worried that the momentary connection between the two of you hadn’t been real, had been nothing more than mere puppy love on your part, a complete insignificance to him. 

Satoru looked around cautiously, frowning once more before reaching out and grabbing your arm. Tugging you along, he headed down a sequence of hidden garden pathways before skidding to a halt in a small clearing beneath a maple tree. You’d let yourself be dragged along easily, half curious as to where he was leading you, and half conscious of the fact that he was doing this to prevent prying eyes. 

The two of you shouldn’t be talking after all. You both knew that. Even though you considered the feud to be genuinely stupid, and you hoped that Satoru did too. 

“No one should see us here, stupid adults are always watching,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. 

You shrugged. For the most part your parents let you do whatever you wanted, so you couldn’t really relate, but you imagined that in this one case, they would go absolutely crazy if they saw you alone with the Gojo clan’s six eyes user, who was public enemy number one in their minds. 

They’d had assassins sent after him, if what you’d overheard your parents talking about was to be believed. 

“What’s your name?” He asked. 

You told him with a smile, and he nodded, introducing himself only for you to stop him. His reputation preceded him after all. He seemed almost proud of the fact that you already knew him, puffing up his chest with a wide grin, like he was keen to impress you. You couldn’t help but smile back, heart fluttering at the sight. 

“I thought I might’ve made you up!” He chirped, offering further explanation as you tilted your head in confusion. “I have this vivid image of seeing you when we were younger, it comes up in my dreams a lot, like this nice shiny memory that makes me feel all warm. But I thought you might’ve just been an imaginary friend.” 

It seemed that Satoru’s clan had taken the opposite approach to your clan, keeping information about their enemy locked down. Although, why would they bother telling him anything about you? It wasn’t like you were special in the same way he was. 

“You’re from that clan, aren’t you? That’s why we never tend to see each other.” 

You nodded solemnly. “My parents will throw a fit if they see me talking to you.” 

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” Satoru’s smile was painfully bright, an admiration growing desperately in your chest at the sight of it. There was no doubt that you had a crush - between the fact that you’d met very few boys your age and the idea that he was forbidden, your young heart had never wanted anything more. 

So of course you nodded along, sitting down beside him in the clearing, relieved to be free of the adults for an afternoon. 

Satoru seemed to love talking, chattering away at you for hours. You’d always been more of an introvert - with your clan largely keeping to themselves, there was seldom anyone for you to talk to, and that meant that your social skills were limited. You were grateful for Satoru’s ability to push the conversation forward, asking you non-stop questions about your life and likes, and talking at length about his own preferences. 

You learned that in a lot of ways you were startlingly similar. 

You both had a penchant for sweet things, an enjoyment of catching frogs in the summer, and a deep set desire to escape from the stifling grip of your respective families. It felt like no matter what Satoru spoke about, you could feel yourself relating on a deep level. His thoughts and desires were so aligned with yours that if he were to suddenly reveal that he’d read your diary and this was all some practical joke, you wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest. 

“I used to love climbing trees too,” he added, down to the twentieth hobby on his list at this point, seemingly enjoying being listened to with such rapt attention. “But I’m not allowed to anymore because of this stupid thing.” 

He was rolling his eyes as he held up his arm to show you, a thick scar running up the length of his forearm. Your eyes widened ever so slightly as you peered at the imperfection on his pale skin, inspecting the way that the old wound was scabbing over, clearly having been picked at by his impatient hands. 

“Oh, snap!” You said with a small smile, pushing the sleeve of your kimono back to show him an identical wound, uncannily similar to the one he was currently sporting. “Mine was from a knife!” 

It was a lesson in not playing in your family’s weapon storage. You’d spent plenty of time there throughout your childhood against your parents’ advice, and one day the reality of why they didn’t want you going there came to smack you right in the face. It turned out that attempting to catch a falling knife isn’t a good idea. 

“You were stabbed?” He asked, tilting his head curiously. 

“In a sense.” You puffed out your chest, not eager to confess that the assailant had been none other than your own foolishness. “How did climbing a tree cause that?” 

“It didn’t. My handler just thinks it did.” He huffed. 

It was clear that this was a serious topic for him, one that he’d thought plenty about. You imagined that he still climbed trees in secret whenever he could, because there was something about him that suggested an unwillingness to be truly tamed. 

“How did you get it then?” You asked, rubbing your own scar for half a second before dropping your hand back down to your side. You shouldn’t scratch at it, even if the scab was itchy. It would come off in its own time.

He thought about that question for a second, white eyebrows drawn close together in focus, before he turned to you with an unbothered shrug. “Dunno! One day it was just there!” 

You hummed, content with his answer. It wasn’t like the origin really mattered to you, there were bumps and bruises on you all the time that you just couldn’t explain. It was all part of being a kid, there was so much going on that you couldn’t possibly remember everything. 

Why would you? 

—

It was a few years later, at age fifteen, that you learned just why those unexplainable scars actually did hold meaning. A serious conversation with your parents, in which they sat you down and told you all that you needed to know about soulmates, since you were approaching the age where it might be relevant. 

They explained that some people had a divine connection, something beautiful and otherworldly that would bring the two of them together against all odds. It was the stuff of the fairytales that you’d loved so dearly when you were young, a magic that existed here on earth. 

Your parents weren’t soulmates. Not many couples tended to be. Considering the population of the world, such unions between soulmates tended to be rare, something special whenever one found their prophesied other half. Outside of the inexplicable attraction that one would expect to feel when witnessing their soulmate, there was a single clue to who your other half might be. 

Once soulmates had laid eyes on each other for the first time, any wound inflicted upon one party would be mirrored on the other. 

Cuts, bruises, scars, disfigurements, and even death. Anything that ailed one would ail the other, allowing for a constant physical connection between lovers. Something equal parts beautiful and tragic. You were tied to their fate, no matter what it may be. 

If you’d been older, perhaps you would’ve connected the dots faster. But it had been four years since you’d last seen Satoru, and although his presence was a constant in your dreams, your conversation about scars had long since fled your mind. 

With the emphasis that your mother was putting on tempering your expectations where it came to ever meeting a soulmate, the thought that you might’ve already met him was far from apparent to you. 

You next encountered Satoru less than a year later, when the two of you enrolled in Jujutsu High at the same time. 

It was nice to be able to see him without the shadow of both your clans lingering over you, even if your parents had given you a big lecture beforehand about how you were to stay as far away from the Gojo heir as possible. It was a directive that you ignored of course, throwing yourself wholeheartedly into a friendship with Satoru. 

Why should you build your relationships around some dusty old family feud? Satoru had been nothing but kind to you in the fleeting moments you’d encountered each other throughout childhood. You couldn’t care less if some boring ancestor of his stole your family’s land a thousand years ago.

What did that matter when Satoru was so much fun? 

The two of you were practically attached at the hip for the first two years of school, always getting into mischief together. You’d sit next to each other during classes, go out into the city to check out new bakeries, spend evenings in each other’s rooms watching scary movies - always settled right next to each other. Sometimes Satoru’s arm would brush against yours and your heart rate would skyrocket, a result of the crush that you couldn’t deny that you had on your best friend. 

Your friend Shoko had teased you about it on occasion, waiting until Satoru and Suguru were off on some mission before poking fun at just how attached to him you were, trying to convince you to talk to him about it since he was clearly into you too. 

Unfortunately, that was where you largely drew the line. 

Being friends with Satoru was one thing, easily concealed from your parents. But dating him? That was something else entirely. It wasn’t like any relationship between the two of you could go anywhere, both of your families would exile you. Perhaps in the case of the Gojo clan, they’d even seek to kill you if Satoru didn’t comply with their desires. 

While you didn’t agree with the feud, you didn’t wish to be estranged from the family that had so lovingly raised you, and for that reason it was better that you and Satoru remained nothing more than friends. 

There were, of course, complications that quickly arose on that front. 

The thought of soulmates had largely fled your mind as you entered your third year of school. Again, if you’d been attentive, maybe you would’ve seen reality much faster. There was evidence in the way that you seemed to be the only person capable of bypassing Satoru’s infinity during training - a feat that you both brushed off too easily as a feature of your own technique rather than something deeper. 

But true, unquestionable evidence came round soon enough. 

Satoru and Suguru had been sent off on some mission, and had been gone for a couple of days. You’d been passing your time as normal, studying and enjoying the warm summer air. You’d been out having a picnic with Utahime when it happened. One moment the two of you were chatting away happily, the next your eyes were widening in sheer horror at the feeling of a knife jamming into your throat. 

In that moment, you’d fully believed that it was real, that there was a person behind you who had decided to put an end to your short life. You didn’t think about the why or how of the matter, hands raising to your neck desperately in an attempt to find the blade, only to discover nothing but thin air until your fingers brushed against your neck. 

There, you discovered a gaping hole, gushing with blood. There was just enough time for terror to course through you before you blacked out, dropping down onto the picnic mat before you, likely leaving Utahime traumatised for a significant portion of her life. 

You came to a few days later, with the physical evidence of the event shockingly absent. If you didn’t know better, it would almost feel like nothing had ever happened at all, but your heart certainly remembered, a deep anxiety sitting within you at the memory of the extreme injury, of the excruciating pain that you never wanted to experience again. 

Sitting at your bedside in a plastic chair, was Satoru. 

His hand was clutching yours tightly, and his head was resting on the side of your bed, white hair splayed out across the soft sheets. You wondered how long he’d been at your side, how he’d reacted when he’d found out what had happened to you. Your heart fluttered at the feeling of his warm fingers intertwined with yours, taking your mind off the horrors of your injury for a few minutes at least. 

The second that you shifted, he was sitting up, suddenly all attentive. There was something wild behind his blue eyes, a sort of panic that you weren’t accustomed to him wearing. “You’re awake- I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “This is my fault, I shouldn’t have let my guard down. I’m sorry.” 

“Huh?” your head was swimming, your body not quite caught up to the fact that you were awake, unable to understand the guilt written all over your friend’s face. 

“We- we were within the barriers, I’d thought that we were safe. That assassin, he came out of nowhere and I couldn’t defend myself. You must’ve been so scared, I’m sorry, I’ll never let that happen again.” 

Satoru’s words were going in one ear and out the other with no coherency. Why was he apologising for not being able to defend himself? What did that have to do with you? You could hardly remember what had happened for you to end up here, aware of the searing pain in your neck and then nothing. 

Had a curse user snuck in and attacked you? Had they attacked Satoru and then come for you? Was that why he was apologising? Had they been caught? 

“It looks like my RCT worked on you too though, I’m glad.” 

All the thoughts in your head dissipated as Satoru reached out for you, brushing his fingers softly against your neck. There was a flash of phantom pain quickly replaced by a soft tingling beneath his touch. You were surprised to find his hand skimming over your skin, no bandages in sight, as if there had been no wound at all. 

“What- what happened, Satoru?” You asked, figuring that trying to piece things together was a fool’s game when your head was pounding so hard.

Surprise flickered in his blue eyes for a moment, as if he thought that you were already with him in his explanation. “What do you remember?” He asked, slowly. 

“I was having lunch, and then there was this blinding pain in my neck, like someone stabbed me, and now I’m here.” That was genuinely all that you could recall, a wry smile drawing across your lips at the panic on Satoru’s face, as though he’d gotten thoroughly ahead of himself. 

“You- you don’t know?” 

“Know what?” 

“You weren’t stabbed. I was.” 

That statement didn’t quite sink in for the first few seconds, with your brain far too foggy to really understand what relevance it had to you. You were moments away from once again asking what the hell he was talking about when it clicked. 

He was stabbed and the wound replicated on you. 

The boy who’d had your heart beating erratically from the first moment you’d met, the same one who somehow found his way into every single one of your dreams. There was a reason that you thought of him in the way that you always had. 

A reason that you always yearned so deeply to be around him. 

He was your soulmate. Proven through your shared misery. Any wound of his was a wound of yours and vice versa. You had to count your lucky stars that Satoru was one of the strongest sorcerers around, that he was capable enough to learn to heal on the fly. Else you’d both be dead. 

“We’re…” You trailed off, mouth going dry before you could say the words.

“Soulmates,” he finished, with a giddy grin.

The first feeling that overcame you was pure elation, an unbelievable sense of happiness at the idea of being with Satoru like that, at the thought that the two of you were actually destined for each other. For a moment, you almost forgot yourself entirely, every inch of your body urging you to lean forward and kiss him. 

You’d dreamt about it enough times. 

But reason held you back. 

Satoru had always been somewhat forbidden fruit to you. Your family despised his, and had always given you strict instructions not to associate with him in any form. You’d ignored them, because why should they dictate your friendships, but when it came to the matter of something more you could see many potential issues. 

There was still a grin on Satoru’s face, but it had faltered ever so slightly. Bright blue eyes were darting around your face with a hint of anxiety, clearly trying to understand what was going through your head. 

“It's good, right? I mean, I like you, and I hope…” He trailed off uncertainly, taking a deep breath, as if he was scared that you were about to come out and call him repulsive or something of the like. 

“I like you too,” you said hastily, not wanting to leave him hanging. 

“But?” 

“But our families are going to kill us.” 

He laughed, shrugging his shoulders easily. “Remember, what they don’t know won’t hurt them!”

His lips crashed against yours, stealing the air from your lungs. It was your first kiss, the first of many that you’d share with Satoru. Kissing someone, kissing him was something that you’d imagined for a long time, fretting over your inexperience, terrified about the idea of being a bad kisser. 

And yet, it felt so easy with him. It was as if you’d been made for this very moment. You knew exactly what to do, moving your lips in tandem with his, letting him wrap his arms around you and pull you closer. 

Your life hadn’t been unhappy by any stretch of the imagination, but there’d always been a hollow feeling that you carried with you, like something was missing. With him, it felt like that gap was finally filled. 

Like you were meant to be. 

The remainder of your third year was spent in total bliss. Of course, you both had the sense to keep your relationship as secret as it could be, fully away of the attempts to divide you that would no doubt come from your families, but it didn’t make things any less fun by any means. 

If anything, the thrill of your union being secret just spurred both of you on more. 

Hands brushing beneath tables, eyes meeting for a fleeting moment across a busy room, secret rendezvous in your dorm room night after night, in which Satoru would climb in through the window with a goofy smile on his face, barely offering a greeting before kissing you silly. 

The two of you became each other’s first everything, placing complete trust in the other, which just felt so easy because even if you weren’t soulmates, your friendship over the last few years had been unrivalled. A gap that felt like it had always existed in your heart had been filled thoroughly by Satoru’s presence. 

No doubt existed in your mind that this was how things were meant to be, Satoru’s lips against yours, his hands brushing against your waist tenderly as he pulled you closer. Your ancestors were almost certainly rolling in their graves, but what did that matter when your heart yearned so deeply for the man that the universe had decided you were destined for?

Some dusty feud meant nothing in the face of true love. 

That was what you had believed for a time, at least. Until the illusion of what you had was well and truly shattered. 

Your graduation was mere days away, and everyone was busy with various responsibilities in the lead up to the ceremony. Both yours and Satoru’s clans would be coming to attend, and subsequently the two of you were doing your best to act like you didn’t know each other at all, save for soft little smiles you’d share when you thought that no one was looking. 

Oh, and except for the secret moments in which Satoru would pull you into an empty classroom, pressing you up against the wall and kissing you like his life depended on it, all amped up from the thrill of someone discovering you all tangled together with no explanation but the truth. 

The reality of discovery turned out to be less alluring than either of you had expected though, the two of you freezing as Yaga entered the room during one such moment, sweeping his gaze over you both before letting out a heavy sigh. “Satoru, your family are looking for you.” 

Confusion was written across both of your faces, expecting some level of comment regarding your condition, but finding none. 

“I’m…busy?” Satoru offered cautiously, not sure what to make of Yaga’s reaction. You had to hold back a snort at the bewilderment in his pretty blue eyes. 

“Clearly. But if you don’t want them to discover…this…” Yaga waved his hand in your general direction, as if unwilling to address it. “I’d suggest you appease them.” 

Satoru let out a heavy sigh, shooting you an apologetic smile before heading to the door. You moved to follow behind him, only for Yaga to step in your way. It was hard to make sense of his expression behind the sunglasses he’d always wear, but there seemed to be something akin to pity lining his face. 

“Just a moment. I think there’s something we should discuss.” 

Satoru shot a frown over his shoulder, clearly displeased with the development. Any protest that he might form was cut short by Yaga pushing the door to the classroom closed, shutting you off from your disgruntled boyfriend on the other side. 

“What?” You asked, rather defensively. You didn’t know how many moments together you and Satoru had left before the pressures of life would start to drag you apart, you didn’t particularly want to waste any of that time talking to your teacher. 

“You understand that it has to stop, don’t you?” 

For a second it felt like your heart had ceased its beating. You knew what he was referring to, of course you did, but you weren’t going to acknowledge that fact for even a second. You’d play dumb and force him to spell it out for you, because you weren’t going to concede to his statement without some element of a fight. 

“What has to-”

“You’re smarter than that,” he said, interrupting you swiftly. “This thing with Satoru, it was all fine while you were young but now…if you take this seriously it will only end in tragedy.” 

“What does it matter to you?” Once again, your tone was rude. You were pretty confident that if you were a teacher you wouldn’t be snooping around on the relationships of your students, that was just plain weird. 

“Do you value your life? Do you value Satoru’s?” 

You blinked at him. “Obviously.” 

“Then you need to stop.” 

Staring at him haplessly, you tried to understand what he could possibly mean by that. Satoru was quite possibly the strongest sorcerer alive, if your families were to find out and be displeased then that was their problem, there was nothing that they could do if it was Gojo Satoru they were up against - they’d just have to accept it. 

Even if the idea of being disowned wasn’t ideal to you, it would be worth it for Satoru. 

Sensing your confusion, Yaga let out another long sigh. “You’re soulmates, aren’t you?” 

Hesitating for a moment, you bit down on your lip. That wasn’t information that you’d shared with anyone outside of Shoko and Suguru. Even if others like Utahime were aware that the two of you were dating, you didn’t want everyone to know about the depth of the bond that you shared - it felt like it would be almost less sacred that way. 

“I’ve known since the incident with Fushiguro Toji,” He continued at your lack of response. “Others have had their suspicions too, but I’ve done my best to quell them. It does you no good for people to know.” 

“I don’t think it really matters, Satoru’s so strong he can-” 

“And you, are you strong?” 

“Huh?” 

“Tell me,” Yaga said, lowering his voice ever so slightly. “What has your clan done with previous bearers of Satoru’s technique?” 

“They’ve killed them, but, like I said, Satoru is too strong so-” 

Much to your annoyance, he cut you off once more. 

“Right. What do you think your clan will do, when they find out that you have a soul binding connection with him? What do you think they’ll do when they find out that through your sacrifice, they can kill Satoru?” 

Your lips parted ever so slightly, trying to formulate an argument that just wouldn’t come, because you’d been so swept up in your new love for Satoru that any issues that may arise seemed to just slip from your mind entirely. 

“In fact,” Yaga continued, “forget your clan. What do you think will happen when the world at large finds out about this connection? You’re right, Satoru can protect himself, but it won’t matter if he can be killed through you.” 

“I wouldn’t…” Your voice quivered ever so slightly, mind racing with the picture that Yaga was painting, the realisation of the weight that sat upon your shoulders truly starting to settle. He was right, you didn’t have something like Satoru’s infinity to protect you, and even if your soulmate would look after you most of the time, he couldn’t be at your side at all moments. 

You’d be responsible for both of your deaths. 

“If you love him, you need to put an end to this before anyone of import finds out about it. If you don’t, neither of you will even make it to twenty-five.”

In the days following your conversation with Yaga, you avoided Satoru as much as you could. It was easier than it would usually be with everything surrounding graduation and the fact that your families were constantly nearby. But one evening Satoru snuck into your room just like he always would, effectively cornering you. 

“You’ve been weird lately,” he said, straightforwardly. He’d flopped down on your bed, hand supporting his chin as he stared up at you. Your posture was riddled with anxiety, knees drawn up to your chest, nails digging into the palm of your hands in an attempt to calm yourself. 

You hadn’t slept well in days. 

“Just tired.” You responded on reflex, and he instantly pulled a face. 

“Liar.” 

“Satoru-” 

“What did Yaga say to you?” He asked, sitting up and stopping any spiel that you were about to summon in an attempt to placate him. 

“Nothing, I’m just-” 

“He said we needed to break up, didn’t he?” 

You nibbled on your lower lip, offering a small nod. There was a burning fire in his blue eyes that sparkled with the same resistance you’d initially shown Yaga, one that said he couldn’t care less what the consequences were, he wasn’t about to be torn from his soulmate, no matter what the world wanted to throw at him. 

“Fuck him. What does he know?” Satoru reached out for you gently, his hand cupping your face, a thumb gently swiping along the curve of your cheek. Goosebumps raised up on your skin at the action, a desperate electricity tingling through your veins at his mere touch. How Yaga expected you to live without that was beyond you. 

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips gently against yours, his tongue flicking against your lips tenderly, practically begging you for entrance. You parted your lips for him easily, letting him push you down onto the bed, the weight of his warm body on top of yours. It would be so easy to just sink into that lovely feeling of bliss that overtook you whenever you were at his side. 

But the little voice in the back of your head prevailed on this occasion. 

“I’ll get you killed.” Your voice was small as you pulled away, eyes a little watery as you stared up at him. He was so handsome that you almost wanted to take the words back, wanted to wipe that look of disbelief off his face. 

You would’ve done it if not for the fact that Yaga was right - if you loved him, and you did, you both had to stop. 

“You won’t.” His tone was dismissive, as if the mere insinuation was ridiculous. 

“I will. I’m not strong like you. If people find out about this they’ll start trying to kill me for the sake of killing you. It’ll all be my fault.” 

Satoru’s brows furrowed, his expression angrier than you’d ever seen it. “Don’t be dumb! I won’t let anything happen to you, you’re just letting Yaga fearmonger you.” 

“Satoru.” Your voice was quiet. “You can’t protect me all the time. All it takes is just one instant-” 

“What are you trying to say right now?” He pulled back from you, frustration and hurt straining his voice, blue eyes wide with anxiety. 

“I’m saying this has to end.” 

It was hard to not let your voice waver, an ache growing in your heart at the mess of emotions that flickered across your boyfriend’s handsome face. You could take it back, you could kiss him and pretend that the conversation never happened, that none of that stuff that Yaga said mattered. 

The problem was, it did matter. 

You loved Satoru, you loved him more than anything on this earth. He was your other half, the person who truly completed you. And for that reason you couldn’t give in, couldn’t spend every day at his side. 

Because you wanted him to live a long life, not one cut short because of your weakness. 

That wasn’t fair. 

“You don’t mean that.” Satoru said, his tone clipped. 

“I have to mean it. There’s no future for us but tragedy.” 

—

Over the next few years, you did everything you could to try to get over Satoru. You failed miserably - a reality that you’d largely been anticipating. You couldn’t simply forget a soulmate, the universe had dictated that you were made for one another, destined no matter what you tried to do. 

That meant that you spent half of your nights sobbing into your pillow, desperate for the warmth of Satoru’s body at your side. The thought of reaching for your phone and just calling him had crossed your mind on many an occasion, thwarted only by the rational side of you sternly refusing to give in to your desires. 

Satoru had become the head of the Gojo clan in the time that you were apart, which ultimately meant that he was the arbiter concerning the feud with your family. It didn’t make much difference, even if Satoru played nice with them, they still regarded him with the same hatred as usual. 

You imagined that Satoru’s attempts at offering an olive branch were for your sake, a dwindling hope that maybe you could be together if your families weren’t at odds. Such rifts were, unfortunately, too deep to mend. 

The next time that you and Satoru actually crossed paths, you were both twenty-three. You’d been assigned a mission involving the elimination of some curse-users, which had grown infinitely more complex the more intel you’d gathered on the matter. Subsequently, a special grade sorcerer was put on the case.

Both Yuki and Suguru were preoccupied with other matters, and that meant that the only person left was Satoru. 

It was how the two of you ended up awkwardly sitting in the living room of a tiny apartment, trying to figure out what to say to each other while you staked out some curse users that you couldn’t care less about when the man you loved was sitting right across from you. 

Time had treated Satoru well. He was a little bulkier than he’d been at high school, his hair slightly more respectable than the unkept look he’d had at eighteen. The look in his blue eyes was a little sharper, more controlled than the wild edge that they’d previously held. But he was still unquestionably himself, his mere presence wrapping around you like a warm blanket. 

You were grateful that you hadn’t had to cross paths with him much over the last five years, because there wasn’t a chance in hell that you’d be able to resist him forever, not when his mere scent was intoxicating to you, despite him being sat several metres away. 

“So…uh…I wonder how long this will take.” You cleared your throat awkwardly, and Satoru stared at you incredulously. 

“Really?” He asked, in disbelief. “That’s the line you’re going with?” 

Rolling your eyes, you shrugged. “I don’t- what would you have started with?” 

His lips curved up into a smile at your reaction. “Maybe a: hey, how have you been? Have you missed me? Something to that effect, I don’t know.” 

“Feels redundant,” you mumbled. Of course you’d missed each other, you’d been practically engineered to feel that way. 

“Still figured you’d want to hear me say it.” 

“If I hear you say it, all of the work that I put into coping without you for the last five years would go to waste.” There was no point in being anything but honest with him, your heart was battering against your ribs, the sound of his voice even more lovely than you’d remembered it. If he were to kiss you right now, there was a certainty in your mind that you wouldn’t be able to push him away. 

It was true that distance made the heart grow fonder, and your skin was practically itching for his hands to hold you once more. Consequences be damned. 

That outlook was foolish, dangerous even, and you both knew it. Even if Satoru had been disgruntled at your break up, you knew that he was smart enough to understand why, even if he’d disagreed with you. It was why he’d stayed far away from you over the last few years, eager to grant you your wish.

He’d worked just as hard as you had to keep temptation from even brushing your periphery. 

Rightfully so, considering that mere minutes alone in a room with him already had you unravelling. Your desire for him was more palpable than it had been back at school, as if your love had matured along with you. The space between your thighs was growing wetter with each passing second, skin prickling with electricity.

He gave you a bright smile, blue eyes narrowing deviously. “I missed you,” he stated, matter-of-factly, seemingly conscious of the way that his words seemed to grip your heart, squeezing it desperately. “I missed you more than you can imagine.” 

“I think I can imagine it.” 

“I don’t think so.” He leant forward, resting his chin on his hand in that lazy way that was characteristically him. “You have no idea how many nights I pictured you, imagining you on top of me, looking all angelic like you do. I wanted you to be the one stroking my-” 

“Stop,” you interrupted him quickly with a groan, not needing to hear the end of that sentence. His cock was the last thing that you needed to be thinking about right now, even if you did desperately want to feel it inside you again. 

The two of you had only made love a couple of times in your life, despite dating throughout most of your third year at high school. It was because you hadn’t felt ready until fairly far into your relationship, and relatively soon after you had started having sex, the whole thing with Yaga happened and everything stopped. 

It had made you wish that you’d agreed to make love earlier on in the span of your relationship, that way you could’ve done it more times. It would’ve given you more a reference point to pine over on the days when you really missed him. 

You hadn’t had sex with anyone since him. You probably never would. The idea that anyone could replace Satoru in your mind was laughable. It would always be him, even if you couldn’t actually be together. There was a jealous side of you that questioned whether he’d slept with anyone else in the time you’d been apart. You really hoped not. 

“Do you really want me to stop?” Satoru asked, rising from his chair and walking slowly across the room before stopping right before you. “Because you sure are blushing.” 

What did he really want you to say to that? Of course you didn’t want him to stop, you needed him to. But that wasn’t the question he was asking. 

“Satoru-” 

“I think about that day a lot, you know,” he interjected, “the day that you told me this needed to end. Back then all I could do was get upset, couldn’t think of a way to reason with you that what you were doing was wrong.” 

“Do you have one now?” You asked, your question coming out as a whisper, barely daring to hope that there was some glimmer of light at the end of this tunnel, a way that you could ease your heartache without tragedy for you both. 

“I think so.” 

You tilted your head, waiting for him to continue. 

“We’re literally soulmates,” he said, as if that cleared things up. 

“Yeah?” You prompted, assuming there was more to that statement. 

“The universe destined us for each other, who are we to go against the universe? That’s just ridiculous.” 

You laughed softly, shaking your head at his optimism. “Be that as it may, nothing has changed Satoru. If we give in, we’ll be met with tragedy.”

“Then we’ll just keep it a secret,” he said, easily. 

You rolled your eyes, infuriated that you’d believed he had any actual plan. Keeping things a secret was the first solution you’d thought of, far from a revolutionary concept. It wasn’t a sustainable option. 

“That won’t work.” 

“We’ll make it work.” 

“Satoru, that’s not-” 

“Are you happy?” His words cut through you like a knife, his blue gaze unwavering as he met your wide eyes. 

He’d struck his target with excellent precision, your mind swimming with hurt at the effectiveness of his comment. You weren’t happy, you hadn’t been happy in years. Without him, it was like the world around you was sucked of its colour, his absence leaving a deep ache in your chest right where your heart should be. 

“It doesn’t matter.” You said carefully, and he shook his head with a snort. 

“So that’s a no then.” 

“Please, stop-” 

“I’d take the risk of dying early if my life, however short, was spent with you.” 

His words stunned you into silence, your lips parted in shock, incapable of coming up with any sort of rebuttal for a statement like that. As much as you wanted to stand your ground, to point out that there was more to life than your romance alone, you knew that your words would be unconvincing. You didn’t even believe that yourself. 

Having Satoru at your side was all that you wanted out of life, you’d be lying if you said otherwise. 

Satoru was studying your face carefully, eyes darting around your features in an attempt to read your reaction amongst the silence you were currently offering him. Clearly, he found something that emboldened him, reaching out slowly and caressing your face before closing the gap, lips brushing tentatively against yours. 

There was a moment of hesitation, a desperate fight in your head where your conscience screamed at you to pull away, only for the voice to be drowned out by a static of pure devotion for the man before you. 

Forget the sensible option. Why deny yourself everything you’d ever desired? 

Satoru pulled you closer to him at the feeling of you kissing him back with fervour, sighing softly into the kiss as he mapped out your lips once more, eager to relearn the feeling of you in the same way that he once had. 

In the heat of the entanglement, the two of you entirely forgot the reason that you were in this situation in the first place, any attempts at staking out the curse users completely forgotten in favor of giving in to five years of absence. Failing your mission was the least of your worries, certain that Satoru would take the fall and make some excuse on your behalf anyway. 

Dealing with that could wait. 

Your soulmate had you on the bed, kissing and worshipping every bare inch of your skin as he peeled off each layer of clothing you donned, leaving endless love bites in his wake, marking you as indisputably his. 

He held you still as he moved between your thighs, lips moving to your pussy and eating you out like a man starved, refusing to let up even as you were wriggling beneath him from the overstimulation, tugging desperately at his soft hair as you unravelled on his tongue with such ease. 

When he finally pushed into you, he tugged you as close as physically possible, his arms wrapping snugly around your torso, your chests pressed flush together as he sank as deep as he could into your warmth. The movement of his hips was slow and languid, fucking you with a passion that had you swooning. 

All the while you clung to him, nails raking down his back with each deep thrust, soft little whimpers of his name falling from your lips. It felt better than any time you’d done this before, laced with a level of intimacy that could only be created through years of yearning. 

“I love you.” He mumbled against the crook of your neck, peppering your skin with gentle kisses, his voice a little raspy. “You’re mine.” 

You were his, for better or for worse. 

The two of you came together, bodies shuddering with pleasure at the euphoric feeling of release. Satoru kept you tucked snugly in his arms, kissing your hair lovingly for a long time afterwards, until you came to the realisation that you were in the middle of a mission and couldn’t afford to fall asleep together. 

Even if that was your desire in the moment. 

There was nothing more lovely than being tucked up at Satoru’s side. 

—

Your next few months weren’t unlike those that you’d spent at Satoru’s side in high school. Secret rendezvous and stolen kisses, pretending to hardly know each other in public whilst being all over each other in private. 

It was fortunate that you’d moved away from your family home once you’d entered adulthood, eager for a little bit of space and independence from your clan. It meant that you didn’t have to justify where you were going all the time, or figure out a place where you and Satoru could be together without prying eyes. 

For the most part, Satoru practically lived in your apartment, spending each night snuggled up with you in your bed, the two of you finding enjoyment in the most mundane things. It felt like a blessing to be able to spend time alone together doing anything, you didn’t need fancy meals or outings, all you really wanted was to be with him. 

In the time that you got to spend at his side, your cheeks were in constant pain from smiling so much, the world lit up with a bright array of colours only visible when he was with you. There was nothing in the world that you were more grateful for than waking up with him there beside you each morning, golden light illuminating his drool-laden face. 

The peace that the two of you had found lulled you both into a false sense of security, believing that it would be easier than you’d ever imagined to keep your union secret. This unintentional arrogance, the inability to see anything beyond how happy you both made each other, ultimately became your undoing. 

Satoru wasn’t a man without enemies, and as he approached twenty-five he’d already reached an insane level of notoriety among jujutsu society. He was hailed as the strongest sorcerer of your generation, and subsequently, had a major target painted on his back. There had been plenty of attempts on his life, from curse users and other sorcerers, including your family. 

For the most part, no such attempts meant anything to him. There wasn’t anyone alive who could compare to his skill. No one could touch him. 

It was just unfortunate that one day a particularly skilled assassin witnessed him entering your apartment. Elated that Satoru might have someone he was attached to, someone that they could hold hostage in exchange for certain conditions, the assassin and his partner took advantage of their knowledge and broke into your home one night.

Stealth was their specialty, and they’d grabbed you before Satoru could do anything, holding a knife to your throat. You were never in any mortal danger, not with your soulmate’s quick realisation of your stress, leaping to action immediately. 

The real issue arose from the light line that the man drew with his blade across your throat. 

Blood beaded up on your skin immediately at the shallow cut, a small whimper leaving your lips, and panic gripping your body at the sight of the mirrored mark manifesting on Satoru’s neck. You prayed your attacker wouldn’t see it, but it was wishful thinking. The assassin’s eyes gleamed at the sight, the realisation stark on their face. 

They were dead before they could act on it, blown apart by Satoru’s technique. 

You’d relaxed then, covered in the man’s blood as Satoru cradled you, his forehead resting against yours as he mumbled apologies. You were both too shaken to notice that the assassin hadn’t been alone, that he had an accomplice waiting outside your window, watching the whole scene unfold. 

He’d been ready to assist his friend, but it was a fool’s game as long as Satoru was awake and aware. Besides, what he’d learned from the scene was worth far more to him than making an attempt on your soulmate’s life. 

Because he knew something that would shake his employer’s whole world. 

It wasn’t unusual for you to visit your clan every now and then, and it was a pleasant afternoon in spring when you stopped by to have lunch with your parents, who had been pestering you about coming to visit for a while. 

There was something uncomfortable about seeing them knowing that you spent your nights tangled up with Satoru, but you did your best to separate your thoughts from the sin that you were committing in your family’s eyes. It was important that you acted normally with them - they were your flesh and blood after all, not everything had to revolve around the feud. 

Who you were dating shouldn’t be of importance. 

That afternoon in particular felt uniquely awkward. Conversation was stilted, and there was a tremble to your mother’s hand every time she passed you a plate. Your father’s questions seemed oddly formal and impersonal, and it struck you as strange that halfway through lunch, a handful of your extended family popped in to join. 

You brushed it off at first, assuming that perhaps your absence over the last few months had made things awkward, or that they maybe had some bad news to share that they were struggling to articulate. Perhaps someone had died or something and they didn’t want to say it outright for fear of upsetting you. 

There were a million explanations for a strange vibe. It wasn’t something to stress over. 

An explanation for the atmosphere only came at the very end of your lunch, once plates had been cleared and there was nothing to distract from addressing the matter that they’d invited you home to discuss. 

“Gojo Satoru.” Your father said out of the blue, catching you off guard. His face was sickly pale, sweat dripping down his brow, clearly agonising over what would come next. 

You tilted your head dumbly. “What about him?” 

“We tried to kill him a few weeks ago.” 

“Any success?” You immediately winced at your instinctive response - that was playing it a little too dumb. Because even if you weren’t seeing Satoru at your apartment each night, the whole of jujutsu society would be aware if he’d died - it would be the most prominent piece of gossip for months.  

“No. Of course not.” Your grandfather interjected, clearly disgruntled with the pace of the conversation. “We did uncover something rather interesting though.” 

He made a gesture in the direction of your mother, as if giving her the grounds to speak, and you sucked in an anxious breath. Your mother shot you a sympathetic look before rummaging in her bag and sliding an envelope across the table. Everyone’s eyes were on you, waiting for you to open it up. 

You didn’t know exactly what would be waiting for you inside, but you had a pretty good guess. 

With shaky hands, you opened up the envelope, trying not to react at the sight of an image taken from outside your bedroom window, peering into your ground-floor apartment. You and Satoru were locked in an embrace, the assassin that your soulmate had killed was dead on the floor beside you. 

Clearly visible in the image were the matching trails of blood that lined both yours and Satoru’s necks.

Your brain was already working as fast as it could, trying to come up with some explanation for this, some lie that would disarm your family. If you couldn’t come up with something believable, then the bliss that you’d found with Satoru would crumble, and that was the last thing you wanted. 

“You’re soulmates,” your grandfather stated matter-of-factly, after a long stretch of silence. 

“No,” you said on reflex, as if that would be enough to overturn the evidence laid out in front of you. “They’re photoshopped.” 

One of your uncles let out a laugh, earning him a strict glare from your grandfather, clearly unamused by your attempts to lie. “We’d hoped there was an explanation, so we had you followed for a few weeks. We have evidence of him entering your apartment on numerous occasions.” 

You bit down on your lip, thinking carefully for a moment before speaking once more. “Okay, so we are dating, but we’re not soulmates. I just didn’t want you guys to know because…you know…” 

“It would do you good to stop lying, sweetheart.” Your father’s voice was even, his brows drawn together in concern. “One of the assassins saw the whole thing. No one has seen him bleed in years, and yet there was blood on him, plain as day, after you were attacked.” 

Gulping, you glanced around the room, hoping to find someone who would take pity on your circumstance and help you escape the pit that you’d fallen into. You were met with only judgement and disappointment, turning over the idea in your head that you should make a run for it instead. 

The concept wasn’t all that appealing, because you were far from the strongest sorcerer in the room, and if they wanted to subdue you, they could do so with little effort. 

“How long have you known?” Your grandfather asked. 

Should you lie? You weren’t sure how much angrier they’d be if they were aware that you’d known since you were in high school and had refused to tell them. It was probably better if they assumed that you’d only found out recently. 

“Just for a few months.” 

“Sweetheart, tell the truth.” Your father seemed greatly exasperated. “We all know about the time he almost died thanks to that Zenin boy. It was an attack that lined up suspiciously well with your own injury.” 

Yaga had covered up the situation well at the time, claiming that you’d been sent out on a solo mission in which you’d received a non-fatal wound. He’d made sure to dismiss any association between your circumstances and what had happened to Satoru. But evidently with this latest information, your family had spent some time connecting the dots. 

“Have you been sneaking around since then?” Your mother asked. “Is that why you always refuse the marriage prospects we present to you?” 

“No. Only for the last few months.” This time it genuinely wasn’t a lie, and you hoped that they could understand that. 

The skepticism in your grandfather’s eyes said otherwise. 

“Do you understand what an embarrassment this is?” He asked. “A granddaughter of mine, choosing to lie with someone from that clan? It's disgusting. Thank god your union is yet to bring forth any offspring - what an abomination they’d be.”

You had to bite down on your tongue to avoid snapping back at him. Any children that you had with Satoru would likely be as lovely as their father, but your clan would hear nothing of the sort. Any attempt to point out that the feud was archaic and meaningless would do nothing but harm to you. 

It seemed like the silence that followed your grandfather’s statement was a prompt for you to apologise, but you’d do no such thing. To you, there was no embarrassment. Satoru had been nothing but good to you, and you wouldn’t forsake your love for him because of some external pressure. 

“Its not like she can help it,” your father said quietly. “Soulmates are a divine thing, she had no choice in loving him.” 

Your heart picked up ever so slightly, grateful for the smallest hint of a defence, only for your hopes to be thoroughly dashed at his following sentence. 

“Besides, remember what we discussed? The connection is a blessing in disguise.” 

Reeling back in your chair, you glanced nervously around the room once more, the implication of his statement hanging heavy. This had been what Yaga had warned you of all those years ago, but a part of you had always believed that your clan held too much affection for you to really act in the way he’d suggested. 

