summary — as the main vocal of the world’s most popular idol group, satoru gojo has everything anyone could possibly want—fame, fortune, and a face that could launch a thousand ships, or in his case, screaming fans going to war for his merchandise. you are his manager, and have so far kept your relationship with the group very professional, even with satoru, who takes every available opportunity to shamelessly flirt with you… until satoru plays an incriminating voice recording of that one drunken night, when you woke up with no memory of how you ended up in his home. in bed. with him. now satoru is hell bent on blurring the lines between business and pleasure, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to ignore it. not when your heart beats a little faster every time he's near.
word count — 19k + some smau
content warning + tags —NSFW 18+ ONLY, smut with plot, fem reader, part smau, celebrity au, fluff, slight angst, eventual smut, slow burn, big dick energy satoru, he falls first and is very obvious about it, satoru being sweet and feral at the same time, he's so gone he wrote a song about you, food play, oral sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, edging, praise kink, size kink, three fingers, lots of kissing, multiple orgasms, love confessions, public proposal, happy ending.
a/n — my first fic on tumblr, nervous but also yay! had so much fun with gojo as an idol that i got a little obsessed and couldn't write anything else until this was finished. i really hope you enjoy it <3
Satoru made someone faint again.
Honestly, you were surprised it took longer than usual. In the five years since you became manager for the world’s number one idol group, Domain, you’d long given up on counting how many fans its main vocalist had sent to the hospital.
“So, Satoru, I have a question for you.” The host, Todo Aoi, leaned forward, perhaps conspiratorially. “What type of woman do you like?”
Standing at the side of the stage away from the cameras, you watched the audience unconsciously mimic Todo’s action. It was like everyone was holding their breaths in unison, wide-eyed and secretly hoping whatever description Satoru gave would match up with them.
Unlike the rest of Domain’s three other members, Satoru was sprawled on the velvet sofa like a lazy cat, as if he was lounging at home with a movie instead of making a guest appearance on the country’s most popular talk show, Boogie Woogie.
“Easy,” he said without hesitation, but then brought a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret though.”
A collective protest resounded from the audience. Exactly the response you knew Satoru was aiming for. He’d always had a gift for playing the crowd—teasing out whatever reaction he wanted, whenever he wanted. Just another one of his many other talents that read longer than a grocery list.
“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Todo pressed. “There are seventy million fans all around the world dying to know Gojo Satoru’s ideal type. You gonna disappoint them?”
Satoru smiled, wisps of striking, pure white hair fluttering as he tilted his head at Todo, at the audience.
“You know what? Let’s make it a game,” he said, as if the idea had just come to him. You knew for a fact it hadn’t. “It’s called guess-what-kind-of-person-your-favourite-idol-Gojo-Satoru-likes! I’ll give you a hint—it’s one word.”
Nanami Kento, Domain’s main rapper, groaned. “We have precisely fifteen minutes left before the show ends. I’m not playing your stupid game when I already know the answer.”
A round of chuckles echoed through the audience. You nodded in silent approval. Trust Nanami to never stray from his stoic brand while making fans thirst harder by stating a time limit.
Your gaze darted to Domain’s leader, Geto Suguru, calm as ever as he shook his head. A perfect mirror to Satoru’s chaos. “Listen, Satoru. Can’t you just tell everyone? Yu hasn’t gotten his chance to speak yet.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Satoru crossed his arms like a petulant child. If anyone else were to act that way, they’d only come off as a spoilt brat. Not Satoru. Somehow, for reasons that escaped you, people seemed to be drawn to his brash nature. He was still bratty, outright rude at times, but because it was Gojo Satoru, it was endearing.
You didn’t see the appeal.
“Oooh, can I go first?” Haibara Yu, the youngest member of Domain, raised his hand excitedly. “I kinda wanna know.”
“See, Yu wants to play.” Gojo extended a hand towards the audience. “How bout it, everyone? I’ll make it better. If anyone guesses correctly, I’ll give you a reward.”
He might as well have said he would strip naked right then and there. The audience went wild.
“A reward?” Todo said, feigning curiosity as he rehashed the script you’d approved before agreeing to have Domain appear on the show. “From the world’s most wanted man alive? Now you’ve at least got to tell us what it is.”
Right on cue, Satoru reached for his sunglasses and slid them off. The studio’s harsh light caught every line of his perfectly defined features, soft and sharp in all the right places. You had to admit, he was insanely handsome. You’d thought that the moment you first met him in person. It was why, in addition to being the main vocalist, Satoru was also the face of Domain.
But what made Satoru’s visual truly exceptional, what had stolen millions of hearts worldwide, were his eyes.
It was as if the gods had held a conclave to discuss how they could sculpt the most perfect looking human being, and decided to make Gojo Satoru. And the cherry on top? They bestowed upon him the most impossible blue eyes that managed to look both intelligent and mischievous all at once. A recipe for devastation. Worst of all, Satoru knew how to wield them.
You could see the audience practically melt into their seats.
“The reward—” Satoru’s smile turned feline. “Is a kiss from me.”
He winked at the cameras.
The studio went nuts in the next second. That was when a girl in the audience passed out cold.
But you were frowning. A nerve at your temple twitched as you glared at Satoru from where you stood.
This wasn’t part of the script. The idiot was improvising. Again. You’d specifically made sure to remind him that under no circumstances was he to do any ad-libbing.
But of course he hadn’t listened. Again.
“Just follow the damn script for once,” you’d repeated a hundred times throughout the day. “No running your mouth. And absolutely no promising your fans anything other than a hug. Understood?”
Satoru had merely replied the same thing each time. “Will you be jealous if I do, kacho-san?” Or some iteration of it, annoying you further.
The last time a fan uploaded a photo of Satoru kissing her on the cheek, the poor girl had received death threats for three months straight. In the end, you had to get Satoru to publicly announce, again, that he wasn’t dating anyone at the moment because he was focusing on his career, and was simply too busy to commit to a relationship.
And here he was, about to add another person to his body count for you to rescue.
Amidst the cacophony of breathless screams, you spotted Domain’s bodyguard, Toji, plucking up the unconscious fan and hauling her over his giant shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then stalking out of the studio.
“Hmmm… someone with a lot of patience?” Yu guessed innocently, launching the game off.
Your phone buzzed then. It was a message from Shoko.
Press releases ready. Just say the word.
You sent a prayer of thanks to the heavens for having a publicist like Shoko. Five years working with Satoru had taught you to always be ready for damage control. You’d spent the whole of last night on video call with Shoko and Utahime, Domain’s social media manager, preparing various press releases and posts to counter any sort of situation should Satoru open his damn mouth and set his public image on flames like a pyromaniac.
Gojo Satoru’s brand was built entirely on the idea of him being so perfect he was unattainable. He belonged to everyone and no one at the same time. The epitome of obsession that kept the heart of his vast fandom pounding on overdrive. Always peering down from a pedestal, always out of reach, yet close enough to dare anyone to try.
In short, he was the dream.
He even had a nickname—The Honoured One.
For the life of you, you couldn’t understand it. What was so honourable about forcing you to drive him down to Sendai twice in a month to buy kikufuku mochi just because he wanted to eat them fresh?
But Domain was Jujutsu Entertainment’s cash cow, and Gojo Satoru was the king of empty bank accounts. He was also the reason you were paid a very, very generous salary.
As such, if there existed any hint that he was embroiled in a relationship with an individual, his whole image would go down the drain. It would become a PR nightmare. Jujutsu Entertainment’s stocks would plummet. Sponsorships would dwindle. Big brands would pull out. Yaga would lose his shit, and then you would be fired.
All because Gojo Satoru kissed a girl.
Short of storming up on stage and smacking him in the head—and subsequently getting murdered by fans for it—there was nothing you could do but watch the sea of raised hands, each fighting for a turn at the game, desperate for one measly minute of Satoru’s attention solely focused on them.
But to be fair, Satoru was handling the audience with deft grace. He’d taken over the whole talk show from Todo and had casually walked to the front of the set, one hand tucked in his pocket while the other twirled a finger in the air like a bloody magic wand, picking victim after victim to turn into puddles of mush.
Every time someone made a guess, his answer would satisfy them enough without confirming or denying anything.
“Ah, that’s kinda cute too. Like you.”
“Nice one. I like what you’ve done with your hair by the way.”
“I never thought of that. I’ll remember what you said.”
“I wouldn’t mind it. Is that me on your keychain? Remember to take me everywhere, ‘kay?”
You checked the time on your watch. Five more minutes until the show ended, and he still hadn’t mentioned a word about Domain’s new single, which was the whole reason they were on Boogie Woogie in the first place.
You were about to signal for Suguru to say something that would cut the game short so they could make the announcement. But when your head snapped up, you found Satoru’s gaze fixed on you, a cheeky grin spread across his glossed-up lips.
Satoru clapped his hands together. “Thanks for playing with me, everyone. I’ll give you the answer now.”
His stupid finger swished about, drawing an arc in the air before coming to an abrupt halt in your direction.
And you realised he was pointing straight at you.
“It’s my manager!” he declared, proudly. “My bad, that’s three words and not one. Oh well.”
You froze as the entire studio zoomed in on the forgotten corner where you stood. Heat prickled up your neck, filling your cheeks as every head, every camera, angled towards you.
“Your ideal type is… your manager?” Todo asked, confused.
“I said my manager is the answer,” Satoru corrected. “Interpret it however you like.”
You were going to kill him. You were going to pulverise his pretty face the moment you went backstage. Was the moron trying to decimate his career? And yours?
Think. You had to think. You had three seconds to recall all your media training and come up with a suitable reply that wouldn’t end with either the fans or Yaga roasting your head on a spit. Any longer and they’d be making up crazy theories because of your hesitation.
You forced a light-hearted laugh. “You shouldn’t tease your fans like that, Satoru.” Then you shifted your attention to focus on the cameras. “What Satoru means by me being the answer is because we have something exciting to announce. Domain will be releasing a new single, Limitless, in three weeks! The lyrics are written by none other than Satoru himself, and it’s about dreaming of someone you’ve not yet met. Please look forward to it!”
You bowed to the cameras as the audience squealed in delight, sighing in relief at having successfully spun the conversation away from Satoru’s asinine answer while promoting Domain’s single, effectively killing two birds with one stone. You’d pat yourself on the back later.
Satoru’s eyes were still on you when you straightened. He tapped his chin. “Oh, right. The single… I forgot. But that wasn’t what I meant when—”
“Aaaaaand that’s all the time we have left for today’s Boogie Woogie!” Todo’s voice boomed. “Please give a big round of applause to Domain!”
“And my lovely manager!” Satoru added loudly, waving out a hand towards you with a wink, and your chest twisted involuntarily.
You tried your best not to scowl at him on live television. The cameras finally panned away to all four members of Domain as they took their bows and went through the customary farewell motions.
Your phone buzzed. It was a message from Shoko.
That’s the fifth public confession. Time to pay up, kacho-san.At this rate, you should have your own press release.
You didn’t reply. You were too busy wondering how it was a miracle you hadn’t yet died from a heart attack, courtesy of Gojo Satoru.
After the show, the boys refused to let you go home, dragging you to their favourite upscale karaoke bar in Ginza where Suguru had a private room reserved.
Dressed in baggy pants and hoodies, the four members of Domain were acting like a group of hyped up nepo babies with a vendetta to blow through their allowances in a single night. You, in contrast, were still in your pantsuit and looked like their grumpy, overworked nanny.
Yu had successfully roped Nanami into belting out the female part of a duet while Suguru hogged the playlist, cueing song after song without bothering to consult anyone. You were glued to your phone, catching up on e-mails and going through Domain’s schedule for the upcoming week when you felt a pressure on the cushioned bench, and then someone sliding in next to you.
You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“Come on, you’re not still mad at me are you?” Satoru’s arm pressed against yours as he leaned in, entirely ignorant to the concept of personal space.
It was…distracting, to say the least. You’d rather not think about how good he smelled.
Not so recently, Satoru had taken to always insisting he was placed next to you—in meetings, at restaurants, on plane rides, in the car, walking to the car. Even when it came to hotels, he would request for his room to be next to yours, with a connecting door so he could hang out in your room until you shooed him out to sleep.
“Don’t forget you have that underwear shoot in two days,” you replied, refusing to engage in any conversation with him other than work. “I’ve booked you a facial tomorrow, and a training session in the morning with Sukuna. Make sure you’re there on time.”
His finger touched the top of your phone, pushing it down and away from your face.
“Do you ever stop working, kacho-san?” he chided, strobe lights glinting off his eyes. “Look at you. Your shoulders are so stiff they might turn to stone.” A corner of his lips curved up. “Want me to give you a massage?”
It was too dark for him to see the flush on your cheeks, but you knew he knew. The nerve at your temple twitched again.
“Thanks but no thanks,” you said, trying your best to sound unaffected.
“I assure you I’m very good with my hands. But you already know that.”
“You’re being extra annoying today. Stop it.”
“Really?” His face dipped, inches away from yours. “That’s not what you called me last night.”
Your nerve snapped. “Do. NOT. Speak about that.”
Satoru’s smile only widened. “About what, sweetheart?”
You wanted to dissolve into the bench.
Throughout your life, you had always been the type of person who could spot a mistake from a mile away, allowing you to avoid it like the plague. You were a safe player. A perfectionist. The kind of person who planned your calendar down to the minute. Someone who loved routine, because adhering to a strict schedule meant less chances of coming across any unwanted surprises. Your inherent traits were what made you an excellent manager, and part of why Domain had skyrocketed to worldwide fame in less than three years since their debut.
But what you hadn’t accounted for—the one mistake you overlooked that would go on to become the bane of your existence—was Gojo Satoru taking an interest in you, and that the damn thing inside your chest was unable to help itself but beat a little faster whenever he was around you.
It started with a cup of coffee. The free kind, dispensed into a paper cup from the staff machine at Jujutsu Entertainment, which he’d casually handed to you—black, no sugar—while he sipped his own heavily sweetened one.
Next came the notes, a different one each time, scrawled with a felt tip on the side of the paper cups.
Blue suits you.
Wanna go to Sendai?
So cranky today. Still beautiful.
You know what tastes better than this coffee? Me.
You’d ignored them at first, thinking it was nothing but Satoru being Satoru. He’d always been a blatant flirt, spewing out his particular brand of nonsense to both fans and, really, anyone with a head and a set of lungs.
And it didn’t help that the world loved him for it, as evidence of the truckloads of fanmail flooding the company that they had to dedicate another mailroom solely for Domain.
On the days Satoru came into the company, it was like the air in the building charged up with barely contained excitement. The trainees would flock around him. Half the female office staff would take turns going to the bathroom in hopes of running into him, and the other half would be camped out at the coffee machine. Interns would fight over who got to serve water at his meetings. Someone once told you how lucky you were that you got to spend all day with him.
You almost threw your coffee in their face.
You? Lucky? Wasn’t it him who was lucky to have you as a manager? The guy was a walking PR hazard. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with no regard to his image whatsoever, leaving you to run after him putting out anything he set on fire. On a daily basis.
Who did he think you were? The fucking fire brigade?
But it was your job, so you’d taken it all in stride. Managing a reckless brat with a fame level as high as Mount Everest took serious skill and planning, and you’d seen it as the ultimate challenge. In fact, you’d thrived on it.
Then the idiot had to go and ruin it all by asking you out.
You’d rejected him, of course. But that hadn’t stopped him. In fact, it only made him try harder.
And last night…damn you to hell, he’d finally succeeded. Somewhat.
This was why you hated dinner meetings. But the client was one of Satoru’s biggest sponsors, and despite Satoru insisting he drink most of what they plied you with, your tolerance for alcohol was still abysmal. You’d woken up the next morning in his bed, wearing his t-shirt, with a massive headache, and the embarrassing memory of you lunging at him for a kiss before everything became a blank slate.
“Look,” you said firmly. “Last night was a mistake. I was drunk. I might’ve done some things I shouldn’t have. Let’s just forget it, alright?”
Satoru raised a brow. “But I can’t forget it.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” you snapped. “It’s never happening again.”
“I can’t because you made me promise not to.”
You gaped at him. “I did not!”
Satoru merely shrugged, then slipped out a pair of earbuds from his pocket and gently plugged them in your ears, the noise cancelling function muffling out the karaoke music. He unlocked his phone, swiped a few times, and then you heard it—your voice, whiny and breathless…
“Ngh—Toru—don’t stop…”
“I don’t want to. But I know you, kacho-san. You’ll regret this.”
“No I won’t—“
“I mean you’ll regret recording this. Not me, of course.”
“But I don’t want you forgetting what you said.”
“Trust me, I don’t need it to remember.”
“Say it to me again.”
“You know, you’re very demanding whenever you drink. It’s adorable.”
“Go on. Say it.”
A low chuckle. “I’ll tell as you many times as you want, sweetheart… I, Gojo Satoru, belong to my very hardworking, very beautiful manager.”
“Don’t you dare delete this.“
“If it makes you happy, I promise.”
“Good. Now come here…”
You stared at him, mortified, and yanked the earbuds out, chucking it back at him. You stood abruptly, and made a bee-line for the door.
“Where are you going, kacho-san?” Suguru called out.
“I’m—ah…I’m not feeling well.”
He must have seen the expression on your face because his eyes narrowed at Satoru. “Did you do something again? I thought I told you to treat our precious manager better.”
Satoru snorted. “I treat her exactly how she likes it. Not that it’s any of your business, Suguru.”
“Satoru, we’ve gone through this a hundred times. If you don’t want a new manager, you should learn to control your mouth.”
You didn’t stay to hear Satoru’s reply, and was out the door before anyone could offer to take you home, practically running in front of the first available cab you saw.
Your mind was reeling throughout the entire ride home, your palms sticky with sweat despite the air conditioner in the car turned on full blast. All you could think about was that recording. What he’d said. What you’d made him say.
And that you didn’t completely hate it.
“Yes! Just like that… hold that position, Satoru.“ A series of blinding flashes erupted as the photographer clicked away at his camera. “Love that expression, you’re a natural!”
You had your arms crossed like a protective shield as you stood with the rest of the crew, trying your best not to stare at Satoru’s perfectly sculpted abs. That lean, muscular torso. His broad shoulders, and that ridiculous jawline, angled in a way that could cut through glass. Or more importantly, someone’s wallet.
They had him shirtless for the photoshoot, wearing nothing but a simple, grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the band of his black briefs peeking over the top. But it wasn’t men’s underwear Satoru was selling.
It was women’s.
The brand had renewed their contract with him a second time at a sickeningly inflated rate compared to what they had paid initially. All so they could have the license to slap the words ‘Property of Gojo Satoru’ on their new lingerie line. Their first release had profited them a bajillion-fold, selling out instantly in every colour. They had to restock thrice to prevent customers from rioting in their stores after Satoru not-so-accidentally held one of their panties up during a livestream.
The blue one, in particular, was on auction online for twenty times the retail price.
So it was no wonder they had practically thrown the cash at Jujutsu Entertainment when Satoru agreed to model for them again.
But you had to be present to make sure they didn’t over-sexualise him. That they wouldn’t ruin the image you’d meticulously constructed over five years with your blood, sweat and sheer grit. Satoru wasn’t a porn star, he was a fantasy. He was the fine line between charming prince and devastating sex god, and it was up to you to maintain that precarious balance.
Which was why you absolutely, one thousand percent could not be involved in anything with him other than a business relationship. You, the curator and backbone and engine that kept Domain’s shiny image propelling forward, could not risk their careers and yours over a dumb fling with Gojo Satoru.
No matter how much you wanted to tear those sweatpants off him.
No matter that he had a pair of panties hanging from his mouth, eyes heavy-lidded as he ran a hand through his hair, the other crooking a finger at the camera.
And then those eyes slid over to land on yours.
A tiny smirk formed on Satoru’s lips. Your throat dried out as he let the panties fall, gaze still fixed on you, and licked his bottom lip.
Was he seriously thirst trapping you while posing as a thirst trap? How shameless could one man be?
“That’s the money shot right there!” The way the photographer was snapping away at the camera button, you’d think he was playing an FPS game and Satoru was the target. “It’s going to be hard choosing which ones make the cut. The camera’s in love with you, Satoru.”
Of course it was.
Satoru smiled. “Since you have so many good shots, do you mind if I take a short break? There’s something I need to discuss with my manager.”
You stiffened.
“No, no, of course not. Go right ahead. I’ll send makeup to you for a touch up in twenty minutes.”
Satoru nodded and stalked off towards the dressing room, leaving you no choice but to follow.
You hadn’t spoken a word about that incriminating recording to him all day. Not when you picked him up from his home. Not during the car ride. Not while you ran through his schedule for the day, and certainly not when he purposely leaned across you to reach for a water bottle, knee brushing against yours.
And thankfully, he hadn’t brought it up.
“After you, sweetheart,” Satoru said as he opened the door to the dressing room, standing aside for you to pass through first, half-naked, the sweatpants they’d deliberately had him wear two sizes up slipping further down his hips.
“Stop calling me that,” you muttered.
“Why not? There’s no one listening. And you like it.”
You refused to take his bait. “So, what did you want to discuss?”
“Nothing much,” he said, locking the door behind him. “I just wanted to be alone with you.”
Heat fluttered low in your stomach. You made yourself focus on him from the neck up, though it didn’t help much when you saw how he was looking at you, like he was one accidental brush away from pinning you to the door.
Or maybe that was what you wanted.
You cleared your throat, stepping away to put some distance between the both of you… because you didn’t think you could handle being this close to him without losing it yourself.
“Well, I just received an offer for you to play one of the leads in a movie,” you said, reverting to the familiar comfort of work talk. “It’s a good role, with a respectable director. I read the script last night.”
Satoru leaned against the door, studying you for a moment. “What kind movie?”
“Fantasy romance. It’s a popular genre. You’ll play the main love interest.”
“Nah. Not interested.”
“But you haven’t even read it yet,” you protested. “It’s a good fit for your brand, and we’ve been talking about you potentially breaking into acting.“
“Like I said, not interested.”
“You’re being difficult. At least read the script before you decide any—“
“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
You frowned. “As if you’re not going to tell me anyway.”
Satoru pushed off the door and closed the gap between the both of you in a single stride.
“I don’t want to play it,” he said, voice low and soft, “because I don’t want to kiss anyone but you.”
Your legs threatened to give out in that moment. You blinked up at him, not unaware that he hadn’t yet put on a shirt. “Satoru… please don’t say stuff like that.”
He was too close. His hand lifted to cup your cheek, and for the life of you, you couldn’t seem to pull away.
“Then should I say I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night? That I’ve thought about you for far longer than you can imagine?” His thumb grazed your lips. “That one night doesn’t even begin to cover all the things I’ve thought about doing to you.”
You forgot how to breathe.
“I—we can’t…” you managed to say, but there was no resolve in your tone. “This isn’t right…”
But his arm was winding around your waist, pressing you against his bare chest. His head lowered. “Tell me to stop then,” he murmured, lips brushing ever so slightly against yours. A question. A dare.
Your heart betrayed you in that moment. All common sense left you as your mouth collided with his, parting instantly like it had been starving for him this whole time and couldn’t bear another second of waiting.
Satoru’s tongue swept in, tangling with yours, and you lost your mind to the taste of him. Your hands were sliding up his back, his neck, diving into his hair, feeling him over and over again as if trying to grasp that this was really happening. That you weren’t drunk this time, that you felt everything, and this wasn’t just another one of the many wet dreams you’ve had of him after touching yourself on lonelier nights.
The way he moved inside you was as if he was memorising every part of your mouth. His hands were clutching your ass, pressing your hips tighter against his, and you felt him—the hard, straining length of him—digging into your aching centre through the fabric of both your clothes.
It undid something in you.
Before you knew it, you were backing him up against the wall, the kisses growing frantic and messier and breathless the more both you and him couldn’t stop touching each other.
A sudden knocking jolted your senses. You broke away from him, head snapping towards the door.
“Gojo-san,” a muffled voice called from outside the dressing room. “Are you ready for your touch up?”
“Ignore it,” said Satoru, catching your chin between his fingers and pulling your attention back to him. “Five more minutes. I’ll say I fell asleep.”
But the spell had broken, reality crashing back around you in full force. Dread filled you as you realised what you’d just done with him. Again.
Fuck.
You pushed away from him, stumbling a little as you tried to compose yourself. Your blazer was falling off your shoulders, your blouse untucked, your lips still stinging. And Satoru—
His mouth was covered with pale red smudges from your lipstick. His hair was a mess. That damn sweatpants had ridden down all the way to expose the insanely large bulge crammed underneath his tight, fitted briefs.
“I—“ you rasped, voice hoarse. “They know I’m in here—”
“So I’ll say I was hugging you and you couldn’t move.“
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Go out with me, kacho-san.”
You stared at him. “The hell, Satoru. Now’s not the time for this.”
“Is that a yes?”
“No. Absolutely not. This is just—we are not—“
“Come over to my place then,” he said. He hadn’t bothered coming off the wall you’d pinned him against. “Tonight. You can show me the movie script.”
Unbelievable. He was unbelievable.
Another series of knocks on the door. “Gojo-san? Are you there?”
“Fine. Whatever.” You gave up and hurried to make yourself presentable. “Just go wipe your face already.”
Satoru grinned. “But I think I look great like this.”
“God, just shut up. And pull up your pants.”
A heavenly aroma smacked you in the face as the elevator doors opened to the private foyer of Satoru’s penthouse. You removed your sneakers and let your nose guide you to the source that was making your mouth water.
It wasn’t your first time in Satoru’s home. It wasn’t even your second time. In fact, you’d been here so many times you knew where he kept his car keys, though he never drove, preferring to be chauffeured around by the company driver, or Toji, or you. Like a spoilt little princess.
Mostly, you’d come here to haul his tardy ass out of bed.
Satoru always had a problem with time management. Sick of making excuses for him being late to appointments, you took it upon yourself to arrive at his place an hour before anything important to rush him out the door. You did it so often that a couple of years back, Satoru had given you a keycard to his apartment, stating that he was tired of hearing some angry woman shout at him through the intercom, and that the least you could do is let yourself in and berate him in person.
It didn’t make much sense. Then again, most things didn’t make sense when it came to Satoru.
But no matter how late you stayed at his, whether it was a song writing session with the group or discussing contracts with him alone, you’d always gone home after you were done.
Until that night.
That one stupid night you couldn’t fully remember, and apparently, was stupid enough to record. And from what you’d heard, it certainly sounded like you did a lot more than kiss him.
“There’s my gorgeous manager.” Satoru’s eyes lit up when you walked into the sprawling, open-plan living space. He was behind the kitchen island, the marble as glossy as his stark white hair. “I can’t decide if you’re more stunning in work clothes or like this, so I’m gonna go with both.”
You were in a ratty old sweater and jeans. Next to him, immaculately casual in a crisp white tee and loose slacks, you looked like you had crawled out of a dumpster. But at least he was fully clothed. For some unknown reason, you were half convinced he was going to greet you in his underwear.
“Is that—“ You glanced at the collection of mixing bowls cluttered alongside bags of flour and sugar. An electric mixer stood at one side, globs of dark brown batter dripping from its whisks. “You’re baking a cake?”
“Not just any cake,” he said. “It’s Gojo Satoru’s super special delicious chocolate cake for his super special delicious manager! Once you’ve had it, you’ll never want any other.”
“I didn’t know you like to bake.”
“Well, I’ve never tried until now.”
“Then don’t say it like you’ve made it a hundred times.”
He shrugged. “I know you like chocolate, and I know you like cake. And I know you’ll like this one, because you’ll think of me while eating it.”
“I will if it tastes like bullshit.”
“Oh, we both know I taste far better than any dessert. And so do you, by the way.” Satoru smiled “In fact, I think you’ve ruined my tongue for anything else.”
There was a streak of chocolate batter across his left cheek, and the effect was… you were suddenly glad there was three feet of marble separating you from him.
You crossed your arms. “Must you say stuff like that? If you spent half your brain space focused on actual work instead of constantly spouting nonsense at me, you’d have twice as many sponsors and be twice as famous right now.”
Satoru waved a hand flippantly. “I’m famous enough. I don’t need more.”
“You’re an idol, Satoru,” you pointed out. “How many more years do you think your name will last in the spotlight? Another five? Ten if you’re lucky? Someone younger, fresher—better maybe—will eventually take your place. If you don’t start branching out into other industries, you’ll be left behind. Then what?”
“Then maybe you’ll finally go on that date with me.”
“This is getting ridiculous.”
“You’re right,” he said, swiping up some batter with his finger, and then licking it. Your gaze couldn’t help but drop to his mouth. To the way his tongue lapped up the chocolate as his eyes stayed on you. “I don’t really want to wait ten years for you to say yes. I don’t even want to wait one more second.”
“Satoru, I’m your manager.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of hard to miss. Also, I heard there’s this popular cafe in Daikanyama that has really good parfaits—”
“I am not going to a cafe with you in broad daylight.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you. In fact, some might say I’m quite the arm candy.“
“Your face is plastered on half the billboards in Tokyo. Do you want a scandal?”
Satoru grinned. “So you do want to go out with me.”
Your patience frayed. “The answer’s no, Satoru.”
“No as in not right now, or no as in you want to go out with me but don’t want the waitress poisoning your parfait?”
“Look, if you want to have a fling, there are a million people waiting in line who will happily jump into bed with you. Just pick one of them and be quiet about it. Preferably another idol or actress who won’t immediately sell you out to the gossip rags.”
You caught the slight falter in his smile, there and gone in half a beat before he was rounding the island over to where you stood.
“Oh, I know exactly who I want in my bed, sweetheart,” he said, stopping just shy of his broad frame towering over you. “And once I get her in my bed again, I can promise you this time I plan on doing everything I can so she’ll want to stay there.”
Your voice caught in your throat. You should walk away. Get the hell out before your heart stopped beating altogether. Before you did something you knew you’d regret. But your legs couldn’t remember how to move.
Ding! The oven’s timer rang.
“Ah, cake’s ready,” he said, so casually as if he hadn’t detonated a nuclear bomb in your chest. “It’ll need some time to cool down though.” A knowing glint danced in his sky blue eyes. “You brought that script, right? I’ll read it while we wait. Then I’ll put the icing on top and blow your mind away.”
The cake was divine. Rich and smooth and moist. Pure indulgence with every bite, just like the smile playing on Satoru’s lips as he watched you scarf your slice down in five minutes, then helped yourself to another.
“Told you, didn’t I?” He was propped at the edge of the bar stool next to you, half standing half leaning as his gaze tracked each movement of your fork to your mouth. He slid a mixing bowl with leftover frosting towards you. “Have the rest. It’s your favourite part, right?”
You mumbled back something unintelligent. He knew you too well.
Trust Satoru to make a professional level cake on his first try. What couldn’t he do? And it was more annoying how effortless he made it seem. As an idol, he was the whole package—jaw-droppingly handsome, with a voice that was unique to him yet appealed to the masses, a great dancer, and oozing charisma out of every single non-existent pore that all he had to do was smize those pretty eyes for a whole stadium to start salivating.
Anything Satoru touched was guaranteed to be an instant success, which was why there was a never-ending line of sponsors banging down his door for a chance to work with him. It was also why Yaga, Jujutsu Entertainment’s CEO, let him do whatever he pleased, from writing his own songs to picking his own contracts. Satoru was the company’s pride and joy, its bread and butter, its stock broker, its reputation, all wrapped up in one stupidly good looking man.
And it was your job to ensure nothing, absolutely nothing, tarnished his pristine image. No big deal. Except that Satoru was hell bent on making you the very threat to Jujutsu Entertainment’s most valuable asset.
“What do you think of the script?” you asked, steering the conversation back to work. “The character they want you to play has a lot of depth. You won’t be some simpering fool chasing after the heroine. You’ll have just as many scenes as her. It’s a perfect role for you to break into the big screens, and I heard the actress they’re after for the heroine specifically requested for you to be her co-star. Said she’ll sign the contract immediately if you agree to do the movie.”
“Mmm… the story isn’t bad.” Satoru flipped through the pages. He’d spent the last hour skimming through the script while he assembled the cake. Apparently, the gods thought it best to cram a photographic memory into the already abundant arsenal of gifts bestowed upon him. “But there are a few problems with some of the scenes.”
“Really? Where?”
He tapped at the page he’d stopped at, and leaned in as he brought the script closer for you to read. You tried not to think of how good he smelled, his warmth radiating on your skin, and channeled all your concentration on the tiny black words.
You read the part he flagged. Then read it again. “I can’t see anything wrong with it.”
“Can’t or don’t?”
“I don’t understand—“
“The line,” said Satoru. “Specifically this line. There’s a problem with it.”
“Reads fine to me. I’m sure you can pull off the emotions. Rehearsing it with your co-star will help.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t want to say it.”
“What do you mean you—”
“I’m not going to tell some random girl I’ll die for her when I obviously won’t.”
“She’s your love interest.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Are we reading the same script here? Or are you just being dense?”
Satoru thumbed through the pages to another scene. “And here. This shower scene—it’s shit. As if I’m going to let anyone but you touch me like that.”
You blinked at him, momentarily stupefied. “Are you kidding me? It’s called acting for a reason.”
“I don’t feel like getting wet with a stranger.”
“Stop calling your co-star a stranger. It’s supposed to be romantic.”
“Nah. Not gonna do it. Tell them to switch me with another character.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Then they can scratch the whole scene. Plus all those sappy lines.”
“The fuck, Satoru. It’s not even real!”
“Exactly. I don’t want to pretend.” Satoru tilted his head slightly, leaning closer to you. His gaze softened. “I don’t want to do those things with someone else and pretend it’s you.”
The fork you were holding slipped, clattering on the porcelain plate. You couldn’t believe what he was saying. You’d heard him, loud and clear, and though your insides were twisted into knots, your brain couldn’t fully comprehend the gravity of the words that slid so easily out of his mouth.
“I—please, Satoru… don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“Don’t make what harder, sweetheart?” He reached for you, hand sliding up your neck to cup the back of your head. His thumb traced your jaw with feather light strokes. “That I want you and only you? That you might possibly want me too?”
“We work together. We can’t—“
“We already are.”
“It’s a bad idea.” But your reply only came out hollow.
“I’ll show you why it isn’t.”
His lips were inches away from yours. Endless blue eyes fixed on you, unwavering. It was impossible to think.