Perhaps you’d misjudged them. 

“Indeed.” Your grandfather’s voice boomed across the room. “You’ve had a lapse in judgement, but you can still do what’s right. This is an opportunity that we haven’t had in decades. We can finally gain a significant foothold of power over their clan.” 

“How?” You weren’t sure why you were asking, you knew what the answer was going to be. Perhaps it was that naive hope that there was some other, less lethal solution than the one that had immediately come to mind. 

Unfortunately, no such alternative was offered. 

“Though your sacrifice,” he said plainly. “Go peacefully into the afterlife and make this family proud after all the dishonor you’ve brought upon us. Become legend within our clan, for you’d be one of few to put a six-eyes to death.” 

There was no point in arguing, no point in wasting a single second more in this room. It wasn’t your own life that concerned you, but Satoru’s. You weren’t about to bow in the manner that they wanted.

You were on your feet in an instant, making a bolt for the door. You’d barely made it five steps before you were tackled by one of your cousins, a hard blow to the head knocking you out cold. 

In retrospect, you supposed they could’ve killed you right there and then. It would’ve been the quickest and easiest option, the most-straightforward way to assure that Satoru perished in the manner that they desired. For some reason, most likely due to a level of sentimentality, they locked you up in a room instead.

It was likely that your parents had something to do with that. You could picture them begging your grandfather not to put you down immediately, to ensure that there was some level of ceremony to go along with your sacrifice, an opportunity for them to properly say goodbye to you. 

They didn’t see it as fair or befitting for you to be killed on some random afternoon in a poxy little room following a mediocre lunch. Even if you were a disappointment to their clan, you deserved more than that. 

So it was decided. Two weeks from now, on the full moon, there would be a great feast and celebration amongst your clan. And once midnight struck, you would be beheaded for the sake of eliminating Gojo Satoru. It would be painless and respectable, the type of death that any proud clan member should be proud to experience if it was for the sake of their family. 

One that you dreaded. 

You spent two weeks chained up to a waterpipe in a poxy little room that your family seldom used, anxiety swirling in your chest as you thought about Satoru, wondering where he was, wishing above all else that there was a way that he could be saved from the fate that you were about to receive. 

Yaga was right, you would only bring tragedy upon both of you. 

If you were strong like Satoru you’d both be safe, you’d be free to live out life in whichever way you pleased. It was your weakness that was failing both of you. 

How unfair. 

The night of your execution came around, and you were dragged into the hall that your clan used for large events. Food was forced down your throat, despite the fact that the urge to vomit was growing within you with each passing second. Family members approached you, gushing about how what you were doing was just so great as if you had any choice in the matter. 

Meanwhile, it felt like your heart was splitting in two, desperately calling out for Satoru. You hadn’t told him where you were going the day you’d gone to have lunch with your family, in his mind you could be anywhere. There was no doubt in your mind that your clan had kept matters quiet, unwilling to alert Satoru of your location. 

Perhaps he might’ve gotten something of a clue by the blunt force trauma that you’d received when trying to escape. You could only assume that he’d been knocked out for a time too. Hopefully he’d been somewhere safe when that happened. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Your mother had come to sit next to you, pulling you from your thoughts. “I know this feels unfair, but it's best for everyone.” 

“Is it?” You asked. 

“It is. We need to rid the world of those devils. You know that.” 

You shook your head with a scoff, trying not to laugh in her face. 

“Satoru is kind. Did you know that? He’s just a man, and he’d never do anything to hurt this clan. The feud is meaningless to him.” 

“You just don’t get it, honey. You’re too young and lovestruck to realise what he is.” 

“And you’re too blinded by hatred.” You snapped back. There was no point in hiding behind a mask of politeness anymore. They were going to execute you whether you were kind or not, apparently that was your duty. 

“He could kill us all with no effort.” Your grandfather, who had been watching from a couple of seats away, interjected. “Do you understand what he's capable of? He might be enamoured enough with you to treat you with kindness, but that same offer will not extend to us. It never does with that family.” 

You kept your mouth shut after that. 

There was no merit to pointing out that most scuffles had been caused by your clan and not theirs, or the fact that the Gojo clan had been dwindling in numbers so significantly over the years that they didn’t pose a threat at all outside of Satoru - who couldn’t care less about the feud. 

Everyone was too caught up in their own old ways of thinking, and too convinced that you’d brought dishonor upon their household. There was no chance of changing anyone's mind, so why waste your breath? 

As the banquet drew to a close, and they led you out into the courtyard, the night sky alight with stars, you wondered if you were the first person in your clan to fall in love with a Gojo. Were there soulmates transcending the rift before the two of you? Did they face the same fate that you were about to meet? 

Somehow the thought offered you a certain amount of comfort as you were shoved down onto your knees atop a white sheet. It was there to make the clean up easier, you supposed. God forbid they stain the garden with your blood. 

You wondered what Satoru was doing. Was he out there desperately searching for you, aware that you had to be alive but fearful of how long it would stay that way? Was his fear born out of worry for you, or was he more terrified at the idea that his own life was in total peril and he had no control over it at all? 

Even if your death was inevitable, even if this was fate playing out in the way that it was supposed to, you wished that you could apologise to him. You loved him, loved being his soulmate, but if you could make one wish in that moment, it would be for that bond to sever. 

He deserved to live a long and happy life, one unhampered by your weakness and your clan's inane hatred of his very existence. 

He deserved better than the fate you were providing him. 

Your grandfather stood over you, drawing his sword from its scabbard with practiced precision. You weren’t surprised that he was the one taking on the task. As the oldest member of the family, he held the strongest views on upholding tradition and the duty that everyone should be displaying where family were involved. 

It was likely that he also just had the strongest stomach for something like this. Killing a member of the clan, traitor or otherwise, would weigh heavy on many others in your family. Your grandfather had always been good at doing the hard things in life. 

Whether he considered this one of them, you weren’t particularly sure. Perhaps he was overjoyed to put down such an immense disappointment. 

“Any last words?” He asked, staring down at you. You’d already bowed your head in anticipation. This was going to happen whether you liked it or not, any attempt to struggle would ultimately make the death more painful for you. 

Perhaps you should’ve stayed silent, given them nothing, but that didn’t feel quite right. If you had a moment to speak, then you’d at least give them something that might haunt their actions. 

“You shouldn’t hold hatred in your hearts. It has turned you ugly.” You kept your voice as even as possible, eyes fixed on the floor. 

“You know little of the world.” Your grandfather stated, unphased. “But we thank you for your sacrifice all the same.” 

Drawing in a steadying breath, you squeezed your eyes shut. Thoughts of Satoru flooded your mind, comforting visions of him at your side, holding you tight, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you fell asleep in his arms. Perhaps there was life after death, and you would go there together. 

There might be a world better than this one, a place where you could be his with no barriers to your union. Even if you wished you could’ve had it in this life instead. 

A rush of air brushed against the nape of your neck as your grandfather swung his sword, your mind peacefully drifting off somewhere else, in total acceptance of your circumstances. 

But a second passed, and then another, and another. Your head was still firmly attached to your body. Experimentally, you cracked on eye open, finding yourself in the same position as before, knelt down on that white sheet. The difference this time was that it wasn’t your grandfather who was standing over you. 

Satoru’s face was splattered with blood, breathing heavily as he stared down at you, paying little mind to the old man crumpled on the floor beside you, his bones bent unnaturally and his sword shattered into pieces. 

“Satoru…” You breathed softly, eyes wide. You’d never seen him like this before, the look on his face completely serious. There was a flicker of soft affection in his eyes as he glanced over at you, but it was clear that he had no intention of breaking his facade as long as you weren’t safe from this situation. 

“Do you want me to kill them?” Satoru asked flatly, gaze sweeping over the remainder of your clan, most of whom looked terrified. You couldn’t really blame them, he was the strongest sorcerer out there, not a single one of them stood a chance against him.

Their only option would be to use you, and right now, Satoru was standing protectively in front of your shaking form. 

“I- I don’t know.” You stumbled over your words. 

Despite the attempt to execute you, there was a hesitance where it came to letting Satoru wreak havoc upon them. They were still your family, still the people who had raised you with so much care. All of this insanity was a result of years of conditioning to hate Satoru and everyone else like him. 

You genuinely believed that they didn’t know better. 

Did that mean they deserved to live though? None of them hesitated when it came to killing you. There was no guarantee, if you let them live, that they wouldn’t try something like this again in the future. 

Besides, Satoru had killed your grandfather already. You were sure that alone would stoke their flames of hatred even further. 

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his white hair, brows creasing as he seemed to give it some thought. Your family found their words first, with your father taking a shaky step forward and pointing an accusatory finger at your soulmate. “See, he comes in here and instantly kills one of us! Threatens to kill us all! This is why we need him dead!” 

Satoru rolled his eyes. “Really? You were about to kill my soulmate. What else did you want me to do? Let it happen?” 

He took a few steps towards the crowd, putting himself firmly between you and them. They flinched back in fear as he approached, but he seemed unbothered, moving until he was towering over your father. 

“I’d never have come here, I’d never have laid a hand on any of you. Until you tried to take her from me. I don’t care if you want to live some ugly, bitter life because of some distant feud, I don’t care if you want to send assassins after me. But you don’t lay a single hand on her - that, I won’t abide by.” Satoru’s tone was uncharacteristically cold, and it had you shivering despite not being the intended recipient. 

You could only imagine how your father must feel. 

“And we’re just supposed to believe you?” Your mother asked, her tone shrill. 

Satoru tilted his head to look at her, disbelief in his expression. “I don’t care about some dusty old feud, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I told you, mother.” You called out shakily. “Satoru isn’t interested in causing us harm.” 

“The words of a traitor mean little.” Your mother responded harshly. You took in a sharp breath, trying not to let the words wound you. You didn’t want to be seen as a traitor to your family, and had never considered yourself one. 

It was no crime to fall in love. 

Satoru laughed, earning a few confused glances from your family. “Forget it.” He turned back to you, eyes a little wild. “What do you wanna do, baby?” 

The insinuation hung in the air once more, and you turned it over in your mind for a few seconds before standing up on shaky feet. Seeing your grandfather on the floor was more than enough bloodshed for you. What was the point in massacring the rest of your family? It might feel good in the moment, but the guilt would haunt you forever. 

You’d be the bigger person. 

“Consider me an outcast.” You said, eyes flicking between your mother and father. “I no longer want anything to do with this clan. Come after either of us again, and I’ll send him here to do the very thing that you live in fear of.” 

A giddy grin made its way onto Satoru’s face, one that was sufficiently insane to get your message across. “I’ll do it, I’ll kill all of you. If you so much as touch her ever again.” 

There was no response to that, no bold quip from your father. They’d wanted Satoru dead because they knew that he was capable of that and more. Up to this point, they’d drawn none of his ire, they were free to live in peace. But now the threat was desperately real, the consequences of their actions finally catching up with them. 

Content with their compliance, Satoru approached you. He crouched down for a moment, hands tenderly brushing your face, studying you, as if checking for injury. It was almost an amusing exchange, and you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from pointing out that if you were injured, he’d know about it already. 

But the action was tender and loving all the same, and you revelled in the feeling of his hands on you. 

“Are you okay?” He whispered softly, quiet enough for the words to remain between the two of you, safe from the prying ears of your family.

“Better now you’re here.” 

He smiled, letting out a deep breath. “Good. Let's get out of here.” 

Pulling his hands away from your face, he slid his arms beneath you and picked you up like you weighed nothing. He held you close to his chest, blue eyes surveying your family once more as he turned to face them. 

“You guys going to let me through, or are we going to have a problem?” 

There were a few awkward looks exchanged, before the crowd finally parted. They wouldn’t do anything to provoke him now, they knew better than that. Even if their hatred was burning stronger than ever in their hearts, vindicated by your soulmate's actions today, they understood that Satoru could slaughter all of them with little issue if he chose to. 

It just wasn’t worth it. 

“Thank you,” he said in a sing-song tone as he stepped past them. You buried your face into his chest, eager to avoid seeing the disappointed looks on the faces of your family. Despite his outwardly easy demeanor, you could feel Satoru’s heartbeat racing in his chest. You wondered if his anxiety was just as high as yours was. 

You almost couldn’t believe it when the two of you stepped out of the compound, swiftly making it to Satoru’s car which was parked down the road. He placed you gently into the passenger seat, strapping you in before speeding away as fast as he was willing to go on the country roads leading to your family home. 

His hand was resting on your thigh, squeezing ever so slightly. It was if the contact was reassuring him that you were actually there, that you weren’t going to slip from his grasp as long as he was touching you. 

“I wanted to kill them.” He said, blue eyes fixed on the road. “I know you didn’t want me to, but…”

“It would haunt me,” you said honestly. “Besides, unless you were planning on killing all my baby cousins, the stupid feud and cycle of hatred would just continue. I don’t want any part of that.” 

He hummed. You weren’t sure what to make of it, weren’t clear whether he’d have wiped out your whole clan there and then, innocent or not. Not that there was any point lingering on it - he’d always put your desires first, had gone against his own wants to make sure that you were happy. 

“I think they’ll continue the feud anyway. I’m sure there’ll be no forgiveness for what I did to that old man.” He seemed unbothered by that fact, unsurprising considering that your family had been trying to kill him his whole life anyway. “I think we need to move you out of your apartment, I need a way of keeping you safe.” 

You nodded in agreement, even if your mind was racing with worries surrounding how you were supposed to do that. The cat was out of the bag, and Satoru couldn’t hover at your side for every second of every day. 

“We can move you to my estate.”

Recoiling, you shot him an incredulous look. “Are you joking?” 

“No?” 

“How would that be any different than where I just came from? I’m from the clan that you guys despise.” 

Satoru rolled his eyes. “Firstly, I’m literally the head of my clan so what I say goes. Secondly, I don’t have a big clan like you do, most of my family were old when I was a kid and now there’s hardly anyone left to uphold tradition. Thirdly, you don’t belong to your clan anymore in any capacity, you’re mine, so for all intents and purposes, let's just say you’re a Gojo.” 

You stared at him for a while as you tried to take all of that in. “I can’t just take your name.” 

“Then we’ll get married and it can be official.” He batted back your protest with a simple shrug of his shoulders, like proposing marriage was no big deal, something that the two of you would obviously do together. 

“Are- are you asking me to marry you?” 

“Baby, I would’ve married you at seventeen, the moment I found out we were soulmates.” 

You giggled incredulously. “That would’ve been poorly thought out.” 

“Would it?” He glanced over at you seriously. You watched the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel, pulling over to the side of the road and shutting off the engine so that he could give you his full attention. “You’re my soulmate, I know that I’ll never want anyone but you.” 

“O-oh.” You flushed a deep shade of red, caught off guard by the deep sincerity in his voice. After weeks of stress and anxiety, it felt strange to be treated with such tenderness. You could hardly believe that he was really here, back at your side once more. 

“I can get you a ring or something and do this properly, but what I’m trying to say is: it doesn’t matter if your own family has forsaken you, because you can be part of mine.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, beating so fast that it risked outright escape, making an attempt to jump straight out of your throat. You’d loved Satoru since you were seven years old, even if you hadn’t known it then. Looking at him now, in all his beauty, you could hardly believe that he was yours. Even through all the tragedy, against all odds, you were here together. 

“I’d like that.” Your voice came out as a whisper, but Satoru heard it all the same. 

“I’m glad.” His breath was hot against your lips as he leant over the centre console, his nose brushing tenderly against yours for just a moment before rewarding you with a slow and passionate kiss, one that had your whole world spinning - not unlike the first time you’d done this many years ago. 

“I’m yours,” you asserted as he pulled away, lashes fluttering. 

He beamed, cerulean eyes filled with a deep affection. “You are. Now and forever.”

a/n: I've been focussing on this fic for agessss because writing gojo does not come naturally to me!! I promise I'll go back to what I know and give you more sukuna soon (I swear I will have a new sweet tooth chapter imminently)

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated as always <3

© sukunahs

[ymgsworld]

Kill me, darling

[Assassin!Reader x Satoru Gojo]

—Here’s the part 1.

Synopsis: After Satoru Gojo discovered that his new personal assistant was actually an assassin sent by jujutsu elders to eliminate him, he chose to invite her into his life rather than disposing of the threat. As they navigated the mundane routines of sorcery life, the boundaries between their conflicting missions began to blur. Ultimately, both of them had to confront whether they were merely the weapons society had designed them to be or if they could forge the possibility of a life beyond their intended roles.

Tags: Enemies to lovers, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, domestic fluff, mutual pining, near-death experience, revenge, blood and gore, canon divergent

A/n: Here's the last part of Kill Me, Darling! The word count is 9.6k; you're in for a long ride, lol. I don't know why the total word count of this series reached 17k, but I guess it's because I was having so much fun while writing this. So, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

The rooftop in Shinjuku was peaceful, which was exactly why Satoru Gojo was bored out of his mind. He leaned against the railing, his Six Eyes passively processing the flow of cursed energy across the skyline. He was thinking about his favorite mochi and a warm onsen bath.

He felt the city breathing below him. He saw everything.

Except for the thing right behind him.

The strike was perfect. It was a ripple in reality so slight that even his Infinity barely caught the intent before the blade made contact. A ghost? His Infinity reacted before his brain did. He felt the sharp, clinical bite of a blade stop mere millimeters from his skin.

He turned, a playful smirk already forming. He expected a curse user or a stray vengeful spirit. Instead, he found you.

You were like a ghost, your presence so repressed you barely registered as human. He was fascinated. He could have crushed you then, but your eyes—wide, terrified, yet determined—stopped him. So, he did what he always did: he made a game of it.

The weeks that followed were... entertaining. Satoru had known from the second the elders floated the idea of a 'personal assistant' that it was a trap. Those old farts were never particularly creative, and he wasn't stupid. He’d agreed to the assistant mostly because he wanted to see what kind of spy they’d actually send.

He stepped out into the living room, letting his hair stay a mess, his blindfold hanging loosely around his neck. He stopped and peering down at the small figure in the suit. His Six Eyes flared, processing a million data points at once. He saw the bruises you were trying to hide under that thick makeup and the way your body stood so stiffly.

Wait a second.

That specific rhythm of cursed energy…

Its rhythm vibrated just like the assassin from the rooftop a week ago.

A slow, dangerous grin threatened to tug at the corners of his mouth. They actually sent the person who tried to kill him to make his coffee? The elders were either getting desperate or they were even stupider than he’d thought.

"Ah," he rasped, playing the part of the sleepy, oblivious god. "Right. The 'helper' the old farts sent over. I almost forgot."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space until he could see the tiny, frantic pulse in your neck. You were good—your face was a mask of perfect, timid obedience. But he could feel the heat radiating off you, the sharp, jagged edge of your nerves.

"I’m ☆☆☆," you said.

So cute.

He watched you handle his paperwork with the same cold efficiency you'd used to swing that blade. And just like he did to everyone else, he deliberately pushed your buttons, acting his most annoying self just to see the genuine frustration in your eyes.

He knew this was a game. He knew that by inviting you into his home, he was essentially inviting a snake into his bed. But for the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo wasn't bored.

"Fix it later," he said, straightening up with a wink. "It’s nearly noon. And I haven't forgotten my promise."

As he walked back to his room to get dressed, he could feel your gaze burning into his back. You were exhausted, stressed, and probably one minute away from a breakdown.

This is going to be the most fun I’ve had in years.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

You’d ditched the stiff, corporate blazer for an oversized cardigan that swallowed your frame. You looked... soft. He watched the way you’d softened your face, the rose tint on your lips making you look more human. But he noticed the way your eyes still had that tiny, lingering sharpness that you couldn't quite dull, no matter how much makeup you used.

As you walked toward him, he caught the way your gaze caught on his face. He felt your eyes trace the line of his jaw, lingering on the white strands of hair he hadn’t quite tucked away.

Oh?

He knew he was good-looking, but seeing you look at him like that, with that split-second of genuine, unguarded attraction, felt different.

He let out a low whistle, mostly to see if he could make that rose tint on your lips spread to your cheeks. "Wow, look at you," he chirped, his head tilting. "You actually look like a person now."

He was pushing it, he knew. But he’d never been more excited for a trip to a sweet shop in his life.

When you tripped in the Ginza crowd, he instinctively pulled you against his side when he saw you stumbling. You were small, but your body was solid—lean muscle beneath the wool. He could feel your heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"I can feel your heart racing. Don't tell me you're scared of a little crowd?" he teased, feeling the heat of you through his uniform.

"It's just... hot out here," you bit out.

He chuckled, the vibration of his own chest pressing against your shoulder. He knew you were lying. You weren't hot but were terrified of the proximity. He tightened his grip on your hip, a proprietary gesture he knew would fluster you. He liked the way your presence felt—small, solid, and surprisingly warm.

When they reached the bakery, he felt the tension in you snap like a taut wire. The shop was quiet, the air thick with the smell of toasted rice. He directed you to the corner table—the perfect spot for a quiet talk, or a murder.

"Sit. I’ll go wash my hands," he said, sauntering off. He didn't actually need to wash his hands; he just wanted to give you the opening. His Six Eyes 'watched' you through the wall. He saw your fingers hover near the hem of your cardigan.

Are you going to do it? he wondered, a thrill of genuine excitement tracing his spine. 

He sauntered back just as your hand hovered over his cup. He saw the way you diverted at the last second, tucking hair behind your ear with a practiced, subservient grace. Close call, wasn't it?

"Ah, perfect timing!" he chirped, sliding into the seat. He watched you through the steam of the matcha.

"Eat up, eat up!" he chirped, popping a piece of mochi into his mouth.

He leaned back, savoring the sweetness, but his focus was entirely on you. You were chewing like the mochi was made of lead.

"Mm! The texture is perfect today," he hummed, closing his eyes to give you a moment of peace. "See? Totally worth the walk."

He watched you chew slowly, your eyes flat and deadened. You were so young, so disciplined, and so miserably alone in your mission.

You're exhausted, aren't you? his smile softening just a fraction.

Satoru felt the vibration in his pocket before he even heard the chime. It was like a bug buzzing in his ear while he was trying to enjoy the atmosphere. The bliss on his face soured instantly. He didn’t even need to flip the phone open to know it was the Higher-ups.

He tossed the bills on the table—excessive, as always—and watched you stand.

"Since you’re my assistant, you’re coming with me," he said, mostly just to see the look on your face. "Think of it as a field trip."

Walking toward the station, he could feel you trailing behind like a shadow. He liked the weight of your presence—it was a constant, grounding tether in a world that usually felt too vast and empty for him. When he reached for your arm, he felt the instinctive flinch you tried to suppress. He slid his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"Close your eyes," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. He felt the flutter of your hair against his cheek. "You might get a little motion sick."

He folded the space between Ginza and Shinjuku in a blink. Most people threw up after their first high-speed teleportation, but you were tough. He liked that. He let go of your waist as they landed on the pedestrian bridge, and for a second, he missed the contact.

"Stay right here," he warned, flashing a grin he knew was infuriating. He stepped off the ledge, falling toward the chaos. He didn't need to look back to know you were watching him. He could feel your gaze pinned to his back like a crosshair.

He made quick work of the curse. It was loud, ugly, and mindless—nothing compared to the internal war he was tracking on the bridge above. But a stray, jagged arc of cursed energy—a desperate last-ditch effort from the spirit—sliced upward.

In a nanosecond, his Six Eyes processed the bridge’s structural failure. He saw the section beneath you disintegrating. He waited, just for a heartbeat, curious. Would you use your technique? Or would you reveal yourself to save your own life?

But you didn't move. You were going to let yourself fall. You were going to die just to keep your cover.

Stupid girl.

He was moving before the bridge even fully detached.

The world slowed to a crawl. He bypassed the spirit’s remains and caught you mid-air. He hauled you against his chest, his arms locking around you with a ferocity that surprised even him. He felt the frantic, heavy thud of your heart against his own. It was the most honest thing you’d given him yet.

He stayed suspended in the air, perched on nothingness, just to feel you breathe. For a second, he forgot about the mission, the Higher-ups, and the game. He just felt the warmth of you.

"I... I thought I was going to die," you whispered.

The lie was obvious to him, but the fear in your voice wasn't. He descended slowly, his shoes hitting the asphalt.

"Not while I'm around," he said, his voice unusually soft. "Nothing gets through to me, and as long as I’m holding you... nothing gets to you either."

He watched you close your eyes, your face inches from his. He could see the struggle in the set of your shoulders. "Hey," he murmured, his voice vibrating in his own chest. He felt his fingers move of their own accord, tangling in the hair at the back of your head.

"You're not going to faint on me, are you?" he teased, trying to bring back the levity before the moment became too real. "That would be a lot of paperwork. 'Assistant fainted from my sheer handsomeness'. The elders would never believe it."

"Shut up," you bit out.

He laughed, a genuine, soft huff. "There she is. I was worried I'd broken you."

As you pushed away from him, he let you go, but he felt the absence like a cold draft. He stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you try to find your footing on the cracked street. You were a weapon sent to kill him, but as he watched you compose yourself, all Satoru could think was that he was never going to let you go back to the people who sent you.

Satoru watched you brush the dust off that soft cardigan, his blue eyes tracking the way your hands shook. You were trying to look furious, but the adrenaline was humming off you in jagged waves. Then, he saw the red.

A thin, crimson line was blooming just below your temple.

"Hold on," he said. The playfulness dropped out of his voice like a stone. He reached out, his fingers catching your chin to tilt your face into the light.

You're bleeding. A scratch, a tiny insult from a piece of flying concrete.

"It’s nothing," you muttered, trying to flinch away, but he held firm.

"It's on your face," he countered flatly.

The walk back was quiet. He could feel the tension radiating off you, but he didn't break the silence. Once home, he pointed you to the kitchen stool with the kind of authority that didn't invite argument. He shed his jacket, changed into a black shirt, and grabbed the kit.

He deliberately chose the lower chair. He sat between your knees, looking up at you. He knew exactly what he was doing—he was exposing his throat, his jugular, his life. He tossed his blindfold aside, letting his eyes drink in every detail of your face without a filter. He saw your pupils dilate and the way you squeezed your eyes shut as he leaned in.

What are you thinking about right now?

Are you measuring the distance to my carotid?

Are you imagining how easy it would be to end the 'Strongest' right here?

"Stay still," he whispered.

He soaked the pad, his movements clinical but agonizingly slow. He wanted to be close. He wanted to feel your breath on his cheek.

"Does it hurt?" he asked softly. He wasn't talking about the scratch.

He watched your eyelashes quiver. You looked like you were bracing for a blow, or perhaps for something else entirely. He reached out and rested his palm against the side of your neck, his thumb grazing your jawline to keep you steady. Your skin was electric.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency he knew you felt in your bones. "I'm being gentle, aren't I? You don't have to look like you're bracing for an execution."

He felt the hitch in your breathing. He couldn't help himself; the mischief was a reflex, a shield against the sudden, heavy intimacy of the moment. "You know... if you keep your eyes shut that long, I might think you're waiting for something else."

The reaction was instantaneous. You bolted back, the stool screeching like a wounded animal. You were stammering, blushing, throwing out words about 'personal space'.

Satoru sat there on his lower perch, looking up at you with a grin that felt far more dangerous than his techniques. He loved it. He loved the way he could shatter your professional mask with just a few words.

"Personal space? I seem to remember you clinging to my shirt pretty tightly when that bridge went down," he teased.

He watched you spin around to face the fruit bowl, your back a rigid line of pure embarrassment. He let out a low, musical chuckle. You had no idea how easy it was to read you when you were flustered.

The air in the kitchen felt thick enough to taste. He watched you flee, your retreat desperate. "Suit yourself," he called out, his voice breezy even as his mind stayed locked on the feeling of your pulse against his thumb. "But hey, make sure you treat that scratch properly. I’d hate for you to wake up with a scar. It would ruin such a nice view."

As the door clicked shut, Satoru remained on that lower stool, staring at the empty space where you’d been. The apartment felt suddenly, jarringly quiet. He looked down at the antiseptic and the discarded cotton pad.

His hands were steady, but his head was a mess. He looked down at the bloody cotton pad in his hand. His heart was thudding a little too fast, a little too loud.

A nice view, a slow, real smile spreading across his face. Yeah. The best I've seen in a long time.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

The sun was already doing too much, slicing through the blinds in sharp, golden slats that made Satoru’s head ache just a little. He watched you in the kitchen that morning. The smell of mackerel and miso filled the air, but his eyes went straight to the stack of pancakes. He leaned against the doorframe, watching the sunlight catch the stray hairs of your messy bun.

He stood beside you, letting his arm brush yours just to feel that spark of jagged energy you always gave off. He popped a strawberry into his mouth, his eyes lingering on the bandage he’d applied to your temple last night.

"How’s the head?" he asked, his fingers ghosting near the wound. He wanted to touch you, but you flipped a pancake with a violence that made him chuckle.

"The head is fine, Satoru-san. Please sit down before the fish gets cold."

Satoru-san. Still so formal. He slid onto the stool, watching you plate the food. You were so good at this—taking care of him and managing the household. It made his chest ache in a way he wasn't used to.

"It makes me wonder... what kind of life did you lead before this?" he asked, his voice losing some of its playfulness. "You’re so good at taking care of things, but you’re terrible at letting anyone take care of you."

"I had a very disciplined upbringing," you said, sliding the pancakes toward him. "Service is a virtue where I come from. It’s not about being taken care of… it’s about being useful."

The word useful tasted like ash in his mouth. He poked at the mackerel, his blue eyes tracking the way you refused to meet his gaze. "That's a cold way to live," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Sounds like something a weapon would say, not a person."

He ate, mostly to appease you, but his mind was already three steps ahead and he decided to test the waters. "By the way, we're going to the Jujutsu High infirmary later. Shoko wants to do a medical check-up on you."

But then you mentioned the administrative meeting with the higher-ups, making his blue eyes narrowed behind his messy hair. Those rotting pillars of the jujutsu world. He hated that they had their hooks in you. "They're really working you to the bone, aren't they?" He stood up, boxing you in against the counter. He wanted to tell them to go to hell.

"But I’ll drop you off," he decided. "After yesterday, I’m not letting you wander around alone."

He reached for his blindfold, but your voice stopped him.

"Finish your breakfast first, Satoru-san." You pointed a soapy finger at him like he was a misbehaving child. "I didn't spend forty minutes over a hot stove just for you to let the food get cold."

Satoru froze, his hand halfway to his face. She's scolding me. No one spoke to him like that. Not the students, not even the elders. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

"Are you... scolding me?" he asked.

"Just sit down and finish," you muttered, your ears turning a delicious shade of pink.

"Yes, ma'am!" he chirped, sitting back down with a mock-salute.

He sat down, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the soup. She was caring for him. The person sent to kill him was worried about his breakfast getting cold. It was the most ridiculous, beautiful thing he’d ever experienced.

On the train ride—the scenic route you'd insisted on because Gojo-Air made you nauseous—he sat beside you, letting his shoulder press against yours. He knew you were watching him. He could feel your gaze tracking the way he helped a passenger or made a face at a kid. He did it because he liked to, but also because he wanted you to see it. He wanted you to see that the world wasn't just 'service' and 'utility'. There was joy, even in the mundane.

By the time they reached the stone gates of the council estate, the air felt heavy, like a tomb. Satoru hated this place; it smelled of rot and old men. He walked you all the way to the iron-bound doors, his presence a silent warning to the guards lurking in the shadows.

"Go on," he urged, his voice softening. He stayed behind, but his mind was racing. He knew the old farts were up to something, but he trusted you to come back to him.

He watched you disappear inside, watching the doors close behind you. His eyes tracing your fading silhouette through the thick wood. He didn't like this. 

And when you finally emerged, you looked like you’d been sentenced to death.

That night, he came home to a dark apartment. Satoru felt the resistance of the door before he even pushed it. His Six Eyes told him exactly who was on the other side, huddled in the dark like a broken thing.

He eased the door open, the light from the hallway spilling over you. You were crumpled on the floor, small and trembling. He was covered in soot and purple ichor, his own body heavy with fatigue, but the sight of you made his heart do that strange, painful stutter again.

He sat down, coming down to your level because he never wanted you to feel small beneath him. His hand found the crown of your head. Your hair was soft, and he combed his fingers through it, trying to transfer some of his own heat into your shaking frame.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"Is it the Higher-ups? Did they say something to scare you?" Anger flared in his chest. "Because I told you. As long as you're with me, they can't touch you."

He would burn the entire council to the ground if they were the reason for your suffering.

"Satoru..."

His name. For the first time, it wasn't a family name or a formality. It was just him. He stilled, his fingers resting against the back of your head, holding you steady. He could hear your breathing—ragged and desperate.

Then you asked the question that made his heart ache. "If someone... if someone was born for a single, terrible purpose... can they ever really be anything else?"

He looked at your hands—pale, trembling, and so small compared to his. He knew what you were talking about. He’d lived his whole life as a 'purpose' instead of a person. He reached down and pulled the blindfold off. He wanted you to see him. All of him.

"The world is full of people who think they can decide what someone is 'for'," he said, his voice dropping into a low, steady vibration. He took your hand, unfurling your fingers. Your palm was like ice. He wrapped his hand around yours, trying to be the anchor you clearly needed.

He told you the truth—that sins don't wash off, that worth is a choice. He leaned in until his forehead was almost touching yours, letting his eyes drink in every detail of your face, every tear, every flicker of doubt.

"I don't save people because they're 'worth' it," he whispered. "I save them because I can. And if you’re asking me if you can be something else... I think you already are."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore. It was peaceful. He felt your hand squeeze his back—a firm, desperate pressure.

"Thank you," you whispered.

He watched you looking at him like he was a sunset you’d never see again. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air in the hallway. You were planning to leave him.

He watched you commit his face to memory, and he felt a bittersweet ache he hadn't felt in years. You're going to try to leave me to save me, aren't you?

He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your jaw. He didn't want to let go. He felt you lean into his touch, breathing him in as if he were oxygen and you were drowning.

He pulled you forward, wrapping his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. He ignored the soot on his uniform as you pressed yourself against him. He felt your heart beating against his—the rhythm of a life he had decided, in that dark hallway, was now his to protect at any cost.

I don't know what you're planning for tomorrow, he thought, his eyes narrowing into the dark of the apartment. But if the Higher-ups think they’re taking this away from me, they’re going to find out exactly why I’m the one they’re so afraid of.

The smell of garlic and ginger cut through the heavy, lingering tension of the entryway. You prepared Nabe—a comforting, bubbling hot pot of seasonal vegetables, tofu, and thinly sliced beef. It was a meal designed to be shared, something that forced people to slow down and sit together.

The steam was just beginning to curl toward the ceiling when the bathroom door finally opened. A few minutes later, the sound of rhythmic, barefoot steps approached.

Satoru sauntered into the kitchen, looking refreshed but still carrying that trace of deep weariness in the corners of his eyes. He had changed into a clean, oversized black hoodie and joggers. His hair was damp, hanging in loose, white silk curtains around his face. He didn't have his blindfold on. He didn't seem to think he needed it here.

He didn't say a word as he approached. He simply stepped into your space, his presence warm and overwhelming. He leaned his hip against the counter right beside you. He watched the steam rise from the pot for a moment before his gaze shifted to your profile.

"Smells amazing," he murmured, his voice still low and intimate from their talk on the floor. "You really didn't have to cook, you know. I could have just ordered us something."

"I wanted to," you said, your voice finally steady. You didn't look at him, focusing instead on ladling the broth. "You've had a long day, Satoru-san. You should eat something healthy."

You carefully carried the steaming pot to the center of the table, the ceramic warm against your palms. You began to arrange the bowls, your movements deliberate as you tried to ignore the fact that he hadn't moved a muscle. He was just standing there, leaning against the counter and watching you.

When you reached for the last set of chopsticks, Satoru finally moved. He didn't head for his chair. Instead, he closed the distance between you in three long, silent strides.

He caught your wrist with the gentle pressure of his hand and slowly turned you around until you were forced to face him. His gaze tracing the bridge of your nose down to your lips.

He didn't speak immediately. He held your wrist, the heat of his thumb resting right over your pulse, before he leaned in, invading your space until the scent of the Nabe was replaced by the clean, sharp scent of his soap.

"You're doing it again," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle deep in your bones.

"Doing what?" you whispered, your breath hitching.

"The '-san' thing." He tilted his head, a stray lock of white hair brushing against his forehead. His eyes, those endless, celestial blues, searched yours. "We sat on the floor and talked, but you're still trying to keep me at arm's length with a title."

His hand slid from your wrist to your palm, his fingers interlacing with yours. His skin was warm and his touch is so light.

"Call me Satoru," he commanded softly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto your eyes.

The heat rose in your cheeks, a sudden and vivid flush that you couldn't suppress. You looked down at your interlaced fingers, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. In this light, with your lashes casting long shadows against your skin, your lips parted in a soft, trembling exhale, you looked breathtakingly vulnerable.

"Satoru," you finally whispered.

The name felt heavy and sacred on your tongue, stripped of its armor. You looked up at him through the fringe of your hair, your eyes shimmering with a mix of shyness and a devastating, newfound devotion.

He watched the flush creep up your neck and bloom across your face, turning you into something so painfully human that it made his throat ache. You were trying to look away, your shy, frantic energy radiating off you in waves. He can see the slight tremble of your lip, the way your fingers tightened around his, and the sheer, breathtaking softness of your expression.

Seeing you like this—shy, beautiful, and utterly focused on him—made him realize he didn't want to play a game anymore. He didn't want to tease. He wanted to taste the rose-colored tint on your lips and find out if you were as warm as you looked.

He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his gaze dropping to your mouth with a hunger that he couldn't dampen.

If I do this, his heart thudding a heavy, rhythmic warning against his ribs. There's no going back for either of us. I'll never let you leave this place.

He tilted his head, his free hand sliding from your face to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you closer. He waited for a heartbeat—giving you one last chance to run—but when he saw you lean into him, he knew he was done for.

The space between you vanished as his lips finally met yours. For a single, suspended heartbeat, the world simply ceased to exist.

His lips were impossibly soft and warm. It was everything you had never allowed yourself to want. He was everything at once… the cool ozone of a summer storm and the searing heat of a sun you weren’t supposed to touch.

But the reality of tomorrow crashed back into you like a physical blow. You realized with a jolt of terror that if you stayed in this kiss for one more second, you would never be able to leave. You would let the world burn just to stay in his arms.

With a soft, pained gasp, you placed your hands against his chest and gently pushed, breaking the contact.

The kiss was too short.

It was a flash of lightning that left Satoru standing in the dark, his skin tingling and his mind reeling. When your lips met his, he felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated life. He had been prepared to pull you into the depths, to hold you until the sun came up, but then you were pushing back.

Your breathing was ragged, coming in short, shallow bursts that made your chest heave. Your cheeks were a vivid, burning red, the heat from the kiss radiating through your entire body. You couldn't bring yourself to look at those brilliant blue eyes, fearing that if you did, you’d see the same hunger that was currently tearing you apart.

"Satoru," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling and thick with a sudden, overwhelming shyness. You gestured vaguely toward the steaming pot on the table. "The... the food. It's going to get cold. You need to eat."

You turned away quickly, fumbling with a pair of chopsticks just to have something to do with your hands. You were a mess, a blushing wreck by a single, brief kiss.

He saw your red cheeks and the way your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. You looked beautiful—shattered and reborn all at once. When you whispered his name and told him to eat, he felt a sharp, bittersweet pang in his chest.

"The food," he repeated, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

He didn't care about the food. He cared about the way your lips looked, slightly swollen and flushed.

He sat down at the stool, his movements uncharacteristically slow. He picked up the chopsticks, but his eyes were locked on your face. He saw the way your hands shook as you ladled the broth.

He took a bite of the beef, but he didn't taste a thing. All he could taste was you. All he could feel was the ghost of your hands on his chest.

"It's perfect," he said, his gaze never wavering from you. "Everything you do is perfect."

When the meal was over, you stood up quickly, desperate for a task to anchor your drifting nerves. You gathered the bowls with a clatter, heading for the sink.

You turned on the tap, and reached for the soap. But before your hands could touch the water, a presence bloomed behind you.

Satoru boxed you in, his large frame a solid wall of heat against your back. He reached around, his long fingers gently but firmly closing over your hands, stopping you mid-motion.

"I've got it," he murmured, his chest vibrating against your shoulders. "Go sit down. You’ve done enough today."

You let the sponge slip from your fingers, hearing it splash into the soapy water. The heat of him was everywhere—it radiated through the back of your sweater, and his breath was a warm ghost against the nape of your neck. Slowly, you turned within the narrow space he’d created between his body and the sink.

Your heart was a frantic, trapped thing in your chest. When you faced him, you had to tilt your head back quite a way to meet his eyes. Satoru didn't pull back. He kept his hands on the counter, one on either side of you, effectively pinning you against the marble.

Satoru had been seconds away from bliss. He had you pinned, he had your attention, and he was about to prove that he could be just as devastating in a kitchen as he was on a battlefield. He could already taste the rose-tinted sweetness of you.

The tension snapped like a taut wire as you saw his gaze drop once more, focusing on your mouth with a heat that made your knees weak. You could see the subtle tilt of his head, the way he was already closing the distance to finish what he’d started earlier.

Panic and affection warred in your chest. Just as he leaned in, his lips inches from yours, you shot your hand up and clamped your palm firmly over his mouth.

"No," you squeaked out, your face burning a shade of red that rivaled a sunset. "You're not—we aren't—you said you'd do the dishes!"

He blinked, his Six Eyes processing the sheer audacity of the move. Did she just... muzzle me?

"Go wash the dishes, Satoru!" you commanded, your voice gaining strength as you used your other hand to point aggressively at the sink.

He watched you through his lashes, taking in your frantic blush and the way you were pointing at the sink like he was a stray dog.

"Mmph?" he tried to say, his voice vibrating against your skin.

He slowly reached up, gently taking your wrist and pulling your hand away from his mouth, though he didn't let go of your arm. He leaned in just a fraction closer, a wicked, playful glint returning to his eyes.

"You're a very cruel boss," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. He let out a soft huff of laughter and stepped back, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

"Fine, fine! The dishes. I’m going." He turned back to the sink, splashing his hands into the soapy water.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

The apartment was deathly quiet, the kind of silence that only exists at three in the morning. The moon cast long, skeletal shadows across the hardwood floors, and the air felt stagnant.

You paused at the threshold of his bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for you to see the silhouette of the man who had given you a soul. He was sprawled across the bed, one arm hanging off the side, his white hair fanned out against the pillow like fallen snow. Even in his sleep, he looked like something that belonged in a museum—divine, untouchable—and yet, you knew the exact warmth of his skin.

You walked to the edge of the bed, your footsteps making no sound. You reached out, your fingers hovering inches from his forehead, wanting one last time to feel the warmth of the man who had given you a soul. But you stopped. If you touched him, you wouldn't be able to leave.

"Goodbye, Satoru," you whispered, the words so soft they didn't even stir the air.

Turning your back, you walked toward the front door. You stepped out into the cold night, the click of the lock sounding like the final beat of a heart.

The morning sun hit the apartment with a brutal, clinical brightness that didn't match the hollow silence of the rooms.

Satoru sat up, his hair messy and his eyes immediately scanning the space. Usually, he’d hear the soft hum of the kettle or the methodical thud-thud of a knife against a cutting board. Today, there was nothing. No scent of food, no sharp, jagged rhythm of your cursed energy.

His eyes instantly swept the floor plan. Empty. The bathroom, the guest room, the balcony, the kitchen… all cold.

You idiot, his mind racing with a cold, jagged fury he hadn't felt in years. You absolute, selfless, beautiful idiot.

He didn't grab his blindfold. He didn't grab his shoes. Satoru Gojo teleported and was soon sprinting through the hallowed, ancient halls of Jujutsu High, his bare feet slapping against the cold wood.

His white hair was a wild, unkempt halo, and his eyes burning with a light that threatened to incinerate everything in his path. He reached the heavy, iron-bound doors of the council chamber. He ran right through them, the reinforced wood exploding into splinters as he charged into the room.

The sight that met him turned his blood to ice.

You were a crumpled heap of dark fabric and crimson stains on the floor. The blood was pooling beneath you, soaking into the wood. The cowards were standing over you, their ceremonial blades still dripping.

His eyes took in everything in a nanosecond: the angle of the blade wounds, the shallow, thready rhythm of your heart, and the smug, self-righteous smell of the old men standing over you.

He went from the door to your side in a movement so fast it defied the concept of distance. He didn't even look at the elders as he moved. The executioners who tried to step in his way were simply vaporized by the sheer, violent pressure of his Infinity. They were thrown against the stone walls with the sound of snapping bone, and Satoru didn't even register their screams.

He dropped to his knees in the pool of your blood, his hands hovering over you, trembling with a terror he hadn't felt since he was a teenager.

"No," he whispered, the word a jagged, broken thing. "No, no, no."

He gathered you into his arms, ignoring the way your blood stained his t-shirt. He pressed his forehead against yours, his white hair falling around you both like a shroud, blocking out the rest of the world.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice cracking. "☆☆☆, look at me. Open your eyes. I’m here. I’m right here."

But you didn’t respond. Your head lolled back against his arm, your skin turning a terrifying, translucent marble under the harsh fluorescent lights. The light in your eyes had already begun to shutter, leaving only a glassy, distant reflection of the man holding you. Satoru felt the precise moment your hand, which had been weakly clutching his shirt, lost its strength and slipped, hitting the blood-slicked floor with a dull, sickening thud.

Satoru’s world shattered.

The sound of his own heart was like a drum in a tomb. He didn't feel the splinters of the floor digging into his knees or the wet heat of the blood soaking through his clothes. He only felt the absence of you.

He looked up then, and for the first time, the Higher-ups saw the cold, infinite void of pure, murderous intent. His eyes were glowing, the blue light spilling out like dying stars.

"You actually thought you could touch her and I would let you keep your lives?" he said, his voice deathly quiet, echoing in the now-silent chamber.

The floor beneath him began to liquefy, the stone turning to dust under the weight of his rage. He didn't care about the balance of the world. He didn't care about jujutsu society.

In the blink of an eye, the suffocating pressure in the council chamber vanished, leaving only the scent of ozone and the settling dust of pulverized stone.

Satoru appeared in the middle of Shoko’s infirmary, nearly colliding with her desk. "Shoko," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass. He laid you on the cold metal table with a tenderness that didn't match the carnage on his skin. "Please, heal her..."

Shoko didn't hesitate. She saw the light fading in your eyes and immediately placed her hands over your chest, her Reverse Cursed Technique flaring into a soft, steady glow.

The moment Shoko’s hands touched your skin, Satoru let go.

He reappeared in the center of the council chamber, hovering a few inches above the pulverized stone, his white hair whipping around his face. The Higher-ups were scrambling, their shadows dancing frantically against the paper screens as they tried to flee. They looked like the rats they were.

"Where are you going?" Satoru asked.

He didn't use a technique. That would have been too quick, too merciful, and far too clean for the filth that had spilled your blood.

Satoru descended like a fallen angel, his bare feet touching the blood-slicked stone. The first Elder—the one who had given the final order—tried to scramble away, his silk robes rustling in the dirt. Satoru was on him in a blur. He reached down, his large, scarred hand closing around the man's throat, and slammed him into a stone pillar with a sickening crack.

"You like to watch things break, don't you?" Satoru whispered, his voice a jagged edge of ice.

He didn't wait for an answer. He delivered a punch that didn't just break the man's jaw—it shattered the very foundation of the pillar behind him. He was methodical, his movements replaced by a raw, animalistic savagery. He used his bare fists to dismantle them, one by one. The chamber echoed with the sound of snapping bone and the desperate, wet gasps of men.

He was a blur of white and crimson, his knuckles split and bleeding. He caught the next one by the hair, dragging him across the pulverized stone, his eyes glowing with that terrifying, celestial light. There was no Infinity protecting his hands; he wanted to feel every bit of the damage he was doing. He wanted to feel them break beneath him the way they had tried to break you.

He had forgotten what it felt like to be this angry. It wasn't the cold, calculated anger of a sorcerer; it was the red-hot, screaming rage of a man who had seen his soul lying in a pool of blood.

His fists were heavy, his breathing ragged. Every time he landed a blow, he saw the cut on your neck. Every time he heard a rib snap, he heard your shallow, dying breath.

This is for her blood, his fist collided with a temple. This is for making her think she had to leave me, his hand cracked another man’s neck.

He didn't stop until the room was silent. He stood in the center of the wreckage, his chest heaving, his t-shirt now stained a dark, permanent red. He looked down at his hands—the hands that had held you so gently just hours ago—and saw them covered in the grime of the men who had tried to take you.

He felt a sudden, hollow ache in his chest. The rage hadn't fixed anything. It hadn't put your life back together.

He didn't even look at the bodies. He turned away, his gaze fixed on the door. He needed to get back. He needed to wash this blood off before he touched you again. He needed to know that Shoko had worked the miracle he couldn't.

In a flicker of blue light, he vanished from the slaughterhouse he had created.

The smell of iron and ozone followed him into the infirmary like a physical shroud. He was a horrific sight—barefoot, his hair matted with sweat and blood, his knuckles raw and split, and his clothes soaked in a dark, wet crimson that wasn't his own.

The sterile, white light of the clinic blinded his eyes for a moment, but then he saw you. He ignored Shoko’s startled look as he moved toward your bed. His footsteps were heavy, leaving faint, bloody prints on the white linoleum.

Satoru stopped at the foot of the bed. He wanted to reach out—he was starving for the touch of your skin—but he looked down at his hands. They were caked in drying blood, the knuckles swollen and split.

He couldn't touch you. Not like this. He stood there, vibrating with a leftover adrenaline that had nowhere to go.

She’s alive. The thought should have brought him peace, but instead, it made him feel like he had failed. He looked at the bandages around your torso and felt a fresh wave of nausea. He had ended the men who hurt you, but the sight of his own hands made him want to retch.

He was a monster. He had just turned a council chamber into a butcher shop, and now he was standing in a room full of healing and light, bringing the stench of death with him.

He saw your hand resting on the white sheets. He wanted to hold it, to apologize a thousand times for not being fast enough, but he stayed back, leaning his weight against the wall as his legs finally gave out.

He sank to the floor right there, his back against the cold tile, his head fell into his blood-stained hands. He let out a long, shuddering breath, a sound that bordered on a sob. He had almost lost you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the silence of the room, his voice breaking into a jagged sob. "I'm so sorry, ☆☆☆.”

He stayed there for hours, not moving until your fingers twitched under the thin infirmary sheet. His head snapped up, those boundless, crystalline eyes wide and desperate, searching yours as they slowly flickered open. He reached out, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand.

The sterile white of the infirmary ceiling blurred as your vision slowly swam into focus. Your body felt heavy, draped in a strange, numb warmth, but the first thing you registered wasn't the pain.

You shifted your hand, the friction of the sheets feeling like sandpaper against your skin, and felt a touch. A thumb was brushing against your knuckles, trembling with a frantic, desperate rhythm. You turned your head, the movement slow and stiff, and your breath hitched.

Satoru was there, looking like a man who had been hollowed out. His white hair was matted with dark, rust-colored streaks, and his clothes were a ruined tapestry of crimson. His beautiful eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with a raw, terrifying grief.

"Satoru?" Your voice was a dry, paper-thin rasp. You tried to sit up, but the world tilted. Your eyes drifted down to his split knuckles and the blood soaking his shirt. Panic flared in your chest, momentarily overriding the dull ache of your own wounds. "Satoru... what happened? Why are you... are you hurt? Why are you covered in blood?"

You reached out for him, your fingers fumbling for his face, your only thought being the terrifying amount of blood on his t-shirt. You didn't realize it wasn't his. You didn't realize that he had just committed a massacre for you.

When your hand reached out, searching for his wounds, he let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He looked at you, and saw the confusion and the immediate, selfless concern in your eyes. Even now, after what they had done to you, you were looking for his wounds.

"I'm not hurt," he choked out, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against the edge of your mattress. He didn't want you to see the tears, but you could feel them hitting the sheets. "It's not mine. None of it is mine, ☆☆☆.”

He caught your hand, holding it against his cheek. He looked up at you, his blue eyes shimmering with a devastating, protective love. "You were dying because of me."

He kissed the back of your hand, his lips lingering against your skin. "I told you. As long as you're with me, they can't touch you. I made sure they'll never touch you ever again.”

"Don't you ever leave me again," he whispered, his voice cracking.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

The silence of the apartment was no longer heavy. It felt like a long-held breath finally being released. Satoru had spent an hour in the shower, scrubbing until his skin was raw, desperate to wash away the iron scent of the council chamber. When he finally emerged, dressed in a simple black hoodie and sweats, he looked human again—tired, but present.

You were sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a thick duvet, a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table. Your clothes were replaced by one of his oversized shirts. Satoru didn't sit in his usual armchair but sat on the floor at your feet.

"I killed them," he said. There was no boast in his voice, rather it was a flat. "All of them. The ones who were there, and the ones who signed the order."

He reached back, his hand finding yours where it rested on the cushion. He traced the lines of your palm with his thumb.

"I'm not going back to Jujutsu High for a while. Shoko is handling the fallout, but I think they're too afraid of me now to even send a messenger." He turned his head to look up at you, his blue eyes clear and remarkably steady.

You sat there, looking down at your hands.

"Satoru," you said softly, your voice finally steady. "About what I did... why I was there... you know who I am, don't you? I was sent to kill you.”

"I know exactly who you are," Satoru said, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum. "But you failed your mission because you’re a good person, ☆☆☆."

He watched the flicker of surprise and guilt in your eyes. He’d known since day one, but he had waited, hoping you’d be the one to tell him. Watching you struggle between your orders and your heart had been the most human thing he'd ever witnessed.

"You weren't very good at the 'killing me' part," he joked, though his eyes remained soft. "They sent you to end me, but you ended up saving me from being alone. I'd say I got the better end of that deal.”

He squeezed your hand gently. "Forget it. You're fired. You're a terrible assistant anyway—you were trying to die for your boss."

He leaned his head against your knee, looking out at the city lights. He felt lighter than he had in years. The council was gone, the weights were off his shoulders, and the woman who was supposed to be his end was currently the only reason he wanted to see tomorrow.

You sat in the quiet of the living room, processing the weight of his words. He was letting it all go—the betrayal, the lies, the fact that you were trained to be his ending. He was just sitting there, the most powerful man in the world, resting his head against your knee like he was exactly where he belonged.

You looked down at his hair. It was a mess of soft, white silk that caught the dim light of the city. You hesitated, your hand hovering just inches above his head. Your fingers trembled slightly. You weren't sure if you were allowed to touch him like this—not as a caretaker, but as someone who loved him.

After everything you’d done, after the blood and the secrets, you felt like a guest in a life you didn't deserve. But Satoru didn't move; he just waited, his breathing steady and calm against your legs.

Slowly, you let your hand drop. Your fingertips brushed the cool, soft strands of his hair. When he didn't pull away, you gained a bit of courage, finally sinking your hand into the thick white locks. You smoothed them back from his forehead, your touch tentative and light.

He let out a long, slow sigh, his body sagging against the sofa as you started to pet his hair. It felt incredible.

"Keep doing that," he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, possessive circles on the back of your hand. "It’s been a long time since anyone just... reached for me."

You felt the vibration of his voice through your knee, a low, grounding hum. Emboldened by his praise, you let your fingers comb deeper through his hair, the silkiness of it sliding between your knuckles. It was a rhythmic, soothing motion, but the weight of your past still sat like lead in your stomach.

"Satoru?" you asked, your voice small and thick with a sudden, sharp doubt. Your hand faltered for a second before he nudged your palm with his head, silently demanding you continue.

"What do you think I should do now?" you whispered, looking out at the endless grid of Tokyo’s lights. "The only thing I know how to be is a weapon. You think... you think I have a chance to start over? I don't know what it's like to live a normal life. I don't even know who I am without a mission.”

He opened one eye, looking up at you from an angle that made him look younger, looking like a boy he never got to be.

"A normal life?" he repeated softly. He reached up, taking your hand from his hair and bringing it to his lips, kissing your knuckles with a slow, lingering heat. "To be honest, ☆☆☆, I’m the last person you should ask for advice on 'normal'. I’ve been a freak of nature since the day I was born."

He sat up slightly, turning so he could look you directly in the eyes. The blue was soft now, like the sky after a storm.

"But that’s the secret," he said, his voice firm. "Nobody is born knowing how to do it. You might start by waking up and deciding what you want for breakfast. Or you can start by picking out clothes because you like the color."

He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You have the best chance in the world because you’re starting over with me. We’ll be terrible at it together."

He smiled—a real, crooked, beautiful smile that reached his eyes.

"As for what you should do now?" He leaned back, pulling you down toward him until your forehead rested against his. "I think you should start by realizing that you’re safe."

You chuckled softly, the sound a bit watery as it escaped your throat. Being this close to him, you could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes and the softness in his expression that he only ever showed to you.

He heard that little chuckle and felt his own heart lighten. It was the best sound he’d heard all day. Satoru watched the way your expression shifted. The Six Eyes were useless here; he didn't need them to see the way your gaze searched his face, or the way your breathing hitched as you truly looked at him.

He was beautiful—not just in the way the world saw him, but in this quiet, selfless vulnerability. It made your heart ache with a fierce, sudden clarity. You wanted to stay because the world felt right only when you were in his orbit.

"What is it?" he whispered, his thumb grazing your jawline.

"I've decided," you whispered, your breath mingling with his. "We'll be terrible at it together.”

The crystalline blue of his eyes seemed to swallow everything else in the room. As the silence stretched, the weight of his gaze became too much. Your heart gave a traitorous thump against your ribs. Under the intensity of his gaze, you felt heat rise from your neck to your hairline. It was too much—too much honesty, too much beauty, too much of him all at once.

You felt your cheeks  flush a deep, burning crimson. Flustered, you let out a tiny, shaky breath and snapped your gaze away, looking down at the fabric of his black hoodie instead of the crystalline depth of his eyes.

He watched the color bloom across your face, a vivid, living pink that made his own heart do a clumsy somersault.

She’s blushing.

The thought sent a wave of genuine, boyish delight through him. He hooked his finger under your chin, gently nudging your face back toward his. He didn't force you, but he waited until your eyes met his again.

"Can I kiss you?"

You were utterly flustered, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, making it impossible to find your voice. But you chose to close the small distance left between you, your hand tangling in the soft white hair at the nape of his neck to pull him closer.

The moment your lips met his, the last of the static in Satoru’s mind went silent. He let out a long, shaky breath against your mouth, his hands moving from your chin to cradle the sides of your face. His palms were large and warm. 

He felt you melt against him, your flush warming his skin, and he deepened the kiss, his heart thudding a heavy, happy rhythm against his ribs. For the first time in twenty-eight years, he felt so loved.

When he finally pulled back, he looked like a man who had finally found his way home after a very long war.

"Yeah," he whispered, a breathless, dizzied smile spreading across his face. "We are definitely going to be great at being terrible together.”

Fin.

[tokyoblueflame]

‎‧₊˚✧Cinderborn✧˚₊‧

| satoru gojo x suguru's little sibling |

| cw: angst, suguru's descent into madness, SH, ED, body dysmorphia. satoru, suguru and reader are one year apart in age - reader was born in july 1991, they attended jujutsu high together. hurt/no comfort

preview | part 1 | part 2

Thump.

Your bag fell heavy against the floor, creating a flat sound that richocheted off the beige walls of Satoru's apartment. The penthouse was not as huge as people thought it would be, oferring a rather introverted feeling of safety than one of luxury. You didn't even know why you lived here - not like the two of you were dating, afterall. Quite the opposite, actually.

Maybe it was convenient - you wouldn't have to pay rent, and you wouldn't have to sink a lot of cash into gas to get to Jujutsu High either. Maybe you just accepted the offer due to your own selfish desires that have been simmering down deep within since ten years ago.

One way or another - what Satoru and you had was describable as nothing and everything at once. Living with him could seem a bit intimate to others, but you never dwelled on such mundane matters. The arrangement benefitted you, and you wouldn't complain.

Afterall... he enjoyed it, too.

Once your shoes were set by the wall left of the front door, you stepped further into the dark interior of the apartment and looked around.

Looks like Satoru wasn't home yet.

A frown marred your face - he left Jujutsu Tech before you did and therefore should've been home by now. Maybe he stopped by a supermarket to pick some groceries up? Who knows. You didn't want to care, but this small part of your brain kept pressing the "what if?" button.

The dim glow of the tablepost lamp a few feet away did little to light your way to the bathrom up, feet padding softly against the carpeted parquet floor. Nimble fingers pushed the heavy bathroom door open as you flicked the light on, striding inside and sliding it closed. The tile soothed your tired feet, forcing you to relax as you stripped your uniform down - first the upper layers, then the bottoms, the cold air washing over your overworked body. Eyes fluttering half-shut, your undergarments were the next on the pile of clothing on the floor, and you swallowed down the visceral feeling of utter alienation. The person standing on the cold tile felt like a character you were tired of playing. There was a Great Divide between the 'you' that lived behind your eyes and the thing that wore your name - a body that felt too loud, too present, and yet entirely unrecognizable.

You could only stare at the reflection of the mannequin you were inhabiting - a collection of limbs and angles that felt borrowed, or perhaps stolen. It was like watching a film of someone else’s life from the back of a darkened theater: you saw the hands move, saw and even felt the chest rise and fall, but the tether between your soul and that flesh had snapped long ago.

So long ago that you almost forgot when your own face had stopped looking like yours and started looking like a reprise. You traced the line of a jaw that was too sharp to be soft, too familiar to be yours. It was his. The same pull of the skin across the cheekbones, the same ghost of a slant in the eyes, almost a genetic echo of Suguru that lived on while the man himself became a memory.

It almost made you wonder - has Satoru ever looked at you and thought of a tragedy he already survived?

A hand slammed over the reflection of your face on the mirror, eyes wide and chest heaving. You haven't noticed how you were drowning - drowning in despair, in pain. In a body not yours, in memories dark and jagged.

In a desire to be the person who ten years ago stood by Suguru and felt like her own person.

In a delusion that maybe this was all a dream and not reality - your brother would be there when you'd wake up. He'd pick on you and laugh freely, right? You'd get annoyed and jump at his taller frame, punching his chest, falling to your knees, looking up at him.

Dread.

Looking up at him through soaked lashes, pupils trembling like leaves in wind, hot rivulets scorching your cheeks as he looked at you - as if your mere existence was the cause of all his suffering. As if you were another one of those monkeys he abhorred with a burning passion.

Your hand slid down the glass, leaving a blurred, streaky trail over the face you didn't want to claim. The "monkey" he hated, the "reprise" Satoru loved - the labels felt like lead weights tied to your ankles, pulling you under.

You turned away from the reflection, your movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a marionette with tangled strings. The glass of the shower door felt biting against your palms as you pushed it open, stepping into the narrow stall. It felt less like a bathroom and more like a glass casket.

When you reached for the handle, your fingers fumbled, the metal cold and unyielding before the pipes groaned to life. You didn't wait for the temperature to even out. You just stood there, staring at the drain, as the first spray of water hit your skin - a shocking, needle-like sting that should have brought you back to reality, but only pushed you further into the sidelines.

As the steam began to curl around your knees, obscuring the sight of your own legs, you leaned your forehead against the tiles. The rhythmic thrum of the water against your scalp sounded like a heartbeat that wasn't yours. You closed your eyes, letting the spray wash over the jawline that looked too much like his, the shoulders that felt too heavy to be yours, wishing the water could scrub away the DNA, the memories, and the haunting familiarity until there was nothing left but the porcelain and the quiet.

The steam had turned the small stall into a white void, blurring the edges of the world until you were nothing but a ghost in a cloud. You didn't hear the bathroom door click open over the roar of the water, nor the soft thud of discarded clothes - only felt the sudden shift in the air, a slight break in the spray as a much larger shadow stepped into the stall behind you.

Satoru didn't speak - he rarely ever did in moments like this.

You found yourself thanking him for it.

A burly arm enveloping around your waist pushed your conscious back to reality, the heat of Satoru's chest against your back offering a momentary repose - though it didn't last long enough to make you feel better. Another feeling burrowed deep in your bones beside it - a spiritual exhaustion and listlessness that leaves one feeling lost and desperate for any sign of meaning.

"Hey. Stop it," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your wet skin, muffled by the sound of water hitting tile. He didn't specify what to stop - the thinking, the spiraling, the silent grieving - but he knew.

You both did.

Satoru's damp hair tickled along your neck, his lips pressing into the junction of your neck gently - almost reverently. Your eyes drifted shut again, Satoru's large palm covering your stomach entirely. The two of you stayed like that for a while, and then he turned you around quietly. Water sluiced down his face, masking whatever expression lay beneath his wet lashes. A hand - the one not holding you close at the back - lifted to graze a knuckle over your hollowed-out face with dangerous tenderness; a tenderness so scary you could've recoiled from the contact.

But you didn't.

Satoru took it as a green light to press his forehead against yours, water pouring down on his back shielding you. You let your head hang, your forehead resting against his with a limpness that felt terminal. By this point, you were beginning to lose the ability to tell where the water stopped and your body began.

His hands moved over your back, his touch grounding and real, but you felt it as if through layers of thick wool. You were starting to become a passenger in your own life - again.

Or maybe you never stopped being one.

Watching Satoru's fingers press into your skin and thinking, 'That’s a nice hand,' as if it weren't touching you at all. As if the body he was holding with such care was just a piece of luggage you were tired of carrying.

You didn't cry. You were past crying. You were just... vanishing.

Vanishing, and Satoru knew - God, he knew, but didn't know how to stop it.

Now that he thought about it, his own stupidity and lack of skill in this field was what drove Suguru to a fate worse than death. Hell, he could understand why your eyes held such a burning albeit exhaused resentment all those years ago at the vending machine.

History was repeating itself once again - and Satoru didn't know how to alter it this time either.

His fingers dug into the skin of your waist, a bruising reminder that you were still solid, still there. Satoru didn't want the ghost; he wanted the girl who hated him. He’d take the resentment over your silence any day. It at least implied you were alive enough to feel something other than this void that scared even him - the Strongest.

Satoru just stared at your face - the outlines of what you felt didn't belong to yourself, the traces of a reprise you despised - and covered your eyes with his warm, wet palm, his thumb pressing almost too hard against your temple. He didn't want to see the way you were looking through him with his best friend's eyes. It angered him so irrationally; why did you have to resemble Suguru so much? Why you? Why couldn't he see the true you beneath all the similarities you and Suguru shared?

Satoru couldn't admit out loud that - for the sake of him - he despised you a little for it.

Your eyes closed as his palm settled over them, black clouding behind them as you just stood. Maybe the quiet stillness of the world would've felt nice had you not gotten used to anxiety and uncertainness plaguing your mind 24/7.

The sound of the shower faded into background noise, only the feeling of suffocation and a haunting restlessness residing within you. When your eyes reopened again, you weren't in the shower anymore.

Breathe.

A house was visible a distance away.

A house not yours, but of the thing inhabiting your body.

Fire. Not red flames - blue. Blue, like the sky you once loved gazing at, throttling and detonating in a wave of blinding, dry pressure. You were there, too.

In the house.

Burning down with it.

No air.

There was no air.

The fire sucked it out of he house like a vacuum, leaving you swallowing jagged shards of shame instead of oxygen - temperature rising to feverish degrees, feverish enough to scald at your skin and senses alike. The house was fading, too.

Was that Suguru?

It looks like him.

But Suguru wouldn't leave you alone in a house of collapsing cards you had no strength to lift back up again, would he?

Would he?

Something exploded in your ears - a white noise strong enough to knock you down into the flames even further. The vacuum was absolute. You reached for a breath and found only a mouthful of grit and the ghost of a laugh that didn't belong to you. The house of cards didn't just fall; it vaporized. As the last of the oxygen was siphoned away, the world narrowed down to the heat of that palm over your eyes- the only thing keeping your head from shattering.

You wanted to beg him to let go, or maybe to press harder until the skull cracked and let the heat out, but your tongue was a heavy, charred weight in a mouth that no longer knew how to form words.

You were drowning, and you didn't even know.

And you would've preferred to stay trapped in this nightmare, but your throat constricted too forcefully, your hands gripped Satoru's wrist too desperately for it to continue being all a dream.

The sound of water toppling down against the tile smashed against your ears with blazing force, the bathroom’s artificial glow feeling like needles behind your retinas. Your lungs, finally finding oxygen, didn’t welcome it. You didn't just breathe; you heaved - a ragged, wet sound that tore through the rhythm of the falling water.

"Breathe," Satoru commanded, though his own voice sounded like it was being dragged through gravel.

But how could you breathe? The water hitting your skin felt like lead bullets. The ceramic under your feet was too hard, too cold. You were back in the mannequin, but the joints didn't fit right anymore, they never did. You felt the skin of your face, the jawline that belonged to a man dead ideologically - and it felt like a mask that had been fused to your skull with heat.

You weren't screaming anymore, but the silence was worse. It was the sound of a fire finally running out of things to burn. You slumped against Satoru, your forehead sliding down his chest, leaving a trail of heat against his skin. You wanted to tell him that the house was gone. You wanted to tell him that Suguru hadn't stayed.

But what came out was the sound of a body long dead.

[homesickauthor]

"You what?"

Pairing: Nerd!Gojo x Fashion Student! Reader 

Synopsis: You have a class assignment to do for your fashion class, and you need a model. Who better than the campus pretty boy, and your best friend, Toru Gojo! And what's a class assignment with your best friend without overthinking about what would happen if you confessed and he rejected you? Not that he would. 

Contains: Best friend Gojo, Nerdjo is crushing hard, pining, probably OOC, no beta we die like men, Reader is a fashion student, Gender neutral reader, Blushing Gojo, Fluff, Accidental confession, Physics Major Gojo, not proofread, Reader has a crush on Gojo but also isn’t doing anything about it, FOOLS both of them. Should I make a part two?

4,303 words

ⓘ Dividers made by @/saradika-graphics

It’s a weekend, so most students are out with friends or cramming last minute assignments so they don’t get scolded by their professors. Again. Your friends had asked you if you wanted to go out and get lunch, go thrifting, or a long drive around the city, but you refused. You had a project to get done, and you were committed to finishing it. It consumed you, whenever you were out all thoughts returned to it. 

Your class was going to have a ‘fashion show’ showcasing the students' clothes for a grade, and anyone was allowed to attend. It was your dream to design clothes and have them on the catwalk, so this was beyond important to you. Sure, you had fun while working on it, but you were also taking the project more seriously than you’ve taken anything. You’d told Shoko this was ‘life and death’ for you, and it was! 

Well, not really. It was just a project grade, but you were passionate about it and that’s what mattered. 

Your sketchbook was sprawled out in front of you, covered in different models and clothes. Notes everywhere in different colored ink, doodles, red ink overtop of a design, correcting it once you realized what was off with it. One design was circled multiple times and sketched out again in cleaner, more defined lines and close ups on the specific things you wanted to implement in it. 

You were making a mens tux, that was the simple and straightforward answer. On the sketch was beautiful flowing fabric falling from the shoulders like a cape, and across the front of the jacket was intricate designs with a note jotted down ‘silver?’ next to it. You had cloth sitting on your work table, samples you were trying to decide on. Some were for the suit, and other more flowing and sheer cloth was for the cape. The suit itself was meant to be elegant, dream-like. It was meant to make you stop and look, to take in all of the details, to make it feel as if you were looking at someone out of this world. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you hold another sample of cloth in your hands, running your fingers over the baby blue cloth trying to decide whether or not this texture was right or not. It was soft, smooth. Your phone was propped up against your pencil case, playing music out loud. You were the only one in the work room, so it didn’t really matter whether or not you had ear buds. You were also waiting for a text. Along with designing the clothing, you needed to find a model. You struggled with that longer than you did with the design, complaining to your friends and scrolling through the campus instagram page looking for someone who would suit your… suit. 

You and Gojo were settled in the library, your shoulder pressed against a wall while you glared at your project notes as if it had personally offended you. You were complaining to Gojo one day while he was slouched over his laptop, decked out in digimon stickers, working on a research paper on astrophysics. It seemed like it was a breeze for him, and it was. He’d expressed this multiple times to you. 

“The suit itself is basically ready to be made, save for choosing the right fabric… I just need a model.” You huff, popping a chip into your mouth as you glare down at your sketchbook. 

Gojo looked up from his laptop, finishing off the sentence he was writing before the clacking of his keys fell silent. “So you’ve said.” He smiled lopsidedly at you. “Still no luck?” He asked, trying to be supportive of you. You shook your head, tapping your finger against the sketch. 

“None. I’m half tempted to start making posters for it and putting them up everywhere.” You let out a half laugh, half scoff. “I should have found a model first, and gone off of that. I mean…” You look up at Gojo, leaning your head against the wall. “I just got excited about making the clothes. Now it’s hard to find someone who actually fits the idea I’m going for. I could scrap the whole thing,” you gestured towards your sketchbook, “but I don’t want to. I’m really proud of it. If I don’t find a model I’ll have to wear it myself, and I don’t mind but I also would prefer not to.” Gojo pushed up his glasses as he listened to you, moving his laptop to the side with his other hand. He always did that– listened like he was hanging off of your every word. 

And he was. Gojo loved listening to you talk about your classes and your passions, even if you were complaining. He loved the sound of your voice– not that he would ever admit that out loud. Well he did, once, but you laughed because you thought he was just messing with you. Major damage to his hitpoints with that one. 

“You’ll find someone, I’m sure.” Gojo reassured you. “It’s a pretty awesome piece, and you can convince anyone to do anything.” 

You scoff at his words, “Apparently not.” You mumbled, sitting up straight again to look at the drawing before you. Then you pause, looking at the blue ink and the careful designs. White and blue, silver embellishments… You looked back up at Gojo, who was watching you with curious eyes. Blue eyes. When you thought about it, Gojo was… well he could be described as dream-like. Even in a grey hoodie and sweatpants, he was pretty. He had striking cerulean eyes that glittered in the sun, and white fluffy hair that if styled just right… and he didn’t even need to lose the glasses– he looked adorable with them on– 

“What about you?” You asked suddenly, pointing your index finger at him. Gojo blinked at you, hesitating before he spoke, pointing at himself. “Me?” 

You nodded, turning the sketchbook around and pushing it in front of him. “You! I mean, the colors I chose… they’re your colors! I could probably change the color of the blue so it makes your eyes pop, and-” You went off on a ramble about how your design already suited him with barely any tweaks at all. 

As if you had him in mind when you were making it. Gojo tried to ignore the way his heart jumped at the implications, maybe letting his imagination get ahead of himself. You were right, they were his colors. Really he didn’t need that much convincing, but he liked to listen to you talk, so he let you go on, and on, your hands pointing and gesturing towards him every once in a while as you explained. And Gojo just watched you, propping his cheek up against his fist as he listened with a small smile and soft eyes. Like some lovestruck puppy. 

“Sure.” He replied after you stopped talking, winded from how much you spoke. Now it was your turn to blink at him in silence, hesitating from how easy it was to convince him. 

“Sure?” You repeated. Gojo grinned wider, nodding. “Sure.” 

And now you were waiting for him in the workshop to get his measurements, lost in thought. The more you thought about it, the more you realized that you really did design the suit with Gojo in mind. You didn’t mean to, honestly, but you did. Something in your subconscious pushed forward bits and pieces of your favorite nerd, and spit out your class project. Was that how you saw him? He was dreamy-

Okay. Maybe you had a small crush on your best friend. That was fine. Maybe it was one of those phases people get when they fall for their friends and then get over it. Probably. Except this had lasted for at least a year or two now, so… 

Gojo pushed open the workshop doors, stepping inside as he looked for you. It wasn’t hard to find you, you were the only one in the room. He stopped to just observe for a moment. You were comparing two fabric scraps in your hands, swaying side to side slightly and murmuring the lyrics to the song that was playing from your phone speakers. You had a pen tucked behind your ear, dressed in the college hoodie and jeans, and you were stunning. He liked to see you this way, lost in your work. You were the most breathtaking when you were passionate. 

Gojo ran his hand through his hair– he should make himself known. Just standing and staring at you was probably awkward. He stepped forward, sliding his bag off of his shoulder as he approached. “The Guest of Honor has arrived.” He called out. Your eyes shifted from your hands to Gojo, and you smiled. Your smile was bright and made his heart twist in his chest, it was beautiful. He’s certain he just took damage from cuteness overload. At least 10 hp, gone. 

“Toru!” You called to him happily, setting the fabric down and wrapping your arm around him in a side hug to greet him. This of course was normal for the two of you, and so was the way Gojo’s heart leapt in joy from the contact. He smiled, loosely wrapping his arm around your waist. “That’s my name.” 

You hummed, leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Are you ready for some hard labor?” You asked. He wouldn’t really be doing anything, just listening to you ramble while you took measurements. The most he’d be doing is standing still and choosing which fabric he liked more. 

Gojo nodded, “Put me in coach, I’m ready.” He replied. The both of you giggled, and you pulled away to grab your measuring tape. 

“It won’t be that bad. I’m gonna take your measurements, so all you have to do is stand still and look pretty.” You told him, resting the measuring tape around your neck before you plucked a pencil out of your pencil case to note down his numbers. Gojo listened to you as he unzipped his jacket– he figured it would get in the way– and placed it on top of his bag on the floor. “After that’s done, I’ll hand you some samples and you tell me which ones you like more. You’re going to be wearing the thing, so I want to make sure you’re comfortable in it. So you have to be 100% honest with me.” You told him, spinning on your heel to look at him. You pause. Gojo was wearing comfy pants, sneakers, and a pretty form fitting shirt. 

“Got it.” He affirmed, standing up straight. Sometimes he slouched, so it was easy to forget how tall he was, but he was a whole 6’3”. Be still, your beating heart. You gestured for him to step forward. 

“Come stand over here, and I’ll start.” You told him, going into professional mode. You needed his measurements for this project to go well, and thinking about the fact he looked good in a form fitting shirt wasn’t going to get you anywhere. Gojo nodded, walking over to the more open area you were standing in next to the table. 

You got straight to work. You stood in front of him, his arms out in a T upon your instruction as you wrapped the measuring tape around his chest. You had your pencil perched between your fingers while you held the tape, and your eyes slightly narrowed as you pulled it around him to get the proper size. Gojo had to keep himself from holding his breath, trying to keep himself collected. You had been close like this before, he’s hugged you and carried you before, so what was the problem with you taking his measurements? 

You mumbled numbers under your breath, stepping away to jot down what his bust was. He tried to talk to keep himself from being nervous. “When’s this due?” he asked. 

You walked back over, wrapping the measuring tape around his stomach now. “Not for a while. I forget the exact date, but I have enough time to make the suit.” You replied. You paused, and then poked his stomach. “You’re too tense. Unflex your stomach.” You teased him, looking up at him through your eyelashes. He would if he could. “Just breathe out. Relax.” You said through a chuckle. Gojo did as instructed, murmuring an apology as you returned to the measuring tape around his stomach. 

“Am I going to be like.. On stage?” He asked, looking down at you. You nodded, walking away to jot down the number and then returning. The moments you stepped away really saved his heart, but they were so brief that he didn’t really get any relaxation. 

“Well– not an actual stage.” You replied as you returned to him, fidgeting with the tape. “It’ll just be in the classroom, but there’ll probably be some people from other buildings coming to see the clothes. The Professor’s making it a whole fashion show thing, I’m pretty sure he’s working on a playlist for it and everything.” You let out an amused breath at the thought. Gojo nodded along, keeping those bright blue eyes on you. 

“I think it’s pretty cool.” You admitted with a shrug, suddenly crouching down. Gojo tensed again as you tapped his legs, signalling him to stand wider. He did, of course, but having his best friend and crush of several years before him like this would kill any other man. He tried to focus on your words, looking straight ahead. 

“I want to do this kind of stuff anyway, once I get my own shop. To have my clothes up on a catwalk. I guess that’s a pretty common dream for a fashion designer, but you know.” You shrug again, taking the tape and measuring his inseam. If you weren’t so focused you would’ve noticed Gojo’s rising blush, and your cheeks probably would’ve matched his. But you were just focused on your work now, in the flow. Now that you finally had a model, you had to get this done as fast as possible so you could get to working on the suit. “Seeing my own designs on a stage, in a magazine…” You muse to yourself. You murmur the number for his inseam to yourself, then wrap the measuring tape around his thigh. 

You feel him tense under your touch again, making you glance up at him with an arched brow. “You ‘kay up there?” You asked. Gojo’s cheeks were a soft pink, and his eyes were glued to the door. He nodded. 