“One chance,” he said. “Let me show you exactly how I want us to be. All the ways I want to have you. How you’ve imagined having me.”
You felt your resolve melt along with the rest of you as Satoru pulled you off the bar stool and into him. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t have even let it go this far, because now it was too late.
Because instead of pushing away, your hands were sliding up his chest, hooking around his broad shoulders.
“No one can know,” you heard yourself saying. “They can’t find out or else—“
“Is that a yes?”
“I—yes… but we have to be—“
Satoru’s mouth was on yours before you could finish the sentence. Your gasp turned into a sigh that quickly disintegrated as he deepened the kiss, stealing whatever air was left in your lungs.
Satoru devoured you like he was starving, his tongue destroying your mouth and your mind with each possessive flick. Like he wanted to sear the way he tasted into your memory… the heat of him… you didn’t know how you’d survived this long without him.
You grabbed his shirt, clawing it off his back, needing to feel more of him. He shifted just enough to let you pull it off him. For you to slide your hands up his perfectly toned abs to his chest, feeling his smooth pale skin, every taut ridge of muscle, before he lifted you up and propped you on the edge of the kitchen island.
“Your turn.” A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. His hands slipped underneath your sweater, dragging up and up and up until your sweater peeled right off.
Your bra went next.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. “I take it back. You look the best without any clothes on, which is why those jeans will have to go… eventually.”
Heat pooled between your thighs at the thought of it.
“But I think I’ll start here first.” Satoru lifted a finger, and a soft whimper escaped you as he idly circled one of your breasts, then the other. Teasing you as each ring he drew closed in tighter and tighter around your swelling nipple.
“Ngh—Satoru...” you cried, breathless, when he flicked it.
“Like that? Maybe you’ll like it better if I just…” He swiped up a dollop of frosting from the mixing bowl beside you, and smeared it over each peak of your hardened nipples, the sudden coldness sharp against your aching need. He lowered his mouth, and sucked on one of them.
Your back arched forward, the heat of his tongue slowly licking, nipping, like he’d found the most delicious meal and wanted to take his time savouring every bit of it.
He scooped more frosting and drew a thick, gooey line down the middle of your torso. Down and down before stopping right above the band of your jeans.
Satoru licked his lips, his smile growing devious. “So you don’t forget where this ends.”
“You’re terrible.” But you couldn’t help smiling back.
“Oh, I promise you I’m very, very good. The best.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Is that a challenge?” He clicked his tongue, playfully admonishing. “Because if it is, I won’t hold back. I’ll have you screaming my name before I’m done, then begging to scream it again after.”
The region below your belly squirmed. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pressing your aching centre against that thick, solid length straining beneath his pants.
“Try me,” you breathed, and ground against him.
Satoru groaned, eyes darkening into something feral. Then he was pushing you down flat against the kitchen island, among the clutter of bowls and flour and batter he’d not yet cleaned up.
“Consider yourself warned, sweetheart,” he said.
He yanked off your jeans in one smooth motion, and with your legs still up in the air, he spread them apart.
You suddenly wished you had opted for a nicer pair of underwear instead of the faded cotton one you usually wore at home. Cheeks flushed, you peered up at Satoru, thinking he might laugh at your granny panties, but you only found him staring.
“God…you’re soaked.” His voice came out hoarse, almost in disbelief. “Is it all for me?”
The look on his face, his question, somehow made you a little braver. You bucked your hips up in answer. “Take it off and see for yourself.”
But instead, Satoru pressed a thumb into the damp cotton, right at the centre of your aching nerves, and began stroking. You moaned from the sudden pressure, the friction of fabric burning against your clit.
“I’ve had a long, long time to think about how I want to have you, kacho-san,” said Satoru as his thumb worked in slow, steady circles, both relieving and maddening you at once. “So you’ll forgive me for not rushing this.”
In the next stroke, his thumb stretched the fabric aside and slid underneath. The heat of his skin finally met all of your wetness, and rubbed right up the centre of your clit. You moaned louder, eyes shuttering from the sheer elation of his bare touch.
Satoru swore. “You’re killing me with that face. It’s too pretty. Now I don’t want you showing it to anyone else but me.”
“Satoru, please… any more and I’m going to—“
“Not yet, baby.” He plunged his finger into you, and your mind went numb. “Can’t have you coming so soon. Not when there’s so much more for you to enjoy.”
The world ceased to exist save the feel of him rocking inside you. It was torment. It was rapture. It was everything, yet not nearly enough.
You were panting so hard you didn’t realise him bending over you until he caught your mouth with his, swallowing up every wretched sound you released. And just as you were about to give in and beg for more, he tore away, pulling back, and ripped your panties off.
“Finally,” Satoru breathed, and it sounded like awe. Then he was on his knees, clutching your thighs as he splayed you wide open.
The first lick of his tongue, hot and slick up your clit, completely decimated your mind. You forgot your name. Your very being. Your legs hooked around his shoulders, fingers diving into his hair, pressing him further into you. Needing more, more, more…
Your cries filled the kitchen as Satoru worked you with his mouth in broad, sweeping strokes—flicking, kissing, teeth grazing lightly in a way that drove you insane that each time he did it you thought you might tip right over the edge.
“I was right,” Satoru murmured. “I can never get enough of this.”
His tongue slipped inside you, and you lost it. Lost yourself fully, absolutely, to the feel of him, crying out as release surged up your spine, wracking through your entire body. Your toes curled. Seized. Your hips writhing as Satoru continued fucking you with his tongue to the last throes of your climax. Until you were nothing but a limp heap of flesh beneath him.
You were still heaving as Satoru kissed his way up your body, up the column of your neck. His breaths, warm against your skin, his lips caressing that sensitive spot behind your ear—it only undid you further.
You reached for him, arms winding round his back, and turned your head to look at him.
And the moment you met those sky blue eyes, the truth you’d been so stubbornly ignoring for years hit you like a punch to the gut—
That you were so gone for him. You always were.
“Satoru,” you whispered. “I want more… I want you.”
He stilled, just for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe what you’d said. Then those perfect lips curved into a devastating smile.
“I never said we were stopping, sweetheart.”
It was like the leash controlling whatever Satoru held back had snapped. He’d picked you up as if you weighed nothing, slung you over his shoulder—your bare ass facing upwards, which he smacked playfully when you tried to kick him—and carried you up the stairs straight to his bedroom.
“It’s too bright,” you said, when he flicked on more lights.
“All the better for you to see me,” was his reply before he threw you on the bed, and wasted no time climbing on top of you.
He’d made you come three more times with his mouth alone, each climax topping the one before until you could no longer feel your legs. Until you were a whimpering mess beneath him.
Still, you wanted more. More of him. More than this.
Now he had you on his lap, facing forward, spread apart as he made you watch him pump three fingers into you at a relentless pace.
“Ahn—Toru! Please…” you moaned, head tipping back, helpless to the pressure that was building up in you again.
“Please what, baby?” Satoru dragged his mouth along the curve of your neck. “Is it too much? Should I add one more?”
“No—ahn! I want—I want you inside me…”
“But I already am, and you’re taking it so, so well.”
“Stop—hngh—teasing…”
“I’d hardly call it teasing when you’re about to come for me again. Look at you—so damn tight. You’re practically eating up my fingers.”
“Toru—I can’t…”
Satoru only plunged deeper, filling you up to his knuckles. Mini explosions went off in your head as he wrecked that sensitive spot inside you over and over again. All coherent thoughts left you as another brutal climax shattered you apart.
You sagged against him, your body trembling as Satoru’s fingers slipped out and began gently stroking your clit, preparing you for another round.
Bloody hell, what kind of depraved beast was he? You’d never come this hard, this many times, before in your life. You’d never thought such a thing was even possible. Then again, it wasn’t as if you had a prolific sex life. Or a proper relationship for the matter. The longest you’d dated someone was a grand total of three months, and even then you’d been so consumed with work that you spent more time texting the guy than actually going out with him. As expected, he’d grown bored fairly quick. You’d stuck to one night stands after that.
And of course—of course Satoru had to be the best you’d ever had. No one came close. It was infuriating and addictive and utterly irresistible.
It ruined you for anyone else but him.
Sick of him having his way with you, you shifted to face him, pressing your chest against his. You wedged a hand between your body and his, and slid it down his ridiculously sculpted abdomen. Down until you found what you were searching for.
Satoru groaned as you palmed his granite hard cock through his pants. “Fuck, baby—“
You were already unfastening his pants, yanking them down.
The full length of him sprang free, and your mouth went dry at the sight of it.
Fuuuuuuuck… what the fuck? What didn’t the gods bless him with? That wasn’t a dick. It was an unholy weapon of mass destruction. You weren’t sure if a quarter would even fit—
“Oh, it will. I’ll make sure it does.” Satoru smirked, reading your mind. Then he was flipping you onto the sheets, his hips between your thighs as he brought your legs up and over his shoulders. “You know, I was going to prep you some more so you could take me easier. But since you insist on being so impatient…”
The tip of his cock rubbed into your dripping wet folds, and you couldn’t help but make a pathetic sound at how good it felt.
“Keep those eyes open, sweetheart.” Satoru’s lips formed a wicked curve as he continued grazing up and down your clit. “I want to see them when I do this—”
He slid into you, and you cried out from the sheer intensity. It was only the tip, yet he was so thick you were already stretched thin trying to accommodate him.
“God, Satoru, you’re—“
“Amazing?” He grinned. “Absolutely everything you imagined?”
“Just shut up and fuck me.”
He laughed as he eased out slightly, then immediately pushed back in deeper. You couldn’t hear your own moans, all your focus narrowing around the feel of him as he repeated the motion again and again until every inch of him was buried inside you.
You were struggling to breathe, legs stiffening as you dug your fingers into his back, but each twitch of his impossibly hard cock had you whimpering. And he had yet to move.
“It’s too big,” you bit out.
Another smirk. “You’re welcome.” Satoru planted a gentle kiss on your thigh. “Try and relax, beautiful. I’ll get you used to me soon enough.”
He gave you all of two seconds before pulling out halfway and slamming the full length of him into you again. Your mind went blank, back arching off the bed. But he gave you no reprieve, pulling out slowly only to thrust in hard and fast. Again and again.
“That’s it, baby. You’re doing so well.” His pace increased to merciless, pounding into you until you could no longer close your mouth. Couldn’t care less about whatever lewd sounds you were making. “God, you feel so good I’m going crazy.”
“Ahn—ahn! Toru—“
“Say my name again.”
“S—Satoru…”
“Again.”
“Satoru,” you cried out. “Gojo Satoru!”
“Good girl.” His hand splayed out on your stomach, pinning you down as he fucked you to oblivion. Until nothing existed but the feel of his cock inside you.
You could die. You could die right now and you wouldn’t care. A hot surge prickled up your spine, up and up to fill your head, but as you were about to tip over the edge, Satoru pulled out.
The sudden emptiness hit you like a brick wall. Your chin snapped down, just as you saw him grab your hips, dragging you forward to the edge of the bed. Satoru stood, half kneeling on the bed, and brought your hips up to meet him before sheathing himself inside you again.
“And now for your reward, sweetheart,” he said. His thumb found your clit, and he flicked it—
Flicked it as he ground inside you.
“Fuck…” you moaned, eyes rolling back. “Toru…”
“Want me to stop?” he teased.
“D-don’t—more… don’t stop…”
The increased pressure on your clit was his reply, stroking hard and fast as Satoru continued fucking you at the same time. Feral. Ruthless. Each pound against your ass filling you up to the hilt, the friction of his thumb never ceasing.
You couldn’t tell where one climax began and ended from the other. Nothing could compare to this. To him. To the way you were coming over and over again, crying out his name while he drove into you, letting you ride out your pleasure to the end before he finally gave in to his own release—a deep, guttural groan as he spent himself inside you.
You were still trying to catch your breath when he gently shifted you back to the middle of the bed, then fell beside you, an arm slung over your stomach to pull you closer. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then trailed more along your jaw, down your neck, your collarbone while his fingers drew light circles on your skin.
“Wanna go again?” he asked.
“You can’t be serious.”
Those blue eyes met yours. “I am if you are. Always.”
Despite having been utterly ravaged, your cheeks flushed. “Don’t assume this will be a regular occurrence.”
“Can’t it be?” His fingers traced the underside of your breasts. “From what I saw, you were enjoying yourself as much as me, and that’s only the beginning of what I plan to show you.”
“We work together, Satoru. It’ll only… complicate things.”
“I should think it’ll be easier. Like you said, we work together. We see each other almost every day. No one will suspect a thing.”
“You know all it takes is one photo. One.”
“I promise I’ll behave. At least in public.”
You hesitated. “It’s—it’s too risky. That recording—“
“I deleted it.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. What if next time it’s not me who’s recording? They’ll have proof of me coercing you into—“
“Just so you know, we didn’t do anything.”
You blinked, confused. “Huh?”
“That night… Toji was going to send you home first, but you were one red light away from hurling all over the car. My place was nearer. But when we got here, you just complained your back was sore, and then demanded I give you a massage for all the stress I’ve caused you.”
You gaped at him. “But—but all the things I said—“
“You mean the part when I said I belong to you?” His smile turned playful. “Partly my fault. I may have said I wouldn’t mind switching managers if it means you’ll go out with me.”
“You what?”
“Hey, it was a joke. A bad one, come to think of it. But it got you all worked up, which was why you did the recording. Though your exact words were for me to promise I wouldn’t work with anyone else. I just paraphrased it.”
“So… nothing happened?”
Satoru chuckled. “No, sweetheart. Tonight is the first.” He caught your chin, and brushed his lips against yours. “Come on, say yes,” he murmured. “Say I’ll get to have you like this again.”
“I—“ You opened your mouth to reject him, but somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Not while he was looking at you like that. Hopeful. Almost… pleading. Not when you knew, without a doubt, that no one could compare to the way he made you feel. He was the forbidden fruit you’d been circling around for years, and now that you’d had a taste, it was impossible not to want more.
“Fine,” you said at last, before you could regret it. “But we have to be careful. If there’s even the tiniest rumour, we’re stopping this. I’m not going to ruin both our careers over a dumb fling.”
Satoru raised a brow. “A fling?”
“And,” you continued. “You’re going to do that movie.”
“Are you bribing me?”
“Take it or leave it.”
Satoru laughed softly, then he was pulling you tighter against him. His mouth caught yours, and you knew his answer. You reached for his face, and with your walls finally down, you did the very thing that had been nagging at you the whole night.
“You have a little bit of…” You swiped at the errant streak of batter on his cheek, then brought your finger to your lips and licked it clean.
Satoru’s eyes darkened, at odds with the indulgent smile he gave you.
“You shouldn’t tempt me like that,” he said, and you felt him hardening against your thigh. “Now the only way you’re going to sleep is if you pass out with me inside you.”
“Satoru, it’s late,” you began to protest. “We have a meeting in the morning to discuss Domain’s tour dates.”
But he was already moving on top of you, arms on either side of your head, caging you in.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He kissed your forehead, then nudged that god-tier cock at your entrance. “I’ll make sure there’s time to properly fuck you in the morning too.”
As promised, Satoru fucked you that morning, then again in the evening. He would have fucked you in that meeting if he could. He’d spent the entirety of it playing footsie with you under the table while you repeatedly swatted away his hand each time he tried slipping it under the hem of your skirt. By the end of it, you couldn’t remember a thing Yaga or the other members had said.
It went on like this for the next three months. Satoru would find any opportunity to be alone with you, and when he wasn’t, he’d find any opportunity to steal a touch, a stroke, a brush, or to simply be next to you.
“Stop being so obvious,” you’d scold him when he’d lean his head on your shoulder and pretend to sleep after another gruelling session at the recording studio. He’d fake a snore and then peck you on the cheek when the others weren’t looking.
He’d also interpreted your warnings to be careful out in public very loosely, often catching up or slowing down so he could walk beside you at events. His face would be arranged in a neutral expression as he bent close to your ear, and to everyone watching, it looked like he was merely discussing something with his manager. But the filthy things he’d whisper in your ear would make your knees go weak, and at the same time paranoid that someone would finally realise you were blushing red as a bloody tomato.
Not only was Satoru inept at being inconspicuous, he had zero filter when he spoke to you, especially while describing what he was going to do to you. And when you did stay over at his, which honestly, was most nights, the sex…
Sex with Gojo Satoru was a league of its own.
“Who’s the best?” he’d demand while pounding you stupid against the panoramic glass window in his living room.
“Ahn! Hngh—you, Satoru…”
“Who’s cock do you want?”
“Yours—I want yours…”
“Say it properly.”
“Gojo Satoru’s cock is the best—ahn!”
In the short span of time since you’d both become more than manager and idol, Satoru had taken you on every possible surface in his penthouse, including the private elevator. His favourite was in the shower. He’d make you use the shower head on yourself while he watched, then lifted you, legs straddling him, and impaled you over and over again.
But it wasn’t his insatiable appetite that you were starting to find a problem.
It was the quiet nights when you weren’t tearing each other’s clothes off. When you were plain exhausted from the week. Satoru would clock it immediately when you trudged into his home, about to tell him you weren’t feeling it tonight, or at least to make it quick.
“Bath. Pyjamas,” he’d say, pointing you up the stairs. “Food will be here when you come down.”
If it was early, he’d cook simple, hearty meals. If it was late, he ordered takeaway. He’d bundle you up in blankets on the couch, put on a movie, and snuggle next to you while you ate off a tray. He’d comment on the scenes, the characters, the lines, an arm slung over the couch as he mindlessly stroked the back of your neck. And when you inevitably dozed off, you’d always find yourself tucked in his bed when you woke.
It was the mornings when he’d hug you from behind as you sat at the kitchen island scrolling through your e-mails, his chin resting on top of your head. The way his eyes lit up every time you walked into the room, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
You couldn’t explain the flutters in your stomach, the skipped beat in your chest. Why it was that you found yourself wanting to be around him more and more, and not just for work or sex. Maybe you didn’t want to make sense of it, because doing so would mean facing what you suspected was a truth you weren’t prepared for.
Still, like the gradual yet inevitable shift in seasons, you found yourself in Satoru’s home more and more. Nights became days, and before you knew it, your toothbrush had it’s own cup beside his; your clothes were hanging in his wardrobe; the snacks you liked were in his pantry; you had a favourite chair; the left side of the bed belonged to you.
Conversations with Satoru became a mixture of shameless teasing and inconsequential chatter. You’d share random opinions, he’d tell you about something funny Suguru had said, you’d both bicker over the best way to piece a jigsaw puzzle. Satoru’s text messages volleyed between flirtation, obscenity, and ‘what time r u coming home’, and ‘will be late, pizza in fridge’.
And you couldn’t help but sink deeper and deeper into this new rhythm. This comfort.
Of being with him.
“Sure, keep doing that. You don’t look suspicious at all,” said Satoru as your head snapped around yet again.
“But that lady is staring at us.”
“Because you’re staring at her.”
“We should’ve asked Toji to drive.”
“It’s one block, sweetheart. You’ll survive the walk. There’s no parking there anyway, and no one normal takes a bodyguard to get ice cream.”
You grumbled a little and tugged your cap down further. Satoru chuckled behind his mask, his eyes and stark white hair completely hidden under dark sunglasses and an oversized beanie. You’d made him wear the baggiest clothes he could find so as not to draw any attention to his physique, but his height was still an issue. At six foot three, he towered over every passerby on the sidewalk.
That, and he’d refused to let go of your hand, his fingers locked and intertwined with yours. You could only pray the after lunch hour crowd were too busy rushing back to their offices to stop and really take notice. You’d already passed by two advertisements with his face on them.
“Let’s go out,” he’d said, yet again. It had been six months since… whatever this was between the both of you, and every week or so, Satoru never failed to try and convince you to let him take you on a date.
“What’s the point?” you’d made the same excuse. “It’s not like we don’t see each other every day. It’s too risky. You’re too easy to recognise—”
“No restaurants, no cafes. I know a place,” he’d pressed. “Come on, baby. I’ll be away at the filming site tomorrow. I’m gonna need something to hold on to so I won’t miss my pretty girl too much. Also, heads up, I’m going to fuck you really well tonight.”
“I’m sure you can manage two months on your own, Satoru.”
He’d whined and pestered and low-key threatened to not show up for filming, and out of annoyance, you’d reluctantly agreed to let him drag you to the quaint, little ice cream parlour you were now approaching, tucked away in a forgotten laneway amidst the city’s towering skyscrapers and glitzier establishments.
The bell jingled as Satoru held the door open for you, then flipped the welcome sign around to ’Sorry, We’re Closed’ and turned the lock.
You raised a brow. “You can’t just do that.”
“Not like anyone comes here, and it’s kind of my shop.”
“You own an ice cream shop?”
“Kind of,” Satoru emphasised, while he proceeded to shed the disguises covering up his face and hair. “I bought it for someone. My name’s on the papers, but I don’t run it. I'm really just a customer.”
In that moment, the door to the backroom opened, and out stepped a young boy who looked to be around high school age. He was pretty, with long, spiky black hair and an expression too serious for the baby blue apron he was wearing.
“Oh,” he said, deadpanned. Perhaps slightly annoyed. “It’s you again.”
Satoru swept out his arms, dramatically. “Megumi-channnn! Did you miss me? You did, didn’t you? I can tell.”
Megumi ignored him, his keen gaze settling on you. “So this is the manager you can’t shut up about.”
“The one and only.” Satoru grinned, winding an arm around you. “Sweetheart, meet Megumi-chan, my precious little street urchin that Toji dumped on me to babysit.”
Megumi scowled. “Oi, if you’re going to introduce me to your girlfriend, do it properly.”
You flinched. Did he just call you… your eyes snapped up at Satoru.
“Ahh… I can explain that.” For the first time, Satoru seemed nervous. “The thing is—I may or may not have told Megumi we’re dating.”
“You what?” Your eyes widened.
“Well, we kind of are. We see each other more than anyone else. It’s just not official yet, but I’m going to change that. Which is why we’re here. I wanted to take you out before asking.”
“She doesn’t know?” Megumi snorted. “You know what, I’m not even surprised anymore.” He took off his apron. “I’m going out for lunch. Use the cups this time—don’t dip your spoon in the tubs and mess up all the flavours.”
With that, Megumi gave you a small nod you couldn’t fully understand, and left without another word.
“Satoru, I…” you began, but your words trailed off, at lost of what to say.
But Satoru was steering you gently behind the counter. He pulled open a drawer and took out two spoons, handing you one, then slid open the glass of the ice cream display.
“Megumi makes them himself,” he said. “They’re pretty good. Go on, try them all.”
“But he said not to—“
“I’m going to tell you a story,” he continued. “When I’m done, you can tell me if you liked the ice cream. Or not.”
Your heart skipped a beat. You knew what he was asking—to hear him out. To listen to what he had to say, to everything he hadn’t yet said.
And at the end, for you to make a choice. About him.
Your hand dipped into the cooler to scoop a spoonful from the chocolate tub. “Alright,” you said. “Tell me.”
Satoru sucked in a quiet breath, his gaze fixed entirely on you. Then in a tone so tender, he began. “There’s this girl I met eight years ago. When I wasn’t an idol. When I wasn’t a trainee. When I was just…me. She probably doesn’t remember this—at least I don’t think so. But I do. Every second of it.”
Your spoon froze mid-bite.
“Suguru was the one who wanted to be an idol,” Satoru went on. “He was always going on about us forming a group together and changing the world. I wasn’t interested. I’d just gotten the acceptance letter from Harvard, and all I wanted to do then was bum around before my parents shipped me off to med school. Suguru convinced me to accompany him to audition at Jujutsu Entertainment—said I’d be there for moral support. I knew he was hoping I’d change my mind at the last minute, but as his best friend, I couldn’t say no.”
As if on cue, Domain’s chart-topping single, Limitless, came on the speakers then. Satoru’s magnetic voice, crooning the first verse of the song he wrote, filled the tiny shop.
I was fine just running blind,
Living fast, leaving things behind
“I told him I’d wait outside the building until he was done. I knew he’d pass the audition and was thinking if I should finally buy him a meal. That’s when I see this girl, all sweaty and red-faced as if she’s about to drop dead at any moment from the heat. I’ve never seen someone run so fast while balancing six trays of coffee… it was hilarious.”
Vaguely, you felt the world slipping out from under your feet as a memory, thin and distant, jogged into your mind.
The song had progressed into the pre-chorus.
No map, no end, it’s by design,
My eyes see only clear blue skies
“She was so focused on those coffees she ran right into me before I could stop her. Made a mess on the both us. She panicked, of course. Didn’t even look at me as she apologised and was already about to rush back the other way, all drenched… I assume to buy more coffee. She was mumbling something about not keeping the trainees waiting…”
The chorus played.
I’m limitless, no boundaries,
Gravity bends so easily
“So me being me, I told her that the trainees were assholes for making her carry so many coffees by herself. You know what she said?” Satoru chuckled, fondly. “She scolded me. Quite loudly, I might add. Said I had no right to talk about them like that—that their lives are hard enough as it is. That they never asked her to do this for them, and I was the real asshole for assuming so. That I wouldn’t be thinking this way when I became a trainee myself. Guess she thought I was there for auditions. Don’t blame her though, I am very handsome after all.”
Nanami’s rap for the second verse had ended. Chocolate ice cream was dripping down your spoon, melting on your tongue. But all you could do was stare at Satoru as the memory became clearer and clearer.
“Seriously, I thought, who does this girl think she is? Telling me off when I’m just trying to be nice for once. I got offended. So I told her that if I do become an idol, I was going to make her run errands for me every hour whether she liked it or not until she takes back what she said. I’ll never forget what she told me then.”
The second chorus flowed out the speakers. Satoru reached for you, lifting the cap off your head. His hand cupped your face, warm and steady.
“She told me if I did become an idol, and if she was my manager, that she’ll make sure she’s always on my side. That I will never, ever, have to feel like I’m alone.”
Lives one voice, so right, my guide,
Saying I’ll never stand alone, it’s become my home
Every song I write, it’s you I find
You’re the heart in every line
Ever so softly, Satoru stroked your cheek. “You weren’t the only one who fell that day, kacho-san.”
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think past everything he’d said. The way he was looking at you, the way he held you, as if you were going to disappear the moment he blinked. As if he was afraid this was nothing but a dream.
He’d written that song for you. Every song Satoru had ever written for Domain… they were about you. And you never once realised it.
Through the speakers, Satoru sang his final solo.
If forever’s taking time,
I will still be here for you to find
“So,” Satoru’s voice was quiet, but his eyes stayed on you, unwavering. “How’s the ice cream?”
You didn’t need to think for your answer.
“It’s good,” you whispered. “But it’s not my favourite.”
He winced a little. His hand retreated. “Oh, I see… sure. We’ll just… go home then, I guess…”
“It’s not my favourite because you are, Satoru.”
You watched his eyes widen, stunned. For a long moment, Satoru just stared at you.
“Wait… say that again.”
You couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, Gojo Satoru, I’ll go out with you.”
“Thank God.” He was lifting you up in his arms in the next second. Your spoon clattered onto the floor as Satoru’s lips found yours.
His kiss was tender. Deep. Unhurried. Like a long held sigh finally let loose. Like you were a desperate wish coming true at last.
When you broke apart, out of breath, Satoru was grinning from ear to ear. So bright. So beautiful.
“Damn, I’m really, really going to miss my girlfriend tomorrow,” he said, before pulling you back in for another kiss.
You forgot all about ice cream after that.
You’d gone and done it now. You were officially dating Gojo Satoru. The world’s number one idol was now your boyfriend, at least in secret.
And Satoru couldn’t help milking it. In fact, he’d taken it upon himself to call you his girlfriend every chance he got.
“What would my lovely girlfriend like to have for dinner? I’m the dessert, of course.”
“Come and take a shower with me, my beautiful girlfriend.”
“God, my girlfriend’s tight, little pussy is the best.”
You’d continued staying at his place while he was away filming. Most of your stuff were here anyway, and it was closer to work and the rest of Domain’s members. Suguru lived in the penthouse two doors down, while Kento and Yu were in the same building around the block.
You’d thought it odd at first that they would choose to live so close to each other, but you’d quickly learned that the bond between them was as unbreakable as steel. It had been that way since their trainee days, and you had no doubt it played a role in their meteoric rise to fame, and why they worked so well as an idol group.
Satoru had wanted to tell them about you immediately, and somehow, you couldn’t deny him. They were his friends. His only real friends. Truth be told, it wasn’t much of a risk. You’d suspected Satoru was already keeping them updated to some extent.
It would definitely explain why, like Megumi, they had showed no surprise when he’d video called the group the moment you got home from the ice cream parlour.
“Congratulations you two!” Yu had cheered, as if Satoru had popped the question.
“Hmm, didn’t think you’d stay professional for this long,” remarked Kento.
“Finally,” Suguru said, calmly. “Now we won’t have to watch you mope around for days whenever she rejects you.”
Besides Megumi, perhaps the only other non-group members who had some idea were Shoko and Toji. You’d never explicitly mentioned anything to Shoko, and she’d never asked, but a shirtless Satoru walking around in the background whenever you had late night video meetings was proof enough. And Toji—
Well, Toji would have to had lost both his ears to not hear all the lewd sounds coming from behind the car’s privacy screen as Satoru ate you out on the way to the airport. Either that, or he simply didn’t give a shit. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know you’d been staying at Satoru’s for awhile now.
It had been a couple of weeks since Satoru was away at filming, giving you time to catch up with work and the rest of Domain. But something had shifted within you. Each time your phone rang or buzzed with a new text, you found yourself hoping it was him, and when it was, you couldn’t help smiling. At nights, the bed felt awfully cold and empty. Your days, your activities, your work, your thoughts, Satoru became the first person you wanted to tell.
No matter how late it was, Satoru would always make sure to call you, even if it was just to say goodnight, and it was no different tonight.
“Baby, are you free to talk?”
You were in your pyjamas with the blanket pulled up to your neck. “Don’t you have to be up at four in the morning? You should get some sleep, Toru.”
“But I can’t sleep without you hugging me.”
“You just finished a ten hour shoot. I’m sure you’re tired enough.”
“I hate it here. I miss you too much. That dumb actress is always trying to worm her way into my trailer to go through lines together. It’s annoying. Can’t I just tell her I have a girlfriend? The prettiest, most gorgeous, irresistible girlfriend I happen to be crazy in love with.”
Your breath hitched. “You—you love me?”
“Hopelessly. I thought that was pretty obvious.”
You didn’t expect your heart to melt the way it did. For the warmth in which he said those words to make you feel so…safe. So complete. Like the last piece of a puzzle finally fitting into place.
You didn’t expect him to feel like home.
“Satoru,” you found yourself saying. “I—I think I—“
Your phone flashed with another incoming call. It was Shoko, and if she was calling this late instead of texting, then it had to be something urgent.
“Call you back,” you told Satoru, and switched lines immediately before he could protest.
“Have you seen it?” Shoko said without preamble. “The netizens are going nuts, and Yaga’s lost his shit.”
“Seen what?” But a cold had started to creep up your spine.
“The text I sent you five minutes ago. Check it.”
Your phone flashed again. It was Satoru. But you ended his call and tapped into Shoko’s message. She’d forwarded a link.
Nothing could prepare you for what you saw the moment the post loaded. Ice bled into your veins, and all you could do was stare at your screen…
The photo was grainy, snapped hastily through a glass window. But there was no mistaking the white-haired man behind the counter of a familiar ice cream parlour, his lips locked with a woman whose back was facing the camera.
Below was another photo, of you and Satoru at the airport. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary. You were just his manager sending him off. But then you spotted it—the glaring evidence like a slap to your face.
You were wearing the exact same cap you had on at the ice cream parlour.
The comment from the original poster only confirmed it:
’Coincidence? I think not. Thought of deleting, but it isn’t fair to y’all.’
They’d posted it barely an hour ago, but the comments section had already blown out of proportion.
All the blood drained from your face. Your phone flashed again. It was the fifth time Satoru was calling. You just stared at his name until the call ended itself.
Why did you ever think things were going to be okay? Somehow, along the way, you’d lost the plot in favour of your feelings. You’d let yourself be lulled into a false sense of security. You’d become too soft. Convinced yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could be happy with Satoru.
That he could be yours.
But the bubble you’d created with him had always been made of glass, and now the glass had shattered.
Text messages upon text messages were flooding your phone. From Shoko, from Yaga, from the Domain members. From Satoru.
Fifteen minutes. That was all the time you gave yourself to ignore everything and spiral. To wallow in your panic.
You took a deep breath, then hauled your feet out of bed and went to grab your laptop before calling Shoko. There would be no sleep for you tonight.
You were going to fix this. Even if Yaga fired you tomorrow, you were going to make sure you did everything you could so Satoru wouldn’t be dragged through the mud along with you. You were going to save his reputation, and if it meant setting yours on fire, so be it.
One and a half months later...
“Kacho-san, are you watching this?” Shoko said as soon as you answered.
Of course you were, and you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. As you watched the livestream of the press conference play out on your laptop, the camera zooming in on Satoru, your heart fell out your throat as he gave a dazzling smile and repeated what he’d said, as if for emphasis.
“She won’t let me be her boyfriend anymore, but she’s still my girlfriend. Does that answer your question?”
Chaos erupted among the reporters. Cameras were flashing non-stop. A million questions were thrown at Satoru all at once.
“Wow, he’s really driving it home, huh?” said Shoko.
“We have to cut the livestream” you said, panicking.
“Too late. There are ten thousand fans watching this. It’ll only piss them off more.”
“Fuck. Why can’t he just stick to the damn script?”
“I don’t think he’s ever known what the word means.”
Throughout the media frenzy, Satoru remained calm, waiting until the questions died down before speaking again.
“I apologise if this has disappointed my fans. Hiding a relationship was never my intention. If I’m being honest, I never wanted to hide her. Not before. Not now. Not ever. But for her sake, I did.” Satoru laughed. “Oh, she’s going kill me for this.”
His gaze shifted to look directly into the camera. At you.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry okay? I’m going to tell them everything. Forgive me?”
Your hands clapped over your mouth as Satoru proceeded to tell them exactly what he’d told you at the ice cream parlour—the day he met you, and how you got mad about what he’d said. That if he were to become an idol, you would make sure he was never truly alone. That he hadn’t realised he’d already fallen for you until you became his manager.
“So you see, this isn’t a fling to me. I’ve waited years for her, and I’ll continue waiting if that’s what she wants.”
Satoru loosened a breath, camera flashes bouncing off his handsome face. When he looked up again, there was only determination in his sky blue eyes, as if he was daring the viewers. Challenging them.
“I wouldn’t be who I am today without my fans, and I love them for everything they’ve given me. And I also love her. Badly. Immeasurably. She’s my guide. The reason I’m an idol. The reason I’m able to give myself so freely. So… can’t we all just get along and share me?” He winked. “That’s all I have to say. Suguru will share the details about the tour.”
And with that, Satoru stood up, so casually as if he hadn’t just broke headlines for the weeks to come, and walked out of the conference hall.
The press was going wild, and so were the comments underneath the livestream.
“Uhh, kacho-san? You still alive?” Shoko’s voice pulled you out of your trance. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“Shoko, can I call you back?”
“Sure, take your time. I think I might have to call that ambulance anyway. Utahime looks like her soul has left her body.”
You mumbled a quick goodbye, your feet already moving out your office, then running out the entrance of Jujutsu Entertainment to hail the first taxi you saw.
You knew his schedule by heart. He had a meeting with Yaga after the press conference, but you also knew Satoru well enough that there was no chance he’d bother turning up. Not after the media storm he’d unleashed.
The taxi had barely braked in front of Satoru’s apartment before you were out, flinging a wad of cash at the driver. You didn’t care if it was rude. You didn’t care to greet the doorman. Didn’t care as you fumbled for your keycard while slamming a hand repeatedly on the elevator button.
You didn’t know why you were rushing. It wasn’t as if he was going anywhere. All you knew was that you had to see him. To tell him.
You didn’t want him to wait anymore.
When the doors pinged open, you found him. Pacing about the foyer in the same clothes he’d worn at the press conference. Satoru halted, eyes finding yours as you stepped out, heart pounding.
“You came home,” he said, almost in disbelief.
This time, you didn’t hesitate, and closed the gap between the both of you.
“Yes,” you said, reaching to cup your hands around his beautiful face. “I also came to tell you that I love you too.”
For awhile, Satoru didn’t speak. He simply… stared, a flurry of emotions fleeting through those infinite blue eyes, unguarded.
His throat bobbed. “Say it again. Please.”
You kissed him then. Softly. Gently.
“I love you, Gojo Satoru,” you whispered against his lips. “Shall I say it one mo—“
His mouth was on yours again. His hand slid around your waist, pulling you tight against him, like he never wanted to let go. A tender, desperate kiss. Deep and slow. Devastating and warm. The kind of kiss that only told truth. Of days and months and years chasing the finish line. An endless wait finally seeing light.
“You taste like heaven,” he said when you finally tore apart, the silence of the foyer filling back around you.
You laughed at his cheesiness, but you liked it all the same. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
Satoru was smiling. “An idiot you love.”
“Yes,” you said, pulling him back in for another kiss. “And for quite some time now.”
After successfully spinning the narrative with his super sincere public declaration in the way only Gojo Satoru could pull off, it didn’t take long for the public’s sentiment to switch from outrage to undying support.
Once again, Satoru had wielded his magic and it had worked. His gamble had paid off, sealing his image and reputation in a whole new stratosphere. The name Gojo Satoru was now untouchable, his influence undeniable. His value in the entertainment industry skyrocketed to boundary breaking heights overnight, and so had Domain’s.
It was the kind of viral whirlwind every idol company dreamed of inciting. You’d prepared for the backlash. For the call from Yaga to fire you. You’d predicted bedlam, and had Shoko and Utahime prepare every possible kind of press release and social media post to hopefully assuage the onslaught.
But you’d made your choice, and this time, you had no regrets.
What you didn’t expect was to end up in hair and makeup, about to do your fifth magazine photoshoot with Satoru this month alone. Six page spread. Multiple outfits. Theme: Devotion.
And no one was enjoying it more than Satoru himself. Now that he had free reign to flaunt your relationship in public, flaunt he did. Boldly. Shamelessly.
“If you keep blushing like that, sweetheart, you’re going to look like a tomato in the photos,” he teased as he held you in pose under the heat of the glaring studio lights, his lips pressed up against the column of your neck as the photographer clicked away at the camera. “A very adorable, very delicious tomato.”
It was no different at interviews. You’d be talking about the tour when he’d suddenly throw out lines like “Your dedication is so sexy, kacho-san,” and “Anyone thinks my manager looks especially beautiful today?”, and completely derail the entire conversation.
Jujutsu Entertainment, for its part, wasted no time in capitalising your relationship with Satoru, marketing the both of you as the ideal, fantasy couple. That the public was aware nothing about you and Satoru was fabricated only sold your new image harder. Not like Jujutsu Entertainment had a choice unless they wanted an angry mob of fans out for their blood, and though the brand pivot was Yaga’s idea, it didn’t stop him from grumbling about the power Satoru now held over the industry.
“Justice for Satoru my ass,” he’d complain. “You know what deserves justice? My damn headache for the last eight years.”
Privacy became a luxury for you, but it was a small price to pay if it meant holding Satoru’s hand whenever you wanted. And it made the days and nights when you and Satoru were finally, truly alone, tucked away from the rest of the world, that much more precious.
“There’s a mistake with the order,” you said, as you stood in the sparsely furnished room Satoru had cleared out to turn into your home office. Since his place was bigger and closer to work, you both had decided you’d rent out your apartment and move in with him. “They sent two chairs instead of one.”
“Nah, it’s correct,” Satoru replied with a boyish grin. “Unless you’d prefer to work sitting on my lap, that is.”
“I thought you said you’d give me a space of my own.”
“Baby, this whole house belongs to you. Do whatever you want—change the furniture, throw out anything you don’t like, paint all the walls pink if it makes you happy. I don’t care. Everything here is yours, including me.”
How could you not melt to that? You let him pick you up and set you on the edge of the large study desk, your legs wrapping around his hips.
Satoru hooked a finger around the necklace you wore, tugging your face inches from his. “Nice piece of jewellery you got here.”
You laughed. “My boyfriend gave it to me.”
“Boyfriend?” His lips grazed yours. “Well, if he managed to get someone like you, he must be very handsome, and very lucky. And very, very good in bed.”
“Hmm, I don’t know about the bed part.”
“Oh? Would you like a reminder?”
And as he worshipped your body like a prayer answered, the half unpacked boxes with all your stuff temporarily forgotten, home no longer felt like a place to you.
Because the home you kept coming back to was always him.
It was the last concert of Domain’s eight month long world tour, and though a little unorthodox, Satoru and the rest had made a last minute request to add one more performance in Tokyo as the finale. In appreciation of their fans, they then went the extra mile and gave up a portion of their concert earnings for the ticket prices to be slashed in half.
As expected, the website crashed. Tickets sold out in less than five minutes.
“Toru…” you panted as he buried his face in your neck, kissing and nipping hungrily. “You’re going to—ngh—ruin your makeup…”
He had you on the dressing table in the green room. Your sleek, tailored pants were unbuttoned and pulled low, panties stretched aside as his hand worked between your thighs, two fingers pumping inside you at a pace he knew you couldn’t resist unravelling to.
“They’ll fix it up,” he murmured against your heated skin. “Besides, I need a little motivation to get me through the next three hours on stage.”
He slipped another finger inside, and you bit back your moan as he stretched you out.
“You’re on in—hahh—thirty minutes… ahn—we should stop—“
“I promise we’ll be done in less than ten, my love.”
“God, Toru…I’m—I’m—“
“That’s it, baby.” His thumb pressed down on your clit while he hooked his fingers inside you, hitting that sensitive spot over and over again. “Show me that face I love.”
Release surged up your spine, and your mind went blank from pure bliss. You whimpered as he continued stroking you through the waves of pleasure, showering you with soft kisses at the same time.
Breaths hot, he licked up the curve of your ear. “Want more?”
Your hand moved to yank down his zip. “Just… be quick, okay?”
It was all the confirmation he needed to flip you around and shove down your panties. His first thrust was deep, filling you completely. You stifled a gasp, clenching around thickness of him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, slamming back into you again. “You’re so perfect, baby. I’ll never get enough.”
“T-Toru—ahn! Not so loud—“
He only fucked you harder. Exactly the way he knew you liked it. Rough. Mind-numbing. It didn’t take long for your second climax to come exploding, his following soon after.
Satoru’s arms wound around you, hugging you from behind until your breaths evened. Then he was gently turning you to face him, brushing the hair from your face.
He kissed you on the forehead. “Round two when we get home?”
“Seriously, where do you find all that energy?”
“Don’t you know?” He grinned. “You’re my fuel, sweetheart.”
“So I’m your guide, and your heart, and your soul, and now I’m petrol?”
He laughed, pulling you closer. “I’ll make it simple for you,” he said, low and tender. “You’re my everything.”
Of course you had to kiss him then. Almost a year of official dating and he still managed to make your heart race and stutter and flip and fall for him all over again.
You gave in to another minute in his arms before the both of you reluctantly tore away to right your clothes and return to work. You had a hundred things to tick off before Domain went on stage. Fitting your earpiece in, you radioed for makeup to come in and was halfway to the door when you realised you forgot the most important thing.
You turned around and went to take Satoru’s hands in yours.
“Good luck out there.”
He beamed, and lifted your hands to his lips. “Thank you, my love. I’m going to need it, especially tonight.”
You didn’t fully grasp his meaning until much, much later, as you stood off the stage’s right wing, out of sight from the roaring arena, attention shifting between the stage and a small screen set up at the side.
It was Domain’s second last song, an all-time favourite—fast, upbeat, with a hint of rock. A behemoth, mirrored staircase towered against the ever-shifting LCD backdrop. Kento was rapping out the second verse at the edge of the runway among a sea of screaming fans and dancing light sticks. And just as he hit the last beat, the spotlight on him cut off.
Darkness swallowed the entire arena for three seconds.
Then millions of tiny stars blinked to life in the backdrop. Two cylinders of light beamed down from above, revealing Suguru and Yu at the top of the staircase, the crystals embedded in their jackets twinkling like they were made of the very stars surrounding them.
Their voices soared out through the arena, delivering the bridge in perfect sync and harmony, the staircase’s mirrored construction making it seem like they were floating in midair.
You waited for the part you dreaded and loved. The safety measures were air tight, the cords and rigging checked, double checked, triple checked, then checked again. But still, you mumbled a prayer under your breath. The same prayer you’d repeated for the last eight months every single time it came to this part of the performance.
The endless stars began spinning. Faster. Faster. Merging into a silver flurry. A great vortex that seemed to suck all the light away into an infinite void. And as sudden as it began, it dispersed. Imploded. A cataclysmic supernova saturating every pixel of the LCD backdrop in brilliant colours.
Suspended alone high above the stage was Satoru, magnificent silver wings sprouting out his back and spread wide, like a bedazzled angel descending from another universe.
His voice filled the vastness of the arena, calm and beguiling, clear and imploring, as he spoke the words to his most iconic line.
“Throughout the heavens and the earth, I alone am the honoured one.”
The music peaked to a crescendo. The arena went wild, going crazy from the spectacle. It was outrageous. Devastating. Overwhelmingly stunning. A fever dream conjured by the single figure being slowly lowered onto the top of the staircase as he serenaded the audience with his solo.
“Don’t fucking fall,” you muttered, and when the soles of his boots finally flattened on solid surface, you breathed a sigh of relief.
Through some kind of stage magic, the wings broke off from Satoru, falling away and disappearing from sight. The staircase began receding, folding down on itself like a paper fan. Kento was moving to join the rest, and together, they powered through the last chorus. Silver glitter rained down on the stage, on them, like a shower of stardust, ending the song with all four members in a striking group pose.
The cheers and roars threatened to split your ears open. It was time for the last song, and the entire Tokyo Dome knew what it would be, and had started chanting.
‘Limitless! Limitless! Limitless!…”
Mei Mei, Domain’s head makeup artist, slid up beside you.
“Kacho-san, your lipstick is smudged,” she said it like an announcement. “Let me fix you up.”
“Oh, um, it’s okay,” you said, but her brush was already halfway to your face, a palette in her other hand. “You don’t need to—“
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been compensated for this. Now hold still.” Her smile alluded you further. She snapped her fingers. “Ui Ui. Five minutes.”
Her understudy, Ui Ui, appeared with more assistants. Before you could protest, they had you in a plastic chair and were attacking your face with six brushes and powder puffs, blocking your view of the stage as the opening melody to Limitless began playing.
Then you heard Satoru’s voice, but he wasn’t singing.
“Ahh… hold on, hold on. Can we pause for a minute, please?”
The music cut short abruptly.
“Done,” Mei Mei declared just as you swatted away the makeup brushes and jolted up from your chair.
Alarm bells pealed in your head as you stared out at the stage.
What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t part of the performance.
A wave of confusion had overtaken the arena as the faces of Domain’s members were blown up on the LCD backdrops.
Satoru shook his head. “Something’s missing.”
“Missing?” Suguru raised a brow, but you caught the slight smile playing on his lips. “What do you mean missing? Did you lose something?”
Your head whipped to the crew around you, but none of them were scurrying about in panic. In fact, they were all smiling. At you.
“Ohhhhh, I know!” Yu exclaimed, excitedly. “You forgot your lucky charm.”
Satoru grinned. “Exactly. Doesn’t seem right to end the tour without it by my side.” He turned to address the arena. “What do you all say? Want to see my lucky charm?”
Cheers filled the air.
Kento cleared his throat. “It’s not appropriate for us to leave and search for it. We’ll have to get someone to bring your charm here. Where did you leave it?”
Your frown turned into wide-eyed shock as Satoru turned and extended an arm towards the right wing, pointing.
At you.
“She’s right there.” His grin widened. “Come on out, sweetheart.”
You froze, the air emptying out your lungs. You felt a hand clap down on your shoulder, and found Shoko beside you.
“You’re up, kacho-san,” she said, giving you a reassuring nod. “Don’t worry. It’s all scripted this time. Well, most of it anyway.”
Then she was steering you out into the lights and noise. To Satoru, who was running over to meet you. To take your hand in his and lead you to the centre of the stage where the rest of Domain were waiting.
The arena was going wild, but you were stuck in your stupor. A deer caught in the headlights.
Satoru pushed his mouth piece away and leaned in next to your ear.
“Breathe, baby,” he said, and squeezed your hand tightly. “Eyes on me. Let me show the world who I belong to.”
He didn’t let go as he addressed the arena. “Found her! Everyone say hello to my lucky charm. Isn’t she beautiful tonight?”
Delighted screams and cheers drowned the entire Tokyo Dome. Chanting followed, but this time, it was a different kind of chant.
“Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!…”
You gaped at the sea of light sticks. At Satoru as his head tipped back in laughter, overjoyed with the reaction.
“Oh, I really want to,” he said. “But first, there’s something I need to get off my chest. Something I’m going to need your support for. You see, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Your heart stopped beating altogether. You couldn’t feel your legs, your body. You stared up at Satoru, and if it weren’t for the utter hysteria that descended upon the arena—the shrieks, the cries, the complete meltdown of the entire audience. If it weren’t for the tears streaming down your cheeks for the world to see, you would’ve believed you’d died right then and there.
Paralysed, speechless, you could only watch Satoru slowly lower down on one knee.
“Baby. Sweetheart. Darling.” His gaze was fixed solely on you, those impossible blue eyes bright and filled with hope. The eyes you realised you hadn’t stopped searching for since the day you met him all those years ago. “My love. My home. Please stay with me. Your days, your nights, all the years to come, I want to see them with you. This one life I have, I want to live it with you. Please let me be yours. Marry me?”
It was cheesy, and it was everything. You choked out a sob. Then you were flinging your arms around him, nodding your head furiously.
“Yes.” You forgot your tears. The stage. The cheers soaring throughout the arena. Nothing existed but him. “Yes, you stupid, crazy idiot. I’ll marry you.”
Then he was kissing you. Satoru lifted you up, spinning you around in his arms, your lips meeting his once more as you came back down.
In the next moment, the rest of Domain—Suguru, Kento, Yu—had surrounded you both, and you were swept up in a massive group hug.
“Good luck. You’re stuck with him for good now. And us,” Suguru said as Kento clapped Satoru on the back and Yu announced to the audience, “She said yes!” as if it wasn’t already obvious.
The opening to Limitless replayed. Throughout various parts of the stage, confetti was shooting out of professional grade blasters, raining all over the stage and the celebrating audience. The backdrops switched from yours and Satoru’s faces to shifting clouds. Then—
Clear blue skies.
The boys were taking their places for the final song. Satoru stole another peck on your cheek, and winked. “Now enjoy the show, sweetheart. This song’s for you, after all.”
You stood centerstage, watching Domain bring the tour to an end with their latest single. Watching the group you had grown together with, who had somehow become your family. Watching Satoru, singing his heart out. Laughed as he circled you, twirled you around, held your hand and raised it high in the air.
And all the while, his eyes stayed only on you.
Satoru asked you again that night, quietly, while you were both alone and tangled up in the sheets, exhausted from the tour and from devouring each other once you got home. No spectacle here, no crowds, the only light a dim glow from the bedside lamp.
“Will you marry me?”
Nuzzled against his chest, you peered up at him. “I think the whole world knows the answer to that.”
He was smiling. He hadn’t stopped smiling since the concert. “I want it to be just us this time. And I want only you to hear this—“
He placed a kiss your forehead, and whispered, “You’re the dream I fell in love with that came true. I still can’t quite believe it. I don’t think I ever will.”
You held him tighter. “Yes. The answer is always yes.”
Of course, Satoru being Satoru, didn’t stop there. He asked again the next morning, then the next day, then everyday for the next three months. He asked when your custom-made ring arrived at your home from the jeweller—a humongous, glittering rock that blinded you the moment he opened the box and got down on one knee for the second time.
Your answer was always the same, and he knew it, but he merely told you he loved hearing your voice when you said it.
Another year passed like this. Of you and Satoru juggling work and the media and the public and your private lives. You both had talked about a wedding. Satoru, no surprise, wanted a castle and an orchestra and swans, and only twenty guests.
But both your schedules were so packed you never could agree on a date. Domain was recording a new album, Suguru found a new passion for motivational talks and put you in charge of managing his events, while Kento and Yu had launched a new clothing line and wanted you involved in it.
Meanwhile, the movie Satoru had starred in was a box office hit. Offers for more movies came flooding in, and though hesitant at first because it meant he’d have to be apart from you while he filmed, Satoru eventually signed on to play the lead role in a highly anticipated action movie.
You were worked to the bone, but you’d never been happier.
And finally, when your schedules did align and you both found a free week to spend together, Satoru dragged you straight to the city’s municipal office.
It was there that you officially became husband and wife.
“Forget the wedding,” said Satoru. “I’m taking you somewhere no one can bother you but me.”
Now you were in the passenger seat of his sports car, driving up the winding mountain pass to the private onsen retreat he’d booked out so you both could be the only guests for the week.
Sunglasses balanced on top of his head, Satoru had one hand on the steering wheel as he sang to a juvenile tune he’d just made up.
“My honey bunny, so sweet and yummy, divine and messy, I’ll lick her very—”
“Please don’t put that in the album.”
“Why not? I think it’ll be very popular.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughed, warm sunlight drawing golden lines on his face. “So another love song for my beautiful wife, then? About how every day I think I can’t fall any more in love, and find that I still do whenever I look at her.”
You couldn’t help the smile spreading on your lips. A smile for him. For the life he’d spent years chasing to have with you. For the peace you and him had carved out among the glamour and chaos of your careers. And for the years ahead, when the fame and glory days faded away, that he’d still be here, looking at you as how he did now.
As if reading your thoughts, Satoru reached to hold your hand in his. And like a promise, he said, “Because all I will always see is you.”
˙⋆✮ .✦ The End ✦. ✮⋆˙
a little something extra...
a/n: soooo i've actually written out the entire lyrics for domain's song, 'limitless'. >.< it's my first time writing a song, please expect it to be cheesy, but i thought i'd share it anyway to give a full picture of the story. so here it is:
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Limitless
[Verse 1 – Satoru / Geto / Haibara (harmonies)]
I was fine just running blind,
Living fast, leaving things behind.
You showed up, no warning sign,
Turned my world to one of a kind.
They call me dream, they call me divine,
But I still reach for something mine.
[Pre-Chorus – Satoru]
I run, I chase, I fall, I climb,
Each step closer, one more time.
No map, no end, it's by design,
My eyes see only clear blue skies.
[Chorus – Satoru / Geto / Nanami + Haibara (harmonies)]
I’m limitless, no boundaries,
Gravity bends so easily.
I’m limitless, and through the noise,
The rush, the high,
Lives one voice, so right, my guide,
Saying I’ll never stand alone, it’s become my home.
Every song I write, it’s you I find
You’re the heart in every line.
[Verse 2 Rap – Nanami]
Huh, baby don’t worry, go on keep making that face,
One day you’ll turn around and find me matching your pace,
Look up, watch me, I’ll rearrange our stars back in place,
I’m infinity and you’re my endless race.
[Haibara]
Still can’t hear me, then I’ll shout
Faith’s the thing that never doubts.
[Nanami]
If the road to us is a grind, it’s fine, I’ll bend the time.
I’ll hold up signs ’til you stop and say ‘you’re mine’.
[Pre-Chorus – Satoru]
I run, I chase, I fall, I climb,
Each step closer, one more time.
No map, no end, it's by design,
My eyes see only clear blue skies.
[Chorus – Satoru / Geto / Nanami + Haibara (harmonies)]
I’m limitless, no boundaries,
Gravity bends so easily.
I’m limitless, and through the noise,
The rush, the high,
Lives one voice, so right, my guide,
Saying I’ll never stand alone, it’s become my home.
Every song I write, it’s you I find,
You’re the heart in every line.
[Bridge – Geto + group harmonies / Satoru solo]
[Geto + Group]
Every dream has your face in sight,
Every fear fades in your light.
[Satoru]
If forever’s taking time,
I will still be here for you to find.
[Final Chorus – Full group]
I’m limitless, no boundaries,
Gravity bends so easily.
I’m limitless, I won’t let go,
You’re the tide that pulls me close.
I’m limitless, when you’re with me,
I’m not alone, you are my home.
Every song I write, it’s you I find,
[Satoru]
You’re the heart in every line.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
if you got to this point, i love you. thank you for sticking to the end with idol gojo and Domain! hope you enjoyed the performance, merchandise is still on sale outside the arena ;)
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
⭑.ᐟ please check out my MASTERLIST for my other works <3
*** likes and reblogs make my day, but please do not repost this fic or use it with any form of AI. thank you <3
summary — when the world's most brilliant researcher dies in a freak accident, you refuse to accept it as the end. using the resurrection technology you developed together, you set out to finish his life's work, and accomplish the impossible: bringing Gojo Satoru back from the dead. but love and science make dangerous companions, and some boundaries exist for a reason.
word count — 9.9k
content warning + tags — MDNI 18+ ONLY, fem reader, modern sci-fi au, heavy angst, plot with smut, obsession, death, grief, resurrection, pseudo science, some crazy technology, satoru being innapropriate at the worst times
a/n — for @sweethearticism's brutal bakery event ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎
halloween's over, and as always, my tardy ass is late to the party TᴗT but here it is, my version of frankenjo that wouldn't leave me alone. this is a modern interpretation and very loosely inspired by the actual frankenstein. i hope you enjoy it ♡ 〢 art: @ _3aem (x), divider: @ saradika-graphics
A storm engulfed the world outside, but inside the research centre, the silence was louder. As loud as the stillness of Satoru’s body, cold and stiff, lying on a metal slab.
You’d lost count of the hours, the days, the weeks. All you knew was that when the alarm rang, you had to return him to the cryochamber, because keeping him out for too long would trigger the decomposition.
But today—today you were going to change that.
Today, he would no longer be dead.
Even now, your life still revolved around him. You would have it no other way. Even now, when he had no air in his lungs, no rise and fall of the once warm chest you used to lay your head on every night, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat as you listened to his voice prattle on and on about his latest discoveries like a bedtime story… you still heard him in your head.
“Can you imagine it, baby? The shock of the entire medical industry—no, life itself—when we finally crack the code?” You’d hear his excitement in the darkness of your bedroom. His endless blue eyes steeped with unquenchable passion. “Those narrow-minded dimwits on the board might call us crazy now, but we’ll show them, won’t we? Soon, they’ll be singing a different tune.”
“We?”
“Of course, baby.” The glow of the bedside lamp would catch in his eyes. A glint that never failed to mesmerise you. “We. Us. Me and you. It won’t feel as good sticking it to them without you by my side.”
“But this is your life’s work, Toru. I’m just your assistant. I can’t possibly take the same amount of credit.”
“It’s ours,” he’d said firmly, kissing your head as if he was sealing his words in stone. “Everything of mine is yours, if not officially now, then it will be soon. Why do you think I’m marrying you?”
“Because you always forget to eat unless I remind you.”
“That’s because I can’t live without you. I thought we’d established that fact.”
You’d smiled and snuggled into him. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” he’d said, wrapping you closer in his arms, his scent. “Because neither am I.”
But he did. He’d gone and died.
And now you would fix him.
This was not ‘The End’.
Gently, you smoothed back the wisps of snowy white hair from his face. Your fingers traced his brows, his temple, along his jaw, brushing the pale, grey lips that used to press against yours not so long ago. Your gaze moved first before your hand, to the fine stitches down his chest, circling his right arm, raised slightly against the skin across the width of his stomach—a perfect split, and a reminder of the state he’d been in before you’d patched him up—
In pieces.
You smacked the image away. There was nothing left in you to hurl out, but you refused to remember him that way. Your Satoru was too brilliant, too full of light, too alive. He was too beautiful to be fleeting. Too precious to be taken away so brutally.
And he was yours. He still was.
You heard the staccato beep of an access card tapping in, the door sliding swiftly open. A pair of shoes clacked against the tiles. You didn’t turn around.
“It’s time, doc.” The voice belonged to Shoko, your former colleague before you inherited the research centre Satoru left you in his will. “They’re waiting for you to do the final checks.”
You nodded once, your gaze still fixed on Satoru. You should be excited. This was it. You were going to revive him. You should move. Get him to the Infinity Chamber immediately.
But your feet stayed rooted to the floor.
You felt Shoko come up beside you. The room was soundless for a few seconds.
“He looks good, doc. Your suturing is impeccable. It’s lucky his brain wasn’t damaged and all the injuries are neck-down. Cell and nerve therapy was a bitch, but I don’t think we’ll stand a chance if we have to replace brain matter.”
“It has to be his brain,” you said. “He wouldn’t be him if it wasn’t. And I would’ve found a way.”
“Mmm,” was all Shoko replied. You knew what she was thinking. You knew what they all thought but didn’t have the heart to say aloud in front of you.
That you were delusional. That despite shutting down every research arm except those that benefited your cause, despite stripping the centre down of non-essential staff and resources, and pouring the entire budget into speed funding Satoru’s wildly controversial Theory of Resurrection—his life’s work—the chances of success was next to none.
And if it didn’t work, then that was it. You would have destroyed the Gojo family’s legacy. The board would kick you out and sell the centre. It was a miracle they had agreed to this in the first place. You supposed you had Sukuna to thank for that extra vote, though the man was a cunning bastard, so you were sure his motives were not completely altruistic.
You’d calculated the odds. There was a six percent chance this would work. Only six. All for today. All for him.
Eh, better than five, Satoru’s voice spoke in your head. You clutched onto the sound, but it was like chasing a ghost. A blink, and it was gone.
A water bottle appeared in your vision.
“Drink,” said Shoko.
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. You’re also living in hell, and I guarantee you won’t find him there.” She pressed the bottle into your hands. “So you’re going to drink this, and you’re going to wheel him out of this room. You’re going to put him into that chamber, and you’re going to face the fact that it might not work. But I’ll tell you something—staring at his corpse for five more minutes isn’t going to bring him back.”
Your lips pressed into a tight line. “How many?”
“All of them,” confirmed Shoko. “Every board member, not just Sukuna. Arrived some time ago. And ah… Fushiguro Megumi is here too.”
Fuck.
“I see,” you said, keeping your tone steady. “I—give me a moment. I won’t be long.”
A beat, and then Shoko was retreating. You waited for the sliding doors to seal shut before reaching into the pocket of your lab coat. Your gaze hadn’t wavered from Satoru this whole time, and it still didn’t as you let the water bottle fall on the floor with a loud thud.
“Hey baby,” you whispered, taking his hand in yours. Like reflex, you waited for his fingers to curl around yours. For his thumb to brush lightly along your knuckles. And when nothing happened, you stroked his instead. “So, here we are. You could’ve made it easier if you’d sorted out all your files like I told you to. And didn’t I say making my birthday your password was too obvious? Anyone would’ve guessed that and you know it.”
A distant chuckle echoed somewhere in your head.
“I wish you could see it,” you continued. Paused. “I mean, you will. When you wake up, you’ll see I did everything according to your specifications. No deviations. No variables. It’s all your design, down to the last decimal. It’s all you, Toru. It will be all of you… you’ll be you again.”
You lifted his hand, your other holding the ring you’d been carrying around in your coat pocket for what felt like an eternity, and slipped it onto his fourth finger. A simple platinum band, matching with the one you wore. You’d picked it out together during an extended lunch break a month before the wedding.
You squeezed his hand, and bent down to press your lips against his.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Thirty three weeks ago…
“Death is a process, not a moment. But you already know that.”
You groaned. “Satoru, it’s two in the morning. The wedding is in fifteen hours. We should get some sleep before checking into the hotel.”
“Just humour me for a bit, baby. I think I’m onto something.” Satoru was already hopping out of bed. He flicked on the lights without warning, temporarily blinding you, and was rolling the whiteboard to the foot of the bed by the time your vision recovered.
You stared at him, shirtless and in a pair of checkered pyjama pants, as he uncapped the marker pen, his blue eyes wide awake and bright with that unrivalled ambition you envied and loved.
You sighed and shifted to sit up against the pillows. “Alright, make it quick. I don’t want to walk down the aisle with bags under my eyes.”
“I’ll still think you’re the most beautiful person in the world.”
You couldn’t help the skipped beat in your chest, or the smile that appeared on your lips. “You want to keep the compliments coming, or tell me your theory?”
“Baby, you underestimate me. I can do both at the same time, and then some more.” Satoru winked, and began sketching.
You watched as Satoru filled the whiteboard with diagrams, his hand moving like an artist with a brush. Sometimes, you swore you saw equations flying out his head, faster than the average human could comprehend. His mind was a marvel, his face was a dream. He was your dream.
The dream you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your days with.
"The key isn't preventing death,” Satoru was saying. “It's reversing it. Death is a cascade—cellular processes shutting down in sequence. If we can interrupt that cascade, reset the cells' programmed death response, we can bring them back online."
“Yes, it’s the basis of your entire research,” you said. “Interrupt cell degradation. Reverse. Reconstruct. Rehabilitate. Regenerate. The Four R’s, as you like to remind everyone. It’s why we’re building that machine in the first place—“
“Chamber, darling. Not machine. Sounds better.”
“But why are you repeating this?”
“Because, my gorgeous soon-to-be wife, I just realised we’re missing an important ingredient.” Satoru proceeded to draw a big question mark and circled it. “We can revive a body, but what of the soul?”
You lifted a brow. Since when was he suddenly concerned with the spiritual side of things? “You’re going to have to elaborate, Toru.”
“Think about it, baby. Why am I so madly in love with you?” Satoru grinned. “Why do I look at you now and think I want nothing better than to take your clothes off? Why do I want to fuck no one else but you?”
Heat prickled up your neck. But you said, “It’s the logic your brain comprehends, as unromantic as it sounds.”
“Exactly. It’s brain chemistry.” Satoru flung the marker pen aside and in the next moment, he was climbing on the bed, and on top of you. “The soul is tied to the brain.”
His head lowered, lips brushing against yours.
“Feel that?” he murmured. “Do you like that?”
You melted under his gaze.
“Yes,” you breathed.
Then he was ripping the blanket away. His hands slid underneath the oversized shirt you wore, up and up and peeling it off you, leaving you in nothing but your panties.
“What about this?” His fingers dragged up the middle of your torso, tracing the underside of your breasts. He began drawing slow circles around your nipple.
You arched into his touch. “Yes…”
His mouth caught a nipple, and he began sucking. Flicking. His tongue and teeth playing with you until little moans escaped you. “And what about now, baby?”
“Ngh—get to your point…”
A chuckle. “Consciousness,” Satoru said, as his hand travelled down your stomach, down between your thighs, and with two fingers, began stroking you over your already soaked panties. “Our brains are what shapes our souls. What allows us memory and complex emotions. We can revive a body, but without a soul, without consciousness, the body would be human in appearance but not in essence.”
Your moans grew louder when his fingers slipped underneath your panties, sliding right up the middle of all your aching wetness. Your legs parted wide to give him more access.
“Pleasure…” Satoru murmured, his mouth and tongue working up the curve of your neck as his fingers caught your clit, and pinched it.
“Ahn! Toru—take it off…”
His tongue had reached its way along the shell of your ear, but his fingers remained, holding your clit hostage.
“Patience, baby. I’m not yet done with my demonstration,” he teased, then did the most wicked thing, and began rolling your tight little nub between his fingers. Slowly. So, so slowly.
“Oh my…” Your head tipped back against the pillows. You tried to grab hold of Satoru, but he only pinned down your wrists above your head with his free hand.
“God,” he finished what you couldn’t, “why do I always go crazy for you like this? Why are you enjoying what I’m doing as much as you do now? Tell me, baby.”
“Because—nghh! Because it’s you… because I only want you, Toru…”
“And I, you, my love,” he said against your lips, in a tone so tender and reassuring there was no room for doubt, before finally plunging two fingers inside you, pumping deep. “Which brings me back to my point. You love it when I fuck you like this because it’s me. Because of all the memories you have of me. Because of what you feel for me. This is what your brain has decided, and because the brain is connected to the soul, one cannot be brought back without the other.”
Somewhere in between, he’d added another finger, making it nearly impossible for you to concentrate on what he was saying. In this moment, with him rocking inside you, hitting you over and over again in that terribly sensitive spot, driving you insane, Satoru could’ve been reciting the ABCs and you still wouldn’t have understood much.