“Yeah. Um- I’m just not used to getting measured.” Gojo told you. You hum in response, looking back at the tape. You took the measurements for his ankle too, before pulling away to give him some air and jot down the numbers swirling around in your head. “I thought you would’ve. I’ve seen you and your brother wear some nice suits.” You said. 

Gojo mumbled a noncommittal answer that you didn’t really hear, but left alone because you were trying not to disrupt your train of thought. He’d gotten his measurements done before, but not by the person his heart raced for. It was different when he was in love with the person, versus someone else. He liked your touch, that was no question, but by god he was going to die in this workshop if you weren’t done soon. You returned, taking the measuring tape and lining it against his outstretched arm. His gaze returned to you like you were a magnet, watching the way your lips parted in thought and you eyed the numbers before going to jot them down once more. 

Seeing you work was nice. When he was working on a paper and you were locked away in the workshop he would join you, sitting in a chair off to the side and offering reassuring comments. He didn’t really work on his paper, he was looking at you. Seeing you so determined to finish something and make it perfect, make it yours, it softened him. Made his heart melt into mush. All he wanted was to see you succeed, in college and in the future. He wanted to be there to see all of it, how you’d look when you finally open that shop of your own. How you look when you get your first order, when you get that first magazine cover, when you go to your first fashion show for your clothing line. He wanted to see all of it, be a part of all of it. 

Admittedly in his dreams, he wasn’t just your best friend. Your boyfriend, most of the time. One time, Gojo imagined himself as your husband when you were talking about how you wanted to make your own wedding clothes. That image is burned into his mind. 

You walked around him, taking the numbers for his neck. He dropped his arms to his sides again, closing his eyes as you pressed the tape against his neck. Your fingers brushed against the tape, following the numbers before pulling away. He lost himself in it, only for you to leave as he relaxed into it. He was so far gone. He knew it, though. Gojo had accepted that when the crush didn’t go away– when it got worse. When his thoughts always went back to you, even while he was reading about Quantum Mechanics. All roads led back to you. 

He was waiting for you to continue, his eyes closed as he’d finally let himself relax, but your voice cut through the calm. “Done!” Gojo jumped a little, his eyes snapping open. He turned around to look at you, and you were grinning at your notebook. “Next is fabric.” You told Gojo, placing your pencil down and looking over at him. You paused at his surprised expression and red cheeks. 

“You aren’t.. Like… sick, right?” You asked suspiciously, moving a step closer to check his temperature. Gojo shook his head, gently redirecting your hand away. “I’m good, just warm.” He said. You nodded. It does get pretty warm in the workshop, sometimes you had to bring in your own little fan while you worked. 

The next few minutes were full of you holding up fabric and offering it to him, explaining the texture and how it would fit while he ran his hands over it. Gojo wasn’t really sure what was best, but he tried to offer his opinion when you asked for it. At last, you had a model, measurements, and fabric to work with to make the suit. 

You told Gojo he could leave if he wanted while you worked, but he shrugged and said he didn’t have anything else to do. He did leave, but he was just going to get you and him coffee and snacks from the cafe on campus. You were left in silence as you cut fabric and finally, finally put your project into motion. 

Gojo was a great help, as always. You were comfortable with him, and getting that close to someone else would’ve been awkward for you. Plus, he let you ramble on and on about the suit and the ideas you had for it, how it would sit on the body, how you’d turn the cape into a sort of jacket instead, how the embroidery would be the most irritating but exciting part of it. He listened, watching you like you put the stars in the sky. He was always there for you, that was something you could always appreciate. You knew if you didn’t have anyone else to turn to, you had Gojo. He was soft when talking to you, but that didn’t mean he was meek. Gojo had protected you a few times, warding off creeps and his brothers frat members who for some reason tried to make you the frat sweetheart. You were not thrilled about the idea, and Gojo even less so. 

Gojo had protected you the first day the two of you had met back in high school– a bookshelf was knocked over while you were looking at it because of some students messing around, and he had pulled you out of the way. You’d knocked him over with the force he pulled you with, and you had your introductions while laying on the ground. After that, he’d always been by your side. It was always by coincidence, and if you believed in fate you were certain it was trying to push you and Gojo together. 

You wondered if it could ever be. Romantically. It wasn’t outlandish, best friends getting into a relationship. It was extremely common in fact, and you thought the idea was cute. But what if you were rejected? You didn’t want to have Gojo at your side and then lose him just because your heart was being silly. 

You sigh, placing down the scissors in your hands on the work table with a soft clack. Gojo wasn’t the type to distance himself like that, to leave completely. But you could imagine confessing, and him rejecting you. Him pulling away, not leaving you but putting walls up to make sure you knew he didn’t like you. Eventually you’d lose the person that meant the most to you. That would hurt. A lot. When you had Gojo you never knew you could have someone like him in your life, someone you could trust whole heartedly, and if you went back to never having him there… What would you do? You can’t remember when it wasn’t you and Gojo. It felt like it always has been, always would be. So how would-

“Something go wrong?” Gojo’s voice cut through your increasingly depressing thoughts, placing your drink on the table. A strawberry milk tea with popping pearls and a cup of cookie dough resting beside it. You looked up at him, meeting concerned blue eyes and his tilted head as he sipped on his cola. 

You shake your head, smiling at him. “Nah. Just getting into my own head.” You tell him, taking your drink and sipping on the milk tea. He ruffled your hair affectionately, sitting down on a chair he’d pulled over from one of the other tables. “I’m a good listener.” He offered. You waved your hand in the air, dismissing the suggestion immediately. 

“I’m all good, promise. Just thinking about… clothes stuff. This project means a lot to me.” You replied, placing your drink down and starting up your work again. Gojo hummed in response, shuffling closer so he could lean his arms against the table. He was careful not to get in the way of your work, just close enough to watch you. 

Hours passed, and eventually, you had to drag yourself away from the worktable. Gojo and You had a lively conversation about everything and nothing while you cleaned the workshop up, not wanting to get scolded by your professor.  You gathered all your things, carefully putting away your work and all of the materials. Gojo helped, of course, and tossed out his and your trash from his snack runs. You closed the closet you placed your work in and looked over at Gojo. 

“You really were tense when I was measuring you. You’ve never gotten your measurements taken, seriously?” you asked again. It was hard to believe, after all he and his brother were rich boys that had a good amount of suits tucked away. You knew, because you’ve seen it. It was hard to believe that they just found a suit that fit and went with it. 

Gojo shrugged as he put his bag on one shoulder, and yours on the other. “Well… Yeah, I’ve gotten measured before.” He admitted. Your brows lifted as you walked over to him, a silent question. He chuckled and handed you your bag as you offered your hand out to him. 

“I think I got nervous because I have a crush on you.” Gojo said the sentence so casually that both of you didn’t even bat an eye. You hummed, nodded, taking your bag from his hands.  You put your bag on, and then you paused as the words actually registered to you. Hold on. Wait a second. Run it back. You stared at him with widening eyes. 

“You what?” You ask at the sudden confession. It seems he finally realized what he’d said because his cheeks turned a shade of red you’ve never seen before. You could probably hold a roll of cherry colored fabric up to his face and have it match perfectly. 

“Well, I dont- I mean I do-” Gojo started to stumble over his own words, avoiding your gaze as you stared at him, dumbfounded. He? Has a crush on you? “That wasn’t what- Well I meant it- but I was supposed to, this wasn’t supposed to happen like this..” he was rambling and digging himself deeper into the hole he made. Your jaw dropped. Like this? So it was supposed to happen, he would’ve told you, just somewhere different? How was this supposed to happen? Honestly his flustered state was endearing. You opened your mouth to speak, reaching out to stop him. 

He cleared his throat, “I’m gonna go. Physics homework. Conservation of Momentum and Collision Theory.” Gojo said quickly, avoiding your touch all together and rushing out of the workshop before you had a second to even say anything. 

You were left alone in the workshop, silent, save for the quick retreating footsteps of Gojo’s tennis shoes. 

He didn’t even get the chance to let you say ‘I like you too.’ 

Next time. 

If there was a next time. If there wasn’t.. Well you’d make one!

[gojover]

✰ THE ART OF GETTING HIM

geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.

pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader

content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+

note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush. Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know. Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair. It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own. Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room. Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”

You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.

Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”

“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!"

“Rehearsed how?"

You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."

Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”

You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.

Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"

You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.

“Then go find him.”

When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise

For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.

Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.

All you have to do is make him see you.

You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.

If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.

The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.

Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold. One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation. You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice. Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for. Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend. If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak. You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face. You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know. The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess. Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been. “Hey!” he calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this." A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls. “In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!" His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement. “What is it?" “Is it a fight?" “Please tell me it’s a fight.” “Did someone break something?” Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you. “Aren’t you coming, Satoru?” Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.” Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop. Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies. You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.” “Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound. His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.” “That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.” Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?"

For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.” He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays." “Excuse me?” “Not a stray,” he amends lightly at  your glare. “More like her lost puppy.” "Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”

“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?"

“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me."

“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”

“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.

“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here."

He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”

You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink."

“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.

Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.

Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.

You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.

When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way."

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?

When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.

Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”

His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.

“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes. When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?" You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?" Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here." His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?" You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?” Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?” “Why does that matter?” “Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness. Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.” You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood. “Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.” Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onward. You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of  his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses. “I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?” He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.” Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain. 

“Wait!”  He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”

You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“I like Geto!”

For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.

“What did you just say?”

You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”

He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"

You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”

“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“Alone.”

“Right.”

His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”

“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”

He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”

You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.

Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”

“What was that?”

“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”

You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”

Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.

“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”

“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”

He doesn’t budge.

“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”

He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”

“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”

His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”

“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”

Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”

“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”

You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.

Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”

You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.

“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”

You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?” “Just get up there before I change my mind.” Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around. When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to. “Five minutes.” You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?” “You have five minutes before I’m going back down.” You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.” He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.” “With Geto.” You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?” Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?” “I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?” “Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–” “Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.” “Oh. So that makes us competition?” He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.” You nod. “You want to confess to him.” “Obviously.” “Date him?” “That’s the goal." “Sleep with him?” You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.” “Because,” you say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an Etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.” “So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?” “Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?" Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.” “That’s fine, I’m flexible.” “That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.” “Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.” “He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” he shoots back. “I accept and embrace his past.” “He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.” “I have hands, I can put them away.” “Where’s your self-respect?” “With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.” Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m asking you for help.” “You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”

Again, you can only shrug.

When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.

“I’ll tutor you!”

His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.

“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”

“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”

You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!” Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher. “You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.” “It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.” “It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?” “I’m offering to give you academic support!” “With strings attached.” “Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.” He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?” “Well, you haven’t yet.” “That's because I don't need one.” “Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?” “You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?” You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.” He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request. Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic. “Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—” “Hey.” “—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.” You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant. “Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.” You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—” “Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.” Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.” At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.” You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?” He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.” “Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.” “How big?” His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.” You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.” “I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?” When you shake your head, he nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.” “Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!” “I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?” You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.” “Oh, so you know?” You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful. “Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.” “Don’t call me that.”

“A complaint?” You bite your lip. “A suggestion.” “Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.” Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!” But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan. It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise. Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn. “You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster. You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?” “Then I guess you’re up to step two.” “Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.” 

Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.

You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.

No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.

It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.

You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.

Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.

And then, you see him.

His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.

“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.

Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.

You weren’t ready for both of them.

Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.

“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”

You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.

“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”

He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”

“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.

“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”

You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.

This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.

“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”

You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”

“No? And is that not my coffee?” You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.” He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.” Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is." Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?” “Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.” It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first. “Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.” “Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.” You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto. “Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?” You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!” “You did.” “He probably thinks I’m a freak!” “Probably.” “And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!” “So now it’s suddenly my fault?” “You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!” “Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for. Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.” “You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?” You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly. “No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.” You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying. You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago. Still a little mortifying but now bearable. Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.” You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder. “Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?” You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders. “I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.” “I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.” He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”

You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.

“Where are we going?”

“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”

“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.

“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”

You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”

You stop abruptly.

“Your place?” “Yeah.” “Your place?” Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?” “Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?” “Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.” “But you just said we’re going to your place.” “Nothing gets past you.” “Your place as in the Sig Kap house.” “Look at you go.” You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come. “Gojo.” “Yeah?” “I am not going to your frat house.” “What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?” “I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.” “Great. Let's end this here.” Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.” “You're not doing yourself any favours.” “Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.” You stand your ground. “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Gojo.” He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun. “You want Suguru, right?” Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?” “Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?” “I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—” Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?” You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more. “So where are we going?” You give in. “Sig Kap.” “Wrong way, sweets.” You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction. Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you. At some point, you stop responding entirely. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs. “Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking. He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare. Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.

“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” you hiss. “It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.” You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out. “Yo!” Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.” You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too. Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari. “You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever. Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.” “Damn, back for more?” Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment. “She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?” “That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks. Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.” He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power. Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown. Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription. “This is what you bring girls back to?” Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.” You eye the seat in disdain. “What's with the look?” “Is that even sanitary?” He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?” You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?” “What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap. You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”

Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.

“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.

He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”

You pause and type it in. It goes through.

“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.

You look on the screen. “67.”

He chuckles. “Nice.” “Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?” He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details. “Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?” Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents. “Gojo.” “Mhm?” “You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.” Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?” “This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!” “Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.” Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?” “Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?” “51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.” “Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop. “I demand another favour.” He freezes. “You can’t just do that.” “I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.” Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.” You wonder if he’s sulking. “But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.” You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.” He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego. “Hey.” He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest. “Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you. “You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.” “Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!” His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?” You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap. “Define zero.” “Have you kissed anyone?” You look away. “Define kissed.” He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—” “Please!” you say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—” “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”

“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got. Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint. Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face. “...okay.” Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?” “I’ll do it.” “Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.” “Eager much?” He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.” Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.” “It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.” You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?” “You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.” He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation. “Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.” “You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.” You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.” Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped. And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission. Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles. Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.

The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.

For once, Gojo isn’t talking.

He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.

You steal a glance at him.

His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress. 

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote. “I know.” “Then why are you?” He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?” You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again. A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet. “Hey,” he says suddenly. You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile. “Thanks.” “For what?” “For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.” You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.” He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.” You study him. “Do they?” He hums and doesn’t elaborate. The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night. You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other. “You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.” He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.” “I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up. He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax. “You really think I can pass?” “Yes.” Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.” You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.” He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener. For some reason your feet slow. “Hey, Y/N.” You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. “Yeah?” He hesitates. “See you tomorrow." You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside. Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back. Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should. Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not. For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image. Right, this is for him. Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications. gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><

You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.

you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig gojo: who said anything about being worried? also don’t flake on me tomorrow i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u

gojo: oh u know do u?

so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?

you: it’s not a date

gojo: sure it isn’t

you: it’s just practice

gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk you: please like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks gojo: ure a hard girl to please you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard try impossible gojo: harder than hard? you: ? gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason anyway is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city you: the campus works for me gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you you: no way gojo: sure sweets i believe u don’t wear anything boring first impressions matter yk you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations its just practice !!!! gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me for suguru like for practice you: ? i know what u meant but sure as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie gojo: wouldn’t dream of it see u saturday sweets You stare at the nickname longer than you should. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving. you: goodnight gojo The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone. You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you. 

You show up early like a super fan.

You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.

You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.

You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.

The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.

Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.

“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”

“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”

You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”

“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”

You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”

“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”

“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”

“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly.  “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”

You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian. “‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.” “I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.” He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?” You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.” “We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.” “I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.” “I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.” “For practice.” “Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.” You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.” “It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.” “When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.” “Just once, Y/N.” You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.” “Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” he squeals. You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.” “Are you here to mess around or help me?” “Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?” “About Geto?” “Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident. You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric." “Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?” “Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended. “He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.” “And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?” “I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.” “I wasn’t going to parrot him.” “I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.” “Okay, harsh.” “It's all tough love, sweets.” You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”

“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?” “I want to be someone he likes.” “So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?” Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order. “Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.” You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.” “It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral. You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied. “And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?” Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.” You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.” One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! One hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”

The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”

“We're good, thank you.”

Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.

Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.

“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.

Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”

“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”

She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”

Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.

“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”

Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”

“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”

You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.

You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.

“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.

She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.

“Done staring?” He teases.

“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”

“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.

“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”

He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”

“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”

“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses. Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. You clear your throat again. “You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.” “Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.” You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?” “You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?” “Yeah, let’s not.” He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.” “Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers. “I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.” You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.” “So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?” That gets you frowning again. “Do you always call everyone something?” “What does that even mean?” “You called her sweetheart.” “I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?” “She has a name tag.” “I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges. You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?” He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully. “Here you go!” “Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look. You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with. The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance. “I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!” He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared. “Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.” “Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.” Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.” You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?” “I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.” You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.” He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!” “Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”

“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.” “You're lucky I got that reference.” Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?” “Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.” Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.

“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”

“Anything else, Geto expert?”

Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”

You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches.

You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.

“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.

He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”

“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”

“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”

“My ass has never once graced those benches.”

“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”

“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.

“Because Shoko went.”

He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”

There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”

“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”

You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.

“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.

You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.

“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”

Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”

“Again, should I be concerned right now?”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No?”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Wait…”

Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”

He pauses and looks up.

“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks.  You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.” He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.” You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm. He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.” Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—” He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak. “Yes, yes, I got it,” He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens. “Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.” “Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?” “I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.” “Okay, make sure to—” “Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction. You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.

Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.

Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.

you: u free? im coming over

You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.

You stare at his chest.

“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”

Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.

“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”

You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”

“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”

You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to put on a shirt?”

He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”

You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.” He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?” “It's common sense when you have a guest over.” His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?” “But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.” “Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?” “I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers. “No, but I do have some manners for my guest.” “You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.” “Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?” You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?” Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly. He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?” “Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.” “Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock. “Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.” “Could have fooled me.” “Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.” He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.” “That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?” “Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.” “But this is practice.” “You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.” “I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.” His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push. “Just think of me as one of your hookups.” He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”

“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!” His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.” You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?” “Sex.” You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.” “Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked. “We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss. Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.” You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!” He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?” You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?” “Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly. Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form. “You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?” You shake your head slightly. Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips. When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours. Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression. “Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.” You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “Butterflies?” He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.” Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?” “Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.” “Don't call me that, I cringed.” He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.” With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace. It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end. When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back. “Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.” “What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind. “That was my tongue.” “Why didn’t it feel good?”

He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.” “I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.” “Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.” You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping. “You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist. You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again. “Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance. “For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.” Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive. Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense. “Just… slower,” you mumble. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.” He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one. You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over. His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it. He swallows it down without hesitation. His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you. His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness. You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff. Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.

Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder. You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him. Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—” “Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you. You swallow. “You just—” “I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly. When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely. You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off. “Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes. You don’t hesitate. “No.” You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.” You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway. Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself. His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair. A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling. You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge. Wow. You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water. Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.

You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.

Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”

“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”

You clamp your mouth shut obediently.

The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.

Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.

“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”

You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”

“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”

Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further. “We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams. You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.” He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.” You frown. “Why?” “It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?” Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?” He snorts. “I’m not a creep.” When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted. When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.

If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto. Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not. It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever. In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own. Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send. you: hey are you in class today? Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes. gojo: yeah i am stalking me, super fan? you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u gojo: :( why whats up though ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right? you: yeah how did u know that? u sure ure not my super fan? gojo: guilty! i just know dont ask what u cant handle so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me you: well you have class with geto right The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear. gojo: yeah i do you: can i come see you? gojo: what you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right so like wouldnt this be perfect? gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart you: ? gojo: our class ends later than urs you: that’s fine i can wait !! gojo: nah i dont feel like it you: ????? man what the hell you said you’d help me gojo: and i did on saturday what if i want suguru all to myself today? you: come on please??? gojo: what if i dont want to see u you: well i wont be bothering u this time i just need an excuse to see him i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away like i feel like i can really do it this time you know? please satoru? gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are fine ill get us to go to the library you: THANK YOU@!!!!!! gojo: u owe me you: YES DEFINITELY gojo: another date this friday then you: OKAY!!! wait what Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white— When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent. You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him. Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen. And of course, Geto sits across from him. Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.

“Oh, hi Satoru!” He doesn’t look up. “Hey.” Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!” Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?” Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up. “Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.” Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.” You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze. “Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.” You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there. You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on. “What was that about?” You laugh. Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.” He looks up at you patiently. “Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?” You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly. “So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?” “You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.” You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.” Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?” “Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.” “I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.” “If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.” “Do you want to go with me?” Your brain blanks. “What?” “I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.” Your answer is obvious. “I’d love to!” It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness. Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone. “Can I have your Insta then? So I can text you the details later.”

Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time. When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming. Oh god, he’s looking right now. "Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.” “Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it. “I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?” “Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.” He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.” Your breath catches. “After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath. Geto nods, completely at ease. “If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.” You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other. He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks. You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry. “Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.” “Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.” “That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem." “Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.” You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.” You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery. Could things possibly get any better? “You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?” You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.” “I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face. “No, no! Nothing like that!” You rush to explain. He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?” While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him. “What do you mean?” “Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.” Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?” “Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.” “What about them?” He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”

You shake your head. “Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.” “And some people still don’t like him?” “Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.” Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.” Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache. “He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.” He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile. “It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents. You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you. You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold. You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally. Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.” You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you. “Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently. You freeze for a split second. Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself. “Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.” You bite your lip. “See you at the match though?" Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?” The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else. 

You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct. “Go away, I'm jerking it.” You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk. “Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?” No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed. “Y/N?  What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand. “Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.” “No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.” You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you. “Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him. He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.” You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.” “Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?” You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start. “About everything?” You try weakly. He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.” You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.” Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict. “...that’s it?” “That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.” He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression. “That's it?” he repeats, slower this time. You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.” Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading. Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he mutters. He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt. “You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?” “Yeah but—” “And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.” You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?” “I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.” Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.” “You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight. “So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully. He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.” The worry comes back tenfold. “But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.” You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away. “Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter. He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.” “I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.” “I open up to you and this is what I get?” “You did not open up.” He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.” You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away. The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere. After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Did you at least get what you wanted?” You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.” Gojo goes still beside you. “My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.” You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying. “Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.” He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass. The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head. Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth. “Can I ask you something?” His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.” “A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto. “How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask. One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.” You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.” Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face. “Oh.” “I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.” He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Y/N.” You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”

Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.” “Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.” You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.” He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?” You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.” “No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.” “You were fantasising before?” “Let's not go there.” “It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?” He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.” “So you had to use your hand.” “I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.” Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together. “Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?” He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.” “Obviously.” “Do you even remember how to kiss?” “Find out for yourself.” You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him. “It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn. You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time. Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh. You both look down. “Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior.  “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?” You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?” “Game is game.” He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated. When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.” “Anywhere?” “I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.” 

You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be. As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.” You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.” “I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.” He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak. “You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch. “This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.” “You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.” His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?” “Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away. “Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?” You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed. Fine, challenge accepted. You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks. It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead. “Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?” You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong. You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping. “I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!” Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale. You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?” “That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?” You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?” “No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle. When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking. “Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.” You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave. “Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core. Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?” You nod, eyes trained on his bulge. He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum. Your first words are, of course, very sexy. “Oh damn.” Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.” “It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.” That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.” “She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch. “Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.” Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft. “Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.” He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.” He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you. He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.” His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand. Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants. To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away. “Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”

“What?” “This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips. “Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.” “I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?” “Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head. He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.” Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost. The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you. Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance. “Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.” “Even better,” he moans. You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm. The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully. Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.” His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke. “Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.” The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent. “Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head. He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.” A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm. “Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?” The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering. “Yeah, do it. cum for me.” Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—” He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm. 

He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly. “I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?” You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt. “I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?” He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.” He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning. “You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him. “Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?” “Embarrassed,” you say immediately. “But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast. Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.” “Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.” You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position. Now you remember. “I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off. His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.” “But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.” “That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.” “Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.” “And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.” “How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing. His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.” The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you. You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly. You go very still and so does he. His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch. “Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?” “But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?” The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing. “This isn’t… about that.” “Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.” Has Gojo always been so reasonable? “Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?” “Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded. “How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?” Your stomach swoops. “Just to know what it feels like?” “Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.” You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace. “Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?” You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put. You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear. You swallow, hard. “You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.” His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?” “You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.” He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?” You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?” You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod. “Good girl,” he breathes. His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.” “Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband. “Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling. 

]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.” “Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.” He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still. “Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.” You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties. “You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.” “If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly. He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else. Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit. “Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again. “Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.” “Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you. You feel his arms tighten around you. “Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.” You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation. When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you. With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you. The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly. “Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?” He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed. Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck. You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out. He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.” “Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original. And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back. He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while. He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched. You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.” “S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep. His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—” You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone. His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck. It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again. When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through. He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap. “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?” You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.” “Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin. “Yeah.” “Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.” “You're making me sound like a dog.” “Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side. You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest. “You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something. “Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.” You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument. Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions. And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs. You stiffen and he notices immediately. “Uh. Do you… want to—” “Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—” You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless. “Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.” “No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself. His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?” You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment. Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess. Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on. For a moment, neither of you know where to look. You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor. “Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?” The normalcy of the question feels surreal. “I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.” “Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”

You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over. Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time. “Right,” you say. “Right,” he echoes. He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?” You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.” Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain. “If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside. You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway. Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?” “Uh-huh.” The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious. At the top of the stairwell, you stop. “Are we still going the same way?” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches. “See you, Y/N.” You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back. Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits. “Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly. He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm. “Night, sweets.” When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise. You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong. 

You’re not sure why you care so much. 

You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal. 

You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before. 

Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena. 

You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight. 

You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave. 

When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes. 

The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.

Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately. 

Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable. 

His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from. 

He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours. 

I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—

Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours. 

The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face. 

A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it. 

06. 

If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride. 

Heat rushes to your face. 

It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming. 

When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs. 

From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing. 

Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips. 

“Y/N?” 

You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy. 

“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.” 

You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”

He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention. 

It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted. 

And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white. 

To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward. 

Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching. 

You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained. 

BUZZWORD

The game starts fast. 

Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice. 

You lost track of the puck almost immediately.

Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”

Your eyes find him easily. 

He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck. 

Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder. 

The first goal goes to the other team. 

Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it. 

Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set. 

Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”

Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed. 

On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage. 

It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments. 

By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely. 

The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left. 

The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts. 

Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl. 

The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him. 

Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice. 

You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved. 

“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer. 

Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits. 

He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink. 

The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net. 

For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts. 

Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you. 

Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration. 

He's laughing. 

Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline. 

They won. 

They actually won. 

You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth. 

Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look. 

His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute. 

Your stomach swoops violently. 

You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves. 

You want to throw your arms around his neck. 

You want to tell him that was incredible. 

You want—

“Y/N?”

Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile. 

“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”

Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed. 

Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.” 

The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on. 

“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. 

On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance. 

Are you going?

Your fingers curl into fists at your side. 

“Ready?” Geto asks softly.

You swallow. “... yeah.”

But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole. 

BUZZWORD

It should be fun. 

Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense. 

You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.  

But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you. 

Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe. 

You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending. 

And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to. 

Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads. 

“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.” 

you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him. 

For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush. 

You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts. 

When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop. 

You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time. 

Gojo. 

Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.

He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand. 

“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”

You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”

The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!” 

“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”

“I never asked you to!”

“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”

Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!” 

At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto. 

Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”

“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”

You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”

“Oh. So you're okay?”

You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay. 

“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word. 

“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.” 

“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Just like this?” 

Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill. 

Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered. 

“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.” 

Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.” 

“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.” 

For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella. 

You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face. 

His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small. 

“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”

Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?” 

This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain. 

But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you. 

What the hell? 

His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”

Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight. 

“Satoru—”

“My place,” he blurts. “We should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.” 

“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile cause the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state. 

“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “Now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”

“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.” 

You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.” 

He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that. 

At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you. 

“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head. 

“Hey!”

He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”

Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees. 

“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”

“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions. 

“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”

Hikari quickly notices your presence. 

“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”

Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”

“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you. 

When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.

“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's Sukuna?”

“The guy in the room next to mine.”

“Oh.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more. 

“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”

“It’s not.” 

He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”

You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”

He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”

“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.” 

“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.” 

“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”

Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.” 

You let out a slow exhale. 

This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society. 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word. 

But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan. 

“I think I’m in love with you too,” you say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips. 

“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”

“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”

He chuckles, breath misting your face. 

His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.

“Cold?”

You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes. 

He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you. 

“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.” 

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set. 

His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace. 

“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in. 

You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat. 

He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”

He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him. 

Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours. 

He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps. 

His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”

He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”

But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching. 

His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head. 

“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough. 

You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”

“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”

“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering. 

“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”

You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.

“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.” 

You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity. 

“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties. 

His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside. 

You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him. 

“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles. 

Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second. 

Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit. 

You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes. 

“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!” 

With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive. 

He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.

“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”

He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”

You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words. 

He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds. 

Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body. 

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips. 

You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu. 

“You okay?”

You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed. 

You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress. 

Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”

He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”

You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent. 

“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”

You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”

“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”

Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone. 

“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”

His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin. 

You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene. 

He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Sweets,” you remind him. 

He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.” 

The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.” 

You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.” 

Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room. 

“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”

He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste. 

“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.” 

His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you. 

When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down. 

Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”

You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”

His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”

But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.” 

Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”

He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention. 

You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s got you so wet, hm?”

You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”

“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”

His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp. 

“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine. 

The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”

Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw. 

“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”

You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom. 

The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in. 

“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”

He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.” 

The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”

His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in. 

It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb. 

“Can I keep going?” 

You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air. 

"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly. 

“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself. 

“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick. 

“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience. 

Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts. 

“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. Makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”

The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly. 

“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him. 

When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips. 

Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”

You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”

He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you. 

“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?” 

You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth. 

“You?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” 

You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty. 

Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose. 

And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too. 

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.

Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach. 

You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.

You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this. 

“Did you wait long?”

You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring. 

You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.

You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice. 

“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease. 

He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?” You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.” Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile. Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?” “Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.” “Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.” “I learnt that the hard way.” He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return. “Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.” You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears. “I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.” He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.” You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.” “Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering. You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.” Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you. Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care. He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.” “What?" “Why don’t we just have a threesome?”

a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate

[purrtoru]

♡ husband!satoru and his pregnant wife (≧◡≦)

“you’re eating what for breakfast?”

satoru leans against the kitchen counter, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his white hair as he watches you spread peanut butter on a pickle with serious concentration.

you take a bite, completely unbothered by his disbelief. “crunchy,” you say. “salty and sweet. it’s perfect.”

satoru huffs.

“you know,” he says slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “i think pregnancy might’ve fried your taste buds more than i thought.”

and before you can stop him, he dips the spoon you‘ve been using into the peanut butter jar, just to then lick it off with an exaggerated moan to annoy you.

you scrunch your nose. “you’re gross.”

“and yet,” he says, pointing the spoon at you, “you’re the one eating pickles with peanut butter.”

you open your mouth to argue, but the words die when he quietly slides the pickle jar closer to you.

a small thing.

lately your husband has become very serious about small things.

like the glass of water that’s already waiting beside you on the counter. like the way his hands ease the tension in your shoulders. like the chair he dragged over earlier so you wouldn’t have to stand while you eat.

“y’know, you did that again.”

“did what?” he asks innocently, though the corner of his mouth twitches.

“you keep putting chairs everywhere like i’m old.”

“arrest me i guess,” he puts his hands in the air. “for being a caring husband.”

you roll your eyes.

but when you adjust yourself on the seat, his hand automatically slides around your waist to steady you, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.

“kid’s got weird taste,” he snickers.

“you’re the father.”

“hey,” he says offended again, “there’s nothing wrong with my taste.”

“you like having candy for breakfast.”

“that’s different.”

you snort.

satoru leans down and presses a soft kiss into your hair and it lingers a little longer than usual.

lately he does that a lot too.

little kisses when he passes by you. one on your temple when you’re sitting on the couch. one on your shoulder when he reaches past you for something in the kitchen. always like quiet little check-ins.

“did you sleep okay?” he asks, while his thumb traces slow circles over your stomach.

“mhm.”

“you weren’t nauseous again?”

“only when you talk.”

he gasps like you’ve stabbed him.

“sweetheart, you wound me. does everything i do not matter?”

“toru, you do too much. you bought twelve different snacks yesterday.”

“i had to make sure you liked at least one of them!“

“you‘ve labeled every single one.”

“i only want what’s best for my wifey,” he points proudly toward the pantry.

inside, little sticky notes read “good”, “maybe okay?”, and “absolutely not (learned the hard way)”.

you take another bite of your peanut butter pickle.

satoru watches you for a moment, then grabs a pickle himself.

“if you’re eating it,” he says, scooping peanut butter onto it, “i gotta make sure it‘s good for you.”

“you’re copying me.”

“i’m taking care of you.”

he takes a bite.

“hmm..” there’s a pause.

then another.

his eyes widen slightly. “…okay wait.”

you grin immediately. “right?”

“don’t get cocky,” he mutters, already reaching for another one.

you laugh softly, the sound filling the kitchen.

satoru looks over at you.

your hair is messy from sleep, your shirt is one of his, and there’s a tiny smear of peanut butter at the corner of your mouth you clearly haven’t noticed.

his expression softens immediately.

without saying anything, he reaches out and wipes it from your lip with his thumb.

then he kisses you.

when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“eat whatever weird stuff you want,” he says. “i’ll get you anything and everything you want.”

a/n: hubby toru.. save me hubby toru..

[maeedrg]

Not 1, not 2, but 3 Satoru, again?!

time travel Gojo Satoru x fem reader

part 1, currently reading part 2.

synopsis : 2016, two years has passed since two Satoru from the future time traveled to your timeline. But now, they’re back. Good luck with that! You’ll need it. Again.

warnings : fluff, comedy, mention of parenthood, smut, foursome, semi public sex, use of pet names, p in v, double penetration, receiving head, being sandwiched.

words count : 13.k

author’s note : you guys asked, I finally delivered. Enjoy!

——————————

Monday, 10 am. 

Not one, not two, but three Satorus. Again. 

What the actual hell is going on? Are you going to be killed twice? No way. You can’t be that doomed to have the world trying to make you meet your end a second time. Or maybe it’s not you, but indeed the world that is going to end. Explaining their comeback… Wait, scars Satoru wouldn’t look so happy and amused if that was the case. Nah. So, the question is : why are you finding yourself in the same situation that happened two years ago? 

Yeah. You’re going crazy. Totally. Or maybe it’s just a dream. 

“Y/n, hearth is calling you,” he snaps you out of your thoughts, your boyfriend, the real one of this current timeline. You blink, once, twice, then stare at the three of them surrounding you in the chaotic entry of your apartment. The scene is oddly familiar. 

“I think she’s still as confused as us. Maybe she’s daydreaming about having a foursome again…” adds the blindfolded Satoru, tapping his chin then giving you this stupid boyish grin that always manages to find its way to your heart. 

“Shut up, Satoru,” you snarl in an attempt to hide the sudden pool of heat that brewed in your stomach at the reminder of this eventful night. 

“Which one?” asks your boyfriend, raising an eyebrow. 

“The husband one,” you sigh. 

“But we are two of us being your husband now, sweetheart,” answers scars Gojo, tilting his head and accompanying it with a charming wink. You swallow your saliva, annoyed to have to explain yourself for something as stupid as saying shut up. 

“The blindfolded one! Yeah, you, without the scars!” you point at the one in question, which ends in a mutual laugh. Indeed, two years have passed in your timeline, but in theirs as well. The blindfolded Satoru had the joy to marry you, a stark reminder of the future of your relationship with your boyfriend. 

During these short few years following what happened, you always avoided the subject, finding it embarrassing, but Satoru thought otherwise and never stopped talking about it. Even proposing the stupid idea, one year ago, to marry you as fast as possible, saying : “whatever, we’re already going to get married in the future. Why not do it now? It’ll save us time, yeah?” You obviously refused, saying that the two of you still need to fully get accustomed to each other being in a romantic and devoted relationship instead of jumping to fast conclusions. 

“So we managed to avoid getting cut like a steak, I see,” comments your boyfriend, stopping your train of thoughts and making you listen back to the conversation. Blindfolded Satoru leans against him and smiles brightly, hand on his heart. 

“Younger me, we managed to avoid a lot of things in my timeline, including my sealing and all Shibuya’s incident,” he says proudly. 

“You were supposed to be sealed?!” you exclaim in utter shock. After all, Satoru never told you the extent of what was supposed to happen in the future. You always wondered why keeping it a secret, though. 

“Yeah. A drag, really. In such a pitiful way. But, at least you’re not dead anymore, so a win is a win for my timeline,” explains scars Satoru, ending his sentence with a soft smile. Which you give him back. Because, knowing that the changes the four of you made two years ago managed to impact his own reality and modify the course of time, is a big relief. 

“So why the hell are you two— me? whatever, back here? Is y/n still in death danger? Something else?” adds your boyfriend in an irritated tone, clearly annoyed by the presence of his doppelgängers. 

“Nope, and the jujutsu society is doing fine, so I have no idea,” admits the oldest of them all. You rub your nose, confused. 

“Then it’s not one of us that deliberately made us time travel. Was it unconsciously? A curse that instead triggered it?” concludes the blindfolded one. 

“Ok, maybe to figure all this out we need again to calm down, sit down, and just… breath,” you propose as you guide them towards the living-room, already feeling your energy being drained when the day just started. 

They sit. Your boyfriend is the first one to reach for you, but the blindfolded one, apparently quicker than his younger self, brings you sitting halfway on his and scars Gojo’s lap. 

“You’ll be the one that needs breathing. We’re not holding back anymore compared to two years ago, remember?” he muses as the strong grip of his biceps around your waist keeps you tucked to his chest. Scars Satoru takes the opportunity to steal a kiss the moment you turn your head in confusion. 

“Get your hands away from her, even more with what you two did earlier” snaps your boyfriend, snatching you back to him, and this time you end up completely caged. Arms and legs rolled around your body, chin propped on your head, and deathly stare. His jealousy gets to a ridiculous level. What happened earlier, hours ago, stills plays in your minds 

“My hands are your hands,” retorts the blindfolded one. 

“We’re sharing, like we made that night. Understood?” adds scars Satoru, standing up and raising an eyebrow. 

The three of them are in a silent battle that only Gojo Satoru’s mind can understand. Some telepathic shit in between versions of himself. After some long and agonizing seconds, your boyfriend sighs and lets you go, all of them now making you sit in the middle of the couch and hogging your personal space. 

“And my say in this?!” you protest, glaring at your boyfriend, then two husbands. Two husbands, what a strange way to say now that you think about it. 

“We know you enjoy way too much the attention, baby,” chuckles the blindfolded one, nose finding its place in the crook of your neck and kissing the hickey he made seven hours ago.  

“Here we go again…” you whisper to yourself. Because yeah. Here we indeed go again. 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ  

Monday, 3 am. 

This intricate situation started hours back in the middle of the night. 

Going out, a nightclub well known by people in your neighborhood. Dancing, drinking, letting go. Including Shoko that needed much relief after a stressful week of dealing with a lot of injured sorcerers. You proposed to bring her to a girl’s night, and that’s how you're finding yourself dancing in the haven of debauchery, alcohol, sweat, body moves and music. 

Poor Satoru was devastated to not be invited to this hangout. Your boyfriend forgot that first, it’s a girl’s night, and second, he’s supposed to work on a mission until very late. It’s with puppy eyes and tons of kisses, some devoted sex in a futile attempt to keep you by his side longer than expected, that you left him to his demise. 

Your hips sway, a stupid smile on your lips at the sight of Shoko loosening up. Your skin is glistening from the humidity, the neons illuminating the pearls of sweat rolling down your neck. Losing yourself in the temptation of the song, you can’t help but wonder how good it would feel to dance with Satoru right now. To feel the stiffness of his torso against your back, his big hands on your waist, the heat of his breath on your throat and the sensitive feel of his lips on your cheeks. 

“I go smoke!” exclaims the brunette.

“It’s your tenth cigarette since we arrived!” you scream back to make yourself heard upon the loud basses. She winks at you, slides the deadly weapon in between her rouge lips and walks towards the exit. You roll your eyes, being left alone but not minding it, long used already.

The music changes, including the sulfuric atmosphere and energy surrounding you. Then, the moment you breathe out, you feel a mouth landing on your shoulder, and hands wrapping on your hips. You gasp, turning around in a move of protecting yourself from the audacity of this person to touch you like this without your consent, only to be met by blue striking blue eyes. 

Gojo. 

“Having fun without me, baby?” he taunts, lips ghosting over yours and this tempting smirk of his.

“Satoru? What are you doing here?!” you exclaim in surprise, eyes widening of wonder. 

“The question is, what are you doing here, sweetheart?” adds his voice, but from behind. 

A torso brushes yours, another arm snakes your waist, lips curl around your ear. Your face snaps up, only to meet another pair of blues. Satoru. Again. 