“T-toru…please—“
“Almost, baby. Did you forget about my cock?” His fingers ceased its sweet torture, slipping out. The sudden lack of him jarred you, but you could only whimper out a plea.
In one easy motion, Satoru flipped you around and was yanking off your panties. Warm, solid hands palmed your ass, lifted your hips high, exposing all the slick evidence dripping down your inner thighs.
Satoru swore under his breath. “Fuck, look at you. If this is the last thing I see before I die, then I’ll die happy.”
Your thoughts shattered as you felt the warm press of his tongue. Satoru licked you clean. Licked up all that wetness leaking down your thighs. Then he licked you there—a single stroke, deep and slow, up your melting core, before narrowing on your dangerously sensitive clit, flicking and sucking and making you lose your mind.
Satoru let you come like this first—on his tongue. With your face buried in the pillows and his buried in your pussy. Your legs were still trembling when you felt his impressive length, rock hard, rubbing against your folds, making you go wet all over again.
“Yes or no, baby?” he asked, though it was pointless. He already knew what your answer would be.
You mumbled something unintelligent, but wiggled your hips for emphasis. Then felt his tip nudge at your entrance.
“Which brings us back to the missing ingredient,” Satoru said, and a loud moan escaped you as he sheathed the full length of him inside you. He was so impossibly hard and thick, you were struggling to even clench around him. “We’ve only taken four R’s into consideration, when there’s actually a fifth… Resurrection.”
He pulled out, almost to the tip, and slammed back into you. Hard. Fast. Then he did it again, and again, and again. And each time he did it, you felt like you’d died and came back to life.
“Because a soul can’t be regenerated,” Satoru continued as his pace increased rapidly, ruining your mind and your insides at the same time. “So, in essence, our theory is not about reversing death. It’s about resurrecting the whole self. All the intangibles that make us—fuck, baby, you’re so tight. You’re choking my cock.”
“S-Satoru…”
“Mm?”
“More… Harder…”
“God, I can’t believe I get to have you like this forever.” Satoru did as you asked, fucking you until your cries drowned out the erratic thumping of the bedhead against the wall. Until you could no longer close your mouth. Until nothing existed save the feel of him pumping deep inside you…
The way he filled you so completely, so perfectly… it was everything.
He was everything.
Stars exploded in your vision. Your climax came in swift, escalating waves, overwhelming you.
You cried out his name, and it was only then that Satoru finally gave in, driving right over the edge along with you. You felt him—all of him—spilling into you. Heard his deep, unrestrained groan as he spent himself inside you before falling on the bed, half his body still draped on top of you.
Satoru’s mouth found yours, his tongue sweeping in and pampering you with gentle strokes while his fingers danced slow, playful circles down your spine. He grinned against your lips. “How was that, baby?”
You were still out of breath. “I think you know the answer.”
“But I want to hear you say it.”
You peered up at your fiancé. At the man who was to become your husband in less than a day. A part of you still couldn’t believe it—that someone as brilliant as him wanted you as much as you did him. That you, who had dedicated your life to science and medicine, to logic and reasoning, still couldn’t explain why you found yourself speechless whenever his gaze was fixed on you.
So you told him the truth. “You’re incredible, Satoru.”
The smile he gave you then… you could look at that smile a billion times and still melt from it. “I hope you mean both the sex and my theory.”
You sighed, knowing exactly where he was going with this. “Alright, five minutes. Then I’m really going to sleep, promise?”
He laughed and kissed your forehead. “As you wish, my love.”
“Well, for starters, you’re talking about preserving brain activity—core consciousness—after death, not only on a cellular level. That’s notoriously tricky. Impossible, some might say, but I know you hate that word—“
“Most things are not impossible, merely improbable.”
“But brain function is quickest to deteriorate, so you’ll have to find a way to—“
“We, darling,” Satoru corrected.
You couldn’t help your smile. “Right, so we will have to find a way to prevent core consciousness from ceasing to exist the moment the heart stops beating… save the soul, as you say, from extinction.” You tapped your chin, your mind whirring as his fingers continued their light tracing along the contours of your body. You didn’t doubt Satoru had already found the answer, but you loved him all the more for letting you figure it out on your own, even if he wasn’t letting you sleep. “The difficult part is the time constraint, unless we freeze the brain. We already have the cryogenic technology for that…”
“But?” Satoru looked at you with hopeful eyes.
“But the soul isn’t cellular. It’s immaterial.”
His answering grin told you that you were close.
“Even if we do bring back consciousness, we don’t want it to be a blank slate,” you continued. “We want it the way it was before death. We want to retain memory…” It hit you then. Your eyes widened at Satoru. “So we back it up. We copy neural activity in the brain before it dies and upload it back in later.”
Satoru leaned in, and pecked your lips as reward. “By the way, have I told you I’m crazy for you?”
You laughed. “Everyday. Don’t stop.”
“Oh, as if I will,” he said, pulling you in for yet another kiss. “You’re stuck with me for the indefinite future, baby. You’ll soon get sick of hearing it, but I’ll continue saying it anyway.”
You reached for his beautiful face.
“Never,” you said.
Satoru’s smile was tender. “I’ll hold you to that.” He kissed your palm, your lips again, and then he was pulling away to slip out of bed.
Your brows furrowed. “I thought you promised we were going to sleep?”
“Huh? I thought you were going to sleep.” He was already pulling open the dresser drawer. “I’m going to the lab. Don’t wait up for me, okay baby?”
“What? Are you serious?” You sat up straight now, back stiff. “Satoru, you have a wedding to attend. Our wedding. Can’t whatever it is you want to do wait for just one day?”
“I’ll meet you at the hotel. I need to make some new adjustments to the chamber. I’m thinking of calling it the Infinity Chamber. Has a nice, ring to it, no? Infinite life. Infinite time. Very mythical—”
“Satoru, don’t,” you warned. “Just forget about work for twenty four hours. That’s all I’m asking for. Please.”
“Baby, you know it’s not just work to me.”
“Then what am I? Just some girl you’re marrying?”
His hand paused midway to his backpack on the armchair. Satoru’s gaze found yours across the room.
“Is that what you think?” he said, his tone gentle but serious. “Because to me, you’re my equal. In every measure.”
“Satoru, don’t you dare walk out that door. I’ll kill you.”
“Baby, we both know you won’t.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Then I’ll win,” he said.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Well, I am. I’ll win because you’ll let me. Because you love me.”
He winked, and blew you a final kiss.
And then he was gone.
Satoru never turned up at the hotel. You’d waited at the lobby for an hour, and when he hadn’t answered your call for the sixteenth time, you went to check in to the suite you thought you’d be stepping in together with him.
As the hours until the wedding drew closer and closer, you’d finally hit the last straw of your patience and sent Suguru to the research centre to drag Satoru over. It didn’t matter if you had to marry him in his lab coat. It was better than marrying his ghost.
The call came thirty minutes before it was time for you to walk down the aisle. The guests had arrived. White roses covered every surface of the ceremony hall. You were in your gown, veil draped over your head, chewing on your lip when Suguru’s name flashed on your phone.
You’d laughed first. You’d thought it was a joke. A bad one. Suguru had to repeat it three times before you were running to your car.
But still, you didn’t believe him. Not until you reached the lab. Not until you saw Satoru.
They’d categorised it as an accident. The security cameras confirmed Satoru had been alone. You’d seen the time stamp. It happened while you were sleeping. He’d forgotten to turn off the main power, and was ripping out some components from the cryochamber, presumably to move to his new Infinity Chamber, when the door malfunctioned, and sealed him inside.
Hours. Satoru had been stuck in there for hours. In a temperature of minus two hundred degrees celsius, slowly freezing. His blood solidifying…
And like brittle ice, he simply broke apart.
As with every task that involved touching Satoru, you were the one who performed it. The human mind was fallible, so it was natural for them to make mistakes, but you less than others. Satoru was unmatched, of course, but since he was out of commission for the time being, the next best person you trusted was yourself.
You were not unaware that Shoko and the team, as well as every board member, had their eyes on you the moment you wheeled Satoru into the Infinity Chamber—more a tall, circular room that resembled the inside of a silo, with large lamps fixed onto the generous, three-storey high ceiling, clinical light glaring down as rigid and impersonal as the spectators watching you from above, shielded behind a circumference of glass.
Well, you supposed ‘impersonal’ was being unkind to your team. Suguru was Satoru’s best friend, after all. Correction—he is. Perhaps unforgiving was a better word. They’d understood why you’d put all of their jobs and livelihoods on the line for this, but it didn’t mean they would forgive you for it.
And then there was the boy. Megumi. You could practically feel his gaze burning into your back as you hooked up the last of the dozens of tubes connecting Satoru to the walls of the Infinity Chamber itself, because that was what this room was—one giant machine built to execute the last of Satoru’s ‘Five R’ Principle:
Resurrect.
You checked the tubes again, checked the wires, checked the position of the helmet fastened over Satoru’s head, then checked everything again before finally forcing yourself not to prolong this any further. You hated leaving Satoru alone, but you needed to be in the control room, and no one could be in the chamber while the procedure was taking place unless they enjoyed being electrocuted.
You went through a steel inforced door that took you up a set of winding stairs straight to the control room, where the chatter immediately died a quick death the moment you stepped in.
No doubt they had been discussing you. Not like you gave a shit. You were used to it by now—the whispers behind your back, the glances shot your way when they thought you weren’t looking. The furrowed brows and downturned lips, and perhaps worst of all, the knowledge that none of it was out of hate but pity.
“Doc,” Shoko nodded in greeting, the others mimicking her gesture, albeit in silence. “All screens are live. Perfusion system is loading, should be ready to go in three minutes.”
You turned to Suguru, who was positioned in front of a wide monitor, the screen filled with lines and lines of ever-shifting numbers. You asked him the same question you did everyday.
“How’s it reading?”
And Suguru answered you as how he always did. Calmly. A little bleak. “We’re still at a 0.0000033 percent loss. Nothing’s changed since the soul mapping. The system shows his neural patterns are still processing information at an unnaturally high efficiency. His consciousness is more than active, doc. It’s fully functioning, fully realised—it’s like Satoru can’t shut up in there. Typical of him, I guess.”
“We should have just made him a new body,” Nanami remarked from where he stood monitoring the blood tanks. “By my calculations, it would have lowered the risks by precisely sixteen more percent.”
“Yeah, but then we’re wasting the original body,” Haibara pointed out. “We can’t just throw him out—“
“We’re already copying his brain. I don’t see what’s the—“ Nanami cut himself off, glancing for half a second in your direction. He cleared his throat. “It’s done anyway. The best course now is to proceed as is.”
It’s all noise, baby. Block it out. Satoru spoke in your head. You have me.
Without thinking, you walked over to the wall of thick glass. Below, Satoru lay unmoving, in the exact same position as when you’d left him. You couldn’t explain it, but even now, a tiny, microscopic part of you still thought he might just wake up on his own. As if he’d merely decided to take a very, very long nap. It was ludicrous since you were the one who had put his body back together. But when it came to Satoru, your own brain tended to override most rhyme and reason.
“Everything’s good to go,” said Shoko, pulling you from your thoughts. “Want to do the honours, doc?”
Your gaze narrowed on the small green button raised against the main control panel. You approached it, reaching out a hand, fingers hovering.
You think I can’t do it, baby?
I think you can do anything, Toru.
Do you doubt me?
Never
“Never,” you whispered, and pushed the button.
It was as if the chamber itself had come to life. The great whir of a beastly machine waking up from an eternal slumber. Invisible currents coursed through the air inside the cylindrical shaft where Satoru lay alone, hooked up to the tubes that were now pumping synthetic blood into his body. You thought you saw him twitch. You blinked. It was just electricity. But then—
“Doc—“ It was Shoko, her tone uncharacteristically shaken. “Peripheral nerve activity detected. We're seeing reflex responses. His motor neurons are firing."
“Perfusion efficiency at ninety-two percent…ninety-three…ninety-eight...” Nanami added, similarly unable to hide his surprise. “Capillary beds are accepting the new blood flow. Oxygen saturation levels are rising steadily. No adverse reactions detected. This is… unprecedented.”
“Ah, guys…” Haibara announced. “The ECG just detected a heartbeat.”
Your breaths stilled.
“Fuck me.” Suguru jolted from his seat. “Doc, you should come see this—all of you should see this. The upload… it's working. His consciousness is downloading into the biological brain. Neural pattern fidelity is nearly perfect. I'm seeing unified brain activity. He's not just alive. He's conscious. He’s… he’s coming back—“
But while everyone rushed to Suguru’s monitor, your feet were moving in a different direction. In the next moment, you were flying back down the stairs and slamming through the door into the Infinity Chamber.
And just as your gaze snapped to his body on the metal slab—
At the same time, a voice came through the chamber’s speakers.
“Oh my fucking god, Satoru. Are you serious? Of all the times, now’s not it.”
“Suguru? That you? Tch—some friend you are.” Thirty three weeks of stillness, but now Satoru was tipping his head up at the control room. “If you’d just answered when I called you, then I wouldn’t have turned into a block of ice, would I? Because I would’ve forced you to come to the lab.”
“So you do remember dying?” It was Shoko this time.
“I remember freezing my ass off with no way out of that bloody cryochamber. Doesn’t take a genius to know what came next.”
“That’s a ninety nine percent memory retainment.” Shoko gave a low whistle. “Impressive work, doc. You did it.”
“Of course she did. She’s my—“ Satoru paused, his gaze finding yours again. “Fuuuuck… baby, I’m sorry. I missed the wedding, didn’t I?”
You didn’t answer him. It was as if your mind had glitched while trying to process if this was real, or if you were actually hallucinating. If somehow, somewhere in the process of trying to bring him back to life, you’d lost your mind and ended up in the loony bin, and that all of this was happening in your head.
“Baby, you’re shaking.” Satoru made to stand but was jerked back by the tubes connected to his body. “Ow, damn it—fuck.” He gripped a tube, about to yank it off, but then had the common sense to drop it when he saw blood still pumping into him. His arms reached out towards you. “Come here, baby. It’s me… I promise.”
But before your feet could decide to function, the door to the chamber opened. Two figures strode in. Both, you recognised. Both, you could do without seeing.
“Huh, so you’re actually alive.” Sukuna picked off some imaginary dust from his creaseless suit, his tone managing to sound both amused and scathing all at once. “I was expecting some sort of trickery. A hologram, maybe. At most, a robot. Who knows what they’ll come up with to prevent the board from selling this place off.”
Satoru snorted. “You’re lucky there were cameras, or I would’ve found a way to frame you for my murder. And a robot? How insulting. No one can be me but me.”
“Evidently. A robot would know when to stop talking.”
A step behind Sukuna, Fushiguro Megumi stood glaring. Not at Satoru, but at you.
He looked more dishevelled than last you’d seen him during the reading of Satoru’s will, in which a mini skirmish had broken out among Satoru’s relatives—who hadn’t bothered showing their faces until that day—when the Gojo family’s lawyer had announced that the entirety of Satoru’s assets were to be split equally between you and Megumi. An adopted son and a not-yet-wife.
And like you, Megumi hadn’t given a flying fuck about the inheritance. What he did care about was the one clause Satoru had somehow had the foresight to include in his will. That the decision on what to do with his body would be solely up to you. Satoru’s own messed up way of showing you he meant it when he’d once told you, “I belong to you.”
Megumi had wanted a funeral. You didn’t. Megumi had wanted to say his goodbyes. You didn’t. Megumi didn’t want Satoru to be tampered with, to be experimented with. You didn’t see it that way. And that was how your relationship with the boy had soured to this point.
“I hope you’re happy,” he said to you. He might as well have spat in your face.
Satoru must have sensed the tension, because he immediately dropped his verbal sparring with Sukuna. “Oh? What seems to be the problem, Megumi-chan? I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
But Megumi wouldn’t even look at him. His eyes stayed on you like daggers slicing into your skin. “The Gojo Satoru I know is dead. This…thing you created—with fake blood and a fake brain—“ he laughed, bitterly. “And now you’re pretending he’s real? What a load of bullshit.”
He didn’t wait for a reply and stormed out of the chamber.
“He’ll come around,” Satoru said, but still, he’d winced. “Alright, welcome party’s over, everyone. As nice as I am to look at, I don’t really want to sit here naked with my dick hanging out for much longer. So if all of you could kindly piss off, that would be amazing. I’d like a moment with my wife, please.”
Sukuna scoffed. “Well, if you’re in good condition to yap incessantly, then I expect you’ll be in good condition for a board meeting tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Don’t die and be late again.” And with that, he was out the door.
Shoko’s voice spoke through the speakers. “We’re going to stop the perfusion, Satoru. It should be safe to remove the tubes. But me and the team will need to stick around in case of anything… unforeseen. Just pretend we’re not here.”
The whirring of machines faded, steeping the chamber in a new silence. Once again, you were alone with Satoru. But this time, you’d finally accepted he was truly breathing.
“Baby? Talk to me.” Satoru flashed you a nervous smile. “You haven’t said a word.”
You moved.
And the moment you did, you couldn’t stop.
You reached for him. Your hands were on his face, moving down his neck, his chest. Over the very real beat of his heart. And when you felt his hand on yours, the pressure of his very real touch, your voice broke.
“I—we should try taking the tubes out.”
It was lame. You should have told him you missed him. You should have told him all the things you wanted to tell him in the months he lay lifeless while you pieced him back together. How you refused to let a single drop of tear roll down your cheek, because it would mean that you had something to cry about. How the entire research centre thought grief had turned you into some mad scientist who was obsessed with creating your very own Frankenstein, and that you almost believed them… almost.
But you didn’t tell him those things. Because those things no longer mattered.
Slowly, you removed the tubes from him one by one. Satoru just sat there, watching you work, his fingers playing with your hair, grazing down the back of your neck, applying gentle caresses here and there until the last of the tubes were gone.
“Try standing up,” you said, your voice too thick to hide the emotions threatening to burst out from within you. “I need to check your sense of balance.”
Satoru nodded and wasted no time hopping off the table onto his feet. He grinned, and did a little spin. Like he was modelling for you. “Nice stitching, baby. I think I prefer myself like this—adds a lot of character, you know?”
“I’ll get you some clothes.”
But he caught your wrist then, pulling you tight against him. His arms enveloped you, fingers lifting your chin to meet his gaze.
“I’ve missed you too,” he said, stroking your cheek.
The way he spoke, softly, his cadence perfect and familiar and exactly as you remembered—it really was him.
Your lips trembled, betraying you as you peered up at him.
“Never again, Satoru,” you said. “Okay?”
He leaned in. “I promise, baby.”
And when his mouth brushed against yours… when you parted your lips, feeling his tongue sweep inside you, meeting his every stroke and caress with your own… it was like everything that had been blocking up your insides for so long—the sand in your lungs, the pain in your chest, the hollow pit in your stomach—all of it became but a distant memory.
Your kisses grew hungry. You couldn’t stop touching him. You needed to bottle up all of his warmth and preserve every ounce of this moment because you couldn’t bear to lose another second with him.
“Hey,” Satoru murmured against your lips. “Easy, baby. I’m right here.”
A smile cracked through some forgotten place in you. “Well, deal with it. All my kisses have been one-sided for months.”
“I bet I still taste good dead.”
“That’s not funny, Satoru.”
He laughed. “We’ll see if it is sixty years from now.”
“Why sixty?”
He grinned, and then he was pulling you in for another kiss. “That’s what husbands and wives do, don’t they? Grow old together.”
Like wildfire, news of the scientist who died and came back to life spread across the globe, saturating every media outlet, baffling entire religions, upending the medical world and whatever long held beliefs they had been preaching on the subject of mortality.
The headlines were calling it a miracle. Churches called it blasphemy. The medical journals were split between praise and skepticism. The National Registration Department had never had to rescind a death certificate eight months after registering it. Gojo Satoru, billionaire scientist, child prodigy, TIME 100 most influential individual, the world’s sexiest man alive for six years running, and former corpse, had become a global sensation as the man who had defied death.
And you were right there in the spotlight alongside him. Satoru had made sure of it, insisting that your name was listed first in the accreditation for his now infamous Theory of Resurrection. Whenever he was asked, Satoru always drove in the fact that though he was the mastermind behind it, you were the one who saw it to the finish line.
“Execution is worth infinitely more than mere ideas,” he’d point out in all the interviews while refusing to let go of your hand.
Naturally, with any bizarre phenomenon came the conspiracies. There were those who accused Satoru of not being human, instead believing he was some kind of top secret, hi-tech artificial intelligence the government was testing out as a weapon for modern warfare. The ufologists’ deductions were much simpler—that extraterrestrial beings had abducted Satoru, conducted experiments, and placed him back on earth as one of them.
In answer to these wild accusations, Satoru had only one reply. “Whether I’m an alien or the Terminator, at least I’m a damn good looking one.”
Well, if there was a truth you could confirm, it was that he still fucked you like a feral beast.
After three weeks of monitoring at the research centre, Shoko and the team had determined Satoru’s condition as stable, and the board finally allowed him to return home with you. The moment the both of you stepped through the front door, it was like Satoru was a man on a mission.
“To make up for lost time,” he said as he tore off your clothes, and took you against the wall. “It’s lucky you didn’t have to sew my cock back on as well.”
“If you’d lost it, I wouldn’t have brought you back—ahn!”
He laughed as he thrusted deep into you, filling you up so completely, making you take in every inch of him until there was no doubt that he was here to stay. Inside you. With you. “And here I am thinking you fell for my incredible mind.”
“It’s—nghh—Toru, you’re…”
“What is it, baby?” Another thrust. Your moans filled the foyer. “Tell me, what am I?”
“Everything,” you breathed. “You’re everything, Satoru…”
His gaze softened, and when his lips found yours, his kiss was tender. Warm.
Alive.
You let him pick you up, clinging onto him as he carried you to the bedroom and gently laid you on the sheets. You didn’t let go. Not when he sheathed himself in you again. Not as his mouth claimed every part of you as if he never wanted to forget the very shape of you. Not while your bodies moved in sync together, while you cried out his name over and over again as he brought you to the edge, and went right over it together with you.
You still didn’t let go as your head rested in the crook of his arm, your palm on his chest, over his beating heart. Your fingers traced the thick gash spanning across his stomach. It was still too early to remove the stitches, but he was healing up nicely. You wanted to believe scars could be beautiful, too.
“You can close your eyes, baby. It’s alright.”
You peered up at Satoru, not understanding at first.
“You’re exhausted,” he said. “I bet you haven’t properly slept since—“
“Don’t, Toru. I’ve heard that word enough. I don’t need you saying it too.”
“Then what do you me want to call it?”
“You didn’t—you were just absent. That’s all.”
“Well, I’m here now.” Satoru trailed his fingers down the curve of your back. “And I’m going to marry you. We’ll have that wedding I stupidly ruined. We’ll take that trip to Paris and never see the sights, because I’ll be fucking you so well you won’t want to leave the hotel.”
A soft laugh escaped you. “What about all the improvements you want to make to the Infinity Chamber? It’s going to be a tight schedule. All the major hospitals have already placed their orders, and Sukuna wants to release the first commercial model by early next year—“
“Baby, if there’s one thing I learnt from dy—my absence, it’s my priorities. Work can wait. Never you. Never again.”
You hugged him tighter. “Is that a promise I’m hearing, Gojo Satoru?”
He beamed. “I don’t have to promise anything, baby. I’ll show you. Just sit back and see for yourself, I’ll—“
Satoru paused. His brows furrowed.
“Toru?” Your smile vanished as he suddenly jerked upright, and stumbled out of bed.
Satoru was coughing. The coughing turned into heaving. He was doubled over, clutching his stomach.
Red spilled out his mouth. Globs of it, fresh and dark, splattering across the white carpet.
Someone was screaming.
It was you.
Of all the fucking things that had to go wrong, why did it have to be his immune system?
Your jaw was tight as you read the report, your eyes burning holes into the file as if you could force the words to magically reshuffle and change the diagnosis.
But nothing changed. Satoru was dying. Again.
“We’ll rush a stem cell transplantation,” you said. “We’ll develop new immunosuppressants. We’ll—“
“Those treatments take time, doc,” replied Shoko. You hated the tone she was using. It was too gentle. Too final. The kind of tone doctors used when they were required to deliver bad news to patients. “If it were a normal autoimmune disease, we’d probably have a chance. But Satoru isn’t normal. At the rate his immune system is attacking… it’s like a war inside him. His body is shutting down too rapidly—“
“How long?” you asked, already knowing the answer. But your brain refused to accept it, instead seeking out someone, anyone, who might tell you otherwise.
The team fell silent.
“He won’t last the hour,” Suguru finally said. “I’m sorry, doc.”
You pitched the file across the Infinity Chamber. The papers came loose, flapping about midair before scattering soundlessly onto the floor. On the operating table where Satoru lay motionless, those blue eyes lost under closed lids. Unseeing.
He’d fallen into a coma before the ambulance arrived. Simply keeled over, face down in a pool of his own regurgitated blood. No hospital would be able to treat him, so you’d screamed at the paramedics to take him straight to the research centre. Everyone had seen his face on the news, and it didn’t take much convincing for them to oblige your demand.
His skin was greying again. The pink in his cheeks, his lips, had faded to an ashen pallor. His breaths were waning. Those fucking tubes were stuck in him once more.
“Brain activity is flatlining,” Nanami reported, his expression grave. He added, quietly, “You might want a moment alone with him, doc. He can’t respond, but he can still hear you.”
Your fists were balled, nails puncturing through the skin of your palms.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
This wasn’t happening. You weren’t going to let it happen.
You weren’t going to fucking say goodbye.
“Activate the resurrection procedure,” you said. “Now.”
Someone touched your shoulder. You flinched back.
Shoko’s hand retreated. “Doc,” she said, carefully. “We never calculated for a second time. It’s too much. The process will fry his organs. The synthetic blood might destroy his natural cells.”
You spared her a single glance. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
No one moved at first. Then, Haibara spoke.
“She wants to try, guys.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes as he said it. “We should let her try.”
A sigh. You didn’t know from who. You didn’t care.
“Everyone to the control room,” said Shoko. “Nanami, reduce perfusion speed by half. Suguru, watch the reading—the moment his consciousness hits zero, we’re uploading immediately. Haibara, see if you can block some of the electro current. Satoru’s still alive. We want to jolt his system, not subject him to an electric chair. Doc—“
“I’m staying in the chamber,” you said.
“It’s not safe—“
“It will be if you block a portion of the electro current, which you are. Either way, I’m not leaving him.”
“If we’re going to do this, we should get moving,” said Suguru. “We have less than an hour now, and I’ll have to recalibrate the neural mapping.”
There was nothing to recalibrate and you knew it. Shoko might not have given up on you, but Suguru had accepted the fact that convincing you to do anything else was a lost cause. You suspected he’d understood this a long time ago. He was the one who had found Satoru in the cryochamber, after all. The one who had to call you while you waited in your wedding dress.
But you didn’t need him to understand. You didn’t need a friend. You didn’t need compassion.
You needed Satoru back.
The team left you alone and hurried to the control room upstairs. You positioned yourself beside the operating table, and waited your second eternity. But you were used to waiting by now. You’d waited for him to offer you a spot on his research team, waited for him to notice you as more than an assistant, waited for him to ask you out for a quick lunch at that dingy sandwich joint staff liked to go to when they were sick of cafeteria food…
You waited for him to love you. So death could go fuck itself if it thought it could rip Satoru away from you after you’d spent all this time waiting.
You counted each shallow rise and fall of his chest. Saw the moment it stopped moving before the machines around you started buzzing. You stood, numb, as the chamber you’d finished building—not for humanity’s advancement but for one person—came alive around you in a flurry of mechanical droning.
All the while, you watched him. Until you chewed the inside of your cheeks raw and your vision blurred from refusing to blink. Until you spotted the twitch of his finger. A fluttering of long, white lashes.
Satoru groaned. His eyes flew open, then he was fumbling upright.
A small cry escaped you, and then you were holding him.
“It’s alright,” you said when he looked at you, dazed and confused. “You’re alright now.”
“I…” Satoru hesitated. “Where am I?”
“At the research centre. You had an accident, but everything’s okay now. You’re okay.”
“I see. I think I remember. Just… give me a moment. My head feels like someone cracked it open with a hammer.”
You helped him to unstrap the helmet, and draped your lab coat over him. Continued to hold him steady as he studied the tubes running out his body.
“So I died,” he said.
“For a short while, yes.”
“And you brought me back.”
“I always will, Satoru.”
Those blue eyes searched yours.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said. “But I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Satoru, I told you it’s not funny.”
He blinked. “Right, ah… so I do know you. I mean, it feels like I do. It feels like I’ve known you my whole life.”
You stared at him.
Satoru stared back. “Shit. I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”
The speaker crackled. A grim voice cut through the chamber.
“Doc. Satoru…” Suguru sounded too calm. “So this is what’s going to happen—I’m going to read you the diagnosis, and then me and the team… we’ll wait for your decision. But, doc, I think this time you should let Satoru decide.”
Suguru didn’t wait for an answer and continued. “You died twice, Satoru. We brought you back using your Theory of Resurrection. Do you remember your theory?”
For a long moment, Satoru didn’t speak. His eyes darted from you up to the control room above, and then around the chamber, assessing. Processing. As if a flurry of information was running through his head at lighting speed to reach a conclusion.
“I think I understand now,” he said, slowly. “And I can guess where this is going. Whoever you are, give it to me straight—and don’t bother explaining my theory. I know what I created.”
Silence.
“We couldn’t recover a portion of your memory, Satoru. Your body is rejecting the neural upload… among other things.”
“Please, I forgot some things. I’m not an idiot.” Satoru’s gaze settled back on you, on the matching rings on both your fourth fingers. He mustered a grin. “Well, at least I was lucky enough to find someone like you, even if I can’t remember how.”
You didn’t know when you’d started shaking.
Suguru spoke. “Satoru… your body is shutting down. The synthetic blood we’re pumping in is keeping you functioning for now, but the moment we shut off the tubes, you’ll—“
“I’ll die,” Satoru finished. “Took you long enough to say it. Kind of figured that out since I woke up feeling like shit.”
“Your consciousness is currently at thirty three percent retainment. We can try to bring you back again, but from the reading, retainment percentage will only go down. You’ll probably lose another fifteen percent if we go through with a third procedure.” Suguru’s voice hitched. “I—listen Satoru… even if we succeed, you won’t be yourself.”
“Again, Mr. Obvious, I’m not an idiot. And I can hear you sniffling, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Suguru. We’re friends.”
“Well, Suguru, if we’re really friends, then I think you know what to do.”
“No,” you whispered. Then louder. “No. That’s not what we’re doing. We’re not going to—“
“Hey, come here.” You froze as Satoru took your hands in his, gently pulling you closer. He shifted, wincing as he stood, and wrapped you in his arms.
The world slipped away from under your feet. There was only him. Soft, white hair falling over deep blue eyes. His pale, tired face, still perfect. The pressure of his hands around your waist, lifting to cup your cheek. The stroke of his fingers against your skin. The way he was looking at you, like he…
“I’m sorry, baby.” His lips were on yours as he spoke. “Do you hate me?”
At last, you broke. Your face crumpled. Your composure went. You stopped caring if he could feel your body shudder.
“Never,” you said.
“Do you love me?”
Your laugh was bitter. “I can’t believe you’re even asking that.”
You felt his fingers tighten a fraction around your waist. “Then, do you know that I love you?”
“I—“you could barely choke the word out. Because the truth of it was more than you could handle. It was easier to beg. So you did. “Please don’t leave me.”
Satoru’s smile was oddly relaxed. Almost relieved. As if he’d lost something important and had found it. “I’ll still be around, if you want me to. Right here,” he said, and gently tapped the side of your head. “As long as you live, so do I.”
“It’s not the same.” Your vision blurred. “It’s not—it’s not everything. It’s not you...”
“My love, you know as well as I do that I won’t be me even if I stay.” He kissed you. Kissed away the damp streaks flowing down your cheeks. Gently. Slowly.
“I’ll find a way,” you tried again. “There’s always a way. Nothing’s impossible, only improbable. That’s what you told me. There has to be another—“
“You’re right, there always is. Doesn’t mean you should go searching for it.”
“No. I refuse.” You were shaking your head violently. “Don’t do this to me. If you don’t want to try, I will. I’ll fix it. All you have to do is wait. I won’t stop—“
He hugged you tighter. You felt his lips on your hair.
“Look at me, baby.”
You screwed your eyes shut. If you couldn’t see the what was written so clearly on his face, then it wasn’t true.
“Please, baby,” Satoru said, lifting your chin. “I want to get a good look at what my soul cannot deny.”
You wanted to scream. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to burn down this whole fucking place, with you and him in it, so you wouldn’t have to live through what was coming next. So you wouldn’t have to feel yourself tearing apart inside.
Not yet. It wasn’t enough. The time you were given with him was simply too short. It should be more. It should be sixty more years like he promised.
You weren’t ready to let him go.
But you knew you had to. Because it was what he wanted. Because he didn’t want you to lose him slowly. Because he was losing himself. Because he couldn’t be brilliant without his memory. Because he would no longer be Gojo Satoru, and he didn’t want you seeing it.
Because he loved you.
You looked into his eyes… the eyes you once thought you’d be looking at forever.
“There’s my girl.” Satoru’s smile destroyed you. “Better holes in my brain than yours, because I don’t want you forgetting I’m yours. In every lifetime. Can you do that? Can you remember that for me?“
It was the same before, and it was the same now. You would do anything for him. So you nodded, and told him what he wanted to hear. “You’re too much for me to forget so easily, Satoru.”
He laughed and kissed you again, long and slow, and for a moment, nothing existed but the warmth of him that filled you.
“Come here, baby,” he said. “Let me hold you.”
You let him pick you up and place you on the metal slab. You laid down with him, your head on his chest like how you always fell asleep, curled up against him. Your legs tangled with his, his arm under and around you. Your hand in his, where it belonged.
You couldn’t say how long you stayed like that. Talking. You told him about the day you met, how he’d asked you to marry him one random morning to make you feel better about the coffee machine breaking down. He laughed and told you that he must be quite a catch for you to say yes to such a lame proposal. Then he told you his vows—the vows for a wedding you would never have.
Somewhere in between, Satoru must have signalled for Suguru to stop the perfusion because the whirring in the chamber faded. You ignored the silence. There was only him. His voice. The press of his body against yours. His fingers wrapped in yours as you moved yourself up, placing your face so close to his that his features became indistinct, and you began to lose yourself in them.
You held him as he slipped away. As his chest slowed and his skin turned cold. You told him it was okay for him to close his eyes, and right before he did, you told him you loved him.
You held him long after his heart stopped beating. Long after the team had left and your muscles had gone stiff from lack of movement. Long after his soul had departed to a place you couldn’t reach. And when you finally let go of him, it was to pick up the metal helmet from the floor.
You placed it over your head, and sat back down beside him.
“System override,” you said, your voice calm. Flat. “Password: Replacement.”
Satoru was wrong. He’d theorised Five R’s, ending with resurrection. He never considered a sixth. But you did. You’d figured out the final ‘R’ to the equation.
A computerised voice droned through the speaker. “System override. Affirmative. Existing consciousness detected. Permission to erase for remapping.”
“Permission granted.”
“Affirmative. Accessing stored neural data for replacement. Confirm subject.”
“Gojo Satoru.”
“Affirmative. Neural data for subject, Gojo Satoru, confirmed for replacement with existing consciousness. Requesting password for final permission.”
Your gaze fell on Satoru. You took his hands in yours, and brought them to your lips.
content: 18+ mdni! satoru gojo x fem reader, nerdjo, down bad gojo, snowboarder gojo (snowboarding terms will be used), bimbo reader, she's a ditz but my ditz HEHE, college au. gojo is an absolute sweetie in this, reader's besties yuki, shoko & utahime are kinda mean and bully him a lil but like out of love or whatever, sukuna cameo, smut with lots of plot! male masturbation (dubcon ish? he jerks off to photos w/o readers knowledge), first times talk (first kiss, first time having sex etc), oral (m & f receiving), unprotected p in v, virginity loss, premature ejaculation, riding, doggy style, creampie, happy ending!
eli’s notes: aghhh this took me so long, lots of research cuz i know like jack shit about snowboarding. this is 11.7k holy yap LOL but i'm so in love with this and excited for everyone to read it, read the tags and enjoy mwah! fanart creds to @/bureichi on twt!
“fuck!” satoru groans, running a hand through his snow white hair after scrolling through all the local seasonal job openings near him. he doesn’t want to work retail or fast food. he’d like to do something of substance.
he sighs, spinning around in his swivel chair and takes a look around his room, seeing his snowboard hung up on the wall. and it’s like a lightbulb goes off in his little nerd brain. his long fingers fly against his keyboard, searching up the local resort he frequents during the holidays. the opening for snowboarding instructor pops up almost immediately.
love snowboarding? we're hiring instructors! apply now!
pushing up his glasses, he starts attaching his resume, action shots of him snowboarding, photos of his awards from competitions, his cpr/first aid certification, a cover letter—literally anything of relevance and confidently hits submit on the application.
the wait eats him alive for three whole days. in the middle of his anxious pacing, he gets a notification on the second day: a virtual interview scheduled for 2 p.m. today. panic hits instantly. he scrambles around his dorm, trying to make it look less like a disaster zone on camera. when he can’t find his actual pants, he settles for a button-up and boxers, sets up his laptop, and adjusts the angle until it hides the worst of the mess. with a deep breath, he clicks join. he’s met with the familiar faces of the hiring team—people he’s only ever passed on his trips to the lodge.
after that brief but nerve-wracking interview, satoru finally clicks away from the call, heart still pounding.
he refreshes his inbox every ten minutes, paces circles around his room, trips over empty ramen cups and scattered textbooks about gravitational waves. he even texts his mom a cryptic “might have some good news soon” and immediately regrets it because she replies with seventeen heart emojis and a voice note asking if he finally has a girlfriend.
when the acceptance email finally drops he yells so loud his neighbor bangs on the wall.
email subject: Congratulations, Satoru Gojo!
Dear Satoru Gojo,
We are thrilled to inform you that you've been selected as our newest snowboarding instructor! Welcome to the team. We can't wait to see you on the slopes!
Best regards,
Limitless Summit HR Team
he fist-pumps, nearly knocks his monitor off the desk, then spends the rest of the night waxing his burton like it’s going to prom.
the next morning, he rolls up to the resort in his blue honda civic, board strapped to the roof with bungee cords that look one bump away from snapping. the parking lot is already packed with trucks and subarus covered in stickers, plenty of college kids he recognizes from his classes. he yanks his beanie low, adjusts his round glasses that keep sliding down his nose, and hauls ass to the staff lodge. the manager barely glances at his paperwork before slapping a red instructor jacket on him.
“gojo, right? seen your videos, you're pretty damn good, kid. you’re on beginner hill all week, okay. try not to scare the little ones. got it?”
satoru salutes like an idiot and spends the first hour teaching eight year olds how to strap in without crying. he’s good at it, patient, cracks dumb jokes about newton’s laws when they fall on their asses. and by lunch he’s floating, cheeks wind-burned, feeling like a god on his board.
then the afternoon private lesson list gets taped to the board and his stomach drops straight through his boots.
y/n. 2:15 pm. adult beginner. one-on-one.
he knows it’s you before he even sees the last name. you, the girl from his tuesday/thursday astrophysics class who wears tiny skirts in december and somehow still looks warm, who paints her nails bright pink and asks even the most basic questions in that soft breathy voice that makes his brain blue-screen. you who he’s pretty sure doesn’t even know he exists except for the one time he tripped over his own laces in front of you and you helped him up with a giggle and said “cute glasses.”
he’s fucked.
2:10 rolls around and there you are at the base of the beginner slope, stomping around in rented boots that look two sizes too big, pink snowboard under your arm like you’re holding a dead fish. your jacket is baby pink with white fur on the hood, your pants have little hearts printed on them, your fenty lip gloss is reflecting the sun so bright it hurts to look at directly. your friends are already halfway up the lift, yelling down that they’ll “send search and rescue if you’re not at the bar by four.”
satoru coasts over on his board, stopping with a shaky spray of snow because his legs suddenly forgot how to function as soon as he sees your beautiful face.
“uh, hi. i’m satoru. your instructor.” his voice cracks on the last word and he wants to die.
you look up, big eyes blinking slow, then recognition hits and your whole face lights up. “oh my god, satoru? from class? no way!”
you bounce on your toes and the board clatters to the snow. “this is so crazy! i totally suck at this, my friends just dragged me here because boys in beanies are hot or whatever.”
he short-circuits, boys in beanies? are hot? he's wearing a beanie. holy shit.
he adjusts it for no reason and almost knocks his glasses off. “cool. cool cool cool. uh. let’s get you strapped in then.”
he kneels to help clip your bindings and realizes way too late that he’s eye-level with your thighs. imaging the smooth, silky skin underneath the baggy heart-print pants. probably some cute panties with lace, a little bow right in the middle. he swallows so hard his throat clicks.
you wobble the second you stand, arms pinwheeling. “woah woah woah—” you squeak, grabbing his shoulders to stay upright. your nails dig in through his jacket and he’s pretty sure he forgets how to breathe. “these things have a mind of their own!”
“it’s okay, i got you,” he says, voice higher than usual, hands hovering around your waist without actually touching because what if you don’t want him to what if he’s being weird what if— “just lean into me a little. like a trust fall but on snow.”
you lean closer, pressing your whole front against him, tits soft against his chest even through layers. “like this?” you ask, all innocent, tilting your head so your fluffy hood brushes his chin.
he nods like a broken bobblehead. “yep, perfect. gold star.” inside he’s screaming.
but getting you up the magic carpet is a disaster. you keep sliding backwards, giggling every time your board crosses his and you almost take both of you out. at the top he has to hold your hand to keep you from zooming straight into a tree. your mittens are fuzzy and white and smell like vanilla. his palms sweat so bad underneath his gloves, he’s scared you’ll notice.
“okay, point your board downhill, knees soft, look where you wanna go,” he instructs, trying to sound professional while his heart jackhammers. you nod super serious, tongue poking out between glossy lips in concentration, then you push off.
you make it exactly four feet before eating shit spectacularly, tumbling ass-over-teakettle in a cloud of powder. satoru drops to his knees beside you, panicked. “oh fuck are you okay did you hit your head do we need medical—”
you pop up laughing, lifting your goggles, snow stuck to your lashes, cheeks cherry red. “i’m fine! that was kinda fun actually!” you flop onto your back and make a snow angel, legs kicking. “come lay with me!”
he stares. “we’re…on the slope.”
“duh, that’s why it’s exciting.” you grab his sleeve and yank him down. he topples next to you without resistance, board still attached, staring up at the sky while you wiggle around. “see? the clouds look like cotton candy. that one’s shaped like a dick.”
he wheezes, half laugh half dying. “you’re gonna get me fired.”
“oh boo-hoo.” you roll onto your side, propping your head on your hand, staring at him. “you’re really good at this, you know. like snowboarding and stuff. you make it look easy.”
his ears burn under the beanie. “thanks. i've been doing it since i was like. twelve. um, physics helps—understanding weight distribution and angular momentum and stuff.”
you blink slow, ditzy. “you just said a bunch of smart words…that’s like really hot.”
he sits up so fast he gets dizzy. “what?”
“what?” you mimic, grinning, then hop to your feet, miraculously without falling. “teach me a trick! preferably, something easy. i wanna impress my friends later.”
he scrambles up. “okay uh…basic straight air? just pop off that little roller over there.” he points to a tiny bump no one else would even notice. “watch me first.”
he drops in smooth, hits the lip and spins a lazy 180 and lands clean. when he looks back you’re clapping like he just won the olympics. “that was so cool, satoru!”
he chuckles. “alright, now your turn,” he says, coasting back up.
you try you actually kinda ollie, get maybe six inches of air, squeal the whole time, and stick the landing by sheer dumb luck. “did you see that?!” you scream, throwing your arms up. he catches you when you launch yourself at him, hugging tight, legs kicking in the air. “i’m a pro now!”
“you’re a natural,” he mumbles into your hood, arms locked around your waist, afraid to let go in case this is a hallucination. you smell like vanilla and hot cocoa and something sweet that he's already addicted to.
the rest of the lesson flies by in a blur of you falling on your butt and him catching you every time, your laughter echoing across the hill, his newly confident hands lingering longer than strictly necessary on your hips 'for balance.' when the lift shuts down for the day you’re still clinging to his arm, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“same time tomorrow?” you ask, bouncing on your toes outside the rental shop while your friends honk from the parking lot.
“yeah—i mean, if you want. i’m here all week,” he says, pushing his glasses up for the millionth time.
“cool. it’s a date then.” you lean in quick, press a sticky gloss kiss to his cheek, right below his eye. “see you tomorrow, teach!”
you skip off toward the car, waving over your shoulder. satoru stands there frozen, hand slowly coming up to touch where your lips were, brain completely offline. somewhere behind him the head instructor sukuna wolf-whistles. he doesn’t even care. he’s so screwed but he can’t wait for tomorrow.
you pile into utahime’s jeep, snow crunching under the tires as shoko cranks the heat and yuki immediately cracks open a white claw she definitely smuggled from the lodge fridge. the second the doors slam shut they all turn on you like sharks smelling blood.
“okay spill,” shoko says, lighting a cigarette even though utahime yells about the seats. “was the instructor actually hot or did you just hit your head too many times?”
“he’s so hot,” you groan, kicking your boots off and pulling your knees to your chest. “like stupid hot. white hair, blue eyes, glasses, the whole package. and he’s in my astrophysics class. his name’s satoru gojo.”
yuki snorts so hard cider almost comes out her nose. “satoru gojo? the nerd who wore a nasa shirt to my halloween party and tried to explain black holes to a drunk sorority girl for forty-five minutes?”
“that was him?” utahime cackles, reversing out the parking spot. “i remember! yeah, yeah. he had some glowy tube thing and called it a ‘plasma containment device.’ what a fucking dork.”
“stop,” you whine, burying your face in your fuzzy mitts. “he’s sweet. he caught me like eight times today and didn’t even laugh when i face-planted into a drift.”
“sweet?” shoko repeats, blowing smoke out the crack in the window. “babe, he’s a virgin with a capital v. suguru's is his bestfriend and says gojo’s never even kissed anyone. that he spends all his free time building model rockets and jerking off to hentai.”
“he totally does not!” you yell, cheeks burning. “he’s just…focused…and quiet…and cute.”
“quiet because his brain is doing calculus while the rest of us are trying to get laid,” yuki adds, reaching back to poke your thigh. “bet he calls it ‘making love’ and cries after.”
utahime makes a fake sobbing noise. “oh y/n, we're quantum entangled, you complete me—”
“shut up!” you grab yuki’s empty can and chuck it at utahime’s head. “he’s not like that. he was nervous but he kept holding my waist and his hands were really warm and he smelled like pine and hot cocoa and—”
“and he probably nutted in his snow pants the second you hugged him,” shoko finishes, deadpan.
you scream into your hoodie sleeve the rest of the drive while they roast him mercilessly, ranking his hypothetical kinks from “missionary under the stars” to “asking if reverse cowgirl defies the laws of physics.” by the time you pull up to the little wooden lodge you’re ready to combust.
“i hate all of you,” you announce, slamming the jeep door and stomping through the snow in your socks. “i’m going to bed. alone. forever. because my friends are assholes.”
“we love you too, bitch!” yuki calls sweetly.
inside you lock the bedroom door, you yell at them to fuck off through the wood when they start knocking and fake moaning, then strip out of your clothes. the shower is heaven, hot water melting the chill, the strawberry body wash turning everything pink, fruity and steamy. you change into your cutest pajama set, tiny satin shorts with a lace trim and a matching cami that barely holds your tits, then crawl under the fluffy duvet with your phone.
the lodge is quiet now except for the wind rattling the windows and your friends’ muffled laughter downstairs. you scroll mindlessly for a bit, then curiosity wins. you tap away on your phone as you search up the college instagram, finding the tagged photos from the physics fair last semester. there he is, satoru in a black turtleneck and lab coat, hair a fluffy mess, holding some glowing contraption while grinning like a kid on christmas.
then you pull up shoko’s page, clicking on a photo she posted of her and suguru recently. curiosity wins, so you tap over to suguru’s profile next. it doesn’t take long to notice he’s tagged satoru in a bunch of photos—mostly candid shots, half of them looking like they were taken without satoru’s knowledge and the other half with him posing like he absolutely knew. scrolling through them feels a little like flipping through someone’s scrapbook, messy and intimate in a way that makes your chest feel warm and weirdly nosy at the same time.
you've got satoru asleep on a library table surrounded by red bull, satoru mid-air on his snowboard doing some grab you don’t know the name of, satoru holding a trophy with the goofiest smile.
you’re three years deep, heart doing dumb little flips at every photo, when your thumb betrays you and double-taps a picture from two summers ago. it’s satoru, shirtless at the beach, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, long fingers wrapped around a melon soda. his abs are lean and cut, a white happy trail disappearing beneath low-slung swim trunks. the red heart flashes up like a death sentence.
you squeak and launch your phone across the bed like it’s radioactive. “no no no no—” your pulse is in your ears, panic fizzing in your veins as if unliking it fast enough could erase the digital footprint of your humiliation. but of course, you know it’s too late. the damage is done, and the universe is laughing.
meanwhile, across the resort in the cramped staff lodging, satoru is face-down in his pillow trying to will away the semi he’s had since your gloss smeared on his cheek. his phone buzzes on the nightstand. he rolls over, squints at the screen, and bolts upright so fast he smacks his head on the empty bunk above.
instagram: ynthedoll liked your photo.
he squints a little to see which one you liked. he goes a little wide eyed when he sees the photo, that photo. the one suguru took specifically to embarrass him because he said, “dude your v-line is fuckin' crazy, the girls need to suffer.”
he stares at the ceiling, heart hammering. then, before his brain can talk him out of it, he opens your dms. you never followed each other, he never had the balls to, despite how many times you came up in his 'people you may know', but the message bar is right there.
s4t0roo: hey…saw you liked my old beach pic lol
s4t0roo: everything okay after today? you took some solid falls
s4t0roo: not that i minded catching you or anything!!!! i'll catch you again
s4t0roo: shit that sounded creepy
s4t0roo: i mean you smelled really nice
s4t0roo: FUCK ignore that
s4t0roo: hi
he watches the “seen” pop up and immediately yeets his phone into his laundry basket, groaning into his hands. thirty seconds later it buzzes again.
ynthedoll: omg i’m so sorry that was an accident 😭
ynthedoll: i like totally dropped my phone and the floor liked the photo with your abs
right…
ynthedoll: not that i didn't think your abs weren't nice!!! they’re very nice
ynthedoll: i mean
ynthedoll: hi 🥺
satoru stares at the messages until the screen dims. his palms are sweating. he types, deletes, types again.
s4t0roo: surprised you were lurking on my page, i’m kind of a loser
ynthedoll: omg what??? you’re not a loser! you’re literally a pro snowboarder who understands quantum thingies! that’s like super hot
s4t0roo: you think i’m hot?
ynthedoll: i think you’re extremely hot
ynthedoll: like unfairly hot
ynthedoll: is that weird to say lol
he exhales shakily, dick twitching in his sweats just from your texts. he bites his lip hard.
s4t0roo: not weird
s4t0roo: i think about you aaallll the time in class
s4t0roo: like can’t-form-sentences level
ynthedoll: really?
ynthedoll: that’s cute
ynthedoll: i sit a row ahead on purpose so you can see my outfits 😭
oh, he sees them. he makes a strangled noise and palms himself once through the fabric before forcing his hand away.
s4t0roo: tomorrow can we ditch the beginner hill
s4t0roo: there’s this secret run suguru and i like to hit when it gets busy. no one goes there
s4t0roo: just us
ynthedoll: just us?
s4t0roo: yeah
s4t0roo: if you want
ynthedoll: i want
excitement bubbles up, your heart lurches at the thought of getting to s[end more time with him, just the two of you. you tap away at your screen, kicking your feet underneath the covers, giggling.
ynthedoll: night toru <3
s4t0roo: night y/n :)
s4t0roo: dream of me or whatever
he drops the phone on his chest and stares at the dark ceiling, grinning like an idiot, cock aching against his stomach. he tosses and turns, attempting to sleep at least a little.
he flops onto his back again for what feels like the nth time, ceiling spinning slow from staring at it too long. the little staff room feels too warm even with the window cracked, wind whistling outside while his digimon pajama pants tent straight up like a fucking flagpole. he palms himself once, twice, groans low and frustrated because it’s not helping. every time he closes his eyes he sees your glossy lips, the way your tits bounced when you hugged him, the little squeak you made when you landed that tiny jump and crashed into his chest.
he grabs his phone off the charger, thumb hovering over pornhub like muscle memory. opens it, scrolls—blonde, brunette, redhead, big tits, small tits, anal, threesome, whatever. nothing sticks. every moan sounds fake, all of it feels wrong. he types random shit to find someone like you, your features but still nothing. with a pissed-off huff he exits the tab and opens instagram instead.
your page is right there in his recent dms and he clicks it like a guilty addict.
first highlight: “girls trip ❄️✨”
he taps. it's video of you in the jeep mirror, lip gloss cap between your teeth, shoko crowding into the video while you laugh to something yuki said. your tongue pokes out to lick your lips and his cock jerks so hard it slaps his stomach. he shoves his pants down just enough to free himself, long and flushed angry red, tip already slick. he wraps his fist loose and starts slow strokes while the video loops.
second highlight: “ootd dump”
just a bunch mirror selfies in tiny skirts, crop tops riding up to show your soft tummy, one where you’re bent over tying platform boots and the curve of your ass fills the frame. he zooms in, breath hitching.
“fuck me” he whispers, thumb swiping precum over the head, spreading it shiny. his hips twitch into his hand.
third one is new—posted an hour ago. story of you fresh out the shower, hair damp, satin cami strap sliding off one shoulder, cleavage spilling, caption just “cozy night in 🐰”. the sight of you in the cozy lighting of the lodge murders him. he replays it over and over, imagining crawling into that bed behind you, pressing his bare chest to your back, sliding those tiny shorts to the side, your tight warmth welcoming him.
his strokes speed up, grip tightening, wrist twisting on every upstroke the way he likes. the precum keeps coming, dripping over his knuckles, making wet sounds in the quiet room. he bites his lip hard enough to sting, eyes locked on a photo of you in a bikini from last summer—same pink as today’s jacket, tits pushed up, nipples just barely hidden by two tiny triangles. he zooms until all he sees is skin and gloss and the little heart you drew on your hip with sunscreen.
“shit—y/n—” it slips out ragged. he pictures you on your knees in the snow, fluffy hood framing your face, mouth open, tongue out for him, taking him into your mouth. pictures your pretty hands with those nails wrapped around his cock instead of his own. pictures pushing you down on this shitty lodge mattress, peeling those satin shorts off, spreading your thighs and burying his face between them until you cry.
his balls draw up tight, spine arching off the bed. “fuck fuck fuck—” he cums hard, thick ropes shooting across his stomach, splattering the hem of his t-shirt, one shot hitting so high it lands under his collarbone. his hand keeps moving through it, oversensitive, milking every pulse while your instagram story loops one last time—your sleepy smile, the way you blow a kiss at the camera.
he lies there panting, ceiling swimming again, cum cooling sticky on his skin. phone slips from his hand onto the pillow.
tomorrow he’s gonna kiss that gloss right off your mouth. maybe more. definitely more.
he reaches for a dirty t-shirt to wipe himself off, still half-hard just thinking about it, and passes out with your name on his tongue and your face burned behind his eyelids.
you wake up before the sun even thinks about it, phone buzzing with a single text from satoru that just says “i'm ready whenever ur up :)” with the little smiley face making your stomach flip.
the lodge is dead quiet, shoko snoring on the couch with a wine glass still in her hand, utahime’s door cracked and yuki’s boots kicked halfway down the hall. you tiptoe past all of it, heart racing like you’re sneaking out for real.
outside it’s stupid cold, breath puffing white, but you’re in your cutest fit: baby-pink snow pants that hug your ass, white puffer with baby-pink fur, matching beanie with a massive pom-pom that bounces when you walk. you even did your makeup because priorities.
the walk to staff lodging is all crunchy snow and dark blue sky, your airpods blasting some hyper pop while you practice what you’re gonna say. “hey sexy” feels too much. “morning babe” also too much. you settle on literally just waving like an idiot.
you get there in nineteen minutes flat, cheeks wind-burned and nose pink, and there he is leaning against the doorframe in black snow pants and a loose gray hoodie under his open instructor jacket, board tucked under one arm. his hair is a fluffy disaster, glasses already fogging from the warm air inside hitting the cold. when he spots you he straightens so fast his board almost slips.
“h-hey! you’re—wow—early,” he stammers, pushing his glasses up and immediately sliding them back down with nervous fingers. “i mean good early! great early! hi!”
you bounce on your toes, pom-pom flopping. “hi toru! told you i’d be here.” you do a little spin so he can take in your whole outfit. “do i look okay?”
his mouth actually opens and nothing comes out for a solid three seconds. “you—yeah—you look—really pretty. think i’m having a crisis.”
you giggle and step closer, close enough that your mittened hand can brush his sleeve. “mmm, a good crisis or bad crisis?”
“good,” he squeaks, then clears his throat and tries again lower. “really good. hi, again.”
you hook your arm through his like it’s the most natural thing. “ready to walk to the lift? i brought us hot cocoa.” you wiggle a little, the thermos peeking out your tiny backpack and he makes this soft little “oh” sound like you just handed him a puppy.
the two of you start trekking toward the private staff lift, boards clacking together. he keeps sneaking glances down at you, cheeks redder than the cold can excuse.
“so,” you chirp, bumping his hip, “were you up all night thinking about me or just a little?”
he trips over literally nothing and catches himself on your shoulder. “i—uh—a normal amount. a healthy amount, of course! definitely not a creepy amount.” he adjusts his glasses again. “ok, maybe a little more than healthy.”
“good,” you say, leaning your head against his arm for a second. he smells like pine and laundry detergent and you wanna crawl inside his hoodie. “i couldn’t sleep either. kept thinking about your hands on my waist yesterday.”
his breath hitches so loud you hear it over the crunch of snow. “yeah? well i mean, i was trying not to be weird about it. failed probably.”
“nope, i loved it.” you peek up at him through your lashes. “they’re really big and warm. i felt safe.” you give him a soft smile, the tip of your nose already red from the cold.
he makes a strangled noise and stares straight ahead like the trees personally offended him. “you can’t just—say stuff like that. my brain stops working.”
“that’s the goal,” you tease, squeezing his arm. “i like when you get all flustered. it’s cute.”
“cute,” he echoes faintly, like he’s testing the word. “i’ve been called a lot of things, you know. dork, nerd, idiot, loser. but…never cute.”
“well you are. cute and hot at the same time. a deadly combo.” you tug him to a stop just before the lift line starts, spinning to face him. the pom-pom on your beanie brushes his chin. “also your glasses fog up when you’re nervous and it’s adorable.”
he groans, hiding his face in his mittens. “god, stop perceiving me.”
“never.” you reach up and tap the lens gently, thumb swiping at the fogginess. “i like seeing you all foggy for me.”
his hands drop slow and he looks at you, his blue eyes huge behind smudged glass, lips parted. “you’re gonna kill me before we even start.”
“promise i’ll resuscitate you. like mouth to mouth and everything! i'm cpr-certified still from life guarding last summer,” you tease, then bounce back like nothing happened. “c’mon, secret run time!”
his mind immediately flicks back to your photos from your instagram, picturing you in that tiny bikini. he gulps and follows after you in a daze, board dragging a little because his legs forgot how to work. when you step onto the lift first he hesitates, then slides in next to you super careful, leaving a polite six inches until you scoot over and plaster yourself to his side.
“it’s cold,” you lie, even though the sun’s up now and you’re basically a furnace underneath your layers. he immediately wraps an arm around your shoulders, tentative, then tighter when you snuggle in.
“is that better?” he asks, voice soft as he looks down at you by his side.
“way better.” you tip your head onto his shoulder and feel him shiver—not from cold. “you’re like my favorite heater.”
he laughs under his breath, the sound shaky. “anytime, literally anytime.”
the lift climbs higher, resort shrinking below, just the two of you swaying gently above the trees. you tilt your chin up, lips brushing the edge of his jaw accidentally-on-purpose. “thanks for this, satoru. it kinda feels like a date.”
he swallows hard, looking down at you again. “was kinda hoping you’d think that.”
you grin against his neck. “well, mission accomplished then.”
he doesn’t kiss you—his hands flex on your shoulder like he wants to cup your face but he’s too scared, too sweet. instead he just holds you closer the whole ride, thumb rubbing little circles through your jacket, both of you pretending to watch the view while your hearts try to beat out of your chests.
when the lift reaches the top he helps you off first, steadying you even though you don’t wobble this time. you spin to face him again, bouncing on your board. “ready to show me your secret spot, teach?”
he smiles, a small, nervous, one but stupidly pretty. “yeah, follow me, princess.”
you trek next to him, giggling the whole way down the untracked powder, his shaky flirting and your shameless teasing echoing through the quiet trees.
once you reach a good spot, he kicks off first, carving a lazy s into the fresh powder, glancing back every three seconds to make sure you’re still behind him. the run is tucked way off the map, narrow and steep at the start, then it spills into this wide gladed bowl nobody hits because the only way in is a sketchy traverse most people miss. trees tower on both sides, branches heavy with snow, sun slicing through in golden beams like the whole mountain’s showing off just for you two.
you follow his line, wobbling a little because the snow is deeper than yesterday and your board keeps sinking, but every time you yelp he slows instantly, reaching back with one hand.
“grab on,” he says, voice all soft and breathless and you latch onto his fingers like it's nothing, like it's completely normal for you two. his glove is huge around yours and you swing behind him, giggling when powder sprays up your jacket.
“you’re showing off,” you accuse, squeezing his hand.
“maybe a tiny bit,” he admits, cheeks pink. “wanted to look cool for like…five seconds.”
“i always think you look cool,” you say, loud enough for the trees to hear. “cool and nerdy and tall and—satoru! slow down i’m gonna crash into you!”
he laughs and purposely checks his speed so you bump gently into his back, arms wrapping around his waist from behind to stay upright. you don’t let go even when you’re balanced again, chin hooked over his shoulder, tits pressed to his spine. “this okay?” you ask against his hood.
he makes this tiny broken sound. “more than okay. never let go actually. mhm, our new rule.”
you squeeze tighter and feel his abs jump under all the layers. “deal.”
the traverse flattens and he leads you through a little tunnel of pines, ducking branches, then suddenly the trees open up and it’s just…perfect. untouched white rolling out forever, little kickers and pillows everywhere, the resort noise completely gone. just birds and your breathing and the soft shush of boards on snow.
he stops at the lip of the first drop, kicks his back foot out of the binding so he can turn and face you fully. you do the same, clumsy, almost fall, and he catches your elbows automatically.
“welcome to my favorite place on earth,” he says, gesturing grand with one arm like he’s presenting a kingdom. “no lifts, no kids, no rules.”
your eyes go wide and sparkly. “it’s so pretty, i think i’m gonna cry.”
“don’t cry,” he panics, stepping closer. “i’ll cry too and then we’re both screwed.”
you laugh and shove his chest playfully. “teach me something cool then. something only you can do.”
he rubs the back of his neck, snowflakes melting in his hair. “uh…there’s this butter box i built with some friends. wanna try a boardslide?”
“teach me words later, just show me,” you demand, bouncing.
he grins so big his dimple pops and drops in first, hits a little side hit, ollies smooth and slides the fallen log like it’s nothing—grabs indie, spins out clean. when he looks back up the hill you’re literally clapping with mittens, pom-pom on your head flapping around.
“your turn, princess,” he calls, coasting back up on foot, boots crunching.
you puff your cheeks, nervous for the first time all morning. “if i eat shit you have to kiss it better.”
his whole face explodes red, imagining his lips on yours. “deal—now, focus! knees bent, look at the end of the log, not your board.”
you nod super serious, tongue out concentrating, then push off. it’s messy—you pop too early, your board clacks loud, but you actually stick the slide for like half a second before bailing forward into the powder with a squeal. snow explodes everywhere. satoru’s there before you even stop rolling, on his knees, brushing snow off your face with frantic hands. “you okay? shit, are you hurt—”
you grab his jacket and yank him down on top of you, giggling like crazy. “i did it! kinda! did you see?”
“i saw,” he breathes, propped on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you, hair hanging down and tickling your cheeks. “you were perfect.”
“liar,” you whisper, but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. your legs are tangled, boards still half attached, and he’s so close you can see every snowflake melting on his lashes.
he swallows hard, eyes flicking to your mouth and back up. “still gotta…guess i gotta pay up though. you said to kiss it better.” your heart slams in your chest, cheeks red from more than just the cold.
“where does it hurt?” he asks, all breathy and teasing. then he hesitates for a second—big blue eyes nervous behind foggy glasses—then gently taps your forehead where a tiny bit of snow stuck. “here?”
you scrunch your nose. “lower.”
he moves to your cheek, barely a brush of cold lips against flushed skin. “here?”
“lower,” you whisper again.
his breath shakes. he hovers over your mouth for what feels like forever, thumb stroking your jaw, then chickens out at the last second and drops a soft kiss to the tip of your nose instead.
“there,” he mumbles, voice wrecked. “all better.”
you whine dramatically and wrap your arms around his neck so he can’t escape. “tease.”
“i’m—working up to it,” he admits, burying his burning face in your neck. “gimme like…five more minutes of not dying.”
you thread your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the nape. “take all the minutes you want, pretty boy.”
he groans against your skin, whole body trembling and you just hold him there in the quiet powder while the sun climbs higher and the mountain holds its breath around you.
you stay tangled in the snow way longer than you should, his nose pressed to your neck while you talk about nothing and everything. he tells you how he found this run when he was fifteen and sneaking out the lodge at night with suguru, how the stars look insane from the ridge up there. you tell him about the time shoko dared you to streak through the quad freshman year and you only made it halfway before security showed up. he laughs so hard he snorts and then dies of embarrassment, hiding his face in your scarf while you scratch his scalp until he’s boneless.
eventually your stomach growls loud enough to echo off the trees and he sits up, hair full of snow like a dork. “shit, you’re starving. i’m the worst date ever.”
“you’re the best,” you correct, letting him pull you up. your legs are jelly and you almost face-plant again, but he catches you by the waist, steady as always. “pancakes? my treat for showing me your secret run.”
he lights up like you offered him the moon. “the diner does chocolate chip ones the size of your head.”
you gasp dramatically. “i'm sold.”
the ride down is lazy and perfect, him in front, you holding his hips the whole time, carving slow s-shapes through the powder while the sun turns everything gold. when you finally pop out at the base he grabs both of your boards without asking and carries them under one arm, other hand locked with yours like it belongs there.
the diner is warm and smells like bacon grease and coffee. you slide into a booth way in the back, knees knocking under the table because he’s too tall to fit right. he orders chocolate chip pancakes for you and blueberry for himself, plus extra whipped cream because he said that 'you strike him as a whipped cream girl.' you kick his shin gently and steal his hot cocoa when he leans down a bit to rub the spot the second it arrives, leaving a glossy print on the rim that makes his ears go scarlet.
you’re halfway through demolishing a pancake the size of a steering wheel when both your phones start vibrating like angry bees. his lights up first—
manager: gojo where the hell are you group lesson in 10
then yours explodes: ten missed calls, thirty-seven texts ranging from shoko’s “did you die” to yuki sending increasingly unhinged eggplant emojis.
you pout at the same time he does, syrup sticky on your fingers. “ugh, fuck my life. adulting.”
“worst timing,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with a napkin and then folding it into a perfect little square. he looks so sad kicking at the table leg that you reach across and lace your fingers with his sticky ones.
“hey,” you say soft, “your shift ends at four, right?” he nods, hopeful.
“come find me after. we can do a real date. no boards, no lessons, no friends cockblocking us.” you lean in, voice dropping. “you mentioned there’s other fun stuff to do here. show me.”
his eyes go huge behind his glasses. “like—like actual date stuff? dinner and walking around and holding hands without pretending it’s for balance?”