You think you’re high. Someone drugged your drink. You’re being completely delirious. Fuck. What the hell is going on?

“What-” 

“I think she’s having a stroke,” mocks the Satoru in front of you, pulling down halfway his blindfold. Blindfold, blindfold! Your Satoru still doesn’t have one, and the only one that has is him from the future! 

You instantly turn around to face the man you thought you’ll never see again. Satoru, your supposed to be husband, covered in scars. 

It’s them. They’re back.

“The fuck is happening,” you breath out, bumping against blindfolded Satoru that caresses your arms, slowly, softly, guiding you to sway against him. 

“Dunno, baby. We both found ourselves in an empty street, thirty minutes ago, in the dead of the night,” he answers in your ear, loud enough so you can hear despite the loud music. 

“We felt your cursed energy in here and decided to go check by ourselves what you were doing and maybe what was going on in this timeline,” adds scars Satoru, stepping once, the perfect amount to sandwich you. 

“What if people recognize you?! There are two of you!” you say in panic, attempting to push him away. Surely towards the exit. 

“Chill out, everybody in here is drunk, and with the lightning there is no way a sorcerer would physically recognize me,” retorts the one behind you, this time trailing a hot path of wet kisses on your nape. The shiver that runs down your spine is sulfurous. 

“Yeah, tuned down our cursed energy as well,” adds the other, the blue of his eyes shining under the neons. The tip of his fingers tilt your head, one inch away from his minty breath. “Since we’re here, why not have some fun before facing the reality of why we’re here and going to fish for answers? Hmm?” he finishes. 

“Dying to dance ‘bit with you, baby. What year are we?” says the blindfolded Satoru behind you, rolling his hips against your ass. Deliberate move, your blood rushes in your veins. Shit, the euphoric feeling of having the man that you love being duplicated and grinding his hips against you like this, is making you see blurry. 

“2016. But Shoko will come back-” you stammer out. 

“Don’t worry about that,” interrupts the older one. At his words, he checks for the entry of the nightclub, making sure your friend is not coming. 

He looks back at you, a knowing grin, and then the corner of his lips cut by a scar, tilts towards your mouth and kisses you suavely. You swallow a moan of surprise, both of their lower bodies slowly moving in a way that makes you accompany their sway. 

Their lips find yours, the slope of your neck, the sides of your faces. They change positions, turning you around. Their hands travel your back, stomach, thighs, waist, hips. Following the circles and twirl of your dance. Breathes mingle. Warmth falls on your heated skin. You think you’re losing your mind. Each grind, the hardness pressed from the front and behind is really, really, really consuming your thoughts.

So when the two of them notice Shoko coming back, it’s no surprise that they teleport you to the bathroom and lock the door. Lips smash against yours, and you don’t know which one is kissing you so hardly. Hands, four, adventure under your clothes, gripping moans out of your throat. Your knees weaken, and a leg slides up to press against your clothed cunt. Again, finding yourself sandwiched, you barely notice the mirror to your left showing you the oh so sinful image of what you’re doing right now. 

“Look at our lovely y/n all wrecked. You missed having the two of us, hmm?” muses what you recognize being the blindfolded Satoru. His thumb presses against your lower lip, facing you, then letting his hand trail down your chest and slowly caress the curve of your breast. Your eyes widen when they catch the golden shiny jewel on his finger. 

“The ring?” you manage to ask, while the other Satoru, who was supposed to be your husband, only husband in the future, kisses your neck. 

“Got married too. My lovely wife,” says the blindfolded one, showing the ring proudly. 

“Our lovely wife,” corrects the other. 

“Two years passed for us too,” he continues, winking, then stopping you from saying anything else by kissing you again. 

Fingers that massage your breast, slide up your top, then start to toy with your nipples. Others walk down your clothes, slip under your panties and soon reach your clit. Horribly slow circles that drag you in agony. The overwhelming feeling of pleasure, from two persons at the same time, soon starts to swallow everything else. Your moans cover your thoughts, legs barely able to hold you straight on your feet.

“Already so wet? Almost forgot how easy it is to bring you to the edge, y/n,” muses scars Satoru, showing his two digits to your face, slowly separating them to make the liquid glisten under the flickering light of the bathroom. 

“What do you mean forget? Don’t tell me that in your timeline of barely some months older than mine, you two don’t fuck anymore. Right?” says the other one in an offended voice. You attempt to participate as well in the conversation, but the way fingers slide back across your folds, insert themselves inside your cunt, curl at the right place, and a thumb presses on your clit, you simply moan out of pleasure. 

“We barely have time anymore, but you’ll soon understand why…” explains scars Satoru, followed by a tender kiss to your shoulder. 

“What?” you manage to blurt out. Are the two of you too busy with life in the future? To the point of having no sex for weeks? Maybe months?

“Shhh, just concentrate on cumming for me, sweetheart, yeah?” he coos, accelerating the pace of his hand. 

“Cumming for us,” corrects blindfold Satoru, letting his tongue caress the tip of your nipples before slightly biting down in a teasing way. 

You see stars, scars Satoru grinding his hard clothed cock against your ass, following the same rythm of his fingers that are fucking you just so goodly. The one in front of you grabs your face, melts his lips on yours, moves his mouth in the angle that you happen to love so much, and gropes your tits. When you feel your orgasm approaching, some rationality hits you back widely, and you instantly push blindfolded Satoru away, breaking the kiss.

“Shit, wait, wait, this is not fair for my Satoru, the one from this timeline,” you stumble on your words, and the one behind you slows the thrusting of his fingers, but quite doesn’t stop either. 

“Unfair? You’re right, we’re very jealous,” he says from your back. 

“How about we call him so he’ll know that we’re back? Show him what he’s missing right now and how he should come join you quickly…” proposes the one that got shoved away, flashing you this type of evil grin that means nothing good is brewing. Nothing. At the same time, scars Satoru takes off his fingers and instead you feel the hardness and warmth of his cock poking your entry, caressing it temptingly. 

“Call him? Like right now?” you stammer, because the burning need of having him inside you right now is slowly crumbling your self control. 

“Yep. Lemme take your phone for you, baby,” confirms the one in front of you, adding a wink to his sentence. His long fingers travel your body, surely on purpose, before reaching the place you hide your phone. Satoru grins, grabbing it. “Here… yep, found it,” he smiles. 

Your eyes roll back down your skull at the sloppy and sticky humping of Satoru’s cock on your folds, waiting for you to accept it inside. At the same time, the Satoru using your phone is busy finding his own contact, devilish eyes scanning the screen. 

“Sweetheart, can I?” whispers scars Satoru behind you, hips bucking against yours, desperately waiting to finally fuck your pussy. And how can you blame his eagerness when for a secret reason he hasn’t been able to have sex with you, for a few months, in his own timeline? So the moment you nod dumbly, spaced out and in desperate desire to feel him inside, he slams his tip right against your cervix. You think you’re about to faint of pleasure and surprise. His thrusts are passionate, needy, and blindfold Satoru has to maintain you against his torso for you to not fall forward. Then, his hand grabs your fucked out face, slides his thumb inside your mouth, presses on your tongue and turns your chin towards your phone. 

“Look at the camera sweetheart,” he teases, brightly. 

That’s when you see the FaceTime button he presses on, your face appearing, and waiting on the other line for your boyfriend to answer the call. 

“Ah- fuck!” you cry out, both because of pleasure, and both because of the situation you find yourself in. 

“Exactly, moan louder. Yeah, just like that,” taunts the Satoru pleasing your hole meaningfully. You gasp when your Satoru, your boyfriend, accepts the call one second later. His eyes are covered by his bandages, head under the moon, meaning he’s still outside busy with his mission. And for a second of him not looking at the camera, he’s smiling. Surely because he’s happy you’re thinking of him. 

“Y/n, my love, why are you calli-” Satoru’s voice comes to an abrupt stop when his chins dips down, showing that he just saw on his screen the sight of his girlfriend being fucked good by two versions of himself, two stupid kind of doppelgängers, ones he knows too well and wished to never see again. “What the fuck is going on?” he barks.

“Hi younger me! We’re back!” muses the blindfolded one, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of your mouth to emphasize what he’s implying, and surely to make his younger self see red. Your lips part in an attempt to say something, but scars Satoru takes the opportunity to angle his hips right on your sweet spot and instead make you strangle out a whimper of ecstasy. 

“Kind of busy, maybe come quick,” he adds, wrapping his bicep around your neck to lock you against his torso.  

“Yeah, instead of losing your time with whatever mission you’re at… ah! It’s the one in the east of Tokyo? I remember how boriiiing it was,” continues the other, bringing up the phone to show a better view of the scene. Using his other hand as well to fondle your breast, then pressing his cheek against yours. 

“The way I’m going to obliterate you two once I arrive,” menaces your boyfriend, voice so deeply serious you know he’s not joking. Not even one second. 

“Ahah, very funny, that’s basically killing yourself,” answers the blindfolded one, now biting your cheek but you can’t even care to protest, too busy riding your pleasure and trying to not fall because of your wobbly legs. 

“Let’s see if you can arrive before our pretty y/n cums, how about that?” finishes scars Gojo.

Your Satoru doesn’t even take the time to answer, instantly hanging on the phone, and surely finishing his mission in inhuman speed, accessorily erasing of the surface of hearth any curse coming his way. 

The two other Satoru don’t lose time either and continue their torment, leading you to squeeze shut your eyes and cry out when you feel your orgasm approaching dangerously. 

“In 2016 you’re still on birth control, right?” asks scars Satoru.

“Yes she is, I remember that,” confirms the other for you, swallowing your answer by a kiss. 

“Perfect.”

At his words, his pace doubles, and you last approximately three seconds before reaching your high. At the way your walls clench painfully around Gojo’s cock, squeezing him hard, he doesn’t last long either and hot splashes of thick cum plaster your insides. His moans are lowered to your ears, while the other Satoru carefully wipes the tears of your orgasms in a triumphant grin. 

“Younger us didn’t come in time,” he whispers. 

The moment his sentence ends, and that scars Satoru slides out of your hole and zip back up his pants, your boyfriend teleports right in front of you with his fingers ready to flash purple on his two future versions of himself.

“You’re late of thirty second,” smiles blindfolded Satoru. 

“Get the fuck away from my girlfriend before I poeticly kill myself, how about that?” snarls the angered one, cursed energy flickering around his limbs. 

“She’s our wife, so-” he argues back. 

“Stop arguing,” you crack out, shaking your head and stepping one foot away from their grasp. Your Satoru immediately brings you behind him, like a shield from himself. “Can’t believe this just happened. Why the hell are you two here again?!” he continues in disbelief, looking at you, at them, back at you and then again at them. 

“No idea, but now that you’re here, shouldn’t we continue what we started?” replies the Satoru that adjusts his blindfold over his sparkling blue eyes. 

“I don’t want to share,” he barks, like a guarded dog in utter rage. You realize you practically almost never saw him like that. Last time was two years ago, back in the same situation that you’re all finding yourself in once again. 

“I forgot how fucking possessive we were,” sighs the older Satoru, bringing his mutilated hand to his face and rubbing it in annoyance. 

“Like it changed,” jokes the other, lazily leaning against the wall, arms crossed. 

“We toned it down through the years,” retorts scars Satoru. 

“Yeah, so try to do it now, younger me. Anyways, y/n, down for more?” he asks, giving you a knowing smirk. You adjust your messy clothes, point at them. 

“Down for nothing. I’m going back to Shoko. I started my night with her and I’ll end it with her. So you three will figure out how to leave and go to my apartment, making sure nobody sees you, before we cause a scene,” you exclaim. 

“Bossy, baby,” coos blindfolded Satoru. 

“Are you serious?” pouts your boyfriend, turning around to face you. Puppy eyes stare at you as he took off his bandages before coming here. But his charming looks aren’t working on you right now. 

“Dead serious. Now shoo,” you wave your hand and frown your eyebrows. 

“Let’s do as she said,” mutters the oldest. 

“Ugh, fine,” groans the middle one. 

“I’m going back to the apartment I have with her, you two can find a hotel and stay there,” huffs your boyfriend. You roll your eyes. 

“This apartment you’re talking about is technically ours too,” answers blindfolded Satoru. 

“Actually, I have an idea…” mutters scars Satoru pensively.

You don’t continue to listen to their endless bickering, that you immediately close the bathroom door behind you in a loud thud and walk your way back on the dance floor in a desperate hope to spot your friend. Ah! Here she is, upstairs, drinking at the bar.

“Where the hell have you been?” Shoko asks as she gives you a glass that she specially ordered for you. 

“Texting Satoru in the bathroom. You know how he is…” you lie. Well, technically, it’s not entirely false. She answers by an understanding chuckle. Meanwhile you groan at the lingering sticky feeling in between your legs. Maybe you should go back to the bathroom to wash up.

The following two hours, you try to forget about what happened. Soon finding out that the bathroom is indeed empty and that the three of them finally left, you attempt to focus on having a good time with Shoko until the nightclub closes its doors. But it’s hard to not let your mind wander when everything falls silent the moment you go back to her place at 5 am in hope to rest, finish the hangout, and quietly take off your makeup while she washes her face in the sink. Yeah, trying to not lose your mind at the thought of not knowing why the future versions of Satoru are back in this timeline. Or about what sinfully happened in the bathroom… Is it considering cheating when it’s technically him that you fucked? What a weird question that you can’t really answer and have no will to debate on. 

So, that’s how you find yourself 5 hours later, at 10 am, back at your apartment with three hours of sleep maximum in your blood, sitting on the couch and attempting to know what caused this second time travel.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ  

Monday, 11 am. 

“So, from what you guys think…” you start to say, organizing your thoughts while one is playing with your hair, the other caressing your hand, and the third hugging you from behind. “Because of time traveling twice, it created a sort of tiny portal in your cursed energy that caused, by accident, the three of you to reunite again in this timeline?”

“Yeah, I noticed it after analyzing the three of us. But you, y/n, can’t see it,” comments scars Satoru, the one caressing your hand, gently touching the finger where is supposed to be your future wedding ring. 

“What triggered this travel by accident, then?” you ask. 

“This whole history of time travel was firstly triggered by me and from a strong will to save your life two years ago,” he continues, kissing the hand now. 

“And we were all in Shinjuku at the same moment,” adds your boyfriend, cradling you closer against his chest. 

“But not now. So maybe something fluctuated in my cursed energy during these past two years and caused this time travel very randomly. I think it’s the only reason. As simple and stupid as that,” he explains back, pressing your fingers. 

“Meaning we’ll get time traveled back to our timeline randomly too,” comments blindfolded Satoru, letting his hand fall from your messed up hair. 

“And that it could happen all over again, and again, without us ever knowing why and when,” sighs your boyfriend, warm breath on your neck causing you to shiver. 

“Yeah, I suppose,” affirms scars Satoru, giving them two a glance. 

“Oh fuck, that’s a living nightmare,” groans your boyfriend in agony, letting his head fall on your shoulder. 

“Well, until this issue gets fixed, we can’t do anything else but wait for your cursed energy to decide to fluctuate again and bring you all back,” you interfere. 

“Exactly,” nod all of them at the same time. 

“But I can’t keep the three of you in this apartment for an undetermined amount of time!” you protest, eyes wide open and agitating your arms to emphasize your helplessness. 

“That’s why I got an idea. There is a place we can go to,” calms you down scars Satoru.

“Is it the place I recently went to visit back in June?” questions the blindfolded, pensive. 

“Yeah, that one. And for our younger self, it’s the place situated in the north of the Gojo estate back in Kyoto,” he answers. 

“The last time I went there was when I was fourteen,” comments your boyfriend, raising back his face from the crook of your neck. 

“Yeah, but it’s the safest place to go and to stay the four of us without anyone else noticing our presence,” says scars Satoru. 

“Wait wait wait, I can’t abandon my duties like this! I have tons of responsibilities if you two didn’t forget,” suddenly protests your boyfriend, making you shake from the brutality of his body movement against your back. 

“Not my problem anymore,” grins scars Satoru, shrugging nonchalantly. Everyone turns around towards him, surprised by his words. 

“What do you mean not your problem anymore?” questions blindfolded Satoru suspiciously. 

The answer he gets is a simple smile, a wave of the hand for him to figure out later. You stand up, taking the opportunity of the agitation to leave their grasps. 

“We don’t have other possibilities if we want to stay together. So, Satoru, maybe it’s time for you to have some vacations. And for me too. I agree to go to the estate. There is no way I’m keeping you three in my apartment. Not like last time. It was chaotic,” you end up saying in a calmer voice. 

Your Satoru grabs your hands in imploration, nervous smile on his lips. 

“Y/n, my love, I can’t just quit everything like that, understand that? I still have a lot of teaching, missions, boring reports and-”

“I swear, younger us, you need this break. The me of my timeline is done being the puppet of jujutsu society. Maybe do all of us a favor and reconsider this as well,” interrupts him the oldest version of himself. 

That seems to make your boyfriend fall into deep thinking, spiraling words in his mind. 

“So, vacations?” you try a second time. Your boyfriend sighs, before giving an approbative nod.

“Vacations.”

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ 

Monday, 7 pm. 

A car, four persons inside, baggages, bickering, speeding up, and hours later in the evening you find yourself finally at the location. Finally. The deserted part of this estate welcomes you in a soft breeze, your eyes discovering for the first time the walls, the smell, the interior and the serenity of the atmosphere. You wonder how long it will last before chaos comes crashing down everything. 

“A bit dusty in here, but that’ll do,” comments scars Satoru, putting down your baggage on the floor like a true gentleman.

In reality, they fought about who would carry your belongings. 

“Nobody will come in here aside from us,” continues blindfolded Satoru, turning around in a grin.

They make you visit, your boyfriend having the privilege to guide you left and right, arm looped around your middle. When you walk towards the open garden, you stop dead in your tracks and point at what is facing you meters away. 

“You have a freaking private onsen in your garden?!”

“Ah, that? Yeah. Should we have sex in th-” he muses, tilting his head towards yours in his infuriating cheeky habit. You cut him by a slap on the torso. 

“Didn’t ask you to say something perverted,” you groan. 

“What younger me means, is that we’ll have fun relaxing in it after such a long day,” adds blindfolded Satoru, arm falling lazily on your free shoulders. You hum slightly, gazing at the fuming water, already drooling at the idea of stepping a foot into it. 

You continue the visit, downstairs and upstairs. Opening doors. Again. And again. A lot of options, all decorated just enough to make the guest inside feel comfortable, but not enough to make it personal. 

“There are so many rooms! Sometimes I forget how rich you are…” you mutter, almost with disdain. 

Blindfolded Satoru is the one that comes at your side, peeking his head in the opening of the door. 

“In which room you want to sleep in, baby?”

“This one,” you point at the bed that is already calling your name, waiting for you to jump in it and sleep like a log. 

“Ehhh, it’s a small bed. We won’t fit all in,” adds scars Satoru, raising an eyebrow when appearing behind you. 

“I’m sleeping alone,” you instantly correct.

As a matter of fact, or tragedy, your boyfriend arrives like a charging bull inside the room. 

“Who the hell said y/n is sleeping alone?!” he practically yells. 

“Me. We’re not going to sleep the four of us together, even if the bed is twice king sized,” you retort firmly, arms crossed over your chest. 

“But we made it work last time,” frowns scars Satoru, confused as to why the hell you’re changing your mind like this. You shake your head, already tired of having to explain yourself. 

“Yeah, one of you was sleeping on top of me, the two others sandwiching me. I kind of suffocated,” you say sarcastically. 

“Then let’s-” tries to say the blindfolded one. 

“No. I’m sleeping in my own bed. For once. So shoo and let me unpack in peace, because God knows I need that right now,” you scoff, pushing the three of them away. 

“Yeah yeah…” pouts your boyfriend. 

They all walk towards the exit, giving you pleading glances. 

“When you’re done and showered, join us in the onsen. We’ll eat dinner after that. How about that?” proposes the older one. 

You stop, think, try to know if it’s a good idea, but your exhaustion soon wins your internal argument. 

“No funny business in the onsen, alright?” you warn, eyes throwing daggers at each one of them. 

“Yes ma’am,” answers blindfolded Satoru, and the three look at each other in a knowing smirk. You gasp, agitating your arms. 

“I said no funny business!”

They simply laugh, leaving you to your doom. Fuck. 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ  

Monday, 8 pm. 

Ok, wait wait wait. It’s been two years since you started dating Satoru. Two years that you know perfectly what he looks like naked, him as well. But, three of him surrounding you, suddenly sounds way more intimidating than you anticipated. Yes, you did fuck them three, two years ago, yes you were surrounded in his Adam’s outfit, but that was in the middle of a heated session! 

Breath. Calm down. Stepping out of the shower, you ghost your toes over the wooden floor, reaching as silently as possible the room that leads outside, including the private miniature onsen. 

Scars Satoru and another one are already sitting inside the water, talking and surely gossiping about some things only Gojo Satoru can understand. But without the blindfold to decipher which one is which, you can’t recognize if it’s your Satoru or the older one next to scars Gojo. Who the fuck is that?

“Spying on my future selves? Bad y/n…” whispers a voice in your ear. A gasp later, you spin around to face Satoru, which you deduce being your boyfriend, leaning over your shoulder. Your eyes meet, he chuckles lightly, then you look down to inspect his outfit. He’s shirtless, only a tiny, scandalous, towel, tied around his waist. 

“I wasn’t eavesdropping!” you defend yourself, hand over your heart to ease the drumming. Instead, he kisses your lips, softly, and whispers against your pouting mouth. 

“Ah, I should punish you for this,” he taunts. 

“You just want to be kinky, you know damn well I did nothing of such,” you shake your head. 

“Come on, don’t tell me you’re shy. Let’s go, I’m- uh they, ugh, we’re waiting for you,” he muses lastly before pushing you backwards until you stumble on the garden. 

Then, he scoops you up thanks to the strength of his arms and brings you inside the onsen. The moment your legs touch the ground of the puddle, blindfold Satoru snatches the towel off your body. A shiver of freezing cold hits you all at once, which results in you yelping and instantly immersing yourself in the warmth of the heated water.

“Why are you so far away from us?” asks scars Satoru, raising an eyebrow. You stare at the red lines on his muscles, before gazing back at his face and shrugging nonchalantly. 

“I don’t need to be constantly glued to you, you know?” 

“Ohhh, she’s shy,” laughs blindfolded Satoru, amused, and even taking a tone of voice that shows he’s having fun gossiping about it with his clones. 

“She is,” they answer at the same time.

Wisely, you decide to ignore them and simply close your eyes, getting as far as the small space allows you to. 

“Are you scared of something, or-” starts your boyfriend. 

“I’m warning you, no sex, I’m dead tired. Understood?” you snap when brutally opening back your eyelids, looking at them with seriousness and warning. 

“Not even if we give you head-” tries to propose the supposed blindfolded Satoru, even if he’s not wearing it right now. You sigh deeply, passing your hand over your tired face and trying your best to not stare at the droplets of water cascading down his flushed skin. 

“Three persons, I mean you, three you giving me head will suck my soul out of my body. And I still need energy to deal with you all during dinner,” you explain. 

“Ah, shoot,” he pouts. 

“Yeah, now, be quiet,” you reply, closing back your eyes. 

“Love it when she’s bossy,” says one. 

“Getting hard right now,” adds another.

“Of course we are,” finishes the third. 

“Shut the hell up!” you yell, angered. 

“Oops, she’s getting angry,” laughs, what you suppose being, blindfolded Satoru. 

Reaching your limit, fingers tightening around the edge of the onsen, you stand up and head towards the stones like stairs to get out of the water. 

“I’m leaving,” you announce. 

One foot on the grass, that six arms, six, wrap around your torso and drag you back in hell. Meaning, their bodies. Tucked like a burrito. You can’t move. 

“Nooo, ok, ok, we’re sorry!” exclaims your boyfriend. 

“You better be,” you snarl, knowing that fighting would just lead to exhaustion. 

“Sorry sweetheart,” whispers scars Satoru, pressing his lips to your cheek. 

“Deeply apologizes, baby,” adds blindfolded Satoru, thumb caressing your hip in a comforting gesture. 

“Then close your mouth,” you groan. 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ  

Tuesday, 2 pm. 

The night you spent was strangely calm. Too calm. Something was brewing. And you know that by the looks they keep sending each other, you’re soon going to have to share your bed. You managed to sleep alone, in peace, last night. Your gut is telling you it will soon be over. 

“Can’t this time travel issue get fixed now? I can’t wait for you two to go back to your own timeline,” mutters your boyfriend, eating some sweets he went to buy earlier that day. 

“You said that four times this morning,” you reply as you turn the page of the book you’re currently reading, sitting on the couch while the sun, high in the sky, is illuminating you through the large windows. 

“Then I’ll say it five times,” he answers, sitting down next to you and almost making your book slip off your fingers. You glare at him, but blindfolded Satoru, who is reading some intricate book as well on a chair two meters away, rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, I’m pissed off too because I start to regret the possessive tendencies I had that are backfiring on me right now,” he huffs. 

“I can’t believe that you’re that jealous of yourself,” you laugh, because yes, that is the most ridiculous situation you ever saw your boyfriend in. 

“Y/n, you’re my girlfriend, why do I have to share when they have their own y/n?!” he scoffs, turning around and even grabbing your book to force you to look at him, and only him. 

“Because it’s still the same y/n! Thank god I’m not that possessive anymore…” groans Satoru, raising his blindfold in disbelief of having to explain this to himself.

Scars Satoru pops his head from the kitchen, giving you all a look. 

“Eh, if I’m being honest, it will come back widely in a few months. You’ll see,” he says in an enigmatic kind of way.

“What? Why?” you question, intrigued. That seems to pick the interest of the two other younger versions of himself. He walks back in the living room. 

“More like, protective. You’ll understand why when the time comes, sweetheart,” he winks slightly at you, then kisses the top of your head with such softness that it leaves you speechless. 

“The fuck…” one of them says.

Later in the afternoon, doing your best to pass time by participating in activities, such as baking cookies or playing games, you try as well to not turn crazy. Three Satoru are too much for your patience. You already learnt the lesson two years ago. As you sigh, drinking a glass of water after losing your breath in a verbal fight with blindfolded Satoru that took his jokes too far, you notice your boyfriend on his phone. Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, tone of voice serious. He’s surely dealing with the higher ups. So, you step towards him and tap his back. 

“Satoru, stop answering your calls, you’re on vacation!”

“Stupid higher ups that are calling me for shit. Sorry, love,” he groans before putting back the object in his pocket. You try to steal it away from him, just to make sure he’s not going to answer any more work calls, but he’s way faster than you and manages easily to dodge your attacks. 

“I’m glad I don’t have that problem anymore,” says scars Satoru, wiping his hands covered in flour. 

“Yeah, since we killed them all, lol,” adds blindfolded Satoru, licking his chocolated thumb. 

“You killed them?!” you scream. 

“What a good choice,” seems to approve your boyfriend, nodding to himself. 

“Yeah, but I’m not saying that for this. I meant in the way that I don’t have to deal with anything related to jujutsu society anymore,” corrects scars Satoru, leaning against the wall. 

“What? Why?” asks your boyfriend, confused. 

“Because I retired,” he simply announces, shrugging.

Everyone stops moving, all turning towards him. 

“We what?” chuckles nervously your Satoru, clearly in disbelief. 

“Holy shit. In some months I’ll retire? I don’t even understand how and why! I still have so many duties on my shoulder to deal with,” adds blindfolded Satoru, tilting his head to the side before shaking it, lost. 

“You’ll have more important to deal with, believe me,” answers scars Gojo. 

You all look at each other. Your mind is working at full speed, trying to figure out what he’s meaning by these enigmatic words. Is he speaking in riddles? 

“You’re scaring me right now. What kind of fucked up future will happen to me AGAIN that leads to the point of needing to retire? Even more if it’s to deal with something more important than jujutsu society?” says blindfolded Satoru, opening his arms in incredulity. 

“Nothing bad. Quite the contrary,” he answers, laughs, then looks at you intently. 

Your brain works twice his usual speed, turning its gears, dots connecting one by one. Your facial expression distorts in utter shock. 

“Oh,” you whisper. 

“I think y/n understood,” says the oldest, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. 

Blindfolded Satoru lets his gaze travel in between you and his scarred version of himself. Once, twice, ten times, before parting his lips.  

“Is it…?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah, because you’re a dad now,” confirms scars Satoru, the softest smile appearing and brightening the atmosphere. 

“What?!” you choke out. Not that you didn’t figure it out, but it’s still deadly surprising to have it approved. 

“Excuse me?” exclaims your boyfriend, letting the spoon he was holding fall on the floor for dramatic effect. 

“You’re excused,” he answers, before turning towards blindfolded Satoru. “You’ll soon discover that y/n is nine weeks pregnant. In my timeline she just gave birth three weeks ago,” he explains. 

“I’m going to be a mom…” you mutter, hand on your mouth and shaking in bewilderment. Everything makes sense now. Explaining all the weird statements he made since he appeared in the nightclub more than 24 hours ago. 

“And I’m going to be a dad,” stammers your boyfriend. 

Your eyes lock, the both of you look at each other as if the world revolved around you and only you. Suddenly, it ends, when blindfolded Satoru grabs you and crashes you against his chest in the most suffocating hug you could ever experience. Big hands cradling your back, nose bumping against your shoulder, and the feeling of wet and warm tears staining your shirt. 

“I think that’s the prettiest gift you could ever give me, baby. My baby is giving me a baby!” he chokes out, sniffing loudly. Not knowing how to react, you tighten your grip before trying to gently part away. 

“That’s- that’s not me… I mean yeah, but it’s not me that is pregnant! Say that to the future me,” you intend to explain yourself. Your heart is hammering, too many emotions swallowing you whole at this piece of information. Satoru wipes his tears, tip of his nose turning red and lips pouting. 

“Fuck, you’re right. But it’s still you. Oh lord, that’s way too much information for me,” he replies, taking his face in his hand before turning on his heels, coming back, and turning around again, clearly not knowing what to do with himself right now. 

“I was an emotional mess when I discovered it too,” whispers scars Satoru to your ear. 

“Shit, no, I have to keep my tears for when I’ll see her! Someone please slap me, that will stop the crying,” dramatically asks blindfolded Satoru, taking off the piece of tissue and with his hand ventilating his eyes. 

“I’ll do it,” proposes your boyfriend. 

He slaps him, hard. That managed to stop the tears. Before they start fighting each other. Yeah, the whole emotional moment went to the trash after this. 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ 

Wednesday, 2 am. 

After hours of being surrounded by Satoru, you can finally, finally, rest and lay back down on your bed. Empty and only for you. A deep sigh escapes your lips, pulling the sheets and making yourself comfortable.

It doesn’t last long, actually. Ten minutes later and a crack on your door, before a silhouette appears and scars Satoru enters your room.

“Hi, sweetheart. Still not asleep?” he asks, approaching step by step before sitting down next to your laying form. His hand falls over your forehead, gently caressing it. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Satoru smiles, stares around at the room that seems so empty with only you in it.

“Just came to check on you,” he whispers. Seconds go by where he stares at you, before sighing and laying down next to you, arms crossed behind his head and letting his gaze travel the walls, the roof. 

“You’re getting yourself comfortable,” you comment teasingly, like a matter of fact as well. His chest rises and falls deeply, taking a big breath before turning his head towards you. The smile on his lips is small, tired. 

“Actually, I sleep very badly,” he admits. You frown. 

“Why so?”

“Because I don’t have my wife in my arms,” he replies in a dramatic sulk, which results in you rolling your eyes to the back of your skull. 

“Satoru, we said that everyone sleeps alone, so-”

He interrupts you by grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers together. 

“I know. But, I started to sleep skin to skin with our baby as well. I miss it. A lot,” he reveals. 

The look in his eyes is genuine, making you swallow your saliva. Imagining Satoru as your husband, but now as a dad too, cuddling with your child to fall asleep, melts your heart. The ring on his finger caresses your palm, and you breathe out a small :

“Oh…”

“Hmm,” he hums. His eyes don’t leave you. Not even a second. Carving in his brain the curves of your face, the tenderness of the affection he’s feeling in this intimate instant. 

“How is it? I mean, how is it to be a dad right now? Parenthood… God, that sounds so weird to talk about it when in its timeline we... you know,” you mutter shyly. He takes a good five seconds to gather his thoughts, turn his tongue in his mouth, hoping to find the right way to express his feelings and articulate his answer. 

“If I’m being honest, it’s scary. I’m scared to mess up, and I retired because I didn’t want to be an absent father to our child. I wanted to give everything I could, be present, and make sure our baby never experiences the loneliness I was forced to go through.” 

The end of his sentence is vague, but not enough so you can understand the depth of it. Satoru was taken from his parents at an early age, because of having the title of the Six Eyes and Infinity holder. You bite the inside of your cheek, touch his jaw affectionately. It’s warm. You feel warm. And proud. So proud of him. Of what he’s trying and what he is doing to become the best version of himself. 

“I’m sure you’re doing amazing,” you murmur for his ears only. His eyelashes flutter, the slope of his lips touching the top of your head. 

“And the you of the future is doing amazing too. I retired because I wanted to be fully by your side as well,” he explains. Your heart is not melting anymore, it’s combusting, widely. A shattering breath escapes your mouth, and you desperately try to stay calm, because this is still not your reality. It’s for you in the future. 

“How is the baby?”

Satoru smiles brightly at this question.  

“Got my eyes, but got your skin and hair color. Very energetic too… let’s say we don’t sleep much, you and me,” he chuckles. Your lips twitch at the thought of being sleep deprived by a little monster holding your and his genes. 

“Oh god, I don’t want to imagine that…”

“Before time traveling, you fell asleep while breastfeeding. That was very funny to see,” he grins. Gently, you nudge his shoulder.

“Can’t believe you’re making fun of me through space and time,” you scoff. Satoru answers it by a laugh that ends up echoing in a silent wave, before dying in the quietness of the night. He squeezes your hand. Gets closer. 

“I’m so glad I have you by my side again, y/n. I don’t think you understand how having this second chance changed a lot in my perception of life, and our relationship as well,” he whispers in a tightened voice. Your eyes meet his again, and it’s intimidating to face this serious side of himself. Something you’re still not used to. 

“Why exactly?”

“I went through the experience of holding you dead in my arms, and then holding life itself created by the two of us. I… when I traveled back in time, that everything changed, and you were still here, alive, I think my heart just stopped beating before beating again, but differently, so much differently than it ever did. I don’t think I can really explain what I mean by that. I’m not very good with words, you know that,” he intends to explain, before biting his lower lip and cradling you against his chest in an attempt to hide the depth of his emotional storm. 

You stiffen, eyes wide open, heart hammering at the realization of what he just confessed. You take a few seconds as well before gathering your thoughts and answering. 

“I don’t really know what to say either. But, jokes aside, bickering aside, knowing that your love for me triggered two versions of yourself to time travel to save my life, is the biggest proof of love that can possibly exist. And I don’t think I’ll fully comprehend how much I mean to you, but, for sure, I’ll never doubt your feelings. And if I could do the same for you, I’ll do it.”

His mouth kisses yours. Your eyelids close, answering it before he parts and says against your lips : 

“You already did, y/n. You already did. When you died by the hands of Sukuna for the sole purpose of saving my life. I think that’s a big proof of your love.”

He’s right. But it’s a matter of the you of the future. Not the you of now. But it’s still you. 

“We’re even, then,” you lighten the mood in a more cheerful voice. 

“Can I sleep with you tonight, then? I just really need it right now,” he questions with some pleading. But you can’t seem to refuse his request, so you nod. 

“Alright.”

Satoru gets comfortable in bed, takes you back in his arms, hugs you in the kind of way that is protective but clingy too. It’s comforting. 

“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispers in your nape. You caress his arms, he tightens his grip. 

“Good night, ‘toru.”

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ 

Wednesday, 11 am. 

“Betrayal, betrayal!” echoes your boyfriend, refusing to let you approach him by turning on his infinity, blocking you any access or redemption. 

“Satoru, calm down, it was just one night!” you scoff, head hurting by this stupid argument about scars Satoru joining you in bed last night. He scoffs, crosses his arms over his chest. 

“So he gets to sleep with you but not me? Starting by tonight I’ll sleep again with my girlfriend, uh,” he huffs loudly, raising his head in disdain. 

“I agree with younger me. I won’t hold back too, that’s unfair,” adds blindfolded Satoru, nodding. 

Meanwhile, you look at scars Gojo for support. He’s a dad now, and should be mature enough to know how to ease this situation. Yet, nothing. He’s looking at the scene from the couch, eating some cookies with the fattest grin he has in stock. You gasp, point at him. 

“And you, stop having this triumphal smile on your face! That’s your fault-”

“Sorry sweetheart,” he shrugs nonchalantly. 

“He’s not sorry for one second. I know myself well,” comments the blindfolded one. 

“Thanks lord you do,” you snarl. 

“Tonight, I sleep back with you,” interferes your boyfriend, stepping in front of your face to block your view from the distracting dad that is enjoying way too much the chaos he caused. 

“And me,” adds the blindfolded. 

“The bed is not big enough!” you exclaim. 

“Eh, we’ll make it work. Like two years ago,” says scars Satoru.

A big, long, sigh, escapes your lips, rubbing your face in defeat. 

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter in acceptance of your doomed fate. 

“Yet you end up marrying and creating a family with me. Fuck, I still can’t believe this… a tiny y/n and Satoru..” almost cries blindfolded Satoru, arm wrapping around your shoulders and smashing his cheek against yours. Rubbing. And rubbing. Like a cat would do.

“Ok, cut it out,” you stop him. 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ  

Wednesday, 11 pm.

Limbs, including arms and legs, hands and faces, all pressed against you in what is supposed to be a comfortable cuddling session on the couch. Your head is on scars Satoru’s laps, your torso on the blindfolded one, and your legs on your boyfriend’s. They all take the opportunity to caress, massage, press kisses, everything, but watching the tv. And it’s luring you in a very sleepy state.

“I’m dead tired. At the end of the movie I go to sleep,” you mumble.

“Really? I wanted to play some games,” groans your boyfriend, hands adventuring themselves on your knees. 

“Without me, do it with the others you,” you point at the two ones busy with your shoulders and head. 

“No thank you,” he glares at them. 

The discussion ends in you rolling your eyes, focusing on the screen and the display of the movie. The characters talk before an action scene starts abruptly. Your attention is entirely directed to what is happening. Yet, a feeling, a scratch, keeps you on your toes. Eyes are looking at you. Sometimes acting like they’re focusing on the screen, but always ending up back on gazing at your face. Nose, lashes, lips, cheeks. 

“Can you stop staring at me? I feel your gaze digging holes in my skull,” you end up snapping of annoyance, and overall, flustering. 

“Can’t we admire our girlfriend?” coos your boyfriend, raising his eyebrow. 

“You mean our wife,” corrects blindfolded Satoru, playing now with your hands. The other is kneading your shoulders, forcing a gasp of relief to escape your lips. You shake your head to snap out of it. 

“We’re watching a movie, stay concentrated,” you try to sound as serious as you’re allowed to be in this intimate moment. 

“But you love the attention,” muses scars Satoru, thumb sliding over your throat. You swallow, hard. 

“I never said the contrary,” you manage to croak out after a second of being distracted. His answer is a knowing grin. Infuriating, stupid, grin. 

The peace lasts one minute. The hand that originally was on your knee, slides up, softly. A shiver runs down your spine when digits caress the inside of your thighs. A nail barely scratching the tissue of your loose shorts. Then, two fingers glide inside the pajama, just enough to brush your panties. 

“Satoru,” you breathe in a weak warning. 

“Which one?” asks the one in the middle. 

“The Satoru that is caressing my thigh, way too close to my panties,” you answer, and your boyfriend licks his lips. 

“What? You don’t want to?” he questions. 

“Watch the movie, you horny dog,” you decide to not answer yes or no, simply trying to redirect his attention on the tv. Ignoring the pool of heat and horrible ache in between your legs is harder than expected when he touches you like this. 

“How can we when you’re so soft, and sweet, and beautiful, and-” starts to protest blindfolded Satoru, palm moving over your stomach, waist, under your shirt and feeling the texture of your burning skin. 

“Makes me want to put another baby in you,” whispers scars Satoru by lowering his head towards yours. You almost jump out of surprise, meeting his dazed eyes full of desire, and gently pushing him away. 

“Woaaawwwww! I’m not even pregnant in this timeline, hold down your horses!”