“exactly that,” you grin. “i wanna wear a cute outfit and everything…maybe the little black dress i packed just in case i met a cute guy.”
he makes this wounded noise and squeezes your hand so tight your knuckles creak. “i’ll be done at four on the dot. i’ll shower so fast, i promise. meet me by the big fireplace in the main lodge? i’ll probably be the idiot smiling too big to function.”
“perfect,” you whisper, and because your friends are now spam-calling again, you lean across the table quick and kiss the corner of his mouth, tasting chocolate and whipped cream. “go be all professional and stuff. i’ll be thinking about you all day.”
he touches his mouth like you branded him, stands up so fast he bangs his knee on the table, then drops cash for the bill plus a ridiculous tip. “four o’clock,” he says, backing toward the door because he can’t stop staring. “i'll be there, pinky promise.”
“see you soon, pretty boy,” you call, waving with syrupy fingers.
he trips over the welcome mat on his way out and you laugh so hard hot cocoa nearly comes out your nose. best morning ever.
you stomp back into the lodge with snow still clinging to your lashes and that dumb floaty feeling in your chest. the second the door slams behind you, three heads snap up from the couch like meerkats on crack.
“there she is,” yuki announces, kicking her feet up on the coffee table, white claw already in hand even though it’s barely noon. “miss secret morning ride. spill it, did you let the physics nerd raw you in the trees or what?”
shoko doesn’t even look up from her phone, just blows smoke toward the ceiling. “bet he cried when he came. virgin boys always cry.”
utahime cackles so hard she snorts. “did he call your pussy a black hole and say he wanted to study the event horizon?”
“shut the fuck up,” you hiss, cheeks on fire, kicking the door closed with your heel. “it wasn’t like that. we just…snowboarded and talked…and ate pancakes. and he paid. and he’s picking me up at four for a real date.”
“a real date,” yuki repeats in this fake dreamy voice, clasping her hands under her chin. “oh y/n, will you quantum entangle with me under the stars—”
“bitch, i will throw this boot at your head,” you threaten, hopping on one foot while you yank the rented ones off. “he’s sweet, okay? he held my hand the whole lift ride. leave him alone.”
shoko finally glances up, eyebrow raised. “he held your hand. wow, groundbreaking. did he ask permission first or just spontaneously combust?”
“both,” you mutter, flopping face-first onto the armchair, muffling your scream into the cushion. “he’s coming at four and i’m wearing the black dress i brought and you bitches are not allowed to embarrass me.”
“no promises,” utahime sings, already scrolling her phone. “i’m texting suguru right now. bet he has dirt.”
you launch a pillow at her head.
meanwhile, across the resort, satoru is dying.
he’s supposed to be teaching a group of twelve year olds how to link turns on the bunny hill but his brain is still in that diner booth tasting chocolate syrup on your tongue. every time he demonstrates a carve he almost eats shit because he’s thinking about the way your knee knocked his under the table, how your lip gloss left a perfect pink smooch on his cheek.
“mithter gojo, why are you red?” one kid asks, staring up at him with snot frozen to his nose.
“uh—windburn,” satoru lies, pushing his glasses up for the hundredth time. they’re fogged solid. “okay tiny humans, pizza slice position, let’s go—”
he spends the next three hours mechanically correcting stances while his dick twitches every time he remembers you calling him pretty boy. by the time the last kid gets picked up he’s sweating under his jacket even though it’s negative digits outside.
sukuna—his asshole coworker with pink hair and face tattoos—leans against the rack smoking a cig. “you look like you’re about to nut in your pants, dork.”
“fuck off,” satoru mutters, yanking his beanie lower. “i have a date.”
“with the chick in the heart pants? the one who face-planted twenty times yesterday?” sukuna grins, all teeth. “she’s a baddie. real fat ass. you gonna last thirty seconds?”
“i’m gonna last—” satoru starts, then realizes he has no clue. “i’m gonna be a gentleman.”
“sure you are,” sukuna laughs, flicking ash into the snow. “text me when you prematurely bust and cry about it. maybe i can fill in for ya when you're done.” he winks. satoru flips him off and bolts for the staff locker room.
he showers so fast the water’s barely warm, scrubs pine body wash everywhere like it’ll make him smell less like nervous boy. stands in front of the foggy mirror with a towel low on his hips staring at himself like he’s never seen his own reflection before. his dick is already half hard just thinking about seeing you in a dress. he has to slap his face to make it behave.
he changes three times—black jeans and a white hoodie, no too casual; gray sweater, no too soft; ends up in dark jeans and a black turtleneck that makes his eyes look insane. runs product through his hair until it’s fluffy and messy in that way you stared at yesterday. he sprays cologne once, twice, then panics and waves his arms like a bird to disperse it.
by 3:58 he’s pacing in front of the massive stone fireplace in the main lodge, hands shoved deep in his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet. people keep glancing at him because he looks like a runway model who accidentally wandered into a ski resort.
at exactly 4:00 on the dot you appear at the top of the stairs and his brain flatlines.
the black dress is tight and short and clings to every curve he’s been jerking off to for the past twenty-four hours. thin straps, neckline dipping low enough that he can see the swell of your tits when you breathe. your legs look endless in sheer tights and little black kitten heels. hair down and glossy, lips red this time instead of pink.
you spot him and your whole face lights up, waving like a dork as you trot down the stairs. he meets you halfway because his legs move on their own.
“hi,” you breathe, stopping one step above him so you’re almost eye level. “you clean up nice. toru.”
he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—like his brain has short-circuited the moment you got too close. his hands hover uselessly in the air, like he’s scared to touch you where people might see. it’s painfully, adorably obvious.
you sigh, roll your eyes, and hook your fingers around his wrist. he lets you tug him down the stairs, obedient in that dazed, long-limbed way of his, until you slip into a quiet corner by the windows where the hallway hum fades and the world feels smaller.
the moment you’re out of sight, you step in, push him gently back against the wall, and kiss him for the first time.
and for satoru, it’s like someone cracked open the sky.
like constellations reorganizing themselves behind his eyelids, like every astrological forecast he’s ever read suddenly making sense. every atom in his body lights up in this wild, electric way—like the universe just nudged him and whispered, this is it.
the kiss starts soft—just the press of your lips against his, glossy and warm, sticking to his for a heartbeat before you pull back. that tiny separation nearly kills him. his hands finally land on your waist, tentative at first, then gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid he’ll float right off the planet if he doesn’t hold on.
“hi,” he finally manages, voice wrecked. “you’re—fuck—you look unreal.”
“i wanted to look pretty for you. how'd i do?” you murmur, nipping his bottom lip. “mission accomplished?”
he nods too fast. “i’m—yeah—gonna need a minute or i’m gonna do something embarrassing in my pants.”
you laugh against his mouth and he swallows the sound, kissing you deeper this time, tongue sliding slow and careful like he’s scared he’ll mess it up. you taste like cherry lip gloss and the mint you chewed on the way over. your hands slide up into his hair and tug just hard enough to make him groan.
when you pull back his glasses are crooked and his pupils are blown wide. “dinner first,” you decide, smoothing his turtleneck where you wrinkled it. “then we can do embarrassing things in private.”
he exhales shakily. “dinner, right. forgot about food. i can do food.”
you lace your fingers with his and he starts walking you toward the little italian place attached to the lodge, his palm sweaty against yours the whole walk.
once you both reach the restaurant, you tug him through the arched doorway and the warm air hits like a hug—dim amber lights, red checkered tablecloths, old dean martin crooning from hidden speakers. the hostess recognizes satoru immediately since he’s been coming here with suguru since they were freshmen and gives you both the corner booth that’s half-hidden behind a fake grapevine.
satoru slides in first because he’s too tall to fit on the short side and you scoot right next to him instead of across, thighs pressed together under the table from the jump. he freezes for a second, then relaxes when you bump his shoulder with yours.
“um, is this okay?” you ask, nudging his knee.
“more than okay,” he mumbles, cheeks pink again. “just—i'm still, you know, processing that you’re real and that this is real and you're sitting this close and wearing that dress.”
the waitress drops off menus and a basket of garlic knots that smell like heaven. satoru immediately grabs one and tears it in half, steam curling up between you.
“these are dangerous,” he warns, holding the bigger piece out to you. “eat this or i’ll finish the whole basket and hate myself later.”
you take it, fingers brushing his, and he watches your mouth way too intently while you bite. butter and garlic and parmesan explode on your tongue and you actually moan a little.
his eyes go comically wide behind his glasses.
“good?” he croaks.
“marry me,” you say around the bite, more so talking to the garlic knot than him, then laugh when his ears turn scarlet.
you both order—him the carbonara because he’s a creature of habit, you the spicy vodka rigatoni because you saw it on the specials board and wanted to watch him sweat when you'd eventually feed him a forkful. he orders a coke, you get a sprite and then you’re just staring at each other wrapped in candlelight while frank sinatra sings about strangers in the night.
“so,” you start. “tell me something embarrassing that isn’t about snowboarding or astrophysics.”
he snorts, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “uh, well…last month i tried to microwave a burrito still in the foil. i might've set off every smoke alarm in the dorm. suguru filmed me running around in boxers waving a towel like a helicopter. it was on his private story.”
you cackle loud enough that the couple two booths over glares. “oh my god, you have to send it to me later.”
“never,” he says, but he’s grinning. “your turn.”
you lean in, voice low. “freshman year i got so drunk at a halloween party i thought the campus statue was a real guy hitting on me. probably spent like twenty minutes trying to give it my number before shoko dragged me away.”
he throws his head back and laughs—full, loud, nose scrunch and everything—and it’s the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.
the food comes and it’s ridiculous portions. you stab the pasta with your fork and hold it up to his mouth because sharing is caring. he takes the bite, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk, then immediately starts coughing because the sauce is actually spicy as hell.
“water—water—” he wheezes, grabbing your sprite and chugging half of it. you pat his back, giggling. “told you it was hot,” you tease.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes watering. “you’re evil, really evil.”
the conversation flows stupid easy after that and he keeps stealing bites off your plate even though his carbonara is right there. you keep stealing bites off his when he’s not looking and he's not at all, because all he can look at is you. every time his hand brushes yours, he gives it a gentle squeeze like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
at one point the waitress drops off tiramisu you didn’t order and winks. “on the house for the cute couple.”
satoru goes bright red and mumbles thank you while you beam. you dig in first, scoop up a massive bite of mascarpone and cocoa and hold it to his lips. “open,” you order, wiggling the fork a little.
his eyes flutter shut like he’s tasting drugs. “fuck, that’s good.”
you take the next bite and a little cream sticks to your bottom lip. he stares for a solid five seconds, thumb twitching on the table like he wants to wipe it off. you beat him to it, licking it slow on purpose, watching his throat bob.
“you’re killing me.” he whispers, brows furrowed, eyes soft.
“good.” you whisper back, batting your lashes up at him.
by the time the check comes, he snatches it before you can even look, you’re both leaning into each other, shoulders touching, his arm stretched along the back of the booth behind you. he traces little circles on your bare, bare shoulder with one finger, light enough to raise goosebumps.
“do you…still wanna walk around?” he asks, voice soft, a little nervous. “or we could…i dunno…go somewhere quieter?”
you turn your head so your lips almost brush his jaw. “quieter sounds perfect.”
he pays, leaves yet another ridiculous tip, and then you’re sliding out of the booth, his hand finding yours immediately like it’s magnetic. outside the restaurant the lodge is all twinkle lights and soft jazz spilling from speakers hidden in fake pine trees. he tucks you into his side as you walk, thumb rubbing over your knuckles.
“so…the fireplace again?” he suggests, nodding toward the massive stone one in the main lobby. “or my room’s…closer. staff lodging is right behind the rental shop. no sukuna, he’s on night patrol tonight.”
you squeeze his fingers. “your room. definitely your room.”
he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours and steers you toward the side exit, his heartbeat hammering so hard you can feel it through his jacket where you’re pressed against him. the night air is sharp and cold but neither of you feel it—you’re both burning up, fingers tangled, stealing little glances every three seconds like teenagers who just discovered kissing exists. he keeps bumping your hip on accident, you keep stepping on the back of his shoe, both of you giggling like idiots under the strings of bulb lights.
the staff lodging is a low wooden building tucked behind the main lodge, warm light glowing from a couple windows. he fumbles the keycard twice before the door clicks open, then ushers you inside like you’re made of glass. his room is exactly what you expected and somehow cuter: string lights along the ceiling, digimon posters half-hidden under snowboard magazines, a stack of physics textbooks threatening to topple off the desk, one single bed pushed against the wall with a navy comforter that’s definitely too small for him. it smells like the pine soap and laundry detergent you've come to adore over the last two days.
he shuts the door, locks it, then just stands there staring at you in the soft light, hands flexing at his sides. “hi,” he says again, like it’s the first time tonight.
“hi,” you answer, stepping closer until your boots bump his sneakers. “so…are you gonna kiss me again or do i have to climb you like a tree?”
his answer is immediate—he cups your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks, and kisses you slow and deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours like he’s been starving for it. you make this soft needy noise into his mouth and he walks you backward until your knees hit the bed, never breaking the kiss.
when you finally pull apart you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. “been thinking about doing that again after the first time,” he admits, voice rough.
“same,” you whisper, fingers curling into his turtleneck. “now, please take this off before i rip it.”
he laughs shakily and yanks it over his head in one motion, hair exploding into fluffy white chaos. the second the shirt’s gone you’re on him again, hands sliding over warm skin, tracing the lean lines of his stomach, the little happy trail that disappears under his jeans. he shivers hard when your nails scrape lightly over his nipples.
“fuck—wait—” he gasps, catching your wrists gently. “i’m—i’m gonna embarrass myself if we go fast. like really fast. i’ve never—”
“i know,” you soothe, kissing his jaw, his throat, his cheeks. “we go slow. whatever you want. i’m not going anywhere.”
he exhales like you just lifted the weight of the world off his shoulders and kisses you again, softer this time, guiding you down onto the bed so you’re straddling his lap. the string lights paint both of you gold and his hands are shaking when they settle on your hips over the dress.
“tell me if i do anything wrong,” he murmurs against your lips.
“you won’t,” you promise, rolling your hips once just to watch his eyes roll back. “just touch me, toru. anywhere. everywhere.”
and then his hands are everywhere—sliding up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress higher, thumbs tracing the lace tops of your tights, mouth hot on your neck while you grind slow and dirty in his lap. slick pooling in your panties.
he keeps rocking you against him like he can’t stop, hips jerking up every time your clothed pussy drags over the bulge in his jeans. the friction is filthy, wet sounds starting already because you’re soaked through the lace. his breath hitches against your throat.
“fuck—wait—” he pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. “i’ve literally never done this. like. any of this. zero. virgin with a capital everything. you were my first kiss tonight. i don’t even own condoms because my brain never got that far.”
you kiss the tip of his nose. “i’m on the pill and i’m clean. we’re good if you want it raw. and toru, baby, i want you to wreck me tonight, okay? no embarrassment allowed.”
he makes this broken little sound and drops his forehead to your shoulder. “you’re sure? because once we start i don’t think i can—”
you shut him up by sliding off his lap and sinking to your knees between his spread thighs. his belt clinks loud in the quiet room when you yank it open.
“oh fuck oh fuck—” he whispers, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to put them.
you pop the button, drag the zipper down slow, and his cock basically jumps out—long, flushed angry pink, tip already shiny and leaking. he’s thick enough that your fingers barely meet when you wrap around him. the second your hand touches bare skin he jolts like you shocked him.
“sensitive,” he chokes out, laughing nervously. “really sensitive—shit—”
you stroke once, slow, thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum. his hips buck hard enough to lift off the mattress.
“gonna taste you now,” you tell him, voice low, and before he can answer you lean in and lick a fat stripe from base to tip.
his reaction is instant—head slamming back against the wall, a strangled “jesus—fuck—” ripping out of him. you take the head into your mouth, suck gentle, tongue swirling, and he’s already shaking, thighs trembling on either side of your shoulders.
“y/n—baby—you keep doing that a-and i’m not gonna last, i swear—” he’s babbling, fingers finally landing in your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life. you pull off with a wet pop and he whines, actual tears in his eyes.
“that’s okay,” you murmur, kissing the inside of his thigh. “cum whenever you want the first time. we’ve got all night.”
you sink down again, deeper this time, cheeks hollowing, hand twisting at the base. he lasts maybe thirty seconds—hips stuttering, abs clenching—then he’s yelling your name, cock pulsing hard as he shoots thick ropes of cum straight down your throat. you swallow every drop, humming around him until he’s twitching from overstimulation and tugging weakly at your hair. you pull off slow, lips shiny, and he hauls you up immediately to kiss you messy and desperate, tasting himself on your tongue and groaning into it.
“your turn,” he rasps, flipping you so fast the room spins. he shoves your dress up to your waist, practically rips your tights and panties down in one go. the second he sees you bare he freezes, staring like he’s never seen pussy before—which he hasn’t.
“so pretty,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “can i—”
you cut him off, voice needy. “yes, toru. please.”
he dives in like a starving man—nose bumping your clit on the first try, tongue licking a broad stripe through your slick folds and moaning loud enough to vibrate against you. he’s sloppy, eager, licking into you like he’s trying to drink you dry. when he finds your clit and sucks you jolt so hard he has to pin your hips down.
“like that?” he mumbles against you, words muffled because he refuses to pull away long enough to talk properly.
“fuck—yes—just like that—”
he loses his mind after that. tongue fucking into you, then back to your clit, two fingers sliding in easy because you’re dripping for him. he curls them, finds that spot on the first try—pure luck—and you arch off the bed with a broken cry. he does it again and again, sucking your clit in pulses until you’re grinding against his face, thighs clamping around his head.
“toru—gonna cum—don’t stop—”
he moans into you and doubles down. you shatter, clenching hard around his fingers, flooding his mouth. he drinks it all down, licking you through it until you’re pushing at his forehead because it’s too much.
he finally pulls back, face wrecked—lips swollen, chin shiny, glasses completely fogged and crooked. he looks drunk. “again,” he says hoarsely. “wanna do that again.”
you laugh breathlessly and drag him up to kiss him, tasting yourself everywhere. “later, need you inside me now.”
he scrambles for his wallet like a man possessed, then remembers he has nothing and just whimpers like a puppy. you push him onto his back, straddle his hips, reach between the two of you and line him up, the fat tip nudging your tight hole.
“we'll go slow, okay?” you tell him, sinking down inch by inch.
he’s big—stretching you open, burning in the best way. his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, mouth open in a silent scream. when you bottom out you both just breathe for a second, foreheads pressed together.
“move—please move—” he begs. you roll your hips slow and he’s already shaking, cock twitching inside you. you ride him steady, watching his face—eyes rolling back, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. after maybe two minutes his abs clench hard.
“fuck—gonna cum again—i’m sorry—”
“do it,” you whisper, grinding down hard. “fill me up, toru.”
he snaps—hips slamming up, coming with a choked sob, pumping you full of heat. you keep riding through it, chasing your second, and the overstimulation makes him whine and buck wildly.
you cum again clenching around him, milking every drop. he’s still hard thankfully so you climb off shaky legs and flip onto your stomach, bending over.
“please don't stop,” you gasp. “i want more.”
he goes wide eyed and blanks for a second at the sight of you on all fours presented to him like a meal. he cartoonishly shakes his head and scrambles up, grabs your hips, slides back in easy because he’s made a mess of you. the angle’s deeper—he hits something that makes you scream into the pillow. he fucks you hard now, confidence blooming, one hand sliding up your spine to press between your shoulder blades.
“like this?” he pants. “tell me—tell me it’s good, baby—”
“so good—so fucking good—hah- harder—”
he pounds into you, the bed creaking, skin slapping against skin so loud in the tiny room. you reach back, grab his wrist, guide his hand around to your clit. he rubs messy circles and you’re gone again, pussy fluttering hard around him. he follows right after—hips stuttering, burying deep and spilling again with a broken moan of your name. you feel every pulse, hot and thick inside you. he collapses half on top of you, both of you sweaty and wrecked, his cock still twitching. after a minute he kisses your shoulder, your neck, your cheek.
“again?” he mumbles, already half hard inside you.
you laugh into the pillow. “give me five minutes and then ruin me some more, pretty boy.”
you wake up tangled in navy sheets with his long arm locked around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. he’s already half hard again, pressed against your ass, mouthing sleepy kisses along your shoulder.
“morning, princess,” he mumbles, voice gravel-rough. “round four? five? i lost count.”
you laugh and roll over to kiss him slow and lazy, both of you tasting like last night. the rest of the trip melts into one long blur of exactly that. cozy mornings in till he has to go to work, waking up wrapped in each other, sneaking off the slopes to fuck in empty locker rooms, quickies in the staff shower, slow sleepy sex at 3 a.m in his room with the string lights painting gold across his back while he whispers how perfect you feel around him. he eats you out on his desk at least twice a day until your legs stop working. you somehow manage to jerk him off in the gondola once and he has to bite his own glove to stay quiet.
your friends go from roasting him to adopting him in like forty-eight hours. the first morning after the date you stumble into the lodge kitchen at noon wearing his hoodie and nothing else, thighs still shaky.
shoko looks up from her coffee, cigarette dangling. “jesus, he actually dicked you down. you’re glowing.”
yuki whistles. “gojo! get in here, nerd!”
he appears in the doorway in sweatpants and messy hair, cheeks pink.
utahime throws a croissant at his head. “you made her walk funny. good on you, dork.”
by day three they’re dragging him into their jeep for late-night hot tub runs, forcing him to shotgun white claws, teaching him beer pong on the coffee table. he loses spectacularly every time but laughs so hard, actually enjoying the time he's spent with you and your friends, for once, he doesn't feel like the dorky nerd everyone paints him out to be.
on the last night you all pile into the hot tub under the stars, steam curling up into the freezing air. satoru sits behind you, legs spread so you’re between them, chin on your shoulder.
yuki splashes him. “so, gojo, are you treating our girl right or do we have to bury you somewhere on the campus grounds?”
he tightens his arms around your waist, kisses your wet shoulder. “planning on keeping her forever if she lets me.”
the girls aww dramatically. shoko flicks water at both of you. “that's so fucking gross, i like him now. don’t fuck it up.”
you and the girls go home the next day, his hand never leaving yours as he walks you utahime's jeep. he kisses you stupid until sukuna yells at him to get back to work.
two weeks later, on christmas day, you’re standing in his childhood driveway in kyoto, snow dusting the traditional roof tiles, wearing the fluffiest coat you own because he warned you his mom keeps the house like the arctic. he’s vibrating beside you in a black peacoat, hair doing its fluffy thing, holding your hand so tight your fingers go numb.
the door flies open before he can even knock.
“satoru!” his mom shrieks, launching herself at him for a hug, then freezes when she spots you. her eyes go comically wide. “oh my god. oh my god! is this the girlfriend???”
satoru’s face explodes red. “mom—”
she’s already grabbing your cheeks, squishing them, tears in her eyes. “you’re real! you’re so pretty! he said he had good news and he never answered and i thought—”
“mom!” he wails, trying to pry her off you.
his dad appears behind her, tall and quiet and smiling exactly like satoru does when he’s trying not to laugh. “let the poor girl breathe, dear.”
she finally releases you but immediately drags you inside by the hand, chattering a mile a minute about baby photos and his old digimon bedroom and how she always knew he’d bring home someone perfect.
satoru catches your eye across the genkan while he’s kicking off his boots, mouthing “i’m so sorry” with the goofiest grin.
you mouth back “i love you” and watch his entire soul leave his body in the best way. his mom is still talking as she pulls you toward the living room, grabbing her photo albums.
“i knew it! i knew my baby finally got a girlfriend!”
satoru groans into his hands but he’s smiling so wide it hurts.
As a young girl, you did a love spell - nonsense, really. He'll have amethyst eyes, long dark hair... but it never happened for you. Cursed truly - the moment you date someone they just find their true love and it's never you. Giving up on that, and living in your quaint little town as the resident witch when you run into a set of adorable twins and their dad living across the street. That's when you see him - Suguru Geto - is he the man you summoned all those years ago!? If so... will he fall into the same curse?
pairings - Girl dad! Suguru x witch! reader
warnings- rom com vibes, sweet little cozy autumn story, reader falls bad, Sugu is a girl dad, reader sucks at being a witch, the twins are matchmaking. tension and teasing, finding love again, so sweet it's tooth rotting hehe, explicit sex - fingering, oral, p in v sex, masturbation, love confessions, them being cute. - oneshot - 11.2k
This was a commission from one of my amazing supporters, based on the movie Practical Magic! I so appreciate you love and thank you so much
Some might call you a witch.
Maybe you are – cursed they all say, some old family tales of the women in your line never finding true love. Always some disaster befalls you, and you start to think it was real, think that you must be truly cursed. Dabbling in some spells in your youth, you shied away from them after every love spell just seemed to turn into them falling in love with someone else.
Friends of yours called you ‘magic’ because every guy you met and cared for seemed to fall for someone else. You suppose you’re happy for them in your own way, that you bring everyone else love and happiness, even if you’re alone you're okay with it.
You’re living a peaceful life, running your own little shop, it’s a small town – so small that you’ve known everyone your whole life.
It’s odd to get anyone new, but you know that even if it happens, that there’s no chance really, a few weeks or months of fleeting fun, before they move on. You also are just a really bad witch, you suck at every spell, clumsy in life and in witchcraft, you never excelled like your sister - the most you can ever manage are some healing herbs and tinctures.
Your love spells are really only for finding everyone else’s love, never you.
It's a quaint little life, but you find a lot of peace in it, even if you do get a little bored at times, you’re used to it. It’s home after all, the home where everyone knows you, from the owner of every little store in town, down to every neighbor you walk by.
They say your name with a curious, friendly smile as you walk by in your cardigans and jeans through the fall weather, some of them curious, others a little apprehensive.
Everyone knows your family are witches, and you're the last one left here, your old home is damn near a Halloween attraction.
It's the week before Halloween too, you love to get dressed in your ‘witch gear’ and hand out candy, so the kids can run and tell all their friends - they met the town witch!
The leaves are crunching beneath your heeled boots this time of year, shivers of the chill air slipping through the soft fleece sweater. You carry a bag of little herbs you’ve gathered in your hand when you pause by the home that’s been empty for months. An old home, many assume are ‘haunted’ and they weren’t wrong, it was indeed a haunted home but you were used to that sort of thing.
At least the spirits there were pretty cool, every now and then they say hi to you.
God no wonder men run for the hills, saying you see ghosts is definitely not a topic for a hot date, now is it?
Curse or it's you ugh.
Curious who bought the old three story manor, you can’t help but walk a little closer, observing the dusty old windows, bending over at the waist to peer at just who is inside. You hear giggling of what sounds like two little girls, who run right past you as you stand awkwardly in the yard, pausing as they see you.
A little blond girl and a little brunette with matching bangs and ponytails grin happily, sucking on lollipops happily in the chilled air, each grabbing your hand now and tugging. “Hi there!”
You smile at them, they speak at the same time as if in sync, cute little girls that are tugging at your affection even just meeting them. “I’m Mimiko!”
“I’m Nanako!”
“Oh hello,” you smile at them both, as they eagerly tug you along. “Where are you taking me?”
“To meet dad!”
“You’ve gotta say hi!”
“You're pretty!”
“Oh, thank you…” You can’t help but smile curiously as they drag you inside, but when you see him you pause, faltering just a bit.
The man that's turned with his back to you is massive. He’s got a blueprint laid out on a desk, still dusty and old – left over from long ago. You see a bare back then, muscled and chiseled, hunched over slightly with his hand in his dark, silky locks, scribbling away.
Your heart races in its chest, remembering the silly spell you made as a little kid in your herb garden.
‘A tall man, long dark hair, amethyst eyes, he’ll be quiet and kind, oh and he’ll want children, he’ll want family. He’ll be strong and smart, and just a little on the eccentric side – we can’t have him too boring.’
Your sister had giggled at you, when you had picked up purple petals that you imagined of his eye color, grinning as your sister ran over.
‘Amethyst, that’s such a crazy color!’ She'd said, touching the petals with you.
‘Well, he’s not real so – he can be as beautiful as I imagine.’
It’s just long black hair you tell yourself, you're being ridiculous! So he's tall, okay… that’s the only similarities.
Your heart is racing just a bit in your chest, nervously shifting as the girls tug you along even closer, into the living room just dusted a bit from drywall and sawdust.
“Papa, papa!”
He’ll have a deep, husky voice.
“Girls,” he turns around then, and you pause in your tracks, thighs trembling, breaths quickening just a bit.
His eyes.
They’ll be amethyst.
You’d said it dreamily as a little girl underneath the full blood moon, but even then you never thought, never imagined that maybe it could be real. It can’t be surely, even if his eyes are amethyst, even if his dark silky hair falls a bit over his shoulders, and you see his bare chest, chiseled and cut, your eyes trail down it before you can stop yourself, flushing hotly.
He pauses as he eyes you, seeing the heat on your cheeks, something about you making him – Suguru Geto – falter just a moment, a man never lost for words and completely at ease, paused.
You’re dressed casually, soft and cozy, smelling like the autumn itself, hints of the apple orchard and cinnamon, but mostly, it’s how you just look at him like that.
Who are you?
Suguru long ago gave up on women, he had love once long ago, to the mom of these two little girls, and he couldn’t help but focus solely on them. She was lost so tragically.
Not that he doesn't see women as beautiful – especially you. He loves beauty, after all, yet nothing has stopped him in his tracks like this.
How can he pinpoint it? You're beautiful but it's not that… it's something around you, real and tangible, making his fingers twitch with the need to just touch your skin.
Mimiko is giggling and tugs you down to whisper in your ear - “Papa must think you're pretty.”
You blush even more, clearing your throat a bit, finally taking a breath and holding out your hand. “Hey new neighbor, I'm the witch next door.”
He chuckles then, a sound he's hardly made in ages it feels like, aside from when the girls do something too adorable. Little troublemakers that have him wrapped around their little fingers, always batting their lashes and looking too adorable to punish.
But to chuckle from someone else?
He sobers a bit then, realizing how easy that had been, how pretty your necklace sits between your collacollarbone. Some pendant he can't quite place, tilting his head a bit to study it, before realizing his attention was right on your breasts.
The girls run around now giggling and you smile just a bit, leaning over and touching the necklace ever so delicately. “Do you like it?”
“A witch talisman, huh?” He smirks a little and then turns, snatching up a sweater and sliding it over his head, abs flexing when he moves it across his chest. You heat up at the action, managing to stay casual instead.
“Of course it is,” you tease. Yet it was indeed just that – rose quartz, glittering a soft pink. “So your name?”
“Suguru Geto,” he's trying to be friendly, holding out a hand for you to shake, yours rests in his now, biting down on your lower lip and staring. His hand overtakes yours, swallowing it in his calloused grip.
Something about the touch lingers in his mind that night after you leave. He can't help but toss and turn, looking out the window after pacing around his room for a while. In the quiet he thinks too much, sighing and pressing aside the blinds, just to see you under the glittering light of the almost full moon in your garden.
“Hmm,” he tilts his head, sighing when you look over toward him, as if you can see the crack in the blinds. You smile just a little, turning in a little circle before bouncing back in. “Maybe she is a witch.”
****
You may or may not dress just a little sexier with hot dad neighbor across the street - it certainly isn’t intentional at all!
It’s also just coincidental that you put a little charm spell on yourself to look just a bit more ‘enchanting’ if you will. That you bat your lashes that have a little bit of mascara on them lately when you borrow a cup of sugar, or come over with extra donuts for the girls.
It’s just to be a friendly neighbor! It has nothing to do with the fact that Suguru Geto is the epitome of that love spell you made when you were a little girl, down to the smirk and how his eyes get just a bit lidded in amusement when you show up. The house is progressively coming together more and more every day you walk by, Suguru seems to be quite the handy man.
Aside from some workers most of the restoration seems to be done by his own hands, and you sure can’t complain while sitting on the front porch in your little swing after work and sipping your favorite tea.
It may or may not be a little magical brew of your own – you’re not that good at witchcraft but this one is to attract… wealth or something of course!?
Not that man putting a coat of paint on his outer wall, with leafs fluttering around him, he smiles back at you for just a friendly moment and you wave, going back to pretending to read. Then you eye him again, when his attention is off you, and the girls are laughing and running around in the leaves, crunching all underneath their feet.
You can’t help but move your fingers a bit, making the leaves swirl for them, they’re clapping and giggling as they move in the air, and your finger moves in a circle motion. Suguru peeks over at the girls and his smile melts your heart, chuckling a bit and watching curiously as they keep swirling in a figure eight motion.
He eyes you on that porch, your finger moving with them.
You’re not really a witch, are you?
Your eyes meet his and widen, then the leaves stop swirling, instead scattering all across the girls, who are jumping up and down excitedly. You hastily look back at your book, your hair falling a bit in front of your shoulders, looking so pretty in that white swing, like you need him right next to you.
Suguru wonders if you’re casting some spell on him, but he knows the moment he locked eyes with you there was clear desire, but the affection that builds every time you come by is hard to ignore. The girls adore you, frequently running over to your house to bake something with you or help you mix up herbs for your shop, shit they want you more than him sometimes.
He notices your cute little dresses and your boots, like you are the town witch how you carry on, something magical about you that’s hard to ignore. But he does ignore it a bit, because he has to focus on the girls, on getting the house together, on his business. He doesn’t have time to fall for cute little witches next door, even when they start to make him ache at night.
Even when he’s jerking his cock remembering you bending over in front of him in some little dress that’s way too little clothing for this weather earlier that week, he can remember the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your ass. The hint of your black panties that had peeked right between them, made him long to grip your hips and drag you against him.
He’s peeking out that window even as he starts stroking his cock under the covers, sucking in a breath. Suguru hasn’t been with a woman in a long time, not that he couldn’t but he’s picky, and you’re this particular brand that’s driving him insane. Cute and giggly where he’s serious and quiet, warm and soft where he was a bit colder and hard to read.
Suguru wasn’t always this way, but it’s how it went, and now he’s desperately stroking his veiny length thinking of slipping his cock inside you, his cute little witchy neighbor. Bending you over and making you arch for him, a hand slammed over your mouth to keep your moans quiet when he bottomed out, stretching your perfect little cunt out.
He’s so sure it’s perfect.
All of you must be.