“I agree with y/n. But, but…” starts your boyfriend, slipping your shorts on the side, finger hooking around the lace of your underwear. Fuck. You tighten and rub your thighs together without realizing. But he does. And he basks in the smugness of seeing you reacting like this.

“No buts,” you shake your head. 

“But, we can ease the tension in your muscles, baby,” proposes blindfolded Satoru, ending his sentence by a press of his knuckles against your shoulder, while scars Satoru digs his fingers on your scalp.

“What tension?” you try to ask through the moan of relief you just let out. And that’s stupid of you. 

“Here,” says a voice after letting his hand massage the junction of your neck and collarbone. 

“And here,” adds another, hand on your lower back now. Dangerously low. But oh, that feels so good. 

A gasp of surprise and pleasure is heard when a digit, the one of your boyfriend, goes under your panties, caresses your clit and gently parts your folds. 

“Look how stiff you’re here… you need to loosen up, yeah?” he taunts. The look in his eyes is everything but innocent. Your breath quickens. 

“An orgasm is the best idea, don’t you think so?” murmurs scars Satoru, kissing your temple. Your boyfriend takes the opportunity to insert a finger in your tight hole, a squelchy sound that seems to satisfy him. 

“I think she’s thinking the same because of how wet she is right now,” he comments smugly. “Look at that,” and he proudly shows the soaked finger. “Let me- let us take good care of you, okay? Just lay down and relax. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.” 

“You want that, sweetheart?” questions scars Satoru, just to be sure. Blindfolded Satoru wanders his hands around your chest. Tempting. Not yet touching. Only making you desire the feeling of his fingers on your breast. Shit. Be damned. 

“Yeah. But be quick, I’m tired,” you accept in a weak voice. And that’s all they need. 

“Ahah, we’ll make it work so you’ll be sleeping like a rock. Hmmm?” he says before finally freeing your boobs and taking them in hands. 

Lips capture yours, and by the feeling of a scar on the side of his mouth, you know who is kissing you. A whimper gets swallowed by his tongue when another finger hooks inside your hole and rubs your walls in an agonizing dance that instantly makes you see stars.

The movie long forgotten, your clothes disappear off your skin, and the cool air hits your wet folds when one of them parts your thighs. But it quickly gets replaced by the warmth of a breath hitting your bare cunt, and then a hot suave tongue traveling from your busy hole to your clit. Your legs shake of pleasure, already lost in another dimension because the three of them know exactly where to touch to make you crazy. 

Lapping at the dripping juice, your boyfriend wraps his arms around your waist and brings your ass up, in a way that allows him to eat you out better, and to stop you from squirming away. Meanwhile, your mouth and breast are being kissed, licked, bitten. And your boyfriend was right. All you have to do is lay down and bask in the pleasure. Nothing else. Only you. Satoru doesn’t even ask you to jerk him off or suck his tip. Simply whispering sinful things in your ear, or sweet nothings to ease your aching nerves. All their focus is in draining you out. 

Or maybe to make you want more.

Because when they edge your high, and that you finally reach it in an imploring cry, they all look at you very, very, smugly. A satisfied smirk at the sight of the eagerness in your eyes, lips parted and skin glistening in a thin layer of sweat.

“Look at her, I feel like she’s still in need for more,” coos your boyfriend, kissing gently the side of your thigh. 

“One orgasm is not enough,” says scars Satoru, making you look at him and the satisfied facial expression of his. 

“What a greedy girl…” adds blindfolded Satoru by softly biting on your nipple. 

“Want more, sweetheart?” asks the oldest, thumb caressing your lower, swollen, lip. 

“All you have to do is ask,” continues your boyfriend, straightening his back and opening wider your legs for more access. 

“You’re fucking playing with me-” you groan. 

“Fucking? We hope. Playing? It’s just called teasing,” corrects blindfolded Satoru by starting to unbunckle his jeans with an eager hand. “How about one dick for starters, yeah? And I will be the one,” he proposes before moving to the side. “You already had the privilege of eating her out. You good with that, baby?” he says as he pushes the youngest, to instead get in between your thighs and softly grind his clothed dick against your sensitive pussy.

“It’s still the same you, so whatever,” you manage to grit out. He smiles, freeing his cock, taping his tip on your folds, smearing his precum, before winking at you one last time when lifting halfway his blindfold and slowly entering your quivering hole. 

“Ahhh, already sucking me in. Fuck- so tight,” he moans, biting his lower lip and gripping your waist. Your boyfriend rolls his eyes in annoyance and instead busy himself with playing with your swollen and overstimulated clit. As well as laying his mouth on your neck to suck it and mark you as his. 

By the way the one making love to you is hitting rightly the sweet gummy spot on your walls, many, too many moans escape your mouth. Scars Satoru brushes your cheek, massaging your body and inviting you to lay more comfortably against him. Like this, he has the full view of seeing the way your pussy swallows his younger self’s dick. The lewd and squelchy sounds resonate in the living room at each sinful thrust.  

“Don’t worry sweetheart, you’ll have another dick after this round,” he says to your ear, appreciating what he’s seeing. 

“Who said I needed two?!” you gasp before blindfolded Satoru slams his length fully back inside, choking you out, and your boyfriend accelerating his circling movement on your clit. 

“Your pussy,” he smiles. 

The following minutes are a blur. The only thing you can remember is reaching a second time your high, stimulated by inside and outside pleasure, and falling limp on the couch. Scars Satoru lifts you up, turns you around and embraces you in his arms as he pepper kisses all over your face. He holds your ass, you straddle him on your wobbly legs, and he slams you back down on his dick. The feeling of being full again makes you bite his shoulder.

“Let me prep’ her well,” he says, adding a finger to your twitching hole. Meaning that, like last time, two years ago, you’ll soon get double penetrated again. 

“Yeah, blindfolded me, get out. It’s my turn too to make y/n feel good,” says your boyfriend, readying himself behind you. The sound of a bell that falls on the floor, a cock grinding against your ass and another pair of arms wrapping around your waist. 

It takes some time before it starts. He slowly joins his dick inside, penetrating centimeter by centimeter, waiting, stopping, making sure you’re okay, brushing his mouth against your shoulders to praise you, and finally inserting his whole length. A guttural moan leaves your lips, digging your nails in scars Satoru’s back. 

“Can you handle it?” he asks, and you nod as an answer. 

“I think she’s already feeling very good,” grins blindfolded Satoru, watching the scene unfolding before his own two eyes. Poor him, wishing he could be inside again. But he’ll have to wait for that, if you’re still willing, that is. After all, they’re focusing on your pleasure tonight. Not their. 

Your ass gets slammed by your boyfriend’s balls at each thrust. Your clit, on the other hand, grazed by scars Satoru’s pelvis. They sync their movements. Thrust after thrust. Slamming all the way up, tips caressing your womb, arching your back and curling your toes at the sensation. Before going crescendo, and suddenly switching the rhythm. One fast, the other slow, torturous. Your moans are becoming ruthless, dangerously lewd. And they are being vocal about it too. Moans. Groans. Sinful sentences. Mindfucked praising. 

The one in front of you ends up kissing you senseless, discovering again, like back at the nightclub, the pleasure of having sex with you. Joining and intertwining your bodies together. 

When after minutes, or seconds, or hours, you don’t know anymore, you reach your high a third time, they already switch positions. They decide on who is the one charged to be in front, or behind. This time, it’s the blindfolded that has the pleasure of making you bounce on his cock, while scars Satoru kneels and eats you out like a damn feast. Because for him? You are one. Lapping, making out with your cunt, licking every drop of juice you produce from the intense electric pleasure you’re having by the way you’re getting fucked dumb. He’s going at it. Maybe he’s trying to compete against your boyfriend, wanting to showcase that with the years of experience ahead of him, he gives you head better than the younger version of himself. 

But even when you cum, taking a pause for you to gain back some energy. Letting your swollen, overstimulated, hole and clit to calm down. They already pounce on you once you’re back on track. 

You end up not even knowing where you start and where they end!

Let’s stay, the heated session didn’t end on the couch, but on the matrimonial bed. Big enough to manhandle you around in the way that makes you shiver of desire. Fucking you so good you’re drooling on the sheets. Crying of pleasure and screaming your heart out at each intense wave of thrill and delight you receive. 

You don’t even remember falling asleep, nor the aftercare, with a lot, lot, lot, of sweet affection. Maybe too much. But only a blurry memory of a set of limbs laid out on the sheets. Comfortable enough to let you sleep. 

Yeah, your body will die in the morning. Of ache and soreness. Poor muscles. Poor overstimulated y/n. 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ   

Sunday, 6 pm. 

Your doom? Boredom. Because, yes, when you have three Satoru that are bored to death as they can’t go outside, or else it will cause a riot to see three of them in the wild, not having much to do in this house, aside from playing games, talking, reading or watching some tv… it’s not enough for their hyperactive brain! So, what better activity than a good fuck?

In the kitchen, onsen, laundry, couch, bedroom n1, n2, n5, shower, bath, everywhere! Even on the floor, or the damn table! 

Yeah, a good cure for boredom, but what is the good cure for your exhaustion? Sleeping, maybe. Aftercare too. Nonetheless, you’re still dead. Maybe more dead than by the hands of Sukuna. When will this time travel end, seriously?! Not to add the endless bickering in between them, making you want to bang your head on the wall.

“Y/n, he fucking ate my daifuku. We should ban him from the house,” complains your boyfriend as he points at blindfolded Satoru, licking his coated lips in a winning grin. 

“Oh, wow, so sad,” you mumble, flipping the page of the book you’re reading. He whines loudly.

“If it’s your daifuku then it’s mine too,” corrects the culprit from where he's sitting.

“I swear, I’ll hollow purple your ass and erase your existence from your own timeline,” he menaces back, standing abruptly from the couch. You sigh.

“Yeah? Wanna fight? It’ll be fun to be against a worthy opponent, aka myself,” he answers, standing up as well and raising his head in defiance. 

“Should we do that in the garden?”

“You’re not going to stop them, sweetheart?” asks scars Satoru, walking behind you and sliding his arms around your shoulders. You shrug.

“Nope. I’m too busy reading right now to bother with this.”

“As you wish,” he chuckles, kissing your cheek.

“Baby, can you bet on who will win?” asks blindfolded Satoru, pointing at him and his youngest version with his thumb. You barely look up from your book.

“Yourself against yourself?”

“Yeah. I’ll surely win. I’m older and technically wiser and stronger,” he answers, adjusting his blindfold after landing you a knowing wink. 

“Ok, I bet on you,” you mumble. And, that sentence, triggers your boyfriend that comes rushing at your side like a wounded puppy.

“Are you serious right now?! Betraying me like this?!”

“Ok, what if we did something else than fight?” proposes scars Gojo in a calmer tone.

“You think so highly of yourself because you’re a dad, but you’re only a few months older than me, just in case,” scoffs blindfolded Satoru, crossing his arms on his chest. 

At his words, the oldest freezes, before slowly, very slowly, turning towards him. His eyes twitch, showing he’s barely holding down his horses.

“Ah?” he says in an annoyed voice. Realizing that the situation is escalating towards a dangerous outcome, you put down your book and stand up in panic.

“Let’s do something else! We need to get out of this house! Like, anywhere else. If possible, some empty place…”

“Agreed. Can’t stand breathing the same air as… me? Whatever,” nods blindfolded Satoru.

“We can go to the-” starts to say your boyfriend.

“Sight seeing of the mountain,” they end up repeating all at once. You blink, chuckling slightly at the comic effect it caused. 

“It's always very fascinating to see the three of you talk at the same time. But maybe not now. There will be people, no?”

“That’s why we’ll go at night,” answers scars Satoru, tapping your shoulder gently.

“When it’s closed,” continues the blindfolded.

“Isn’t that illegal?” you question in a suspicious frown.

“Who cares about the law when I’m Gojo Satoru? Ahahahaha!” retorts your boyfriend proudly.

“Yikes…” you mutter.

 જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ   

Sunday, 12 pm. 

“Bitch, it’s freezing cold!” you exclaim, rubbing your arms in a shiver. After getting teleported to the base of the mountain, you all took a short cut and walked around, enough to feel some fresh air and ease the tensions. Well, fresh air, more like glacial air. Scars Satoru is the first one, the quickest actually, to lend you his jacket.

“Sweetheart, watch your words in front of the baby- oh wait… Sorry, habit,” he says, before giving you a bashful smile. Softly, your lips stretch too, and you give him a warm look.

“It’s alright,” you answer. 

Sensing the intimate moment, out of cupid jealousy, your boyfriend grabs your arm and makes you follow him closer.

“Ok, come here, you’ll see better the view,” he announces, guiding you up until you walk on green grass, next to a bench, facing the curve of the mountains ahead, and the lights of the city. The night sparkles above your head, the moon reflecting its shine on your skin. 

“Oh my, it’s beautiful,” you manage to pronounce in utter awe. The wind brushes your face, making you tighten your grip on Satoru’s jacket. It smells just like him. 

“We know,” they all answer at the same time, standing behind you. 

“How do you know this place?” you ask as you sit down on the bench.

“When I was a kid, the Gojo estate was very suffocating. I always sneaked out,” starts to say your boyfriend, following suit and sitting at your side.

“I once got lost when adventuring myself in the forest, and decided to have a better view of where I was. So I climbed up the hill,” continues the blindfolded one, being at your left now. 

“That’s how I found myself here, discovering the view. Some people were sightseeing as well, as I understood it was a touristic place,” explains scars Satoru, leaning against the bench in your back. You raise your head to look at him. He gives you a smile.

“And since then, I came back a few times at night when they closed the park. Never got arrested, thought. I’m Gojo Satoru after all,” finishes your boyfriend, arm falling around your shoulders in a proud move. You can’t help but laugh, before nudging him teasingly.

“Always ruining cute moments with your big ass ego,” you groan.

“But you love it,” he retorts, stealing a kiss.

“Questionnable,” you mumble. He rolls his eyes. After a second, you let your eyes travel the surroundings.

“It’s very calming when you’re alone in here. It gives the feeling of being above everything, anyone, including your responsibilities and duties,” ends up admitting blindfolded Satoru, taking your hand in his, sighing as he parts his legs, and admires the view more comfortably. For a short moment you assimilate this piece of information, wondering how he must have felt in those moments when he was a kid. You squeeze his fingers in silent comforting.

“This place, at night, used to be my nightly escape. A secret,” murmurs scars Satoru, toying with your hair. Again, you lift your head to stare at him.

“That you now share with me,” you comment. He grins, lands his lips on your forehead.

“How couldn’t I? You’re the love of my life,” he whispers back gently, devotion written all over his face, his deep blue eyes, the shine of his irises, pupils dilating. You give him back his smile. Something shifts, a flicker in his cursed energy.

As you're about to answer, in an insignificant blink, Satoru disappears. It’s short, really. But he’s not here anymore, empty spot now. In confusion, you turn to your left. Blindfolded Satoru disappeared as well, hand free of his grip.

“They left,” you whisper, before having your boyfriend taking you in his arms and cuddling you against his heart. He doesn’t make a snappy comment on how happy he is that his ‘clones’ finally went back to their own timelines. No. He simply kisses the top of your head, shields you from the wind, and stares at the lights of Kyoto down the mountain.

“I think it’s time that we go back too,” he whispers.

“To the estate?”

“No, back in Tokyo. Home.”

Satoru is right. The two others went back to their own timeline, their real home. You should too. You lean your face against his collarbone, he lays his head on top of yours.

“Then tomorrow we take the first train,” you agree. He nods. Silence falls for a few short minutes, before he interrupts it again. 

“Are you still sure you don’t want to marry me now? Might as well when we’re going to start a family in the future.”

You look at him, rolling your eyes, even if that comment makes you smile more than anything else.

“Satoru, we already talked about this.” 

He pouts.

“Alright, alright. I’ll wait a bit more before asking officially your hand in marriage,” he mumbles in resignation, thumb caressing absently your arm. 

“A bit more? And how long is that?” you question, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. 

“Like… in two weeks?”

“Satoru!” you scoff, eyes wide open. And he laughs loudly. 

“I’m joking! I’m joking! I’ll wait at least one more year, promise,” he affirms. A quick look on the side, and you have the confirmation he’s lying. You look at him deadpan.

“I saw you crossing your fingers behind your back,” you comment.

He shrugs, clearly not feeling sorry at all. “Oops?” Satoru kisses you before you can answer. 

But you smile. Because having the truth that your love will indeed last years ahead of you, resulting in building something as strong as a family with him, confirms that, yes, as scars Satoru said, you’re the love of his life, as much as he’s yours. And not even death can erase that simple fact. Nothing can, nothing ever will. 

——

Hope you guys enjoyed this part 2! I know I’m very late, but I was super busy and to be honest, I struggled a lot to find a new plot. But here it is! Don’t forget to interact with the post if you liked reading it, xoxo

[ymgsworld]

Kill me, darling

[Assassin!Reader x Satoru Gojo]

Synopsis: Hired by the higher-ups to assassinate Satoru Gojo, an elite hitman infiltrated his life as his personal assistant. As the deadline for the kill approached, his relentless warmth began to erode her professional resolve. Caught between the elders' lethal orders and her growing humanity, she had to decide if she would remain a mindless weapon or choose a humanity that might cost her everything.

Tags: slow burn, slight romance, heavy angst, murder attempts, implied death threats, death mentioned, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, tragedy, reader is touch-starved, satoru is protective, doomed love, no happy ending promised, canon divergent

A/n: I’m finally giving birth to my second story! Bear with me because this one might be a long read; it’s over 8,5k words. I couldn’t cut it down because I didn't want to ruin the tension, so... anyway, I feel like I wrote the fight scene a bit poorly—sorry for the lack of talent! :') But please, do enjoy the rest of the story!

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

The rooftop of the Shinjuku skyscraper was silent. Satoru Gojo stood by the railing, gazing at the city lights and looking entirely unguarded. He was patrolling as usual, ensuring Tokyo remained safe from cursed spirits. It was a beautiful evening—the kind of weather that made one want to loosen up at an onsen—but no, he still had a job to do. Responsibilities... always responsibilities.

You watched him from a neighboring rooftop. He was easy to spot given his striking appearance; his white hair caught the city glow, acting like a silver beacon in the dark. Even from your distance, you could see the occasional pout cross his lips. He clearly hated being there, his mind likely miles away, drifting toward some high-end sweet shop or a warm bed.

But his exhaustion didn't move you. You decided to make your move. Your clan’s passive ability masked your body heat and retracted your cursed energy into a single, silent point. To his Six Eyes, you appeared as nothing more than an inanimate object. 

Stepping off the ledge, you slipped through the air, your presence filtered out of the very atmosphere. You landed on his rooftop without a sound, standing a mere ten feet behind him. He was still grumbling about the onsen, his back turned. It was now or never.

You struck with a blur of motion that the human brain refused to process. Drawing your cursed blade, you swung it in a perfect horizontal arc aimed at the base of his skull. The blade passed through the space where his neck should have been, the physical cut was delayed by three seconds. You were already stepping away, preparing to disappear into the night before his head could even hit the floor.

One... two...

On the third second, the space around Satoru’s neck didn't tear. Instead, a low, vibratory hum filled the air. The Limitless had caught the delayed blow.

Satoru didn't turn around immediately. He simply let out a long, weary sigh. "Man... I was really looking forward to that bath. Why does someone always have to ruin the vibe right at the end of a shift?"

He turned then, his eyes hidden behind his blindfold, yet you felt the crushing weight of his gaze. Even with your passive active, he seemed to spot you instantly.

"No cursed energy signature. No malicious intent until the blade moved. You're from that family, aren't you? The ones who disappear," he mused, sticking his hands in his pockets.

You hissed, unleashing your wires. As they snapped into place, the web of monomolecular hair glowed faintly, vibrating at a frequency designed to disrupt the stability of his barrier. You snagged the shadow of his boot, jerking the wire with everything you had. For a heartbeat, the blue-tinted space around him flickered. He stumbled—just an inch.

It was the only opening you needed. You triggered your ultimate technique, your body becoming a ghost-like hologram for the next thirty seconds, and lunged. But as your blade reached for his heart, Satoru’s hand shot out. He didn't grab the knife; he grabbed the very space around it.

"Nice try," his voice vibrated against your ear before you even felt him move. "But you're a second too slow for a ghost."

He didn't use a flashy technique. He simply flicked his finger against the flat of your blade. The sheer physical force, backed by a micro-burst of Red, shattered the steel and sent a shockwave through your 'untouchable' form, slamming you into the concrete.

Your sixty seconds were over. You lay in the crater of the rooftop while the Strongest Sorcerer loomed over you, looking more disappointed than he was angry.

"So," Satoru started, his voice casual. He leaned over you, the wind ruffling his white hair. "Who’s paying for the hit? The Zenins? Or was this one of the higher-ups' ideas?"

He reached down, and for a moment, you tensed, expecting a finishing blow. Instead, he plucked the broken hilt of your blade from your hand, turning it over in his fingers with a hum of genuine interest.

"The cursed blade. Monomolecular hair wires. And a presence that even my Six Eyes had to squint to find…" He looked down at you, and though his blindfold was on, you could feel the intensity of his gaze piercing through the fabric. "You’ve got a lot of talent. It’s a shame you wasted it on a job that was impossible from the start."

He straightened up, looking back out at the Shinjuku skyline. "Here’s the thing… I’m actually in a good mood tonight. And I really, really hate doing paperwork for a dead body."

As his gaze drifted toward the horizon, you forced your body to move. Every nerve ending screamed from the aftershock of his Red, but your survival instinct was stronger than the pain. Using the last drags of your cursed energy, your form flickering like a dying television screen, you vanished before Satoru could even turn his head back.

"So, if you just tell me who sent—"

Satoru blinked, looking at the empty crater where you had been lying just a second ago. He held the broken hilt of your blade in his hand, a small, amused smile playing on his lips.

"A ghost to the very end," he whispered to the wind. "Guess I'll have to keep this as a souvenir."

You stumbled through the dark alleyways far from Shinjuku, clutching your side where the aftershock of the Red had shattered your ribs. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass. Your vision blurred as blood dripped onto the pavement.

The mission was a failure. You needed a new plan. You had to create a situation that Satoru Gojo would never suspect you of holding a knife behind your back.

Exactly one week later, the plan was set in motion.

Under the guise of a low-level sorcerer from a minor branch family, you were assigned to Satoru as his personal assistant. The Higher-ups presented it as a necessity—a way to manage his overwhelming workload so he wouldn't burn out. Surprisingly, Satoru didn't put up a fight. As long as his performance wasn't hindered, he didn't care who followed him around.

The terms were intimate: you were to be like a stamp on an envelope, following him everywhere. You would live in the same house, handle his tedious paperwork, cook his meals, and manage his household chores. However, you were strictly forbidden from joining his exorcism missions. To him, you were just a weak sorcerer assigned to handle the human parts of his life.

It was the perfect infiltration. To kill the Strongest, you didn't need to be stronger than him… you just needed to be the person he trusted to make his coffee.

The morning sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Satoru’s high-rise apartment. You stood in the center of the living room, dressed in a modest, unassuming suit. Your heart hammered against your ribs—the same ribs that still twinged with a dull ache from his attack a week ago—tapped down by a heavy dose of painkillers.

You heard the bedroom door click open.

Satoru stepped out, looking disheveled in a way the public never saw. His white hair was a chaotic nest, and he was wearing nothing but loose lounge pants and a t-shirt. He was rubbing his eyes, his blindfold draped around his neck like a discarded tie.

He stopped when he saw you. For a terrifying heartbeat, the air felt thin. You wondered if his Six Eyes could see through the layers of makeup covering your bruises.

"Ah," he said, his voice raspy from sleep as he tilted his head. "Right. The 'Helper' the old farts sent over. I almost forgot."

He walked toward you, stopping just inches away. The sheer height of him was oppressive. He leaned down, peering at your face with a curious, lazy intensity. You kept your eyes lowered, playing the part of the timid, low-level sorcerer perfectly.

"I’m ☆☆☆," you said, your voice steady and polite. "I'll be handling your administrative tasks and household needs from today onward, Gojo-sama."

Satoru let out a long, dramatic groan and flopped onto the sofa. "Gojo-sama? Please, don't. That makes me feel like I’m eighty years old. Just Satoru is fine." He peeked at you from over the sofa cushion. "So, ☆☆☆... can you actually make a decent cup of coffee?"

Thank God. He didn't recognize you. 

"I make excellent coffee," you replied, turning toward the kitchen.

As you reached for the beans, a cold shiver ran down your spine. You were officially inside the fortress. The strongest man in the world was now turning his back to you, completely unaware that the person making his breakfast was the same person who had tried to slit his throat seven days ago.

The game had officially begun.

"So," Satoru called out from the sofa, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings. "Where did you say you were from again? Some branch family out in the countryside? You’ve got a really... quiet presence."

You kept your hands steady as you poured the hot water. "A minor family from the outskirts of Sendai, Satoru-san. We’ve always been low-profile. Most of us don't even make it past Grade 4."

"Sendai, huh? Nice place. Good sweets," he mused. You heard the springs of the sofa creak as he shifted his weight. "Are you just doing this for the paycheck, or did the higher-ups promise you something else?"

You brought the coffee over, setting it on the table in front of him. You made sure to keep your expression neutral. "I was told I was needed. And I’m quite used to handling difficult tasks."

Satoru picked up the cup, the aroma of the dark roast filling the air. He took a sip, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Hmm… not bad. Actually, it's perfect."

He looked up at you, his blue eyes tracking your reaction. He set down the coffee and stood up, his massive frame towering over you as he stretched his arms over his head. 

"Well, since you’re so good at handling 'difficult tasks', I’ve got a mountain of paperwork on that desk over there that's been judging me for three weeks. If you can finish that by noon, I’ll take you out for the best kikufuku in the city as a reward."

He sauntered off toward the bathroom, humming a tune as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on your morning.

You turned your head slowly toward the mahogany desk in the corner. It wasn't just a 'mountain'—it was an avalanche of mission reports and bureaucratic nonsense from the Jujutsu High elders. 

Can I just quit already?

Your fingers twitched instinctively, wanting to reach for a wire to wrap around his throat instead of a pen. If you failed this, you’d look incompetent. If you succeeded, you’d be stuck going on a 'date' for sweets with the man you were supposed to murder. It was a lose-lose situation, but you took a deep breath, straightened your collar, and sat down at the desk.

The mahogany desk groaned under the weight of the reports, but the silence in the room was louder. You picked up a fountain pen, testing its weight. As you began dissecting the first report—a tedious account of a Special Grade curse in Roppongi—your mind started running a parallel thread.

Direct physical trauma is impossible, you noted, your pen scratching rhythmically across the paper. I can't get through the skin, I have to get through the systems. Digestion. Respiration. He ate constantly. If you could synthesize a tasteless, odorless neurotoxin and slip it into his food, it would be perfect.

You glanced toward the bathroom door. The sound of splashing water and Satoru’s muffled, off-key singing echoed out. Not long after, the door creaked open. Satoru stepped out with a towel around his waist and damp white hair falling over his forehead.

"Still working?" he asked, his voice lower than usual, lacking its typical bratty edge. He walked over to the desk, leaning down so his face was level with yours. Droplets of water from his hair fell onto the page, blurring the ink.

You held your breath, your hand tightening around the pen as a droplet smeared the words into an illegible blot. Up close, without the blindfold, his Six Eyes were devastating—an endless, swirling blue that felt like it was peeling back your skin.

"You're ruining the report, Satoru-san."

"Ehh? So cold," Satoru pouted, leaning even closer. His gaze drifted from the paper to your face, his long lashes still beaded with moisture.

You were not looking at the man. You were looking at the jugular vein pulsing in his neck. You were looking at the exact point beneath his jaw where a well-placed needle could bypass the brain's motor functions. You were close enough to strike, but he was close enough to crush you before the thought even fully formed.

"What? Something wrong with my face?" He tilted his head, a stray droplet of water falling from a white lock and landing right on the bridge of your nose. "Is it the hair? I know, I know… I look like a different person when it’s down. More approachable, right?"

"I'm looking at the mess you're making," you replied, gesturing to the ink-stained report. "Now I have to rewrite the entire page."

"Fix it later," Satoru dismissed with a wave of his hand, finally straightening up. "It’s nearly noon. And I haven't forgotten my promise. A deal's a deal, and my stomach is starting to demand those Kikufuku.”

"Give me five minutes to get decent. You should probably freshen up too… you look like you’re ready to go to war with that paperwork.” He started walking toward his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back over his shoulder. 

"It’s gonna be a long walk, and I have a feeling it’s going to be an... interesting afternoon.”

With a playful wink, he disappeared into the room, leaving the door ajar. You sat there, the pen still gripped so tightly in your hand.

I'm already so fucking tired.

You stood up, smoothing out your skirt with trembling fingers. You couldn't kill him today, so you retreated to your room, forcing yourself to switch gears. You swapped your work blazer for a soft, oversized cardigan—something that made you look smaller, softer, and entirely unthreatening. 

As you retouched your makeup in the mirror, you added a touch of rose-colored tint to your lips and softened your eyeliner. But still, your eyes looked too sharp. You took a deep breath, consciously dulling your gaze until you looked as bored and overworked as your persona required. You needed to look like a girl on a Sunday stroll, not a professional hitman.

When you stepped back into the living area, Satoru was already waiting by the door, scrolling through his phone. He looked up the moment the floorboard creaked under your feet. He had traded the towel for his usual high-collared dark uniform and had pulled his hair back, though a few rebellious white strands still teased his forehead. The blindfold was back in place, masking those terrifying eyes.

You had to admit, that man was insanely attractive. Or perhaps you were just a sucker for the way the slicked-back hair emphasized the sharp, arrogant line of his jaw. You found your gaze lingering a second too long on the way those rebellious strands fell over his forehead.

He let out a low, appreciative whistle, his head tilting as his 'gaze' swept over you. "Wow, look at you. You actually look like a person now."

He sauntered toward you, stopping just inside your personal bubble. "Soft," he mused, reaching out to tug gently at the sleeve of your oversized cardigan. His touch was light, but your skin prickled underneath the wool. "Matches the face. You look almost... sweet."

You kept your gaze down, focusing on the high collar of his jacket to avoid looking at his lips. "I’m just trying to be appropriate for the occasion."

"Right, right. 'Appropriate'," he echoed, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. He turned toward the door, gesturing for you to lead the way with a flourish of his hand. "Well, let’s go. The kikufuku aren't going to eat themselves, and I’ve got a very specific craving for something sweet today."

The Ginza district was a sea of people, a relentless tide of shoppers and tourists that made the sidewalk feel like a battlefield. As the strongest sorcerer, Satoru cut through the crowd easily—people instinctively veered out of his way without even knowing why. You, however, didn't have the luxury of a spiritual barrier.

You stumbled as a group of boisterous tourists shoved past, the heel of your shoe catching on the pavement. Before you could even think about using your technique to stabilize your footing, a firm hand wrapped around your waist.

With an effortless tug, Satoru pulled you flush against his side. You were anchored against the solid, warm of his body. "Stay close," he murmured. He tucked you under his arm, his hand resting casually but firmly on your hip, shielding you from the jostling crowd.

Your heart, usually a disciplined rhythm of sixty beats per minute, thudded against your ribs loud enough that you were certain he could feel it. Being this close was a tactical disaster. You could feel the lean muscle of his torso and the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

"I can feel your heart racing. Don't tell me you're scared of a little crowd?"

"It's just... hot out here," you managed to bite out, staring straight ahead at the back of some stranger's jacket. "And you're holding me too tight."

"Am I?" He chuckled, a low vibration that you felt directly against your shoulder. "I think I'm holding you just right. Can't have my favorite assistant getting lost in the Ginza wild, can I?”

He didn't loosen his grip. If anything, his fingers tightened slightly against your hip, a proprietary gesture that sent heat rising to your cheeks, an involuntary reaction that made you want to vanish into the pavement.

"You’re so small. If I let go, you’d be swallowed up by the crowd in seconds." He began to lead you through the throng again, his long strides forcing you to practically jog to keep up, all while tucked tightly against his ribs. To any outsider, you looked like a doting couple—a strikingly tall, handsome man protective of his smaller, shy girlfriend.

He steered you effortlessly through the crowd, his presence acting like a prow of a ship, parting the sea of people before you could even be bumped. As you turned a corner into a slightly quieter alleyway where the bakery was hidden, the oppressive noise of Ginza dimmed, leaving only the sound of your frantic heart and his steady breathing.

Satoru finally stopped in front of an unmarked, minimalist wooden door. He let go of your waist. You took a subtle, jagged breath, trying to force your heart rate back into its professional cage. "We're here," he announced. "The best zunda kikufuku in Tokyo."

"The best in Tokyo," he repeated, sounding like a proud child as he pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The interior was a stark contrast to the neon chaos of Ginza. It was dim, scented with the earthy aroma of toasted rice and matcha. The shop inside was tiny—only four tables and the thick, sweet scent of mashed edamame and freshly pounded mochi. It was quiet, intimate, and far too secluded for your comfort.

"Two orders of Kikufuku mochi," Satoru directed to the elderly woman behind the counter without even looking at the menu. He then pointed to a small table in the far corner, the most private spot in the room. "Sit. I’ll go wash my hands."

He sauntered off toward the back, leaving you alone at the table. On the counter, the woman began preparing the trays.

You looked at the hem of your soft cardigan. Hidden within the stitching was a glass micro-vial of a synthetic neurotoxin, a flavorless masterpiece of chemistry that could stop a heart in under sixty seconds.

If I do this now, it’s over.

You wouldn't have to write another report. You wouldn't have to endure his infuriating personal space invasions. You could take the money from the higher-ups, leave your clan, and finally live like a normal life.

Your fingers hovered over the hidden vial. The adrenaline was a cold fire in your veins.

"Here is your tea, dear," the elderly woman said, her voice snapping you out of your thoughts as she placed the tray on the table.

Two cups of bitter matcha. Two plates of vibrant green Kikufuku mochi. The steam curled into the air, inviting and deadly.

Just as your hand reached for the cup on the right—his cup—the sound of footsteps returned. Satoru sauntered back into the room. "Ah, perfect timing!" he chirped, sliding into the seat opposite you.

You straightened up instantly, your spine hitting the back of the chair. Your hand, which had been inches from the rim of his cup, diverted at the last second to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"It smells lovely, Satoru-san," you murmured, keeping your voice flat and subservient.

"It does, doesn't it?" he reached out, his long fingers hovering over the tray. You held your breath, watching the path of his hand.

He took a long, slow sip of the matcha. You watched his throat move as he swallowed, your pulse drumming in your ears. The vial was still sealed in your hem—a missed opportunity that felt like a weight around your neck.

"Eat up, eat up!" Satoru chirped. He popped a whole piece into his mouth, leaning back in his chair with a look of pure bliss. "Mm! The texture is perfect today. See? Totally worth the walk."

You took a small bite. The sweetness of the mashed edamame was delicate, the mochi soft and yielding, but it tasted like ash in your mouth. You chewed slowly, focusing on maintaining a steady breath, trying to ignore Satoru humming a happy tune.

The peaceful clink of ceramic against wood was interrupted by the sharp, persistent vibration of a phone. You realized the sound was coming from his pocket.

"Ehh, already?" Satoru groaned, the bliss on his face souring into a look of genuine annoyance. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the device, flipping it open.

"Shinjuku? Again?" he asked, his voice losing its bratty lilt. "I just came from there. You guys really can't handle a single curtain without me, can you?"

He sighed, snapping the phone shut and turning his attention to you.

"Duty calls. A Special Grade just popped up near the station," he said, standing up and stretching his long limbs. He reached into his wallet, tossed a few bills onto the table without counting them. You stood up, the chair scraping softly against the wooden floor.

"Since you’re my assistant, you’re coming with me," he said. "Think of it as a field trip."

He headed for the door, the small bell chiming once more as he stepped back out into the Ginza alleyway. Satoru stopped, waiting for you to catch up, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

"It’s a Special Grade," he repeated, his voice light but his posture humming with a terrifying, latent energy. "Lots of collateral damage if I don't move fast. We'll take a shortcut."

Before you could ask what he meant, he reached out and gripped your forearm. He stepped into your space and slid his arm around your waist, pulling you firmly against his side once more.

Please, stop touching me.

"Close your eyes," he commanded softly, his breath fluttering the loose strands of hair near your temple. "You might get a little motion sick."

The world blurred into a smear of blue and black. For a split second, your internal organs felt like they were being squeezed through a straw—the sensation of space folding in on itself. When the pressure released, the quiet aroma of the tea shop was gone, replaced by the roar of sirens, the smell of ozone, and the distant, gut-wrenching screech of something that wasn't human.

You were standing on a pedestrian bridge overlooking Shinjuku station. Below, a massive Veil was descending, a shimmering black curtain cutting the world in half.

Satoru let go of your waist, the sudden absence of his grip making you feel dangerously light. He stepped toward the edge of the bridge, looking down at the chaos with a bored expression. "Stay right here. Don't move, don't talk to strangers, and definitely don't try to be a hero. Just watch."

With a casual step, he walked off the edge of the bridge. He descended into the chaos like a king entering a room.

Who does he think he's looking cool for?

The sheer audacity of the man—walking off a bridge like it was a curb, looking like a god in a high-collared uniform while you were left here with a heart rate that refused to slow. 

You raised a hand and slapped your own forehead with a sharp crack, the sting of it grounding you. "Get it together," you whispered, your eyes narrowing as you watched his dark silhouette descend into the swirling shadows of the Veil. 

You’d rather take a blade to your own throat than let your clan find out you were charmed by the very man you were sent to erase.

Down in the station plaza, the air itself began to scream. A massive, multi-limbed curse erupted from the concrete, its cursed energy so thick it felt like physical weight. And there was Satoru, standing in the center of the destruction with his hands in his pockets, looking like he was waiting for a bus.

"I'm going to kill you," you whispered into the wind, the rose-colored tint on your lips pulling into a thin, lethal line. "I don't care how handsome and sexy you think you are."

The scream of twisting metal drowned out the roar of the curse below. A jagged, invisible crescent of cursed energy—a stray slash from the Special Grade—had bypassed the station’s pillars and sliced through the pedestrian bridge like it was made of paper.

The section of the bridge beneath your feet disintegrated.

You had a split second to decide. If you used your technique to phase through the impact, you’d survive unscathed, but Satoru’s Six Eyes would see the flicker of high-level sorcery. If you did nothing, you were dead.

Before you could even feel the sensation of falling, the world stopped moving. You weren't hitting the pavement. You were suspended in the air, caught in a crushing, protective embrace. One of Satoru’s arms was hooked behind your knees, the other supporting your back.

He had moved so fast he had essentially teleported mid-swing of his fight.

He was standing on nothing—literally perched on the empty air above the crumbling bridge. Below you, the Special Grade let out a final, gurgling shriek before transforming into a residue.

You looked up, gasping for air, and found yourself staring directly into the blindfold. He was holding you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart. It was the first time you’d felt it… a reminder that despite being a god, he was still made of flesh and blood. You were closer to his heart than you had ever been. You could reach out and end it right now, but your hands refused to move.

"I... I thought I was going to die," you whispered, the lie tasting like ash, though the tremor in your voice was real.

Satoru’s grip softened, just a fraction. He began to descend slowly toward the street level, his boots finally touching the cracked asphalt.

"Not while I'm around," he said. "Nothing gets through to me, and as long as I’m holding you... nothing gets to you either."

You had to close your eyes. It was the only way to keep yourself from unfolding. If you looked at him now, if you saw that smug yet strangely tender curve of his mouth, you were afraid you’d lose your grip on the mission entirely.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to bypass your ears and resonate directly in your chest. "You can open them now. We’re on solid ground. Mostly.”

Breathing in and out, you tried to compose your heartbeat.

"You're not going to faint on me, are you?" His tone shifted back toward his usual playfulness. One of his hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling slightly in your hair in a gesture that was far too intimate. "That would be a lot of paperwork. 'Assistant fainted from my sheer handsomeness'. The elders would never believe it."

"Shut up," you bit out.

He let out a soft, surprised huff of laughter. "There she is. I was worried I'd broken you."

Finally, you forced your eyes open and pushed against his shoulders. It felt like trying to move a mountain, but he allowed it, stepping back just enough to let you stand on your own two feet. The cracked asphalt of Shinjuku felt unsteady beneath your shoes.

He let go, but his eyes never left you. As you brushed the dust from your cardigan, your hands still trembling with a mix of adrenaline and fury, he suddenly went still.

"Hold on," he said, his voice dropping the playfulness. Before you could retreat, his hand shot out, catching your chin and tilting your head to the side. "You're bleeding."

You winced as his thumb brushed just below your temple. A jagged piece of the bridge must have grazed you during the collapse. It was a shallow scratch, barely a sting.

"It’s nothing," you muttered, trying to pull away.

"It's on your face."

He didn't wait for an answer.

The walk back was a blur of neon lights and silent tension. Once inside the sanctuary of the apartment, Satoru didn't let you retreat to your room. He pointed to a high stool in the kitchen. "Sit. Don't move. I’ll be right back.”

Satoru returned, having shed his high-collared jacket. He was in his black shirt now, sleeves rolled up, carrying a small first-aid kit. Instead of standing over you, he pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of you. Because of the height difference of the stools, he was now lower than you, his head tilted up and his neck completely exposed.

He set the kit on the counter and pulled off his blindfold, tossing it aside. Those crystalline eyes were now fixed entirely on the scratch on your temple.

"Stay still," he whispered. He soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic.

"Does it hurt?" he asked softly, his breath fanning over the skin of your cheek as he carefully dabbed at the blood.

My goodness gracious.

You squeezed your eyes shut again. He’s right there. He’s wide open. Just reach into the hem, break the glass, and drive it into his neck. Kill him. Kill him. Kill—

But something about the way his breath felt against your skin and the unexpected gentleness of his hands made you think about how easy it would be to just... lean forward.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice dropping to a register that made your toes curl. "I'm being gentle, aren't I? You don't have to look like you're bracing for an execution."

His palm came to rest flat against the side of your neck to hold you steady. "You know," he whispered, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. "If you keep your eyes shut that long, I might think you're waiting for something else."

The sheer audacity of his words acted like a bucket of ice water over your head. You jerked back, the stool screeching against the tile floor as you created distance between you. 

"Hold on," you stammered, your voice cracking in a way that made you want to crawl under the kitchen island and stay there forever. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day and you're being... too close. Personal space, Satoru-san! Remember?”

Satoru didn't look offended. He sat there on the lower stool, looking up at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated mischief. Those crystalline eyes were dancing with light. 

"Personal space? I seem to remember you clinging to my shirt pretty tightly when that bridge went down. You weren't worried about space then."

"That was a life-threatening emergency!" you snapped. You turned your back to him, pretending to be very interested in a bowl of fruit on the counter while your heart tried to leap out of your throat. "And also, this is just first aid. No need to be so intense.”

"Intense?" He let out a low, musical chuckle. "I was just cleaning a scratch. If you're finding that 'intense', I hate to think what happens when I actually try."

The double meaning hung in the air, thick and sweet like the zunda mochi from earlier. You should have done it. You should have ended him while he was looking at you with that soft, unguarded gaze. But you were just standing here, blushing like a schoolgirl because he made a joke about kissing you.

"I'm going to my room," you managed to choke out, not daring to turn around. "I'll... I'll finish the Shinjuku report in the morning."

"Suit yourself," Satoru said, his tone returning to that casual, breezy lilt that made you want to scream. "But hey, make sure you treat that scratch properly. I’d hate for you to wake up with a scar. It would ruin such a nice view.”

You ducked into your room and leaned your back against the door, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.

Slowly, you slid down the wood until you were sitting on the floor, burying your face in your knees. Your skin still felt like it was buzzing where his fingers had touched your jaw.

"Idiot," you hissed to yourself, the word muffled by your fabric. "You're a total idiot.”

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

The sun filtered through the minimalist blinds of the apartment the next morning, casting sharp, golden slats across the kitchen tile. You hadn't slept—not really. By 7:00 AM, you were in the kitchen, your movements mechanical and precise. You needed to do something with your hands, something that wasn't holding a blade.

You prepared a traditional breakfast: grilled salted mackerel, miso soup with silken tofu, and a side of tamagoyaki. But, knowing Satoru, you also plated a stack of thick, fluffy pancakes topped with an obnoxious amount of whipped cream and a side of high-end maple syrup.

"Mmm, something smells like heaven," a sleepy, low voice rumbled behind you.

You didn't have to turn around to know he was there. 

Satoru was leaning against the doorframe, clad in a simple grey t-shirt and loose black lounge pants. His hair was a mess—wild, white tufts sticking out in every direction—and he hadn't put his blindfold on yet. He looked soft, approachable, and infuriatingly handsome in the morning light.

He stood right beside you, his arm brushing yours as he reached for a strawberry. He popped it into his mouth, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"You look like you didn't sleep a wink," he noted. He reached out, his fingers ghosting near the bandage on your temple. "How’s the head?"

You kept your eyes on the stove, flipping a pancake with more force than necessary. "The head is fine, Satoru-san. Please sit down before the fish gets cold.”

"So formal," he sighed, though he finally slid onto the stool. He didn't start eating immediately. "It makes me wonder... what kind of life did you lead before this? You’re so good at taking care of things, but you’re terrible at letting anyone take care of you.”

"I had a very disciplined upbringing," you said, your voice tight as you carefully slid the final pancake onto his plate. "Service is a virtue where I come from. It’s not about being taken care of… it’s about being useful."

"Useful," Satoru repeated, the word sounding strange in his mouth. He picked up a fork and poked at the grilled mackerel, but his eyes—those terrifyingly beautiful eyes—remained fixed on you. "That's a cold way to live. Sounds like something a weapon would say, not a person.”

He took a huge bite of the fish, moaning in exaggerated delight. He chewed slowly, watching you move around the kitchen to clean up. "By the way," he said with his mouth full. "We're going to the Jujutsu High infirmary later. Shoko wants to see you, she wants to do a medical check-up on you." 

Your blood ran cold. Shoko Ieiri. If she got you on an exam table, she might find more than just a scratch. She might find the traces of the specialized training etched into your body and the unhealed wounds from his Red attack.

"I actually can't, Satoru-san," you said, your voice remarkably steady as you turned to face him, a stack of clean plates in your hands. "I have scheduled an administrative meeting with the higher-ups this afternoon."

Satoru paused, a forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. He tilted his head, his blue eyes narrowed slightly. "The higher-ups? They're really working you to the bone, aren't they? I should tell them to back off. You're my assistant, not their errand girl."

"It's just protocol," you insisted, moving to put the plates away. "I'll be back before dinner."

"Hmm." Satoru set his fork down and stood up, strolling over to where you stood. He leaned against the counter, boxing you in with his sheer presence. "But I’ll drop you off. After yesterday, I’m not letting you wander around alone."

A drop-off was better than an exam table, but it meant more time in his presence.

"I can take the train," you started to protest.

"Nope! Gojo-Air is free today," he chirped, already reaching for his blindfold on the counter. He wrapped it around his head with practiced ease, once again hiding those piercing eyes.

"Finish your breakfast first, Satoru-san," you commanded, pointing a soapy finger toward the stool he had just vacated. "I didn't spend forty minutes over a hot stove just for you to let the food get cold."

He blinked and paused with his hand halfway to his blindfold. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face. "Are you... scolding me?" he asked.

"Just sit down and finish," you muttered, turning back to the sink to hide the sudden, traitorous heat rising in your cheeks. You scrubbed a plate with unnecessary vigor, the soap bubbles splashing against your wrists. "It’s a waste of good ingredients otherwise.”

"Yes, ma'am!" he chirped, sliding back onto the stool with exaggerated obedience. "I wouldn't want to incur the wrath of my very scary, very bossy assistant. I'll eat every bite, I promise.”

You kept your back to him, focusing on the water running over your hands. What are you doing bossing him around like a spouse or a close friend, caring for the very life you had been ordered to extinguish? 

"There," he said after a few minutes, the sound of a ceramic plate being pushed away signaling he was done. "Happy now?"

You finally turned around, drying your hands on a towel. He was standing by the door, his blindfold perfectly adjusted, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. 

"Very," you said softly. "Let's go. I don't want to be late for the meeting."

"Right. Let's go see the old farts," he chirped, stepping toward you. "Stay close. Gojo-Air is departing in three... two…”

"Wait, no! No teleporting," you blurted out, holding up a hand. "It makes me nauseous. Let's... let's just take the train. Please."

Satoru paused, his head tilting like a curious cat. "The train? But that’ll take forty minutes! We could be there in a blink." He looked at your pale face and sighed dramatically, though his lips were twitching. "Fine, fine. The scenic route it is." 

The train car rattled softly as it sped toward the city. You sat side-by-side, your shoulder occasionally brushing his as the train swayed. You watched Satoru out of the corner of your eye. He was annoying, sure, but he was genuinely good. 

You watched him interact with the world. He helped a woman lift a heavy suitcase into the overhead rack and made a silly face at a toddler who was staring at his blindfold. He was loud and often lacked a filter, but there was a genuine warmth in how he treated people. He didn't look down on the mundane parts of life; he seemed to savor them. You could feel it in the way he never looked down on anyone, even though he literally stood above everyone else.

By the time you reached the Jujutsu High School, the weight in your chest had become unbearable. How could you ever have been a weapon meant for someone so full of life?

He insisted on walking you right up to the heavy, iron-bound doors of the council chamber. The traditional wood and stone of the estate felt like a mausoleum compared to the vibrant city you had just traveled through.

"Go on," he urged. "I’ll just wait here."

Your meeting was a nightmare. Inside the dimly lit room, shielded by screens, the elders were furious. They didn't care about the bridge incident; they cared about the fact that Satoru Gojo was still breathing.

"The date is set for tomorrow night," a raspy voice whispered from behind a veil. "If his heart does not stop by dawn, yours will. We cannot risk him uncovering our hand. If he finds out we sent you, he will burn this council to the ground."

You emerged from the building with a cold sweat clinging to your skin, the sunlight feeling too bright and too exposing. Satoru was right where you left him, tossing a coin into the air and catching it. He straightened up as soon as he saw you, his blindfold turning toward your pale face.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," he remarked, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 

Just when you were about to answer, his phone buzzed. He checked it and sighed. "Another Special Grade near the station. Sorry, duty calls again."

He patted your shoulder. "Walk home carefully. Don't take any shortcuts, okay?”

You were walking back to the apartment alone, the sounds of the bustling city muffled as if you were underwater. The faces of the people passing by were nothing but a blur.

Tomorrow night. 

If you fail, the higher-ups will dispose of you to protect themselves from Satoru’s wrath. They know that if he ever discovered their conspiracy, his retribution would be absolute.

I've never been so under pressure, you thought, your pace slowing as the apartment building comes into view. The silence of the apartment is deafening as you step inside. You didn't turn on the lights. You just stood there in the entryway, the weight of the world crushing the air out of your lungs.

Why is it so hard?

You leaned your forehead against the cool wood of the door. There was no 'after' for you. If you killed the strongest man alive, the world would lose its balance and you would have to live with the blood of a savior on your hands.

You slid down the door to the floor, your breath coming in shallow hitches. Your mind was a battlefield. You’ve taken lives before. Killing is supposed to be mechanical, like breathing. But as you recalled the way he saved your life, the way he carefully cleaned the grit from your wound with steady hands, your hands started to shake so violently.

Am I getting weak? 

To a sorcerer-assassin, 'weakness' is synonymous with 'feeling'. And Satoru Gojo has spent the last few days forcing you to feel everything—frustration, embarrassment, even a flicker of safety.

You looked down at your hands. They were still shaking. 

The apartment remained pitch black as the minutes bled into hours. You didn't move to turn on a lamp or even take off your coat. You simply sat on the floor of the entryway, your back against the wood, watching the shadows of the window frames shift slowly across the opposite wall.

It wasn't until a key turned in the lock that the door you were leaning against vibrated.

Satoru was home.

He didn't push the door hard; he seemed to sense you're there. He eased it open just enough to see you crumpled on the floor. He’s covered in soot and the faint purple ichor of a curse, looking exhausted, but the second he saw you, his posture shifted.

"Hey," he said, his voice low. He crouched down so he was at eye level with you. He didn't ask why you were in the dark. He just reached out and rested a hand on your head, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they combed through your hair.

There it was—the warmth that was starting to become familiar, filling your cold and anxious body like a slow-burning hearth. You felt his thumb brush against your temple, right over the band-aid. The heat of him seemed to pulse in time with your own frantic heart, grounding you in a way that made the dark room feel like a sanctuary.

"You're shaking," Satoru murmured. He shifted, sitting down on the floor right there in the entryway with you, his long legs cramped in the narrow space. He ignored the soot on his clothes and the blood on his hands, focusing entirely on the girl sitting in front of him.

"Is it the higher-ups? Did they say something to scare you?" His voice was sharp. "Because I told you. As long as you're with me, they can't touch you. I don't care what 'protocol' they hide behind."

You looked at him intensely. He was offering you everything… protection and warmth. But all you had for him was a death hidden in your palm.

"Satoru..." you whispered, his name finally slipping past your lips without the formal suffix. 

He stilled. His hand stopped moving in your hair, his fingers resting protectively against the back of your head. "Yeah? I'm listening."

The silence of the hallway stretched, broken only by your ragged breathing. You felt like a bird trapped in a storm, and he was the only eye of the hurricane… calm and devastatingly bright.

"If someone... if someone was born for a single, terrible purpose... can they ever really be anything else?" You looked down at your hands, the skin pale and trembling. Your entire existence had been curated by the clan—every meal, every scar, every hour of sleep had been an investment in a killing machine.

"What if I've committed sins I can't wash off?" you choked out. "How do you know if a person is actually worth saving? Does everyone really get a second chance?"

"A single, terrible purpose?" he repeated softly. He tilted his head, and for the first time, he pulled the blindfold down completely, letting it hang around his neck. 

"The world is full of people who think they can decide what someone is 'for'," he said. "The higher-ups, the clans... they love to turn people into tools. It’s easier for them to handle a blade than a person.”

He reached down and gently unfurled your fingers. His palm was warm, a steadying anchor against your cold, clammy skin.

"Sins don't wash off," he admitted, his gaze steady. "I've got plenty of blood on my hands. Being the 'Strongest' doesn't mean you're the holiest. But 'worth' isn't something you're born with or something you lose. It’s something you choose every time you wake up."

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. "You want to know if everyone gets a second chance? No. Most people are too scared to take one. A second chance isn't a gift. It’s a choice to burn down the path everyone else built for you and start walking your own."

He squeezed your hand and looked you straight in the eyes with a terrifying, beautiful clarity.

"I don't save people because they're 'worth' it. I save them because I can. And if you’re asking me if you can be something else..." He smiled, a small, genuine tilt of the lips. "I think you already are."

The silence that followed was no longer heavy with dread, but with a strange, shimmering peace. You weren't scared to die—you had been raised for a grave since the moment you could hold a knife. But after hearing him speak, the path ahead became blindingly clear.

You would not hurt him. You could not. If the price of your humanity was your life, then you were finally ready to pay it. And if you were to die tomorrow, then you would die by grace—no longer a ghost, no longer a weapon, but someone who had chosen their own heart over their orders.

Even if the higher-ups came for your head, even if the clan erased your name from their records, you would not extinguish the light in front of you.

You squeezed his hand—a firm, desperate pressure that conveyed everything your voice couldn't. The warmth of his skin felt like a solid anchor, dragging you out of the cold, dark depths of your upbringing and into the present moment.

"Thank you," you whispered. The words felt small against the magnitude of what he had just given you… a soul. 

You didn't tell him about the higher-ups' ultimatum. You didn't tell him that by tomorrow night, your life might be forfeit. You simply looked into those boundless blue eyes and committed every detail of his face to memory, just in case it was the last thing you ever saw.

I'll tell him tomorrow, you thought, a bittersweet ache blooming in your chest. I’ll tell him I have to resign. I’ll tell him I can’t be his assistant anymore.

Satoru watched you, his expression uncharacteristically guarded. He didn’t push for more words. He just reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as his fingers traced the line of your jaw. You breathed him in, a silent prayer to a world that had never been kind to you until him. You committed the heat of his palm to memory, knowing that by this time tomorrow, you would likely be cold. 

Your chest felt so warm despite the impending doom waiting for you. You didn't have a name for what you felt, but you knew his life was now more precious to you than your own. Was this love? Maybe it was. Maybe you loved him.

Because you loved his warmth, you couldn't extinguish it. Because you loved the way he made you feel safe, you were willing to walk into the jaws of the higher-ups to keep that safety intact for him.

You loved him enough to die. 

He pulled you forward, wrapping his arms around you in a loose, protective embrace. For a moment, you let yourself be small. You breathed in the scent of his uniform, memorizing the rhythm of his heart—the very heart you were supposed to stop.

There will be no tomorrow for us, you thought, a single tear finally escaping and disappearing into the fabric of his uniform. So I will take this second. I will take this breath. I will take this warmth and carry it into the dark.

[abd-1999]

Cry for Help from Beneath the Rubble

No words can describe the suffering we endure here in Gaza. Life no longer feels like life. Today, with the border crossings closed once again and humanitarian aid halted, our suffering has doubled. Even the most basic necessities have become an unattainable luxury. Like thousands of other families, my family struggles to survive in this nightmare. We live among the rubble, carrying water from long distances because our infrastructure has been destroyed. Prices have skyrocketed, making food and medicine nearly impossible to afford.

Every day is a new battle, and every moment without food, medicine, or hope adds to our pain. We ask for nothing but the right to live, the right to safety, and the right to find someone who will stand with us in this darkness. To everyone who can help, to every heart that beats with compassion my family needs you. Every contribution, no matter how small, could mean the difference between life and death. Please, don’t leave us alone in this suffering.

Donate to Help abdulrahman from Gaza, organized by Anonymous Allan

Hello my name is Leon I am from Ireland. I am currently fundraising for my friend Abdulrah… Anonymous Allan needs your support for Help abd

[rosierecs13]

⭒ Richard 'Dick' Grayson Recs

⭒ Masterpost ⭒ 12/29/2025

⭒ Detective Comics (DC)

⭒ Batfamily Masterlist

Much Loved Sister In Law | @lazydoodlesandfanfic

5 Times Dick Grayson tried to kiss you and the 1 time he did | @cipheress-to-k-pop

A Simple Favor (Drabble) | @/cipheress-to-k-pop

Tell Me Something (Drabble) | @/cipheress-to-k-pop

romantic vs platonic  | @/cipheress-to-k-pop

academic rivals | @/cipheress-to-k-pop

Wedding Mishap | @/cipheress-to-k-pop

Supernova: Masterlist  | @/cipheress-to-k-pop

Circus Freak | @/cipheress-to-k-pop

Future Mrs. G | @cait-writes-stuff

Cursed Circus | @avengerdragoness

codename: nightingale - season one masterlist | @shadowsndaisies

sparks fly | @wxnderlustfandoms

You and Robin have known each other since you both became sidekicks at roughly the same time. And when you joined the team, you realized that you felt different with him than you did with anyone else. Maybe this mission will finally help you both confess your feelings

The Potty Mouth | @dccomicsimagines

Innocence, pt 2 | @/dccomicsimagines

In Altercations Long and Fierce | @internalsealpanic

4 times you fight the team plus 1 time you fight along side them.

sunset anew  | @sanguineterrain

You're a little nervous to become the Mrs. Grayson. Luckily, your husband-to-be knows just what to say to soothe your worries.

Wayne gala | @velvet-milk

a wayne gala is already a huge spectacle on it's own. add three tiny kids to the mix, your husband dick grayson, and it's a full-blown circus.

dating dick grayson would include | @girlkisser13

Fool Me Twice (four times) | @er-osion

The four times Dick’s family thought they caught him in a relationship with someone, the one time there’s confirmation

Planning a surprise party but they think you’re cheating | @amoebadue

He calls you clingy | @/amoebadue

Miraculous partners | @aanaws

Nightwing is in love with his partner. You. But you're head over heels for your coworker, Dick Grayson. OR miraculous ladybug plot between you and dick.

𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 | @t1mbits

dick grayson can’t seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does!

dick grayson x bruce’s secretary!reader

DAD? | @edawgz

DICK GRAYSON has been dating you for quite a while, and though you’ve met Alfred and his many siblings, you never met his father… And then when you did you accidentally called him dad.

what a handsome little vampire | @njghtiee

you and your boyfriend dick decide to take his little brother damian trick or treating for the first time after dick managed to convince him. damian ends up enjoying the night and the companionship of both of you and you realize maybe you're not that bad with kids

teenage crush | @/njghtiee

what happens when your little sister tells nightwing you used to have a huge crush on the first robin when you were a teenager? and the worst part, you have no clue that robin just found out and oh, he's not letting you live that down.

gotham’s nicest girl, part 2 | @/njghtiee

dick grayson can't help but simp for gotham's academy nicest girl, this time is completely different though. he's not cocky and he doesn't tease because he simply can't, you make him shy and awkward and he's not used to this

Honeymoon Chaos | @bloomcissa

You read thirst comments about your husband!

Patch Me Up | @tacticaldiary

Dick noses into the crook of her neck, lips pressing against her jugular as she straights up, runs a hand through his hair, nails scraping his scalp just the way he likes. “All done.” A quiet voice, so sweet he could listen to it on loop till the day he dies. “Lets get you to bed now. I don’t want you toppling out of the stool and ruining all my hard work.”

HIS BEST ASSET | @pinksrry

You accidentally find out your boyfriend is a vigilante… In your defense his ass is really remarkable.

[amidstedenslush]

Twilight Zone ⋆｡°✩ - Masterlist

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Reader

Synopsis: You are Talia al Ghul’s daughter, kept in the dark and trained by the League of Assassins. Trying to escape your past, you move to Blüdhaven and start dating sweetheart cop Dick Grayson. Neither of you knows the first thing about the other. After the honeymoon phase fades, suspicions rise and trust begins to crack. ~Inspired by Mr. and Mrs. Smith ♡—————————————————————————

♡ CHAPTER 1.

♡ CHAPTER 2.

♡ CHAPTER 3.

♡ CHAPTER 4.

♡ CHAPTER 5.

♡ CHAPTER 6.

♡ CHAPTER 7.

♡ CHAPTER 8.

♡ CHAPTER 9.

♡ CHAPTER 10.

—————————————————————————

[acid-ixx]

— masterlist !

i'm thinking of this one au where it's not really a neglected batfam fic but it's within the timeline of again &. again. a darker fic, where instead of being taken in by the family, you were left to fend for yourself after your mother's death— which basically turned you into a version where you're more traumatized than you are with the awareness that bruce, who was supposed to be your father to take you in, never once came to find you after the incident.

which cues to you following your mother's footsteps: becoming the same wo/maneater. but instead of working in the streets or finding bars to perform and sell your body to— you force yourself to learn to be more promiscuous at an early age, find your mother's old clients, become trained by other criminals associated with her— your mentors aren't the greatest, they only use you to up their customer counts, they don't care about you, whether you cry or not, whether the clothes you wear are too tight or if you're tight in budget to even afford food.

you're exposed to the cruelty of the world at an early age. learn that bluntness, letting go of any empathy for people will be the only thing keeping you alive.

leading to your adult life: you became an underground model. with no known last name, with the reputation of an enchantress. your life is shrouded in mysteries, in conspiracy theories and endless rumors and dirt about your name—

but that doesn't matter, scratch that, your point of view doesn't matter because in this fic idea, i just want to focus mainly on how the batfamily starts becoming obsessed with you. i want to create something inherently focusing on their perspective of it all.

your mystery, your allure, your overall poise and stage presence. maybe bruce once forced himself to watch one of those boring runway performances, and he just sees you and sees himself in you—

which leads to this: one day of finally being able to attend one of bruce's fancy galas, courtesy of a very personal invitation from bruce from backstage. each member of the family manages to have one single interaction with you. any casual talk, any jokes thrown their way, a dance with one, a light, almost hesitant laugh to another— colored contacts hiding the ugly dimness which in turn piques tim's interest, makes him want to dissect your thoughts.

like, i don't know if i'm formulating my thoughts coherently enough for this concept to be entertained. but to sum it all up, just imagine those shows where it's told through a perspective of multiple people focusing on one cryptid, on a case long unsolved, a creature which holds no known record to human history— and soon those people's lives become revolved around that one mystery, consumed by familiarity at most.

because you are part of their family, none of them ever knew until the very end. think of that horrendous tom taylor plot twist within the nightwing run where there's this one girl who confessed being dick's long lost sister— now imagine you actively trying your best to stay unknown to them, long since given up through idolizing them through broken tv screens and focusing on yourself instead. you're well aware they're up to something, that they're pinning their curiosity onto you—

cue to me telling alexa to play anxiety by doechii, where like i said: not one thing is revealed about your thoughts unlike in the original a&a series, but rather me writing a series of everyone else's personal thoughts on you and how they each spiral into straight up obsession and the need to keep you for themselves despite never knowing why really.

because in their eyes, you've always been just a model who randomly piqued their attention. they never knew that you were always connected to them from the start— not until the very end at least.

any thoughts on this idea or do i scrap it?

just send in a comment or an ask because i'm in a writing crunch hehe.

[velvet-milk]

♡ 𖥻 girl, so confusing ──── dick grayson x kryptonian!reader.

┆PARING .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader.

┆SUMMARY .ᐟ being superman’s kryptonian protégé was complicated, but teaming up with robin made it worse. from chaotic missions to endless arguments as adults, the two of you clashed at every turn. everyone else saw enemies. clark and bruce saw something deeper. though calling it hate was simpler than admitting the truth.

┆WARNINGS .ᐟ enemies to lovers. slowburn. kryptonian!reader. clark kent is your mentor. kryptonian biology. sexual tension. +18, just a little smutty, angry make out. switch!reader and switch!dick grayson. reader is supergirl. dick grayson is nightwing/robin. reader is totally inspired by kara zor-el's background. also inspired by the runs "batman/superman: world's finest", "woman of tomorrow" and the animation "legion of superheros (2023)". this is the first part.

┆NOTES .ᐟ ──── So, guys, this is a long one, so buckle up and get comfy in your bed. You have no idea how happy I am to finally write something with a kryptonian reader! Most of the information I took from the comics, but when it comes to their biology, I got a little creative. Don't forget that, unlike Clark Kent, reader was raised under Krypton's culture and way of thinking. She's always a kryptonian first and human second.

ACT I ── I CAN GO ANYWHERE I WANT, JUST NOT HOME.

You remember everything as clearly as if it were happening again.

The day Krypton died is etched into your mind with a sharpness that makes your chest ache. The skies glowed a deep, unnatural red, and the ground beneath your feet trembled as if the planet itself were screaming. Crystal towers shivered on their foundations, and the streets you had walked a hundred times seemed to fracture before your eyes. Your home, your friends, your family, the countless memories of a civilization that had thrived for millennia, all of it was gone in an instant.

But before the chaos, there had been normal days.

You remember the mornings, waking in a crystal chamber that gleamed with the soft light of Rao. Your mother’s voice called you to lessons in physics and planetary studies, while your father prepared holographic models for the Science Council meetings. As a fourteen-year-old, you had been curious and wide-eyed, running along the skywalks that arched between spires, your mind full of experiments and questions about the stars. You and your friends would race through the gardens of floating platforms, the air clean and shimmering, filled with the hum of energy fields and the soft glimmer of floating light-orbs. Even in a society that prized discipline, there was enough space for laughter and love.

Then came the tremors.

You could still feel the subtle vibrations underneath your feet, like the pulse of some living heart deep beneath the planet’s crust. When Jor-El arrived at the Council, his voice was urgent, almost desperate. You could see it in your parents’ faces, the disbelief giving way to terror as the calculations were displayed, showing the core’s instability and the inevitable end of Krypton. Unlike the babies sent to safety, you could understand what was happening, feel the weight of knowledge crushing the room.

Your parents were among the few who truly believed him. The rest of the Council refused to acknowledge the danger, blinded by hubris and tradition. You remember the panic, the last instructions, the frantic whispers as your parents led you to the small spacecraft that would carry you away. Unlike Kal-El, who had been an infant and could only rely on instinct, you were awake, aware, able to see your world one last time. Crystal towers glowing, gardens suspended in the air, streets emptying as kryptonians run and scream in confusion.

All beneath the crimson light of Rao.

The launch itself was both terrifying and surreal. You felt the engines roar beneath you, the ship trembling as it tore away from the surface. Looking back, you saw the planet convulse, fissures racing across the continents like cracks in glass. Then came the blinding explosion, a flash that consumed everything, even the memory of home. You were hurled into the void, your body protected by the ship, your mind swirling with grief, fear, and the impossible responsibility of being one of the few left to carry Krypton’s legacy.

And as the stars grew around you, distant and cold, you held onto the memory of life before the end. The laughter of your friends in the gardens, the lessons in crystal classrooms, the smell of ozone in the city, and the warmth of your parents’ loving hands. They had saved you, given you a chance to live, and now the weight of survival pressed against your chest, heavier than any gravity you had ever known.

For thirty years, you floated through the void, suspended in the strange, timeless silence of the Phantom Zone. Time there was not like time on Krypton, it stretched and folded, leaving you both awake and dreamlike, yet utterly still. You had no gravity, no sunlight, no passage of seasons, only the dim echo of your own thoughts. At first, you clung to the images of your home, trying desperately to remember every detail. But as decades slipped by, those memories began to blur, and the world you had known became a distant, glowing shadow in your mind.

Then came the release.

Your small spacecraft emerged from the Phantom Zone and drifted into the solar system, finally under a sun that was not Rao. Earth’s yellow light bathed the ship, awakening your kryptonian cells. You were still a little girl, your body unchanged by the thirty years of suspended existence, though your mind carried the weight of centuries of grief.

When the ship finally touched down in a quiet, green valley, you emerged into a reality that was entirely foreign. Towering trees replaced crystal spires, the sky a brilliant blue instead of the red hue of your home. The air smelled of rain and earth, and you felt the strange warmth of gravity tugging at your limbs. It was then that they found you, a kind couple, ordinary in every way, yet their eyes held a warmth that reminded you faintly of your parents’ kindness. They took you in, gave you clothes that were soft and unfamiliar, and taught you the ways of Earth. They became your family in every sense that mattered, shielding you from the pain of loss while giving you a new place to call your own.

You soon realized that your spacecraft had not landed in some pristine, hidden place but had crashed into what your adoptive parents called a “lake house,” tucked away in a quiet, green stretch. The house itself was quaint, fragile, and utterly unlike the towering crystal spires and skywalks you had grown up with. It seemed almost laughably small, as if someone had shrunk a building down to toy size.

And then, one day, they took you to where they actually lived, a weird place called Chicago.

You could hardly believe your eyes. The city sprawled chaotically across the land, with buildings that scraped the sky yet felt crude, uneven, and disorganized compared to the gleaming symmetry of Kandor. Streets were cluttered with vehicles and people moving in every direction, honking and shouting, a jumble of noise and motion. There were no crystal towers rising effortlessly above the clouds, no floating platforms, no radiant light reflecting from perfectly smooth surfaces. Everything felt harsh and crude, a primitive world still learning to organize itself, stumbling blindly through its own chaos.

It’s easy to say your first days in the big city were overwhelming.

School was a particular challenge.

Children of your age ran about, shouting, laughing, and sometimes arguing, entirely unstructured and unpredictable. Their lessons seemed chaotic, with no grand libraries of holographic data or floating classrooms. Instead, there were chalkboards, books, and a teacher who spoke with patience but no sense of the precision or clarity you had been accustomed to. You longed for the clean order of Krypton’s education halls, where every lesson had a perfect sequence and every problem a clear solution.

“Poor girl,” your new mother murmured softly as you chewed the piece of bread, its rough texture strange against your tongue. You sat by the kitchen window, watching the sky beyond the glass, a vast stretch of blue where birds moved together in graceful, uncoordinated patterns. It was chaotic, yet beautiful in its own way.

Life here was unlike anything you had known. Humanity seemed almost careless in its living, their homes uneven, their routines imperfect, their emotions unguarded. Yet there was something comforting about it all. The normalcy of human life had its own quiet rhythm, its own fragile charm. They didn’t obsess over perfection or order like your people once did, instead, they embraced the mess of existence. Your adoptive parents tried to explain it all, the concept of “neighborhoods,” of “seasons,” of “holidays.” Words that felt clumsy and strangely disconnected, like fragments of a language not yet refined.

Still, you listened. You watched. You learned.

And everything was at peace, for a while.

It all began on an ordinary morning, or as ordinary as life on Earth could ever feel. The sunlight filtered weakly through the apartment windows, spilling across the faded wooden floor. You sat at the kitchen table, half-listening to the sound of your adoptive father flipping pancakes while the hum of the city buzzed faintly beyond the glass. Chicago was already awake, cars honking, trains screeching, the whole world moving in its loud, imperfect rhythm.

Then, for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

The sunlight shifted, brighter and warmer. It touched your skin, and a pulse shot through your body like a sudden heartbeat that wasn’t your own. You froze. The fork in your hand bent without you realizing it, metal twisting as easily as soft clay.

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

Your father turned around, puzzled. “Sweetheart? You okay?”

You forced a shaky smile, hiding the ruined fork beneath your napkin. But the feeling didn’t fade, it grew. The air seemed sharper, your hearing too clear. You could hear the soft tick of the kitchen clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator, even the sound of footsteps two floors above. Your heart raced. Every sound, every vibration, every breath in the apartment became distinct and overwhelming.

You stumbled to your bedroom, clutching your head. The sunlight followed you, streaming through the curtains, wrapping you in gold. And then it happened again, your hand brushed the edge of the dresser, and it splintered under your touch. Panic surged. You tried to steady yourself, but the floor groaned as if protesting your weight.

You took a deep breath, staring at your trembling hands. The light was everywhere now, every beam from the window felt alive, humming through your veins. You stepped closer to the window, your heart pounding so loudly it filled your ears.

You pushed the window open and leaned into the sunlight.

It was blinding.

And then you lifted.

It wasn't graceful, more like the world had forgotten to hold you down. You rose a few feet before panic snapped you back, sending you tumbling into a pile of blankets and books.

The crash echoed through the apartment.

Your mother rushed in, eyes wide. “Honey, are you all right? What was that sound?”

You looked up at her, your breath coming in quick gasps, the window curtains fluttering in the sudden draft. “I… I don’t know,” you whispered. But deep down, you did. The warmth in your veins, the weightlessness, the impossible strength, they were all echoes of what you were.

Kryptonian.

Later, as you stood alone by the window again, the city lights stretched below you and the sun sank over the skyline. You felt its energy coursing through you still. That was how you discovered what the yellow sun had done to you, how its light reshaped every cell, every breath, every heartbeat. Beneath its warmth, your body became something entirely different.

Magnificent and terrifying.

But you soon learned you weren’t the only one with extraordinary abilities. Humans had their own kind of champions, people in masks and capes who called themselves heroes, rushing into danger to save the day. You saw their images on television, heard their names whispered with admiration, yet you never paid them much attention. Krypton hadn’t needed “heroes.” It had order, science, and the Military Guild, a force powerful enough to maintain peace across an entire world.

At least, that’s what you had believed.

Before the core began to tremble.

Then, one evening, as the golden light of sunset poured through the apartment windows, you saw him. The television screen flickered with images of a man soaring through the air wrapped in blue and red. You froze. The newscaster’s voice faded into nothing as your eyes locked on the emblem on his chest.

That symbol.

Your breath caught. You knew it instantly, though you hadn’t seen it since Krypton’s final days, the crest of the House of El. The mark of Jor-El. It gleamed bright against his suit, unmistakable and impossible. He was kryptonian. He had to be.

You moved closer to the screen, your heart hammering in your chest. Every emotion you’d buried since the explosion came rushing back all at once. He spoke to the world in calm, steady words about hope, justice, and protecting life, but you barely heard him. All you could see was the echo of your home, alive again in that one symbol.

For a moment, you almost cried. After months of silence, of pretending to be human, of believing you were utterly alone in the universe… there he was.

Someone from Krypton.

You didn’t even think. The next thing you knew, the window was open, the air whipping past your face as you shot into the sky. The city lights of Chicago blurred beneath you. You didn’t know how to stop, didn’t care, your heart led you east, faster and faster, toward the shining skyline of Metropolis.

The impact had left a crater in the concrete. You sat at its center, dazed, smoke curling around the edges. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, and before you could gather your bearings, a shadow fell over you. Superman was already there, cape rippling, eyes calm and steady, the crest of El burning bright in the sunlight.

He landed lightly, as if gravity obeyed him out of respect.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice steady but kind.

You looked up at him, heart pounding, unable to find your words. “You’re real,” you whispered. “You… you’re from Krypton.”

You rose easily from the cratered ground, not a scratch on your body, even though the impact had left a massive hole in downtown Metropolis. Your gaze couldn’t leave his chest, locked on the familiar symbol, the emblem you had known your entire life.

“Is… your dad Jor-El?” you whispered, voice trembling.

For a moment, he just stared, surprise flickering across his features.

“How…?” he began, uncertain.

“I know your family,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know your parents...”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with history and loss. He took a slow step closer, his eyes softening, understanding dawning.

Your eyes filled with tears as you stumbled closer, wrapping your arms around him. You clung to his broad chest, sobbing uncontrollably, the child within you surfacing for the first time in months.

“Our home… it’s gone. F-forever,” you stammered between gasps, your voice breaking. “I… I watched it… explode from the spacecraft… your dad made it for me…”

He held you gently, letting you cry, his presence steady and grounding. For the first time since Krypton’s death, you allowed yourself to feel the weight of everything you had lost, the towers, the gardens, your friends, your family, all swept away in fire and light.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered softly, his hands resting on your shoulders. “I’ll help you. We’ll carry it together.”

So you let yourself be small again in his arms, letting the grief pour out as the two of you bonded over the memory of a dead planet, one that had shaped everything you were and everything you were yet to become. The day you destroyed half of downtown Metropolis, you didn’t just gain a mentor, you gained a father figure and a friend.

Your parents easily accepted Superman’s presence in your life. In truth, they were more relieved than anything else. Finally, someone who actually understood what was happening to their child. Clark was patient, calm, and endlessly kind, guiding you through every new and terrifying discovery as your powers began to unfold. For your parents, his presence was a gift, a steady anchor in a storm they couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Still, it wasn’t easy.

You scared that poor couple more times than you could count. There were nights when your strength slipped out of control, when doors came off their hinges or furniture cracked beneath your touch. And then there was the day your heat vision first flared to life, a blinding, searing light that split the air and nearly tore the small apartment in half. You could still remember your mother’s scream, your father’s desperate attempt to cover you, and the way Superman appeared almost instantly, his calm voice cutting through the chaos like sunlight through smoke.

After that, your parents stopped seeing him as just Superman. He became something more, a mentor, a guardian, and, in many ways, the reassurance that their child wasn’t cursed, just different. Under his guidance, you learned control and purpose. And though the fear never fully left your parents’ eyes, neither did the pride.

In exchange for his infinite calm and the quiet love he showed you, you gave him everything you had, every memory, every fragment of a world long gone. You told him about your home, about Krypton and its cities of crystal and light, about the people who once walked beneath its red sun. You told him about his family, their traditions, their brilliance, their hopes for the son who would one day outlive them all. Every story you shared felt like breathing life back into ghosts, a way to keep them from fading completely.

You even told him about the tiny baby launched into the stars by Jor-El. About him. How his father’s trembling hands placed him gently into the pod, how Lara’s voice cracked as she whispered her final goodbye. You painted the picture as if you’d been there yourself, every word carrying the weight of a history he could never remember but somehow still felt in his bones.

“And they made me babysit you a lot of times,” you said, absentmindedly playing with the hem of your shirt. The two of you sat on the rooftop of your parents’ lake house in the middle of Wisconsin, the quiet shimmer of Lake Geneva stretching out beneath the summer night sky. From inside, the faint clatter of dishes and the soft hum of conversation drifted through the open windows. Your mom was making dinner after unlocking your old spacecraft, showing Kal-El the few surviving remnants of your people’s technology.

“You were a really chubby baby,” you added with a small laugh, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. For a moment, Superman, the savior of the world, just smiled.

“I wish I could remember more,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the reflection of the stars rippling across the lake, the same stars that had once carried him here. There was a quiet ache in his voice, the kind born from longing for a life he never had the chance to know.

After a long moment of comfortable silence, he turned to look at you.

“You know, kid,” he began, his voice low but thoughtful, “we were born with a gift. A beautiful one. When used well, it can help the world find peace, give people something to hold on to, something to believe in.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah… most Earthlings seem to need that. To hold onto anything that gives them comfort.”

Your mind wandered for a moment, to the image of your mom praying quietly beside your dad in the living room.

There was religion on Krypton too.

Rao was the main god of your people.

“Earthlings?” Kal-El chuckled, breaking your train of thought.