You’re in your room which is directly across from his, doing some little dance – surely some other spell of yours – as you get undressed, just your silhouette alone has him leaking pre. He sits up and exhales, spitting on his cock and watching the saliva drip down his tip, mixing with the pearly pre that’s coming out of his tip in spurts, making him suck in a breath.
He should feel like a pervert, watching you slip on a baggy tee shirt, the curves of your body suddenly hidden by it, when you walk over towards the window to flick off the lights, and he swears he sees the curtain move for a moment, as if you were peering at him. You flick them off and it’s dark then, his pretty show gone, but his eyes slam shut and he pictures everything.
Stroking faster he murmurs your name softly under his breath, groaning as his big hand strokes up and down faster until he busts at the thought of fucking you in a baggy shirt in your bed, shoving it up your hips and using it to yank you down his length. White ropes spill all across his hand, his eyes rolling back, breaths coming too quickly, trying to calm himself down.
You’re just pretty, he’s just being a whole pervert, he can control himself better than this.
Surely he doesn’t jerk off again that night.
****
The next morning he’s knocking on your door, he has to look at you and know he jerked himself off to you, stammering almost with a little flush on his cheeks that you’ve never seen, across the bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones as he stands there in front of you, business suit on making him look far too attractive, black and sleek following the sharp lines of his body.
You’ve seen him in one before, but this close to him makes you blush yourself, eyes flitting down his starch white dress shirt he’s still tucking into his belted waist, as if he’s in a rush. His hair’s down falling across his face rather than thrown up in his typical pony tail, making him look like he’d just jumped out of some fucking romance novel cover.
“Hi!” Your voice literally squeaks, you try to compose yourself, wrapping your cardigan around your shirt and shorts you’re wearing, the girls hug each of your thighs and you laugh softly. “Hi girls.”
“We’re coming to play!”
“You’re babysitting us!”
“Huh?” You’re laughing softly, looking over at Suguru curiously, who rubs the back of his neck, smiling a bit.
“Hey there, girls,” he admonishes, they pout all cutely. “We haven’t even asked her if she can yet.”
“Sorry!” they're pouting as they speak in unison, too cute to ever be mad at.
“You’re fine, pretty girls,” you pat their heads as they just run into your house then. “Um, come in?”
“Sorry,” he sighs. “Girls! Manners!”
They’re already familiar with your home so they’re running around and sitting on your cozy couch, Suguru hasn’t been inside your home just yet though. He eyes it carefully as you shut the door behind him, seeing a cauldron on your kitchen counter, a kitchen that has original seventies counter tops and cabinets mind you.
“You are really into this witch thing.”
“It’s for my shop! Aha…” You’re standing in front of it, waving your arms as Suguru smirks a little, hands in his pockets, looking at the old wooden cabinets.
“Have you ever considered renovating?” He walks up and touches the old press wood that is close to falling apart, humming to himself. “Some updates would really open it up.”
“I haven’t no, my parents left me this place and I’m afraid I didn’t do a thing to it,” you touch the old formica countertops that are peeling. “Haven’t even taken down the old wallpaper.”
“Well I can help if you get the materials,” he offers, the girls are climbing up onto the tall chairs, swirling around the mixture in the cauldron as he assesses the kitchen with a sharp eye. “I actually have a good buyer if you want me to order them for you.”
“How much would you charge to put it all in?” You ask, trying to see in your mind if your budget will allow.
You are doing a wealth spell tonight with the new moon though, so maybe it’ll manifest itself just like Suguru did, those amethyst eyes looking at you again, flashing back to that vivid memory. You keep telling yourself that you’re looking too much into it, that it’s nonsense.
But it’s hard to even breathe when he’s near.
“How about you help me out and watch the girls a couple times a week, and I’ll gladly put it all in for free? Fix this place all up.”
“Oh! Of course I can…” they’re giggling and talking amongst themselves, petting your cat who slinks by and jumps up on the counter, purring. “Is it okay if I bring them to the shop? I do go in a couple hours on the weekends.”
“Perfectly fine, I do most of my work at home but I have to go to a bunch of meetings the next couple weeks,” he sighs, snatching a band off his wrist and tying his hair up as he speaks. “It would help me out so much, just on the weekends if you could, the week will be fine because they have school but if you could let them hang out a little bit if I’m not here?”
“It’s no worry at all,” Suguru watches you light up as Mimiko shows you a drawing she’s done. “Oh it’s beautiful!”
The way you are with the girls makes him falter, the affection tearing at him, something he never knew he could feel. Of course he was aware of the fact that they loved you already but he’s never seen them like this. Usually his little ‘troublemaker twins’ as he called them – would chase away any nanny, any babysitter in the world. Yet they adore you.
“Will you be good for her?” He asks them now, leaning down to their level and narrowing his eyes, they nod and giggle behind their hands. “No crossing your fingers.”
“We’re not!” Mimiko says.
“No way!” That's Nanako, he rolls his eyes at them.
“Yeah you are,” he snatches their hands playfully, and they sigh. “Be good for her or I’ll get a mean babysitter instead.”
“No, no we love her!” Mimiko says, eyeing you and holding your hand. “She’s a witch!”
“Girls…”
“No, I am,” you shrug a shoulder and raise a brow now. “And I’ll put a spell to turn you both into frogs if you’re bad!”
They just laugh at you, as does Suguru, standing and realizing how close you are, when they run off, already making themselves at home. You turn to him and smile just a bit, realizing you’re still just in a tank and shorts, and your cardigan has fallen open, soft and tan against your skin.
Suguru’s eyes lower before he can stop himself, seeing your nipples perked up and pressing against the fabric, his heart races in his chest at the sight. He can even see the curve of each breast under the thin cotton, his hands twitch just slightly with the need to grip them, to mold them to his palms.
You seem to notice, they rise and fall, your breaths quicker and quicker, Suguru clears his throat and flushes more, looking back up into your eyes, faltering. “Shit, I’m sorry…”
“No, no I am wearing nothing and it’s cold,” you murmur, but you don’t close the sweater, you bite down on your lower lip instead, stepping a little closer. “It’s cold in here, isn’t it?”
“A little,” he murmurs, looking back at your old counters and touching them, trying not to act like he doesn’t want to brush those nipples with his fingers. “Thank you so much for this, really.”
“Of course, I’d love some help around here-”
Crash.
“Shit…” Suguru grimaces, as the girls crash a face, gasping out simultaneously. “I’ll buy you a new one!”
“It’s all right,” you walk over and sigh, you’ll have to try to fix it with magic a little later, you can’t scare Suguru off when he’s finally coming over. “No worries, just be careful okay?”
****
The girls were not careful.
As adorable as they are, they’re breaking and crashing anything and everything, to the point you do start trying to piece them together with your rusty magic, but you can’t even keep up with them. The cat is even joining in and scratching your old wicker furniture instead of his scratching post, being a little menace to society right along with the girls.
They’re truly exhausting even for you, but they’re so freaking cute it’s hard to stay mad, you instead try to divert their energy with the enticement of a spell.
“What kind of spell!?” Mimiko asks excitedly, while you take them out to your greenhouse, letting them run around and explore the many, many herbs that grow here.
“We’ll do a love spell!” Nanako chimes in, giggling and touching a petal.
“A love spell, hmm?” You ask, gathering some of the mugwort carefully, praying they don’t crash all of your plant pots too. “You have a crush, Nanako?”
“No, yuck!” You smile in relief. “But for dad… he really needs a push.”
“He does,” Mimiko agrees, giggling and then looking at you. “Do you like dad?”
“I mean,” you blush now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I don’t know him very well. I’d… like to?”
“We’ll help!”
*
It’s the evening when Suguru comes back, looking a little exhausted and leaning in your doorway, smiling just a bit before he sees the mess the kids have made of your kitchen. “Oh god, how bad is it?”
“I mean… they’re rambunctious?”
“Girls!”
“No, no,” you tug him inside now, shaking your head and putting a finger to your lips. “They’re finally calming down, we’re cooking dinner.”
“Oh…” the scents hit him then, some stew that makes his tummy grumble. “Fuck, I didn’t eat.”
“What, not all day? Come on please, it's almost done!”
“Are you sure?” You just nod and take him by the hand, leading him into your cozy little dining room.
Suguru’s not sure anything you own is newer than the eighties, truly, you must love thrifting or have kept everything original.
Though something is so homey and comfortable about it all, it's still a shame to look at as a man who literally has spent years building homes.
“It’s no imposition, the girls wanted to eat dinner here too. One less thing you have to do today, hmm?”
Suguru’s stunned for a moment, just a small gesture of help is more than he’s had in… as long as he can remember since he’s had the girls on his own. What exactly are you doing to his mind?
It's cozy, the four of you in the outdated kitchen as you scoop another helping of stew into his bowl. The way the girls devour your meal makes him wonder if he's ordering out too much, it's hard sometimes being a single father.
On days he works Suguru barely sees the girls sometimes, and he's tired some days for their boundless energy.
With you they almost seem a little calmer, showing some actual table manners which surprises him, before they start to yawn and look a little sleepy. “You two can watch a show while we clean up,” he says softly, eyeing the bottle of wine you've pulled out.
“One glass?” You tease, after they get snuggled up under one of your afghans, it looks like you had a crochet habit judging off all the little balls of yarn and hooks on your living room table.
“I'd love one, what kind you got?”
“A nice cabernet,” you pour him a glass slowly, letting dark red liquid half way fill up the glass you hand him. “It's a little strong.”
You put the crystal wine glass to your lips, you’re flushing just a bit as he watches you sip it, hands around the stem of the glass, sipping it and letting the rich flavor dance along your tastebuds. It’s quiet in the kitchen, the girls are already yawning and snuggling when Suguru stands, sipping his wine and coming a little closer.
“Thank you so much for today,” he murmurs, tense a bit when you look up at him under your lashes. Fuck you’re pretty. “They love you.”
“I love them too, I mean… is that totally weird to say? I feel like they’re my little nieces or something already,” you say affectionately, tugging at his heart then. “Please know I don’t mean to overstep.”
“No, that makes me happy.” He smiles and picks up his bowl then. “Let me help you with dishes.”
“Oh you don’t have to!”
“You have witch magic for them?” You smile and giggle behind your glass, grabbing your bowl as well and carrying it in with him.
“I do, look…” You pop open the dishwasher. “Tada!”
Suguru snorts and laughs, the sound so pleasing to your ears you melt just a bit more for him, looking back over your shoulder and smiling. “I’ll grab the girls’ bowls.”
It’s quiet aside from the running water and the gentle clicking of the dishes as you rinse them, taking little sips while Suguru helps you pop them in the dishwasher, you shut it and start it, leaning against the counter and brushing your fingertips across the counter. It feels perfect having them in your home, you can’t really describe it.
You don’t want to scare him away completely, so you temper it a bit. “I loved having you over for dinner.”
“Yeah?” You nod shyly, the breeze from your little kitchen window blows in gently, tousling your hair around your face.
“You three are welcome any time, truly I get a little lonely since my sister moved out.”
“Where’d she move to?” Suguru brushes a little tendril back, fingers accidentally brushing your skin, you gasp out, teeth sinking into your lower lip to bite back an embarrassing noise. He falters, clearing his throat. “Was in your face, m’sorry.”
“No, no,” his hand falls and he takes a gulp nervously. “Don’t apologize, um she found her true love and moved out of state.”
“That’s cute.”
“I dated him.”
“Huh?” Suguru blinks in confusion, and you sigh, sipping a little more wine and eyeing the two sleeping little girls on the couch snuggling. “You dated him?”
“Everyone I date, they find their ‘true love’. It’s some curse, but don’t worry – even being near me means you’ll find it.”
Suguru laughs then and you glare. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” your lips pout now, looking down and sighing. “It really is true, she’ll fall right into your lap.”
“You’re not cursed,” he shakes his head a bit now. “You’re still young.”
“Twenty five and never dated longer than two weeks, that’s usually the magic number. They find their loves, don’t laugh!”
“That’s nonsense, how much of this curse do you believe?” He finishes his drink and takes both of your glasses, eyeing your pretty lip print on the glass, rinsing it and washing it for you.
“It’s all factual, I assure you, just wait.”
Suguru just laughs at you, and you wish it wasn’t real, but you’re absolutely sure some pretty girl will end up on his doorstep tomorrow.
You carry Mimiko as he carries Nanako over to his home once they’re tuckered out, she’s snuggling to your neck all cute and precious, when Suguru looks over at you in the moonlight you’re so pretty in that moment. All smiling against Nanako’s hair, the soft white light illuminating your skin, when he quietly shows you up to their room.
The entire house looks beautiful, all redone from the new vinyl plank to the soft gray paint on fresh drywall. The girls room is everything you’d dream of as a girl, so pretty and done up with their beds, both sides of the room have their own unique little touches too. Mimiko’s has darker colors, blacks and blues with plushies, Nanako’s room is brighter and sunnier, pastels and sunny yellows.
“Suguru it’s so pretty,” you whisper, eyeing the fairy lights dancing across their ceiling, it’s beautiful and swathed in color. Suguru beams with pride and it’s adorable, as he brushes back their hair and kisses their foreheads. “I want to live here.”
“I’ll make your place just as nice,” he promises, walking out of their room and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click, the hallway is dark, still smelling of fresh paint. “You pick a color scheme and I’ll work with it.”
“You really don’t have to,” you murmur, as he’s suddenly too close to you, and you inhale his scent - fresh with just a hint of musk. “It’s not a problem to watch them, I enjoy them coming over.”
“Your kitchen is going to be a work of charity, it’s that bad.”
“Hey!” You playfully shove him by his chest “They aren’t that horrible!”
“Mhm,” his hands rest on your shoulders now, you’re trembling a bit. “You’re living fifty years in the past like a little time bubble.”
“Well maybe I like the seventies,” you tease, the wine warming your bloodstream and making your cheeks flush by his proximity. “It’s retro.”
“Ancient,” he corrects, tapping your nose then, making it scrunch just a bit, his breaths slowing down then, eyes drifting to your lips. “Does your nose twitch side to side too?”
“And you’re hating on retro…” you twitch it all cutely then, making him chuckle, as he brushes his thumb across your lips without thinking.
You’re too cute, your body so warm he can feel it with his fingertips burning through the softness of your sweater with his other hand. He swallows nervously – it’s been a long time since Suguru has been with someone, and he has vivid memories of stroking it to you last night, that ache worse in your presence.
You both just stand there, eyeing each other in the darkness of the hallway, your heart hammering in your ears, pulse racing in his neck, the two of you unsure of what to do, how to move. Him, nervous after years of being alone – you terrified that the moment you kiss him, he’ll be on his merry little way with a pretty new neighbor.
Was it a curse?
Was he the one you summoned that night?
You step a little closer, his hand slides to your waist, briefly brushing across the curve of your breast, your nipples press up aching and needy underneath that top, as he steps closer to you. He’s so tall your head falls back, his shadow overtaking yours when his lips are just a breath away, tickling your own and shooting hot desire from his big hand cupping your cheek.
You feel so small next to him, the feeling is heady, making you even more needy, but all the same so scared.
Your lips part for him now, as he starts descending, your eyes flutter shut – imagining a first kiss, only for one of the girls to cry out suddenly. Suguru panics, pulling back and opening the door. You see Mimiko has had a bad dream, up hugging her knees then calling your name too.
“Oh,” you come to her and sit on the bed, Suguru watches carefully as you soothe her back to sleep. “It’s all right, sweetheart.”
He has never felt this.
Their mom passed a very long time ago, when they were born, so he hasn’t even seen someone with them, especially like you, making him long to capture that moment forever. Your gentle smile as if you’ve cast a spell of calm, he’d almost believe all of it if he wasn’t such a skeptic, that you calmed the very energy all around you all.
You look back and ease up finally, letting him walk you down the stairs to his door, opening it for you, letting the breeze sweep in over both of your overheated bodies, all flustered by the sensations of what had almost been a kiss. “Suguru… I’m not sure my budget on things-”
“I get great deals, I’ll just buy the materials.”
You blink then, shaking your head. “No, no that’s far too much for just some babysitting!”
“Really to see them like that? I…” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes so vibrant in that moment that you drown in their depths. “Worth anything.”
“Suguru…”
God, the way you say his name.
For every bit of him that wants to drag you up to his room and spread your thighs, bury himself in your cunt, another part of him is terrified to take it that far, too ruin something beautiful you have with his girls already. So he hesitates, instead kissing your forehead as sweetly as he does the girls, you let your eyes flutter shut, leaning in close to him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, we’ll go over some options,” he says then, pulling back and brushing your tendrils back one more time. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Of course…”
You walk home and he watches you, waiting for you to wave at him, smiling and giggling when you walk inside, leaning back against the door.
Fuck you really, really like your neighbor, it’s past like really, a word you’re too terrified to think but that keeps echoing in your ears.
True love.
Love spell, amethyst eyes, dark hair, the smile – was Suguru Geto the man you conjured up as a little girl?
****
Suguru coming over every day almost to work on your house was far too attractive, shirtless and sweaty, while you dress the most skimpy you can, bouncing around and giggling. He acts nonchalant like he doesn’t notice, even when the girls are at school and he’s over, and you’ll lean and bend over to grab a tool for him, or a cold beer at the end of the day.
It’s easy being near you, that’s all Suguru keeps thinking, amusedly watching as you just accidentally let a strap slip off your shoulder, and he’ll adjust it right back for you, letting his fingers brush just a bit against your skin. You’d pout all cute, never directly saying what you want, though you make him jerk it every night to you like it’s just what he does now.
A routing, remembering every time you brush against him, as he starts to tear out your old ugly cabinets, replacing them piece by piece when he gets time – until it all starts to come together. What was an ugly yellow kitchen was now becoming a beautiful modern creation.
Suguru is great with his hands.
So great you can’t help but wonder how they’d feel against you, how those fingers feel inside your cunt, the thoughts alone make you touch yourself all night, knowing it’s hopeless, no matter what you try he just kisses your forehead, pats your head like you’re a little puppy.
He’s sweet, he’s caring and fun, the days blend into something that almost feels like family, the girls over constantly during the renovations, and you three get even closer than before. Showing them little healing potions and protection charms you all make for Suguru, it’s like they become more than neighbors.
They’re everything to you now.
In the span of a few months it’s become what you look forward to the most, quiet dinners after Suguru works so hard, the little talks as you catch glimpses of his life before he moved to this tiny town. A little vague and mysterious, he eventually shares more, so much more every day with you.
His wife that passed away, some of the pain he felt, a new love it was really snatched too soon. How hard it’s been alone with the girls, but how they have him wrapped around their fingers.
Yet you don’t realize one thing, because Suguru doesn’t show you yet.
You’ve got him under your spell, too.
Every time he grabs Boba for the girls, he grabs you one too, every time he gets some pretty little piece of jewelry they ask for, he makes sure to find something for you. Tiger’s eye, rose quartz, amethyst just like his eyes, wrapped in some expensive gold you know isn’t just casual.
Yet he doesn’t say it, not out loud, stopping himself every time he’d watch the girls hug you, so scared to ruin that for them.
Suguru’s not a perfect person, what if he messes up, what if you two end up done, and the girls suffer?
Yet how can he keep going on acting like he’s unbothered, like he doesn’t constantly think of you, intoxicated by your very presence, by the energy surrounding you just as much as he is your beauty, your humour, the determination as you pass by every day with your little herbs in your bag.
“Daddy, can we stay again for dinner!” Mimiko asks once things are complete almost in your kitchen – just a couple touch ups of paint to go.
“Well we don’t want to keep making-”
“Nonsense,” you bend down, hands on your knees as you get to eye level with the twins, smiling at each of them. “You all are welcome any time.”
Your eyes meet Suguru’s over the girls’ heads, smiling carefully, wondering if you should just stop trying. This isn’t some rom com, there’s no fix to your ‘curse’ truly, he may not have found a love yet, but he would.
You have to enjoy him while he’s here.
When Suguru eats with you all that night, he can hardly take his eyes off you, prompting Nanako to run up to you and whisper in your ear –
“That spell worked, dad is in love.” You laugh softly, entertaining her and whispering conspiratorily back.
“You and Mimiko are witches!"
She giggles with delight, and you feel his gaze, wondering just how long you have until he moves on, as the curse goes.
But that night as a kid keeps replaying in your head, picking those petals.
Amethyst eyes.
*****
“It’s all done,” Suguru says a couple of weeks later, nothing has happened since that night alone, when you two had been so close to kissing.
Was it the curse in action?
You panic a bit knowing he may not come over much anymore, plastering on a smile you don’t really feel. “It is all done! Suguru, how could I ever repay you, really? It’s all so beautiful…”
“No need to thank me, you’ve done so much for the girls,” he looks over to where they’re sleeping on your couch again, snuggled up all cute. “They love it here a little too much, huh?”
“I love them here too much,” you look up then, taking a breath for courage. “I love you all here too much.”
It’s quiet, then.
Suguru’s eyes lock on yours, wearing one of those thin little dresses and your big open sweater, he can see your nipples press up through that thin material, making him ache to suck them, to feel them. He’s barely able to keep his sanity, to keep his control anymore, so afraid to open up again…
That he may lose this chance, a chance at you.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, shaking your head and looking down at the sweet tea glass set on the table, condensation cooly dripping. The fan overhead does nothing to cool you down, neither does the sip of that golden iced tea, even if it’s cool outside – you’re burning up. “That’s too far.”
Suguru steps closer as you back a bit, into the kitchen, hidden in the darkness so that his shadow’s cast over yours along the wall. He cups your face carefully, like you’re special, like you’re so delicate, while his other hand grips a hip, his chest rising and falling with his nerves.
“I haven’t felt this in a long time… I haven’t ever felt this,” his words make you melt, your eyes blinking back tears while he gently speaks, his voice just a breathy whisper. “I want to break your ‘curse’ you think you have, okay?”
“The ‘never finding love’ curse?” He nods, smiling just a bit, you inhale his musky scent and let it fill your senses, his body heat seeping against yours.
Every breath, every movement, every look is special to him.
It’s you.
“But what if now that we… fall in love… you find your-”
Suguru kisses you quiet.
The first uninterrupted kiss from Suguru Geto was the sweetest thing you’ve ever had in your life.
It tastes of that sweet tea you’d brewed him, mixed with something distinctly Suguru. Like velvet against your tongue, your hands slipping up over his chest, slipping around his neck – fingers entwining in those silky locks. Your lips part, gasping as he slips his tongue in your mouth, slowly exploring the depths of it.
His kiss is slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world with you, not something that shocked you though, no, everything about that first kiss felt perfect, the warmth spreading through your body slowly, burning through your veins. The ache in your tummy was sweet and building, like the sugar on his lips from the drink, still just a little cool.
His hand comes to press on the small of your back, tugging you closer as Suguru loses himself in that moment, in this kiss. He’s moaning softly, pressing you against that table now, long fingers cupping your face while his head tilts, and the kiss gets hungry. You’re desperately arching, craving friction as his thigh presses up between your swollen folds, making your clit twitch as you start dripping.
He moans out softly, lifting you so quickly you gasp out, biting down on your lower lip to try to keep your noise down. His lidded eyes gaze down at you, your swollen lips and dilated pupils meeting his. “Should we slow down?”
“God no, I mean!?” He laughs softly, his hands slipping up the sides of your thighs and dimpling the skin under his touch, lips pressing over and over as you roll your hips, thighs now on either side of his. “Mmm, don’t slow down.”
“I’m not gonna stop if we keep going,” he whispers hoarsely, a hand behind you on that table, the cool wood pressed against your skin. “Been wanting you for too long.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” his lips press a hot trail down your neck, moaning softly against your neck, grinding you against his length underneath his jeans, watching your pretty eyes roll back. “Of course it’s you.”
Suguru’s kissing you again, sucking down your every bit of saliva like he’s thirsty for it, tongues dancing together with that deliberate slowness, his cock leaking and waiting to press up inside you, fill you. He’s aching to taste you everywhere, taste your sweet skin, your pretty cunt, the roundness of your breasts and those nipples pressing against his chest..
“This slutty little dress,” he murmurs then, shocking you for a moment at the change of tone. Your breath catches when he leans back, slipping the straps down your bare shoulders, the thin nylon flimsy as it falls. “You wear them to torture me, huh princess?”
“Princess,” you whisper softly, kissing him again when he lifts you in his arms like you’re nothing, walking you carefully towards your room, the door shutting behind you quietly, only for him to press you against it.
“Mhm…” He pulls back, holding you by your ass, your cunt dripping and needy. “Princess.”
“I’m more of a witch than a princess.”
Suguru chuckles and brushes your hair back ever so gently, leisurely, like he wants to savor every moment. Even as you arch and wriggle, craving his nearness, his touch, Suguru teases you with calloused fingers, rough from how he works with those hands across your skin. His fingers grip your hips, thumbs pressing your pelvis, your back against the door.
“A witch, hmm?” You giggle softly, looking up at him under your lashes, he lifts your dress up your hips now, slipping a finger inside your panties. “Well, little witch, you're just soaked."
“Mnh… you should know one thing about me,” you gasp as he laps his tongue against your neck, tracing the curve delicately. “Before we…”
“What is it?” You tremble as he presses you closer against him, carrying you over to your bed, unmade with so many pillows he has to shove them off, earning your soft breathy laugh. “Besides the fact you have a messy little room.”
“I didn’t know you’d be up here,” his lips trail across your collar bone, your hands entangle in his silky locks that are falling against your skin, caressing it while his fingers tug down your dress.
“Wearing the most easy little dresses to mess with me,” he slips it off in one motion, leaving you in just panties, exhaling when he sees your body. You should feel a little nervous but instead you’re arching for him, breasts begging for attention, as he studies you. “What do I need to know, hmm? Before I have you cumming so hard you fall apart for me?”
“Oh… mnh!” Suguru’s gripping those panties now, easing them down your trembling thighs, savoring every inch of your body with his darkened gaze. “Well… I may have made a love spell and… I think it was you.”
You expect him to laugh, but you’ve already woven so much magic in his life, he leans back, slipping off that soft sweater to show his body to you, those thick arms with bands tattooed around the biceps, flat brown nipples with those chest muscles pressing up. You suck in a breath when his gaze hits your cunt, watching it drip.
“You made a love spell, little witch?” He asks, stepping closer and undoing his belt, the clink echoing, opening it to reveal a hint of that dark patch of hair right above his cock. “What kind of spell?”
“I was young,” you sit up, a hand slipping down every rippling abdomen, hearing his soft moan in response as you trace every one, your hand tugging his zipper, looking up at him under his lashes. “Amethyst eyes. Dark hair. And a laugh, soft and deep. He’ll be loving and caring, want a family.”
Suguru halts then, his cock straining as you lower his boxers, he lets you watch it spring free, falling heavy and thick, leaking pretty pearly spurts. He sucks in a breath as you stroke him, leaning over and lapping some of it up with your tongue as he stands before you, hands entangling in your hair.
“A spell, I knew it,” he murmurs, while you wrap his tip with your lips and he tries not to bust then and there, moaning softly at the warmth of your mouth. “As addicted to you as I am.”
You pull back, saliva dripping down your lips now. “Addicted?”
His answer is pressing you down on that bed, hovering over you, big hands taking over every inch of your body. “You think I don’t notice every little thing you do? Hah…” he laughs softly, shaking his head, scooching you up your bed so that he can lay between your thighs, his body laying hot over you. “Show me a little spell then, let me see.”
“Yeah? You sure you won’t get spooked?” you raise a brow, he shakes his head. “I’m not the best witch but…”
You see flowers by your bed, the ones the girls had picked and brought over because he thought they were pretty. You lean up on your elbows, concentrating and moving your fingers, Suguru watches as you make them swirl up.
“Oh shit,” he watches in wonder, he’d had a feeling you were the one doing the leaves, but this just confirms it all, you let them fall gently, grinning over at him now. “You got impossibly sexier.”
You giggle but it’s cut off when he’s all over you, your bare cunt soaking his abdomen in need, making it slick. Suguru’s whispering your name mixed with – little witch – mouth trailing kisses down the valley between your breasts, mouth bolder, hands kneading the soft flesh of your tits. You arch and whimper out, just how good he feels, descending lower and lower.
Those raven tresses brush against your bare thighs, hand pressing on your tummy where there’s so much pressure, until he’s nestled his shoulders between your spread thighs, breath ghosting your clit. It jumps at attention when he parts your lips with two fingers, watching that drool just pool out of your little hole now.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, your thighs are shaking, breaths coming in little pants while your hands clench his shoulders – nails pressing into his skin. “Look at you.”
“Sugu what are – ah!” He’s pressed a filthy kiss right on your hood, tongue dipping in a tease just to gather some of that slick, you’re gripping his shoulders so hard they leave marks, body trembling underneath him in need.
“I’m gonna taste your pretty cunt,” he murmurs, cooing almost and smirking as he strokes your folds with his two fingers, the backs of them brushing up and down your slit. “See how many times you cum, but…”
He puts your hand on your mouth, and you nod.
“Stay a little quiet for me this time, but as soon as I have you alone? You’ll scream so much you can’t even talk.”
Fuck.
You’re soaking wet and hot when his fingers tease up that slit again, making you jerk with the touch, your free hand grips his hair, hips arching up. “Yeah, you want it princess? My mouth?”
“Please…” You whisper then, gasping and covering your mouth once more when he makes his first filthy lick, from your drooling hole to your teeny little clit, groaning out at your taste.
“Fuck, sweeter than anything,” he’s sinking two fingers inside you, and he curls them just right, while his tongue flicks that clit, making stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Fuck," you whimper right back, barely able to keep it down, biting on your lower lip and looking at the amethyst eyes you’ve dreamed of, already pussy drunk off a couple sips of your messy cunt. “Ngh…”
“S’tight, f-fuck…” Suguru’s losing his calm, lazy demeanor, pumping your cunt up and down with so much pressure you can’t take it. “That’s it, you’re taking them so well, even though it’s such a stretch.”
“Mhm!” Your answer is a jerky little nod, as you writhe underneath him, body covered in a thin sheen of sweat while he sucks your clit in his hot mouth, juices just pouring down his pretty face.
“Too tight,” he whispers, your cunt gripping his fingers like a vise, he eases the strokes, flicking his tongue up and down your clit over and over, pushing you over the brink, you cling to the blankets to try to stay stable.
“It’s… been a while,” you admit breathlessly, arching into his touch, hearing the embarrassing squelching of your cunt just echoing in your quiet room, his eyes lock with yours then, his fingers curling as he speaks – methodical, knowing just where to press inside you.
“For me too,” he admits, you’re surprised then, lips opening and closing like you just don’t know what to say. “You’re worth waiting for, would fucking drown in it, die just like this.”
“Sugu…” He pauses at the nickname, the affection tearing at his chest before he dives back down, lifting your ass up and dragging you even higher as his mouth descends, sealing over your clit with ruthless suction – slurping sounds obscene.
You’re slamming a hand down on your mouth, back arching, your tits bouncing as he watches you under dark lashes, mouth ruining you right with his thick fingers. Your cunt spasms around them as you’re closer and closer, and he can simply feel it, you don’t have to say the words.
Suguru knows you’re cumming.
He pulls back for a quick breath with strings of saliva and your arousal dripping between your cunt and his swollen mouth, eyeing you fucking hungrily while his cock presses against your matress, just aching for release. Suguru works you relentlessly, knowing every part of you like he’s the magical one, and you’re barely able to keep in any way quiet.
Your hips shift and move side to side so much he pins them, your thighs on his shoulders while his tongue moves in broad, flat strokes up your slit and then quick flicks on your clit, mixing with a sharp little nip of his teeth that makes your eyes roll back in your skull. Your toes curl and press into the soft blankets as that tension tightens in your tummy, pushing you right over the edge.
“Cum,” he orders softly, and how can’t you, when he adds his fingers back inside you – three now with one just barely inside at the fingertip, thickness just stretching you obscenely right along with his tongue relentless on your clit.
Of course you cum, of course you shatter.
You have to cling to him with one hand – nails pressing in and leaving crescent moons on his skin, as those fingers fuck you right with his tongue’s rhythm, your eyes shut as the release rocks you, and Suguru drinks it all up, lapping every squirt of arousal gushing as you scream into your palm.
It’s so hot, like the room is suddenly a humid summer afternoon, with the sweat dripping as it rushes through your veins. He presses every bit of that orgasm out of you, greedy and smirking when he finally pulls back just a bit, watching you twitch and whine out, your cunt still shooting up his forearm with those spasms.
“One,” you gasp out.
“One!?”
“Need more, so much fuckin’ more,” your eyes roll back once more as his mouth is lapping at your now messy, sloppy cunt. "Look at me."
The order, soft and lazy like his previous kisses makes you snap your eyes open quickly. Hair damp with sweat clings just a bit in strands to your brow, as he watches the little mess he’s made you, dying to fuck into you.
But he wants that first stroke for you to cum right around him, to milk his cock – he can’t wait to put so much cum deep inside you.
“Wanna see those pretty eyes when they roll back f'me,” he’s back down, fingers scissoring now past the point of overstimulation while his tongue keeps flicking faster and faster. “Mmm…”
He can’t help but almost cum just from your sweetness, like your cunt is just as magical as all of you, heady and addictive. His fingers and tongue along your already sensitive and swollen clit is too much, you barely remember to hold back your cries as your back arches off the bed, and Suguru Geto is drinking your squirting release like a man dying of thirst.
He finally lets go of his suction, seeing the weak and boneless mess he’s made of you and relishing in it, kisses just a little softer and easier now, his soft laugh making you jerk. “Need something, little witch?”
“Inside me,” you gasp out then, he languidly kisses your inner thighs, teasing and ghosting his breath and relishing in how you react. “Please, f-fuck…”
“Needy witch,” he leans up finally, face embarrassingly coated in you, arms on either side while his fingers ease out with a messy pop. He puts those fingers to his mouth, not wasting a single drop of your perfect cunt, as you watch him, lips parted, cunt spurting out even more as you eye his pretty, thick cock again. “Need my cock inside, three fingers not enough?”
Your answer is to yank at him, tugging him up your body, and kissing him deep and messy, not the ease he takes kissing you – no.
You’re frantic, desperate, never having felt anything like the pleasure he’s just brought you, tasting yourself on his tongue as he drools right in your mouth and moans out. His cock is heavy and hot against your inner thigh, decorating your skin in pretty little patterns, spurts of white trailing down as your fingers slip down his body.