You turned to him, puzzled. “What? Aren’t they Earthlings? Earth… things? I don’t know the exact terminology of this species.”

He grinned. “You mean Homo sapiens?”

“Oh, right,” you said, nodding seriously. “The monkey cousins.”

He laughed, a genuine, bright sound that carried softly over the lake, mingling with the hum of summer air and the quiet rhythm of waves against the dock.

“Okay, we need to work on that if you ever want to become a hero,” he said, trying not to laugh again. “That sounded super xenophobic.”

“Xeno–what?” you asked, brow furrowing. “And hero?”

Kal-El sighed, smiling as he looked out over the lake again. “Yeah. Someone who helps people. Someone who protects them, even when they don’t understand you.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Sounds exhausting.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah… sometimes it is. But it’s worth it.”

You looked down at your hands. “Before the explosion… I was training to be part of the Military Guild,” you said quietly, remembering the long hours of drills, simulations, and sparring with the other teens.

Kal-El gave you a confused look, one that reminded you he was human first and kryptonian second. You smiled faintly, realizing he had no idea what the Military Guild even was.

“So… what’s the Military Guild?” he asked.

You took a deep breath and began to explain, your voice soft but steady. “It’s… the organization where kryptonians train to protect our planet. Not just in combat, but in strategy, diplomacy, and leadership. They teach you how to defend your people, how to make decisions in impossible situations… how to survive and still do what’s right. It’s honor, duty, and responsibility, all rolled into one.”

Kal-El nodded slowly, absorbing every word. “Sounds like a lot to carry for a little girl,” he said.

“It is,” you admitted, your eyes drifting to the stars above the lake. “And it was everything I wanted. Everything I thought I was meant to be. But, who knows… maybe the hero stuff is kind of similar to being part of the Military Guild,” you said slowly, glancing at him. “If the main goal is to help people, then…”

“Then?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Then… I can try,” you said, a small, determined smile tugging at your lips. “Does… Supergirl sound good?”

Kal-El’s face lit up with a soft, approving smile. “It sounds perfect,” he said. “It suits you.”

You laughed quietly, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.

ACT II ── I THINK WE’RE TOTALLY DIFFERENT BUT OPPOSITES DO ATTRACT.

Soon enough, you were soaring through the bright blue skies above Metropolis, the wind whipping past your face, the city sprawling beneath you like a living map. The symbol of the House of El gleamed proudly on your chest, the crimson and gold catching the sunlight with every turn and dive. Kal-El had convinced you that wearing the emblem and adopting the colors of his family wasn’t about forgetting your roots or your own house, but it was about joining him on his journey, sharing in the responsibility of protecting this world.

You weren’t abandoning your own surname in favor of the El family; you were honoring them and your kryptonian parents, while stepping into your new role as Supergirl. And sure, wearing his famous symbol and colors also made it easier for the citizens of Metropolis to trust you.

As you and Kal-El soared above the city, people on the streets looked up in awe. Children pointed excitedly with eyes wide. You caught glimpses of cars pulling over, cameras flashing, and people pausing their daily routines just to witness the two of you flying together. You could feel their hope, subtle but tangible, flowing up to you from the streets. Every time you swooped past a skyscraper or hovered beside Kal-El, the emblem on your chest shone like a silent and honest promise, a symbol that you weren’t just another sidekick, but a protector in your own way.

But it is still a personal and sweet promise.

A promise that you came in peace.

That the Earthlings shouldn’t fear you.

“You ready for a race?” he asked, hovering beside you, his cape fluttering like a banner behind him.

“You’re on,” you replied, your heart pounding with excitement.

With a sudden burst of speed, you shot forward, feeling the exhilaration of flight pulse through every inch of your body. Kal-El laughed, the sound carried by the wind as he matched your pace effortlessly. You weaved between skyscrapers, banking sharply around towers, diving toward the river below and then soaring back up into the sunlight.

“You’re going down!” you shouted, eyes sparkling with determination.

“Not a chance,” he teased, and in a blur of red and blue, he surged past you. You twisted, diving beneath him, laughing as you gained ground. The city became a blur of glass, steel, and sunlight as the two of you raced higher and higher, your laughter mixing with the rush of wind.

When you finally slowed, floating side by side above the glowing skyline, your chest heaving and your cheeks flushed, Kal-El looked at you with that familiar, gentle pride in his eyes.

“Not bad, Supergirl,” he said, his voice warm. “You’re a natural.”

Yes, you were. He was right.

But if only the others saw it that way.

You weren’t unfamiliar with criticism, you’d grown up in a society that demanded perfection, where even small mistakes were frowned upon. You were used to that pressure, but under the Dark Knight’s cold, assessing glare, you almost froze.

It was the first time the three of you were working together on a mission, officially as Superman’s sidekick. Metropolis was under attack by a massive, hulking humanoid tearing through downtown, and adrenaline surged through you. You dove straight for its chest and immediately lost control. Your punches sent the creature crashing into buildings, and before you could stop yourself, your heat vision flared. Blinding beams of red seared through the air, shattering windows and splintering walls. Cars were overturned, storefronts obliterated, and apartments, innocent civilians’ homes, were caught in the crossfire.

You tried to pull back, but every movement, every effort to strike, carried too much power. Each swing, each blast, left a trail of destruction. Metropolis’ streets were a chaotic blur of debris and smoke, and you could feel the weight of every shattered window and crumbled wall in your chest.

Superman swooped beside you, his calm voice cutting through the chaos. “You need to control it! Focus on precision, not strength!”

You nodded, trying to steady your breathing.

Superman and Batman had already handled the giant humanoid with ease, and now you hovered above the rubble, staring at the damage you had caused to one of the apartment buildings. The cracks from your uncontrolled heat vision ran across balconies and walls like jagged scars.

Heavy footsteps echoed behind you, and you turned to see an elderly man glaring at you.

“Don’t worry, fellow citizen of Metropolis, the giant was neutralized—” you began, but he cut you off.

“My apartment! Look what you did to my apartment, you crazy—” He pointed furiously at the cracks and crumbling balcony. “—bitch!”

“Excuse me?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I saved it. You’re welcome.”

The two of you started shouting at each other, your voices carrying over the wreckage, while Superman and Batman stood a short distance away, talking in private, but you could hear every word.

“Look, just have your robot servants build you a better place,” you suggested, trying to reason logically.

The man froze, blinking at you as if you had sprouted a second head.

“Robot servants? Government-issued robots? Construction robots? Regular robots? Any robots at all?!”

“What kind of weird hellscape are you even from?!” he demanded, incredulous.

Now it was your turn to get angry. Your voice rose, echoing over the empty street.

“Krypton is… was great! Not like your backward planet! And this place? It’s… it’s like a jungle!”

He stared at you, mouth agape, completely bewildered.

You threw your hands up, exasperated. “Honestly, I try to help, and this is the gratitude I get?!”

“Your sidekick is a problem,” Batman said, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied his longtime friend and partner in the field. “You said we could trust her.”

Kal-El’s expression tightened, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his features. “We can trust her. She’s only been on Earth a couple of months. She’s doing her best.”

“It’s not good enough,” Batman replied flatly.

You stopped bickering with the elderly man and tuned out his indignant protests, your ears sharpening to catch every word of their conversation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kal-El asked, his voice laced with barely hidden offense.

“You were so eager to meet someone alive from Krypton that you didn’t stop to consider the consequences for the rest of us mere humans,” Batman said, his tone cold and precise. “She destroyed buildings, couldn’t control her powers, and the worst part… she doesn’t seem to care. With her abilities, that makes her a threat.”

Kal-El’s jaw clenched. “I don’t like what you’re implying,” he said quietly, his usually calm tone edged with a rare firmness.

You hovered silently, fists clenched at your sides, feeling a mixture of frustration and hurt. His words stung, not because they were untrue, but because you knew you were trying. You were really trying. Yet, in his eyes, your mistakes were unforgivable.

“You know nothing about me, Earthling,” you said to Batman, your face carefully blank, though your eyes betrayed you, glistening with unshed tears.

“Listen, kid—” Superman began, his voice calm but firm, trying to reach you. But you were already gone, streaking into the sky, leaving the city and their judgment behind, if only for a few moments of solitude. The wind tore past you, but it couldn’t carry away the ache and shame in your chest. You landed hard on the rooftop of your parents’ lake house, your unofficial gateway whenever you needed to breathe. The quiet shimmer of the lake stretched before you, calm and endless, a sharp contrast to the chaos still burning in your mind.

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks as you stared at your reflection in the water below.

“Stupid Batman,” you muttered under your breath, swiping at your eyes. “Ridiculous, fragile Earthlings. Ungrateful kind…”

Your voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and you clenched your fists, angry at yourself for crying.

The air shifted behind you, a subtle change in pressure that told you he was there before he spoke.

“Kid…”

You turned sharply, glaring at him as Superman hovered just a few feet away, cape swaying softly in the night breeze.

“Go away!” you snapped, voice breaking despite your best effort to sound strong.

He sighed, landing gently beside you, the rooftop creaking under his weight. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his expression soft with understanding.

“Batman was harsh,” he finally said. “He knows it. He won’t say it out loud but he realizes he went too far. He forgets sometimes that you’re still figuring this out.”

You frowned, arms crossed tightly. “He called me a threat.”

Kal-El’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “And now he’s trying to make it up to you in his own… Batman way.”

You turned to him, suspicious. “Which means what, exactly?”

“He asked me to tell you that he’s inviting you to patrol with him and Robin,” He said. “Said it would be ‘good tactical exposure’ for you.” He chuckled lightly. “Which, translated from Bat-speak, means he’s sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “He wants me to patrol… with his sidekick?”

He nodded. “I think it’s his way of showing he knows you’re trying.”

You looked away. The lake shimmered under the moonlight.

“…Maybe I’ll go,” you muttered. “But if that little bird makes fun of me, I’m flying straight back here.”

Kal-El laughed softly. “Fair enough, Supergirl.”

You arrived in Gotham just after dusk, the city’s stone and steel swallowing the last of the light. The air tasted colder here, full of a different kind of danger, and you felt it in your bones. You hovered above an alley two blocks from Crime Alley, cape billowing, when a figure dropped out of the shadows and landed in front of you with the easy grace of someone born to fall and never break.

Robin folded his arms, one eyebrow raised like he was mildly offended you’d assumed he wouldn’t be there on time. For a heartbeat the two of you just stared at each other, strangers linked by the weird little web Batman had spun.

“Nice of you to show,” he said. He was smaller up close than you expected, lean and quick-looking. “Try not to smash anything, okay? I’m on damage-control today.”

You blinked. “You’re… responsible for me not crashing anything?” You let the incredulity hang there. “What even is your power?”

Robin’s grin went smug. “I’m fast. And apparently smarter than you.”

“Smarter than me?” You cocked your head, mock-offended. “Oh nice—being smart is your superpower. Gonna hit them with your high school diploma, or are you saving that for dramatic effect?”

Before he could retort, a chimney on the rooftop across the street collapsed from an earlier attack from Bane, the bricks tumbled free. You froze, instincts spiking. Robin was already moving, a blur of motion. He sprinted, vaulted off a fire escape, and in a few fluid, acrobatic bounds he was on the ledge beside you, hands snatching at the falling bricks.

He knew your strenght.

And your lack of control.

“Don't punch things, ok?” he said, breathless from the dash but steady. “Use a soft touch here, this whole thing is already collapsing. Don’t blast. Just—precise.”

You inhaled, forcing your heat vision to a whisper and letting your strength ease. The bricks clattered harmlessly to the pavement as you and Robin didn't let it crash the parked cars and people on the street. For a brief moment, you had to admit, he did look good. He looked like someone who’d spent a lifetime solving problems without ever needing to punch them into submission.

But that fleeting admiration didn’t last long. Moments later, he turned to you with that infuriatingly confident grin.

“Fly me to that building,” he said casually, pointing to a nearby rooftop.

You shot him an ugly look. “What?”

“Fly me,” he repeated, eyes narrowing.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? Superman does that for Batman all the time.”

“Do I look like Superman?” you snapped, voice rising.

He shrugged, unfazed. “Of course not. You’re super incompetent.”

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back at Robin, when suddenly a voice crackled through his comms.

“Robin, move out,” Batman’s gravelly tone cut through the night air.

Robin’s smirk vanished, replaced by sharp focus. “Guess that’s our cue,” he muttered, turning toward you.

“Finally,” you said under your breath, rolling your eyes. “Lead the way, Mr. Perfect.”

And with that, the patrol began.

From the start, it was chaos. Robin moved with precise, calculated efficiency, scanning rooftops, alleyways, and the streets below with methodical attention to detail. You, on the other hand… well, you were Supergirl. You could fly faster than the speed of sound, lift cars like toys, and shrug off most hazards without a scratch.

So naturally, you did things your way.

Leap after leap, dive after dive, you’d swoop down on a suspect, only to accidentally blow open a dumpster or knock over a streetlamp. Every time, Robin would hiss at you:

“Cover! Stay quiet! You’re blowing your— shit.”

His patience snapped during a particularly disastrous rooftop chase. You’d tried to corral three petty thieves, but your heat vision accidentally scorched a vent and sent smoke billowing across the street, ruining the element of surprise. Robin skidded to a halt, arms flailing.

“Are you kidding me?!” he barked. “Do you ever think before you act?!”

You hovered midair. “I am thinking! I’m thinking I can handle it! Isn’t that what heroes do?”

Robin groaned, massaging his temples. “Heroes don’t burn buildings down! Heroes don’t blow their cover! Heroes—heroes think strategically!”

“Strategically?” you shot back, circling above him. “You mean slowly and boringly. I can do anything! I have powers! That’s the point!”

He finally snapped, eyes blazing beneath his mask. “I cannot believe you right now! Powers don’t mean brains! You’re going to get someone killed with that attitude!”

You hovered there for a moment, mouth open, realizing maybe… just maybe, he had a point. But only for a second.

“I’m not done proving I can do this,” you muttered. Robin groaned again, muttering something under his breath about “reckless kryptonian pride,” and took off toward the next rooftop. You followed, already anticipating the next clash and secretly enjoying it.

Even with all your years of training on Krypton, and every lesson Kal-El had drilled into you, there was still something oddly fascinating about Robin’s reactions. The twitch of his eyebrow, the way his jaw clenched, the sheer rage that twisted his face every time you ignored his orders.

The patrol had been one long, glorious argument from start to finish. And it ended, fittingly, in chaos.

He’d asked, again, for you to fly him to the other part of the city. Far from Gotham’s downtown.

So, naturally, you grabbed him by his cape and took off.

The Boy Wonder’s furious shouting echoed through the Gotham skyline for thirteen whole minutes as he flailed in the air like an angry, overcaffeinated ragdoll. You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound of his muffled protests only made you fly faster.

“Earthlings,” you muttered to yourself, amused.

When you finally landed on a rooftop in the Narrows, you let him go, gently, of course, and he stumbled forward, hair a complete disaster, his cape twisted and tangled. His face was pure fury.

“You’re such a bossy little thing,” you said with a teasing smirk.

“Little thing?” he exploded, voice cracking with indignation. “We’re the same freaking size!”

You crossed your arms, still grinning. “Not when you’re dangling, you’re not.”

He jabbed at his comm, muttering through clenched teeth. “B, this patrol is over. And you—” he pointed at you, cape still flapping behind him like a battle flag “—never, ever do that to me again!”

You just shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You’re welcome for the free flight.”

His groan of frustration echoed through the night, and you couldn’t help the small, victorious smile tugging at your lips.

It was easy to say that Kal-El, or Clark Kent, had a few harsh words for you once Batman filled him in on what happened in Gotham. You barely had time to land back in Metropolis before he was there, arms crossed, that disappointed look etched perfectly across his face.

“You toyed with him? In the middle of Gotham’s sky?” he said, his voice calm but firm, the kind of tone that made you feel like a kid again.

You tried to defend yourself, but he cut you off, his blue eyes hardening. “You know humans are fragile!”

The words hit like a punch. He wasn’t yelling, Clark almost never yelled, but the weight in his voice was enough. You glanced down, guilt tugging at your chest.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said softly. “He was being… bossy.”

Clark sighed loud. “He’s Batman’s partner. You don’t have to like him, but you do have to respect the people you work with. Especially the ones who don’t have powers to protect themselves.”

You shifted awkwardly, crossing your arms. “I was careful.”

His gaze softened slightly, but only slightly. “Careful for you isn’t always careful for them.”

You didn’t answer. The silence between you stretched, filled only by the low hum of the city far below.

“…I’ll apologize,” you finally muttered.

Clark’s expression eased into a small smile. “That’s all I ask.”

You rolled your eyes. “Does it have to be sincere?”

“Yes.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

The next time you saw each other, Batman and Superman were knee-deep in another crisis, this time, magic was tearing through Metropolis, and the Doom Patrol was already in over their heads. In the chaos, the World’s Finest decided it was best to split up and somehow, once again, Robin and Supergirl got paired together.

From the sky, your enhanced hearing caught every word of Robin’s frustrated rant below as you lifted off toward their target zone.

“She’s impossible! And it’s not that I have a problem with aliens—Starfire’s great—but Supergirl? She’s a psycho!”

Superman shot him a look sharp enough to stop a speeding bullet.

“Don’t talk like that about her, Robin.”

“Sorry, Superman, but—”

The apology died in his throat as you descended ahead, cape flaring like a streak of sunlight through the smoke. You didn’t even look back, just swallowed the nice words you had prepared for today.

“Supergirl,” Robin said as soon as you landed.

“Monkey,” you shot back, watching his eyes go wide inside his mask.

“What did you just call me?” Robin stammered, fists clenching.

“Don’t call humans monkeys,” Superman said, beside you both, arms crossed, his tone firm.

“Y—you’re the alien freak!” Robin snapped, pointing at you, cheeks burning beneath his mask.

“Language,” Batman interjected. “Focus on the mission.”

“Alien freak, really? I’m not the right type of alien for you?” you teased, unable to hold yourself. “It’s because I don’t have orange skin and don’t kiss you goodnight?” You made exaggerated kissing noises, letting the words hang in the air.

Robin’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Shut up” he sputtered, flailing slightly.

You smirked, letting the tension hang for just a beat before turning your attention to the magical chaos around you. Robin huffed, muttering under his breath, clearly torn between anger and exasperation, while Superman pinched the bridge of his nose, and Batman simply sighed.

You were never really good with feelings, especially with creatures so different from you, even if so many biological traits made you almost physically identical. It was like watching your adoptive parents cry over something trivial, but Robin didn’t just spark curiosity in you, but something about the tension in his body, the flush on his face, even the way his hands tightened, made your own body feel suddenly warm.

When he screamed at you in the field, when he lunged mid-step as if to strangle you with both hands, you just stared at him with that dazed, wide-eyed expression that made Superman and Batman exchange subtle, knowing glances.

This time, he wasn’t just frustrated, he was about to lose control. You’d said something sarcastic and cruel, and he was already swinging his fists before he could think. Batman reacted instantly, stepping in with inhuman speed and holding Robin firmly down, one arm across his chest, the other gripping his wrists, anchoring him like a human clamp.

“Let me go!” Robin struggled, gritting his teeth, veins visible along his forehead.

You tilted your head, watching him squirm and growl. There was a sudden thrill in your chest, a curious heat spreading through your body. Humming softly, almost to yourself, you thought, Hmm… what is this feeling?

Superman hovered a few feet away, eyebrow raised, clearly aware of the strange little moment playing out, while Batman’s grip never wavered, muscles coiled, silent but absolutely firm, ready to let go the second Robin calmed down. Robin’s angry protests sounded distant to you, replaced by the subtle, new awareness of your own pulse, and the way watching him struggle, so raw, so alive, made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

That was strange.

Because of that little encounter with the “monkey,” you started exploring more Earthling literature and psychology, trying to understand the strange behaviors and emotions humans seemed to take for granted. That’s when you stumbled across something utterly foreign, a foreign concept called sexuality.

On Krypton, reproduction didn’t involve sex.

Babies were created through advanced technology, and intimate physical relationships were entirely unnecessary. Your people didn’t kiss to express affection in a sexual way, didn’t experience desire as humans did, and certainly didn’t use physical contact for anything other than communication or efficiency. Everything you knew about intimacy was clinical, logical, and devoid of complications.

Yet here, on Earth, every page hinted at something thrilling, confusing, and slightly alarming. The way humans paired, touched, and reacted to one another, sometimes gentle, sometimes intense, made your pulse quicken in a way you had never experienced. There was an odd, almost magnetic pull in the way Robin’s reactions had made your body feel, and now, reading about sexuality, it all started to make a strange sort of sense.

You approached it scientifically at first, taking notes in your mind, cataloging behaviors and emotional responses. But beneath that logical framework, something new was stirring, a curiosity that was distinctly physical. That last encounter had sparked something inside you. And while you still didn’t fully understand it, you couldn’t deny the delicious, confusing warmth that came with the realization that there was more to human connection than efficiency, strategy, or logic.

And because of that, at the age of seventeen, you found yourself watching porn on your dad’s laptop. To you, it wasn’t something shameful or forbidden, it was just research. Every motion, every expression, every interaction was data, a way to understand this strange human behavior called sexuality. You observed with the same meticulous attention you gave any scientific experiment, cataloging responses, analyzing patterns, and trying to reconcile what you saw with your own kryptonian physiology and experiences.

As you watched it you slowly realized something entirely unexpected. You could totally imagine yourself in that type of situation, especially if Robin were involved.

“I’m feeling the primitive need to copulate with an Earthling,” you said, completely serious, right in the middle of dinner at your parents’ apartment.

The fork paused halfway to your dad’s mouth. Utensils clinked against plates. A stunned silence filled the room. They exchanged glances that were equal parts confusion, disbelief, and mild concern.

“Excuse me?” your mom finally said, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide both shock and curiosity.

“It is a basic biological impulse,” you continued, entirely deadpan. “My studies of human sexual behavior indicate that I am experiencing the urge to engage in copulation with a homo sapiens male.”

Your dad’s mouth opened, then closed again, as if he had forgotten how to chew.

“Well, you’re seventeen, that’s expected,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“What does me being seventeen have to do with anything?” you asked, tilting your head, genuinely confused.

“Uhm, well, teenagers—they have hormones and—” he started, flailing his hands in the air, clearly grasping for words. He paused, looked at your mom with desperate eyes, and added, “Yeah, Lorelai, what does her being seventeen have to do with anything?”

Your mom sighed loudly, a mixture of exasperation and resignation, as if she had faced this exact situation a dozen times in her head and none of the explanations would suffice.

She rubbed her temples, then tried again. “Well… humans, when they reach a certain age, sometimes feel… attracted to other humans. It’s natural.”

“Define natural,” you asked, tilting your head and folding your hands neatly on the table. “Are there measurable physiological processes associated with this so-called attraction? What is the expected behavioral output?”

Your dad blinked, caught mid-sentence. “Uh… hormones, emotions… and sometimes… um… actions?”

“Actions?” you repeated, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Explain these actions in full detail. I am unfamiliar with their parameters.”

Your mom groaned softly. “Dickens, I mean… yes, sometimes humans will… you know… engage in physical intimacy. That’s the action.”

You leaned back slightly, processing the information. “Fascinating. So, the primitive need I described is a combination of chemical, neurological, and psychological processes? And the observable output is… copulation?”

“Y-yes,” your dad admitted, voice tight with embarrassment, and your mom nodded, lips pursed like she was willing him to stay quiet before saying anything else.

“Then it is consistent with my studies,” you said, completely deadpan. “And it explains why I am experiencing the sensations previously observed in Robin.”

Your parents stared at you, stunned into silence.

“Damn, you really have to bang the weird kid that uses pixie boots?” your dad muttered under his breath.

“Just shut up, Josh,” the older woman snapped.

“He looks like a flamboyant theater kid,” he added, clearly trying to justify his comment, though it only made the tension thicker.

“Flamboyant?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. We’re just happy for you and, hm, your new personal… discovery.”

You smiled.

Of course, the next day, you were floating around Clark and Lois’s apartment, lost in thought. Lois noticed you first, glancing up from her coffee with that warm, knowing smile she always had for you. She’d always treated you with kindness, not just because you were young, but because your very presence seemed to make the love of her life feel a little less alone.

And maybe because, ever since you’d arrived, Clark had been talking more about the possibility of having kids.

“Hi, Supergirl,” she greeted, setting her mug down.

You landed gently, fidgeting for a moment before speaking. “Lois,” you started, serious and thoughtful, “as a human woman— have you ever noticed if Clark, as a kryptonian, displays… attraction toward you?”

The room went still. Lois blinked once, twice, processing what you’d just asked.

Lois blinked a few more times, then let out a soft laugh. “You really don’t tiptoe around topics, do you?”

You looked honestly puzzled. “Is that a human custom?”

She sighed, smiling despite herself. “No, it’s just… most people don’t ask questions like that over morning coffee.”

“I’m conducting research,” you said, perfectly serious.

“I figured.” Lois leaned against the counter, arms folded, the veteran reporter kicking in. “The short answer is yes. Clark feels attraction, just like anyone else. He’s still kryptonian, but he grew up here. His emotions are human enough that he falls in love the same way we do.”

You nodded thoughtfully, filing it away as new data. “Interesting. So it’s environmental adaptation rather than biological inheritance.”

“Exactly,” Lois said, pleased that you were following along, until you tilted your head again.

“And that also means… sex?”

The reporter froze, blinking once before a slow smile tugged at her lips.

“Sounds like you need a girl talk, Supergirl,” Lois laughed. “Come here. We’ll start with the basics, no research notes required.”

Already inside the apartment, you sat on the couch while Lois handed you a mug of coffee. She knew you didn’t actually need food or drink, solar energy was more than enough, but after some time on Earth, you’d grown fond of the taste.

Especially coffee.

Lois settled beside you, one eyebrow raised. “So,” she said with a grin, “who’s the person that’s got your panties in a twist?”

You blinked, not sure what that meant, but answered anyway with perfect seriousness. “Robin is making my panties in a twist.”

Lois choked on her coffee, coughing and laughing at the same time. “Oh, honey,” she wheezed, wiping her mouth, “we definitely need to talk about figures of speech before Clark hears you say that.”

So she gave you what she called a “big-sister talk” and a few tips about human men. Lois talked about patience, about learning to tell the difference between curiosity and genuine feeling, and about not over-analyzing every heartbeat. You tried to memorize each point, treating it like data, even as her tone softened into something more human than theoretical.

By the end of it, she squeezed your shoulder and said, “You’ll figure it out, kid. Just don’t make it homework.”

You flew back to your apartment still thoroughly confused about human courtship. Earthlings were so strange. “Bat your eyes at him”— what was that even supposed to mean?

Yeah, that’s totally not happening.

No fragile Earthling is worth enduring that level of humiliation.

ACT III ── PEOPLE SAY WE’RE ALIKE, THEY SAY WE GOT THE SAME HAIR.

As you and Dick Grayson grew up side by side — yes, you eventually figured out his secret identity, because that man sounded exactly the same in and out of that damn suit — the weird tension between you never really went away. Even after your seventeen-year-old self realized that most of what you’d felt for him wasn’t hate, just raw, uneducated curiosity about sex and emotions and whatever else made teenagers stupid, it didn’t disappear.

It just evolved.

Matured into something meaner and pettier, a constant friction that neither of you ever bothered to smooth out.

Years later, at one of those disgustingly glittery Wayne galas, the two of you collided again. He was in a tux, all charm and PR smiles. You were nursing a glass of champagne, counting the minutes until you could vanish. He turned too fast, laughing at something Barbara said, and splashed his drink straight onto your dress.

You looked down, deadpan, as expensive fabric shimmered under the spill. Then, very calmly, you leaned in close enough for only him to hear.

“Guess the circus monkey still doesn’t know how to handle glassware,” you said, voice soft and venomous.

His jaw tightened, that fake smile freezing for half a heartbeat. “Still hung up on that?” he muttered, eyes sharp. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “You threw the first rock. You called me Krypton’s charity case, remember?”

That did it. He laughed, low and mean, and murmured, “Yeah? Well, your whole planet did blow up in a single goddamn day.”

The two of you stood there, smiles plastered on your faces for the cameras, spitting venom through your teeth like it was foreplay.

You exhaled through your nose, sipped your champagne, and deadpanned, “Wow. Bet Bruce is so proud of his favorite attention-seeking whore.”

“Still jealous Clark liked me better?” he shot back instantly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Jealous?” You smirked, raising your glass in mock salute. “I just can’t believe Boy Wonder turned into Gotham’s biggest PR whore.”

He grinned, teeth bright and false under the gala lights. “Still can’t believe you’re allowed in the same room as adults.”

You didn’t miss a beat.

“And I can’t believe you’re allowed to be in a closed room with anyone, actually. Don’t you have, like… every STD known to man at this point?” Dick barked out the fakest, loudest laugh imaginable, that polished socialite laugh rich people use when they’re two seconds away from committing assault. Heads turned, camera flashes went off, and his hand tightened just slightly around his champagne glass.

“I fucking hate you,” he said through clenched teeth, still smiling for the crowd.

You tilted your glass, eyes glinting. “Alien fucker.”

Dick’s jaw tightened, lips twitching. “You wish you were Kory,” he shot back, voice low and dangerous, “so you’d be the one getting it.”

“Aw, they’re even laughing together, Clark. Finally not on each other’s throats for once,” Lois said, arm in arm with his husband and looking at you both from a safe distance, just in case you start throwing punches. “I told you—she’s finally maturing.”

Clark, thanks to his inconvenient super-hearing that had just caught you calling Nightwing an alien fucker, looked down at his wife and simply nodded.

“Sure,” he muttered, tone flat as steel.

It was still a freaking shock how much you could ragebait Dick Grayson, the nicest man on Earth, and reduce him to this petty, flustered version of himself, less charming, less suave, more like a teenager tugging at his crush’s pigtails on a playground.

The last time you two had a horrible fight was when a reporter asked about your relationship, given that you were the most famous former sidekicks in the hero community. Your answer had been simple, brutally honest, and delivered with deadpan precision:

“Nightwing is a cultural appropriator, and he brings shame to kryptonians. Nightwing is the god that protects us from evil. It’s like I called myself Jesus and started throwing punches while flashing people my ass.”

The reporters had stared at you, mouths open. Naturally, one of them immediately asked how Superman felt about that.

“Ahm… I actually gave him the idea to use that name…” Superman muttered, eyes widening.

Awkward silence.

You had just internally sighed. Of course Clark had to have a hand in this mess. Of course he couldn’t just let it lie. Meanwhile, Dick was somewhere, probably simultaneously fuming and mortified, because you had once again publicly shredded his choices with the precision of a kryptonian scalpel.

But, as always, he didn’t take that punch with grace and silence. The next time you picked up Blüdhaven’s newspaper, out of simple curiosity and nothing more, the big headline caught your eye: Nightwing Responds to Supergirl’s Allegations.

His answer was short, dripping with sarcasm:

“We should all take a moment to sympathize with Supergirl’s… let’s call it ‘adjustment period’ and, of course, her mental health issues. Just imagine your entire planet exploding, landing on some random rock with zero knowledge of literally anything except punching things and then, through sheer confusion, publicly humiliating me, a friend and field partner, for honoring the beautiful culture of Krypton. Truly heartbreaking. My heart bleeds but I forgive her. Also, yes, Jennifer, I am on the side of immigrants.”

“And, on a serious note, Mental Health Awareness Month is coming up. Reach out to your loved ones. Stay safe. And maybe… give your coworkers a little grace when they’re having a rough adjustment period. Love is always the answer, folks.”

Then, as if to seal the performance, the article described in detail the moment he winked at the journalist, who giggled like a schoolgirl. The whole scene reading like a perfect blend of mockery and charm.

“Fucking bitch.”

You perched on the window of his Blüdhaven apartment as the sun dipped below the skyline, fists banging against the glass.

“Wake the fuck up, Richard Grayson! I can see you. I have X-ray vision!”

And there he comes, in nothing but white boxers, muscles fully on display against his tanned skin. His raven-black hair is tousled from four hours of sleep, and his blue eyes are narrowed in irritation.

“Ah… it’s you,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and annoyance.

He rubbed his eyes, squinting at you like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “If you bang on my window like that again, I’m calling ICE on you.”

You were already inside his living room, rolling your eyes at his ridiculous bachelor decor.

So tacky.

“Excuse me? Haven’t you just told Blüdhaven’s newspaper how much you support immigrants?”

“And I do,” he said, sinking onto his couch, legs spread lazily. Your gaze flicked, just for a second, okay, to the way the white fabric of his boxer clung to him, outlining more than you expected. Your stomach did a little flip. “I just fucking hate you. So what do you want?”

You wished you could say it was a lie, that you weren’t taking a second to admire the strong line of his thigh disappearing into the fabric, the way the material stretched slightly, hinting at everything beneath…

But, hum, well, Dick was, in fact, a philanthropist at heart, donating Alfred’s inherited fortune to institutions in Blüdhaven, building a city capable of supporting all kinds of people, all while using that shitty law degree he had to help immigrants navigate the system. And right now, all that admirable stuff didn’t stop your eyes from lingering where the white boxer hugged him just so well.

Gods above.

“You told the press I had mental issues,” you snapped, glare locked on his face and not on his probably huge cock.

He didn’t flinch. “Yeah? You told them I’m a culture appropriator.”

“Because you are one,” you shot back, voice sharp enough to cut.

The room went still for a heartbeat, both of you breathing hard, fury and something heavier sparking between you.

“Listen,” you said, stepping closer until the air between you felt electric, “I’m speaking slowly so your simian brain can understand. You’re going to go there and tell them I’m mentally capable. Got it?”

His brows arched, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Or?”

Your jaw tightened. “What do you mean, or?”

He leaned back on the couch, eyes dragging over you with infuriating calm. “I mean it’s three in the morning, and you’re standing in my living room, barking orders like a lunatic. Are you sure you want to sell the world on your emotional stability?”

You stared at him, pulse spiking, hating the lazy way he looked at you, like he was dissecting you and enjoying every second of it.

Dick only tilted his head, that infuriating lazy smile spreading. “You’re insane, and I want you out of my apartment. Goodnight.”

He rose to go, all calm motion, and you moved faster, as you always do. Before he could reach the hall you’d closed the distance, slammed him back against the wall with a loud thud. Shelves shuddered, a few of his things clattered to the floor.

He never expected you to actually touch him.

Your forearm was flat against his throat, pressure controlled. The world narrowed to the heat of his skin under your own and the sound of his ragged breath.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you spat, teeth bared. “Did you forget who I am? Did you forget I can melt your face if I wanted to? I can snap you in half.”

For a second he didn’t answer. Then Dick’s eyes flashed, equal parts defiance and something like need, and that stupid grin cracked into something sharper.

“You think I don’t know that?” he said, voice rough.

The sound of his words scraped against your nerves. Closer now, your face inches from his, you could see the way his pupils dilated, the tremor in his jaw.

Hate and want were banging against the same door.

You looked at his lips, so soft and full, almost too perfect, and nearly screamed in frustration. How could a man look like that? How could a stupid, infuriating Earthling be so unreal? His dark hair was still mussed, his jaw shadowed, eyes bright with the kind of calm that only made him more impossible to ignore.

Every inch of him looked sculpted by some divine creature, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the faint bruise blooming under his jaw probably from patrol, the glint of defiance in his blue eyes. He shouldn’t have been beautiful, not like this, not when you wanted to hate him.

But your body didn’t listen. Your chest felt too tight, your blood running hot. Your sharp, disciplined mind was slipping through your fingers like smoke. Maybe it was just the long-term exposure to the yellow sun.

Maybe humans really were a toxin.

“Grayson…” you breathed, and even to your own ears, it sounded nothing like a threat.

He saw it immediately. He always did. For all your enhanced senses and kryptonian intellect, Dick Grayson was still the better detective. He caught the flicker in your eyes, the softening, the crack in your armor. He didn’t need super hearing to understand what your silence said.

He was fluent in you by now.

“Not gonna melt my face with your heat vision, Supergirl?” he murmured, voice low, teasing, but the sound of it slid down your spine like static.

His hands moved before you could react, fingers trailing down until they rested on your waist. Even through the thick fabric of your suit, his touch burned. His grip was firm, grounding, his thumbs tracing lazy, infuriating circles that made your breath catch. And when you looked up again, his smirk was gone. There was only that look, the kind that made your heart slam painfully against your ribs. You hated him for it.

You hated that he could make you feel so human.

“If you tell anyone about this, I swear—” you started, but the words died.

He moved first, or maybe you did. It didn’t matter. You collided like two storms meeting in mid-air. The kiss wasn’t soft, it was an angry crash, teeth and heat and fury. Your hands caught his shoulders and pulled him closer, hard enough that he protested. His fingers dug into your back, holding on as if either of you might vanish if you let go for half a second.

The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat. Anger tangled with want until you couldn’t tell them apart. He tasted like adrenaline and every argument you’d ever had.

You shoved him back against the wall just to feel him slam into it, just to hear the rough sound he made in the back of his throat. He came right back at you, matching every ounce of force, lips bruising, teeth catching. Neither of you were gentle, neither of you wanted to be. It wasn’t romantic, it was release, the kind that left you shaking.

When you finally tore apart, both of you were gasping for air. His lips were swollen, his chest heaving. The world tilted slightly, the floor under you cracked from the force of that last push. Kryptonian strength had a way of turning even a kiss into a battlefield.

Dick’s hands still hovered near your hips, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you back in or push you away. His eyes searched yours, every bit of him caught between wanting to fight and wanting to fuck you hard.

“If you tell anyone,” you said again, voice hoarse, rough, trembling with leftover adrenaline, “I’m killing you.”

He didn’t flinch.

His jaw clenched, breath ragged, and instead of answering, his hands went straight to your ass with possessiveness, grounding you in place under the pretty skirt of your Supergirl uniform. He dragged you closer again, until there was no space left between you.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dick muttered against you. His wet lips brushed your neck, licking and kissing your warm skin slowly as if he was tasting you, savoring you like a hot meal. You could feel his pulse hammering through the contact, fast and human against your kryptonian body, and somehow that contrast set every nerve in your body alight.

You’re gonna let an Earthling dominate you?

He nibbled at the sensitive skin of your neck, and your hips instinctively pressed against his. A soft whimper escaped your lips as you felt him straining over the thin fabric of his boxers, so tight it was practically see-through. Fuck, you could feel his cock twitching against your stomach. Heavy and warm, begging for your attention.

You were already sinking to your knees before your brain could catch up with what the fuck you were doing.

His blue eyes went wide.

“Whoa—already like this?” he teased.

“Shut up, monkey, just—” you leaned closer, glancing at his twitching bulge in front of you and, finally, licked him up, slowly, from his base to his warm tip. The salty pre-cum heavy on your tongue.

“Gosh,” he moaned softly, lips parted, “I thought that mouth of yours was only good for yelling at me.”

Without another word, he gripped your hair, tugging you closer, pressing his clothed cock against your lips and nose with the kind of possessive force that left your knees weak.

“Just like that, pretty girl,” he murmured, fingers lazily combing through your hair as you pressed tiny, hesitant kisses over the wet fabric, still insecure.

Then—

BZZZZZZ!

His comms blared loudly in the living room, shattering the charged moment.

Dick froze for a split second, eyebrows shooting up. “Oracle,” he groaned, trying to hold onto the tension between you both as he reached for the comm on the nearest shelf. His grip on your hair faltered just slightly, and you peeked up at him through your lashes.

Fuck.

You scrambled to stand, coughing awkwardly, cheeks flaming with pure embarrassment.

“Nightwing,” Oracle’s crisp, unrelenting voice buzzed through the speaker. “We have a situation. Now.”

Dick ran a hand down his face, sighing heavily, while his eyes flicked to you. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he muttered.

You didn’t wait a second. Before Dick could even protest, you were already pushing off the floor, cape fluttering behind you as you shot out the window in a blur of red and blue.

You were fast.

Way too fast. In a heartbeat, the city below blurred beneath you, and before you knew it, you were sliding through your own apartment door, still a little shaky from the whole awkwardness earlier.

Jesus Christ.

You were really about to—

To suck his cock.

The next day, Clark caught you brushing your teeth so aggressively that you broke the toothbrush.

“Hey, kid… you okay in there?”

From behind the door came a chorus of horrifying gagging and retching noises.

“Uh… amazing,” you croaked, holding up the mangled toothbrush like a tiny weapon.

┆NOTES .ᐟ This originally had 25k words, but I decided to cut it in half because I was worried it would be too hard to read. So here’s the first part. 11.3k words of love.