You grip his cock in your little hand, earning his choked out breath, moving them up and down as he moans, losing control at the feeling of your fist. He lets you position it against your slick cunt, rubbing it up and down that messy slit that just echoes with every movement.
“Want me to cum inside you, huh?” He asks, husky and deep, his eyes gone black and narrowed lazily, while his fingers are digging into the meat of your hips. “I won’t leave that perfect little cunt once I’m in there.”
“I want it,” you say – even as you’re blushing in the dark. “Fuck me Sugu, please.”
Your little plea ruins him.
He lines himself up, kissing you again slow and gently, as he presses that thick head against your soaked hole – even so wet and ready it’s tight and gripping him so good he almost busts inside. He curses quietly, just holding there, no amount of jerking his cock to you prepared him for this, for the way your cunt grips him with that tight ring of muscles.
“Fuck you’re perfect,” he says hoarsely, and pushes in slowly, stretching you wide and deeper than even his thick fingers could ever manage. Suguru is thick, and far bigger than you’ve had.
You cry into his mouth and try to take him, feeling that fullness from just an inch or two, pretty blushed tip just leaking and pressing on that spongy spot in your walls. “Ah!”
“Shh, relax f’me,” he orders, as your legs are locking around his hips, trembling. “Relax, princess.”
“Witch,” you tease, managaing to laugh ever so softly, when he pulls back and smirks.
“Be a good witch,” he taunts softly – then he fills you completely, inch by thick inch buried inside your cunt so deep. “And take all of me. Can you?”
You nod even as you’re completely unsure, your cunt milking him instantly for all he’s got, as he pulls back and lifts your hips up, moaning at the sight of your tummy just bulging with him. “Fuck,” he groans out at the sight. “Look at us.”
You do just that, heating up at the sight and gasping out, watching it move when his cock just drags along your inner walls, the ones that spasm as hips snap forward sharply.
“Mnhh!”
“That’s it,” he murmurs as he bottoms out, grinding his hips so that he’s leaned back over you, hairs tickling and pressing your twitchy, oversensitive clit. You try to breathe, to take him, nails sinking into his well muscled back and scratching. “Can you take me really fucking you?”
“I can… I can…” He teases more, just rolling his hips, letting you adjust to his sheer massive size, smirking a bit as you wriggle – finally gasping out – “Move, please. W-want you to.”
“Anything for my pretty witch,” he whispers, as he pulls out slowly, dragging himself against your spot, making you whine at the loss before slamming back in hard. “Feel you takin’ me, s’good….”
“Ngh!” Your pornographic moan rips from your throat when he lifts your thighs, his dark hair falling across your breasts, eyes locking.
You take his breath away.
He takes your breath away.
There’s this moment, this perfect moment where your eyes meet, and everything that’s ever not made sense does.
His hands press up your thighs, leaning over you and giving you the sweetest kiss, as if he realizes it to.
Then…
“Gonna fuckin’ ruin you, princess, gonna be my little witch,” his words barely make it to your ringing ears when he begins to really move.
Suguru Geto is no longer lazy and teasing - no he’s fucking into you at a brutal pace, thrusts fast and hard and just filthy as you’re so wet it’s mesys, it’s damn near embarassing. Sliding in easier and easier with each push, balls slapping on your ass harder and harder, the smacking and squelching sounds mixing with your muffled little cries, his lips swallowing them as he folds you in half.
You’re whining out desperately into his lips, already close to shattering again underneath him, when he moans your name and pauses, biting your neck and letting your thighs fall to the side. “Turn over.”
You’re eager to obey, turning around and pressing your ass up in the air for him, pretty cunt already pushing out his milky cum, earning his desperate moan as he runs his fingers up and down your slit.
“That’s it, been fuckin’ dreamin’ about you,” Suguru says, all needy now as he grabs your hips, bringing your ass against him. “Use that pillow, you’re gonna need it like this.”
You take his hand and he obeys, shoving you into those pillows and beginning to fuck you from the back – so deep it’s painful, your cries muffled against the bed while his cock works, slamming inside of you and bruising your cervix. His leaky tip is just pouring spurts onto your cervix as he leans over you, prone position.
“Need to see your face,” he murmurs, studying you with his thumb slipped inside your mouth to keep you hushed. “Pretty little witch, gonna take all this cum?”
“Y-yes, yes - ngh!” He slams his mouth on yours to drink your cries, your orgasm wrecking you, blackness making you dizzy as he starts stuttering his hips, murmuring your name over and over.
“Take all of it, hah - can you?”
You’re nodding, biting down on his fist he offers as he slams into you one last time, burying himself against your snug cervix, hot white ropes just flooding you, hot and thick. You clench around him in response, pushing your own pleasure over the edge, both of you falling off it.
“S-Sugu…” You’re trembling, your cunt still milking every drop, you’re breathless, dizzy, when he collapses on top of you, still buried deep inside, his breath tickling your neck in hot little pants.
“Fuck…” He’s kissing across your shoulder, teeth nipping teasingly, hands roaming your body greedy, like he wants to remember every moment. “Good girl.”
You giggle and blush, as you both pant against each other’s skin. His lips find yours again in a slow, lazy kiss, tasting of sweat and sex.
“I mean good witch,” he murmurs against your mouth, he tugs you to him on your side now. Studying you as you both come down. “I actually believe you now.”
“I told you, but I'm like… diet witch? Witch lite?” He chuckles and shakes his head, your hand rests over his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath your palm. He's still embarrassingly sliding out of your hole slowly, dripping onto his thigh.
“I want to break your curse,” Suguru Geto says lovingly, holding you close against him while his hands move soothingly up and down your back. You look up at him, tremulously smiling, tears swimming and making your vision blur.
“You do?” You ask, leaning up to kiss that cleft on his chin, your own hands pressed on his chest.
“I do, your little spell more than worked,” you giggle, feeling blissful in his arms, sticky hot cum dripping down your thighs, you’re languid as he pulls you so close, feeling so safe and right with him. “Got me bad, too.”
“Mimiko and Nanako helped,” you admit, giggling again. “They did another spell for us.”
“I’m raising witches?” His brow rises and he observes your grin. “So I’ll have a family full of witches then?”
“Call it a coven,” you whisper, kissing his hand and taking it, pressing it against your chest. “You’ve already got a witch's heart.”
“Three witches with me wrapped around their fingers,” you’re crying then, he swipes a tear with his fingertips, studying you and sighing now. “I didn’t think I’d ever find…” He trails off.
“Love.” You finish, carefully, quietly.
He nods, swallowing nervously now, before pressing you on your back, hand sliding up the curvature of your frame achingly slow. You’re sore and throbbing from him, as he brushes your cunt again, feeling your cunt twitch around him and smirking now.
“I do love you, little witch,” he whispers against your ear, lips tickling the shell of it. “Fallen in love from your spell.”
“Well I summoned you,” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “I did!”
“I kind of believe you…” He leans up and tilts your chin with two fingers, tears slip from the corners of your eyes.
“I love you, Suguru Geto. I want you and them to stay… for as long as you ever want to.”
“Oh my pretty witch,” he leans up and presses against you again, cock coated in your entrance, it spasms – already fucked out and sore, but needy for more. “I’m never letting you go.”
As he enters you achingly slow, and you lose yourself under his heavy weight, you realize that curse wasn’t a curse at all.
You were just meant to wait for him –
for the boy with amethyst eyes.
I hope you all enjoyed thisss !!
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Synopsis. ‘G’ for Geto Suguru. ‘G’ for the hot ghost living in your all-new apartment. ‘G’ for the way he’s going to break your bed (and your back, too…)
Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, ghost!Geto, Lady K and the Sick Man AU, he’s feraI, oraI (fem rec.), spítting, chokíng, fíngering, stopping you from running, face-sítting, manhandIing, matíng presses, slight bréeding, rough s, making it fit, ínappropriate use of powers, pússydrúnk Geto, dúmbifícation, creampíes, cúmpIay, marathons, overstím, cúmfIation, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 8.0k
A/N. RUNNING to an apartment that has him-
You had a problem.
And it was all to do with that snug, slightly-shabby new apartment you’d just moved into. Sure, it was unverified but it wasn’t the worst - the water worked, and it was a fairly good price for a place this close to the city. A steal, practically.
You knew it was too good to be true.
You were laying on your half-constructed bed, body sore after a long day of lifting and unpacking. Your head sinks into the pillow with a sigh, more than done for the night. “M’never moving again.” And, blindly in the dark, you’re reaching your arm outwards.
Digging through the newly-installed bedside cabinet for - oh, you couldn’t help yourself - an impressive, hot-pink colored…toy.
You’re gulping as you flick on the switch, thighs clenching in anticipation - it really had been a long day. The thick vibratin’ tip just glides down the middle of your body like a pathway. Down, down, down—and that’s when you feel it.
Someone was watching.
Your heavy eyelids snap open (when did they even close?) And you’re casting a sweeping look around the humble room.
You couldn’t see much in this darkness, but then again nothing stood out of place.
And so you’re letting your vibrator go back to work, drawing sultry circles just with the tip by your navel. Again and again. So pent up. When it got too much, and you were just too drenched- you’re teasingly letting its length start to slip underneath your silky sleep shorts—
You feel it again.
Something that made icy goosebumps rise on every inch of your skin.
Someone was watching.
“Fuck- okay.” You’re immediately lurching to sit up on your bed, bouncing ever-so-slightly at the force. That baseball bat of yours for protection was downstairs, you think- but you could still throw a lamp if anyone was there. Maybe your vibrator (hah!)
And you instantly lean over for the lamp - not to throw it (yet), but rather to turn it on. “Who’s there? I swear on everything that if anyone’s there and I catch you are going to be- what the…”
You should have sworn.
You should have screamed.
Because as soon as the lights flood the walls of your bedroom, you’re not coming face-to-face with some masked, murderous intruder. At least, not in the way you might have expected - which, then again, you still couldn’t be sure.
Instead, you catch the pale, somewhat…other-worldly sight of a man dressed in all white.
Tall. Toned. His Stygian hair flowing over his shoulders and slightly over his face, reaching all the way till the tips tickled the floor. From what you could see of his features he was…handsome- delicate, pretty features, high cheekbones, and the most shapely lips all pink. The man smiles kindly, and through the gaps of his bangs you could tell that his eyes were upturned into happy half-moons.
Were you sure that some model or someone of the sort hadn’t accidentally ended up in your bedroom? And was he included in the rent?
This stranger wore a flowy kimono with the right side wrapped over the left. And even in such a drab thing, he looked ethereal.
There was a strange glow about him.
He almost looked like a…a ghost.
And he was standing in your empty closet.
“Wh-what the-” You’re gaping, your mouth opening and closing a few times before you manage to blink yourself back into cognition (and to sanity). The realization: there was a strange man in your closet and yes, no matter how pretty he was, he’s still a strange man in your closet.
Without thinking, you’re reeling your hand back in a forceful throw. Hurtling. “-fuck!”
Your glitzy vibrator hits the back of your closet dead-on, it was a perfect throw.
And yet, it still didn’t hit the man.
Instead, it passed right through him.
Your veins grow cold as you wipe your eyes with your fists - he wasn’t there anymore. Urgently, you get off the bed and look around your room - he wasn’t there anymore.
Aw, great. He really was a ghost—so there was a reason this place was so damn cheap.
There was no way he could have sprinted from the confines of your closet to the doorway and out without you seeing him. So there was nothing to do but step towards the origin of this entire mess in the first place: the closet.
You cautiously step towards it, your footsteps echoing almost as loud as your heartbeat. As you reach the dark line in the tatami that marked the start of the closet, you begrudgingly can’t find anything amiss. Looking in every corner, on every empty shelf.
Looking upwards—
Ah.
A trapdoor.
A tiny square of a door that was cut out into the ceiling of the closet. You guessed that this led up to some sort of attic (the move had really been hasty, okay), and you tip-toe to brush your fingertips against the high ceiling.
Though, even if you did find him there, what could you even do? How does one even co-exist with a ghost-
Your toes knocked against the fallen vibrator.
And suddenly you have an idea.
You push open the wooden trap door with a creak, managing to peak your head up. And there, sure as day, was the crouched figure of the man. His lifeless face devoid of expression. Eyes wide. He spied down at you in silence as you pull yourself slightly into the attic space. Slightly crawling back a few inches.
He smiled that cute, crescent-eyed smile once more.
Without hesitation, you reach your hands out- and to your surprise, your palms meet solid flesh. Cold. But solid. You’re cupping his face and edging him closer to you. Grinning, “Hey there.”
The next second, your lips are on his.
And this man - this ghost - groans out in ecstacy. Melting into it. You swear you could feel the surface of his skin where your thumbs rested start to scorch with a red-hot blush. His bangs tickle your face as he tilts his head to the side and starts pressing in even deeper.
Until you have to pull away with a gasp and a slick line of spittle that still connects him to you. Something he’s shortening the distance of as he chases after your now-swollen lips with a whine.
“M-more-” He croaks out from the back of his throat, thick and wet with need.
To which you raise an amused brow, “Well, I’d like to know your name first, Mr. Ghost-”
“Geto Suguru.” Geto then starts closing the gap. Puckered, pink lips ravenous for yours. Just the slight edge of his fangs grazes your bottom lip as he starts gnawing down.
But you weren’t done just yet. “And then also I wanted to know what it’s like being a ghost? Any habits? Any dislikes?” You probe, expectant of his answer- but he only looks down at you with half-drunk eyes. Focused on only one thing. “If we’re going to co-exist then I think it’s better if we- mmpf.”
And that one thing was to kiss you silly.
He’s pryin’ your lips apart with his textured tongue, slithering inside so he can stick it into every ridge and orifice. Geto kisses you like a man wishing to quench his thirst after eons of going without. Hot and open-mouthed.
His sloppy kisses end up with a thin line of drool sliding down the edge of your lips and he grunts as he registers it. Dark lashes fluttering ever-so-slightly, “More.”
“Like- like this?” You’re panting by now.
You’re slightly dizzy from all the kissing, flapping your hazy lids a few times and realizing that you were now pressed up against the closet wall. How did you even get there?
Fuck, you had no idea. Right now, the only thing that mattered was Geto’s firm abs pressing through the cottony fabric of his kimono and onto your front. His ice-cold heat. His mouth pushing against yours over and over and over- he didn’t need to breathe.
And yet he was gasping into your mouth with every lecherous suck on your tongue, like his favorite candy. His favorite taste. “More.”
Oh.
What have you unleashed?
Your mouth parts in slight shock and he’s taking the opportunity to kiss you even harder. Until his plump, plush lips were on the verge of bruising and yet Geto didn’t even seem to notice.
Only briefly breaking off the Earth-shattering kiss to look you deep in the eyes. One of his pale, slender hands comes up beside your face and you stare at it in confusion. Still confused as he then clicks!
And suddenly you’re on the bed once again.
“Wh-what the-” You feel like you’ve been saying that non-stop tonight - but could anyone blame you? You’re looking around, your eyes taking their time to adjust to the abrupt change in setting. “You can do that?”
Geto only smiles a sly smile, something knowing. And he has the audacity to shrug.
Before his lips attack yours.
Again. Though, this time his hands are firmly caressing the sides of your body. Gliding down every dip and curve until he’s resting his fingertips against the elastic hem of your shorts.
Geto gives it a slight tug, before you’re pulling away.
“Ah ah-” You’re making a noise of warning over his disappointed huff. Geto narrowed eyes (were they amethyst colored? Oh, they were gorgeous) seem to light up as you then fiddle with the ties of his robe, “You first.”
Gladly.
Geto shoulders away the fabric of his kimono until you could make out his toned upper half. His chiselled chest. Pecs. The ladder-like ridges of his abs lining down his stomach- which is all the greedy glimpse you can take in before he’s then rip-rip-riiiipping off your shirt.
Buttons bursting everywhere as he throws it over his shoulder.
Your shorts are next. Though Geto takes his sensual time slipping them off- shuffling himself down as well. His pinkish tongue comes out to lick his lips as he watches a few stringy wads of your slick stick to the front of the shorts.
Oh, you were just so wet.
It was almost embarrassing. And as the smirk on his mouth grows, you find yourself puffing. “Don’t- don’t get cocky about it.” Attempting to close your legs just to stop the pure intensity of his stare and-
“Don’t.”
And perhaps it’s the startling divergence of him saying something else, perhaps it the sheer carnal need that seeps into just the tone of that one word - but you’re frozen as Geto then uses his palms to smear your sheeny thighs out until you whine at the stretch.
Taking just one second, maybe two, to admire the splosh of syrupy slick that runs between your pussylips. So thick and swollen with need that Geto gulps before he’s immediately surging his face between them.
Pushing in nose-deep.
He doesn’t hesitate for even a second. He doesn’t even breathe before sticking the fat, padded edge of his tongue on your sensitive folds.
Plastering. Gluing.
Geto’s fucking his prolonged tongue into you like such an animal- husking out moans at the back of his throat at he way your flooded entrance was just too tight to take all of his tongue in one go.
You’re whining as he pushes and pushes his honed, swabbin’ tip against the circular outer rim. Trying to stretch it out even further with the extreme girth of his tongue - he was just so thick. So big. “Oh- fuck, fuck. Calm down, Geto-”
“Suguru.” Geto practically jolts at the electricity of you saying his name.
“S-Suguru—” You squeal, your thighs shaking so much when he sticks his pointed chin to the bottom of your pussy. Just letting his head move in rovering motions and half-thrusts to bully inside. “You’re acting like you’ve been starving for ages, hah.”
And at that Geto lurches himself upright ever-so-slightly.
Syrupy juices drip down the lower half of his face and splatter back down onto your pussy. Glistening all the way down his jawline and up his cheekbones like a gloss.
“Oh, gorgeous…” And then he smiles. Something crazed in his eyes. “I haven’t tasted anything this sweet in life or death.”
Your chin drops to meet your chest, “Oh- wait, how old are you?”
“Oh, honey, you don’t expect me to count right now?”
And he was addicted already.
Properly spitting a wadded knot of saliva down, it strikes the front of your pussy harshly. To which Geto immediately followed up with a lingering few kisses, gluing his upper lip right near where your clit was.
Swollen and needy. And Geto’s just as ravenous as he tug n’ tugs your pussylips aside to fit inside his tongue.
“Never have.” One of his forearms comes up to rest against the inside of your left thigh. You’re trickling out in wires of slick as he runs one of his fat thumbs between your dripping wet crevice. Pushin’ just down on your perky nub like a button, “Never will- fuck, this pretty pussy’s all mine now. Y’know ghosts haunt for life?”
“N-ngh, oh my god…” Your mouth hangs ajar. Hips arching off of the slowly-dampening blankets to further push his pretty face into your pussy. “Y-you’re talking so much now, ngh.”
“Oh.” Like he didn’t even register that. And Geto clouds out a murky breath that heats up your core even more. Just so many sensations that already send zaps of pleasure skittering up your spine - it makes your cunt gush out in a waterfall of even more sap that Geto leans over to lap at.
Tongue fully flopping out, licking and licking every polished inch of you so that none of it goes to waste. You’d soaked yourself even wetter, and he was stopping mid-sentence just to taste you. Only after he’s done does he murmur. “Oh I’m…”
“Hm?”
“Drunk.” Oh. Geto’s knobbly thumb rolls over the tip-top of your clit in slow hearts, making your eyes swirl comically inside the whites of your eyes. “Fuck, always was a talkative- hah, drunk. You’ve got me pussydrunk, gorgeous.”
You admit, “I like it.”
His dark brows raise, the ends of his mouth twisting upwards into something mean. You should’ve known there was an inkling of darkness behind that sweet smile of his.
“Well, you’re going to like this a lot more.”
And then he’s not just teasing, he’s not waiting ‘round to stretch out your pussy’s entrance so that you can take him easily. No, the very tip of Geto’s tongue sticks inside your cunt and then shoves all the way through.
In quick, sloppy half-thrusts.
He’s probing and probing his flexible muscle into the most tender spots against your walls, just swirlin’ them around before each jackhammer so that he can reach every tiny cranny. And they were so thick, too, such a generous girth that stretched out your glossy walls as they should. “Oh, mmm, oh my god- fuck. Just like that, Suguru.”
“Mmm—” But he wasn’t doing it just like that. In fact, he was folding apart your puffy pussylips with the tip of his nose.
Letting it graze lightly against the front of your clit, only further putting pressure on your favorite nub. Hands and face. “More.” A particularly hard squeeze of your clit leaves you bucking wildly, your limbs shaking like a leaf. “More.”
“I’m t-trying—” You sob out, your hamstrings starting to ache with how much harder he was trying to pull your hips into him.
Grind after grind of your glistening, stimulated folds dragging down his features.
Geto rolls his murky irises and latches his free hand onto the side of your waist, “Tch-” He uses that leverage to guide your hips to form filthy figure-eights, openin’ you up just so he can plaster his hot mouth even further. “Try harder, honey. Harder. I don’t have to…heh, I don’t have to breathe, y’know?”
Your mouth drops into a little ‘oh!’ as he then starts to sink in his middle finger inside your wet pussy.
You were just so hot n’ velvety around him, it felt like he was being crushed in from all sides by a slice of fucking heaven.
Shit. It should be illegal to feel like this.
Dazedly, he’s letting another plumpened digit (his ring finger, this time) scrape against the squeezing edges of your walls. Two of his fingertips almost fighting against his mouth for purchase of your honeyed cunt, pushing and pushing.
“Sh-shit, your fingers are so long-” You’re wailing out, your hands somehow weaving through the sweaty valleys of his locks. And even that only seemed to be used to drag you down even deeper. Even harder against his face.
Something that Geto loves - if the way he fucking smiles against your core told you anything. The toying tip of his tongue pulls out and clings to the outside of your folds now, and he slowly slithers it up to circle on top of your clit. Everywhere. “Oh yeah, c’mon, gorgeous. Like that. Haaaaaarder.”
“T-trying to-”
“And try harder.” There was something stirring in the way that Geto said those words - something dark, something almost predatory. It was a tone that you already knew wouldn’t bode well for you or your poor, puckered pussy.
And before you know it, Geto has one of his hands in the air once again.
Smirking as he watches the exact moment your eyes bulge at the sight, lips dropping onto an ‘o’ of recognition. He hums, “Like- this-” And then he snaps his fingers once.
The next time you’re blinking, you’re the one on top.
Your eyes level with the splintering wooden headboard, your legs wobbly where they straddled his handsome face. Geto Suguru had all the teleportation powers in the world and he’d chosen to use it n’ have you seated on his face.
Splayed out on the bed. His mouth chasing your other pair of lips.
Riding your sloppy cunt down his mouth in rapid, little ruts. “O-oh my god, you’re just- just-” You can’t find the words, especially with your mind all muddied like this. Losing your train of thought any time his rovering tongue was licking upwards.
Geto feels you start to hover your hips upwards, not wanting to put his full weight on him. And with his brows furrowed, the man only locks his arms around your waist and pulls you to sit on him. Properly. “-f-filthy! Fuck!”
“Don’t insult me by fucking hovering, gorgeous.” He warns you. Three of his roughened fingerpads now pryin’ apart your pussylips. Before you know it, he’s gyrating them upwards in vulgar strokes, “Who do you even- hah, think you are? Just- fucking- sit-”
You’re already seated on top of him, and he’s using his inhuman strength to pressure your pussy against his mouth even more. Still.
Just truly jackhammering away all the pretty spots inside your walls as he does so. Pinpointing every bundle of nerves. Geto’s extended middle finger grazes almost near the splotchy area of your g-spot and you moan. “There- just a little closer, Suguru, ngh.”
“Oh yeah? There?” His fingertips maze in that very direction, but this time they’re missing the place completely. And Geto snickers as you shake your head whinily, “Then, maybe I can’t reach it?”
“But-”
“Maybe you just hafta ride my face for it.”
Oh.
He was just playing with you. Driving you wild with the thrashing drags of his tongue up n’ down your slit. You could feel every sizzling ridge of his tastebuds, they mold against the throbbing nub of your clit and leaves you reeling.
Once again, Geto pokes his slick-glazed fingers up right near your g-spot and forces your babbling answer out of you. “C’mon, I’m a gentleman. Sit on my face.”
“F-fine—fuck!” You hiccup through your tears.
Holding onto the silken strands of hair, you grind your hips down harder. Feeling this, Geto’s mouth drops all the way till his limits- wider, deeper, opening up to stick his fingers into your hidden nooks n’ crannies. “Just like that- oh, just like that. Open up wiiiide f’me, please.”
“Don’t stop- feels so good like this.” Your entire body shakes when he bangs a fourth fingertip against the rim of your hole a few times before fitting that in, too.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, honey.” Geto purrs. This new angle made your sultry pussy let off the most filthy, dampened slurps every time he thrusted his fingers back and forth. Tongue swipin’ up any cobweb of slick that hung out of your hole and dripped down his wrist.
Any and every splash of your juices, he’s lavishing it up.
You swear you can hear Geto finally strike your g-spot and gulp at the mess it creates. Your toes curled. Head thrown backwards.
You’re spraying out your sweetened slick like a fountain - one that he’s got his mouth opened wide for. Partially-closed eyes locked with yours when he lets it all pool at the back of his throat and swallows.
Fingers thrusting primally inside of you, “Now I- fuck.” His voice was husky, any coherence in them positively shattered. “And now I need you to, ngh, cream all on my tongue, gorgeous. Okay? Yeah? Can this cute human body do that f’me?”
Stupidly, you’re nodding. Body moving before your mind. “Mhm—yes, ngh.”
“Heh, because a dinner isn’t complete without dessert, is it?”
“Yes- yes yes yes, please.”
You just look so pretty whimperin’ and trembling on top of him like this. Your weight presses against Geto’s lower half and he’s moving you feverishly. Swabbin’ the plush fingertips of his digits, he fucks them up into your g-spot and watches as your whole body loosens.
Slouching on top of him, slurping up his every probe.
His mouth upturns into a smile as he suckles on your clit last, “Mhmm—so cum.” He jostles your body around like a ragdoll, as if you weighed nothing. “Ride my face now- and cum- fuck. Use me and cum.”
“Gonna–” Drool seeps from your mouth and down your chin. “Sh-shit I think m’so close.”
“Yeah? Better cream all down my- hngh, tongue, gorgeous.” Geto’s nose crinkles as he feels your movements get sloppy. You could barely control yourself, your head way too dizzy to focus on anything but his roverin’ fingers, sticking against your g-spot in harsh cadence. “Yeah- all down my tongue. Use me-” He bucks his own gluttonous mouth forwards, “Use me use me use me- fuck!”
You’re clenching around his thick fingers so hard that it’s almost hard to slam back in.
“C-cum f’me, honey.”
Within only a few sultry seconds, you’re toppling over into your high.
So hard that you shut your eyes and they still flash white behind your lids. You claw onto Geto’s clammy scalp and push your hips- “Cum—ing, mm.” Your pulse throbs aggressively at both your temple and between your legs. And your lips flap wildly with shrills, “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, it just feels so g-good, Suguru. Never felt like- hck! this before.”
“Heh, aw my poor girl. My poor, poor gorgeous girl.” Geto cooes, though you could discern the amusement in his voice. He smacks his lips on top of your clit, sucking through every peak of your high. So accurate it was almost as if he could see them.
Spearheading your treacly entrance through each wave of bliss.
You swear you’re seeing stars once he surges his head even closer and then decides to bite down on that cute nub. “Don’t you worry now. Ghosts have endless stamina, didn’t you know?”
“Th-they do?” Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull - you didn’t expect that. But he’s proving it to you exactly. Slapping his fingers up against the gooey roof of your pussy even after your high is nothing more than a few tingles. “But what if I can’t last-”
“Of course, you will.”
“What if I can’t cum aga-”
“Of course, you will.” Geto was firm on that one. And he was still makin’ out with your pussy as if he was going to prove it to you. Even after most of your orgasm has bated. Even after it was nothing but a few twinges of pleasure bubbling in your veins.
Even after you were so overstimulated that it brought tears to your eyes- Geto takes his own sensual, slow time licking away the last few dewdrops of slick from your cunt. Humming in satisfaction only once he’s finally polished you off completely, “And we have alllll night.”
Geto doesn’t snap his fingers a second time - too pussydrunk to.
But he’s still flipping you over, the soft fabric of his kimono falling down his shoulders and revealing a few slivers of his milky, toned hips. His kimono covered practically nothing. Practically all-exposed. Him on his meaty knees, you facing him. The perfect viewpoint. All Geto has to do is move his wrapped robes aside- and suddenly you’re face-to-face with the largest, hardest cock you’ve ever seen in your entire life.
And so pretty, too.
He had a thick bulging tip that was blushed a delicate red, scorched in a gradient all the way down to his neat base. Some sparse, curly hairs of black. Your mouth waters as you take in the creamy wad of precum that beads out of his reddened tip, and drips all down.
And his size—oh.
You can’t help it- you’re leaning yourself closer n’ plopping your mouth wetly on top of his flared mushroom head. He tastes salty and of something sweet, almost like honey.
Groaning at the taste, you shiver as Geto hunches over at the feeling of your mouth. His sculptured back flexing, he crouches over to kiss down your arched spine.
Humming, “Sh-shit, dunno what’s sweeter- this mouth or that pretty pussy, hngh.” He grits his teeth.
You whine into his length when you start to bob your head, throat letting off primal gulps every time Geto’s vein-covered shaft slides down your tongue and targets your throat. He was just so hard that you flinched every time he pulsed, eyes fluttering shut.
“Aww, what’s the matter?” Geto coos down, his rough palm resting on the back of your neck. Meanly, Geto pushes you down and giggles when you choke. “Too big for you, honey?”
“M-mmmpf-” You’re managing out.
And he nods like he understands, “Mhm, don’t worry, gorgeous.” And then with a final buck, like a teaser, he cups your lolling head and pulls you off. The action lets out the most carnal squelch- “I’ll make it fit.”
Click!
You’re on your back. Your head placed softly against the pillows, your legs thrown over his shoulders.
Geto shoots you the most devilish grin as he holds onto both your thighs and folds you all the way in half. Like a lawnchair underneath him - with your heels against his muscular back, your foreheads touching.
Into a mating press.
With one hand letting off, he holds onto his bulky hilt and smack-smack-smacks his pink, globular tip between your pussylips. Groaning, “So you better- haaaah, take a deeeeep breath now.”
Your brows slightly knit, “Why do I need to- oh, fuck!” You’re gasping. Heaving. Crying out in lewd trills to which Geto cuts you off by smearing his mouth against yours in a filthy, filthy kiss.
You’re moaning as he fills you up without even trying.
Just the plump, fleshy tip of his cock probing inwards. It stretches out your geysering hole so widely- the smooth lines of his cockhead, and that sensitive line of his slit that massages your walls so sinfully.
You’re still slightly overwhelmed by your high, and every texture fitted inside of you made your eyes roll to the back of your head.
A few veins ran down the middle of Geto’s cock, slightly redder than the rest of his shaft. And they flinched inside your cunt once he started easing his way in, “Shit- shit, you’re just so big- ngh. Fuck I don’t know if I can–”
“You will.” Sternly, Geto’s kissing you again. Shutting up your silly words, he’s sighing as his massive tip finally swabs its way inside with a wettened plop! “Ghosts never break promises- mm, I never break promises.” Staring dead-on into your hazy peripherals. Voice run ragged. “M’gonna make it fit.”
“Fuck—fuck, it’s so much.”
He wasn’t even thrusting - half-rutting, knees spread, bucking wildly like an animal.
Geto had gotten one cloying taste of your pussy wrapped ‘round his cock and he was suddenly addicted. Suddenly forgetting any and every method of rolling his hips, and instead simply holding onto you and bullying his fat cock inside.
Both of his hands lace over your scalp, and every time one of his hammering pushes left you reeling- Geto was there to drag you back into his hips again. “What did I say? Hah, what did I say?”
He looks downwards, his jet-black hair falling around the two of you like some silky curtain. You follow his line of sight and come across the most lecherous scene: with your sheeny pussylips all glossed and glittering with slick, dripping all over every time he was nudging his swollen inches inside.
Bit by bit.
Using the restraint he had on you to shove—“M’gonna make it fit- gonna, hah.”
“H-how is it all even fitting, Suguru?” You whine out, your mouth gaped. Geto was a streamlined size near the end of his shaft; but the deeper you took him in, the thicker he became. The more his proud circumference dragged along your walls and stretched you out.
His zig-zagged veins drove you crazy, and you grappled your fingers onto his sculptured deltoids.
Geto registers your words, and one of his hands lifts off of your head and down onto your front. He pushes down so hard that your breath hitches, feeling for himself as he fucks his size inside. “Oh, honey, you really wanna know?” Something devilish sparkled in his darkened eyes. “You really, really wanna know?”
“Y-yes?” You’re questioning, not entirely sure what you were in store for.
And it turns out- the surface of Geto’s palm, where it was in tactile contact with your stomach, started to glow. Some part of it seeming almost…transluscent as he then glides his hand up n’down. Almost as if he was caressing.
As if he could see exactly where the fat, bludgeoning tip of his shaft ended.
“See here? Here.” Then he’s drawing an invisible line somewhere about midway down your front. Leaning in even closer, “Here’s where I am.” Those glowing fingertips of his move further upwards, dangerously upwards. “And here’s where m’ngh- going to be.”
You balk as that calloused tip of his digits goes up, up, up.
All the way up to your throat- “And here’s where m’gonna be reaching for.”
Oh.
And then he’s fucking you exactly like it. His round, globular tip bulging against the sides of your tight channel- again and again and again. Geto’s hefty thighs slam into the backs of yours with stinging smacks, shovelling his hips ruthlessly.
“And don’t you worry, gorgeous–” He’s whispering out against your ajar mouth, a slight line of drool starting to fall from the edge of your lips at the pressure. “I’m gonna reach there, gonna do it a-all.”
Clammy palm pushing down even harder.
“You can feel it, can’t you?”
“Yes- yes!” Fuck, it genuinely did feel as though he was probin’ his crowned tip against your very lungs. Bruising in a wide circular bruise, Geto snaps his hips further forwards and you feel your back arch. “Can feel you a-all the way in, ngh, here.”
“Awww, there?” Geto chuckles down at the cute way you were clutching onto somewhere ‘round your stomach. Somewhere ‘round your cervix. Feeling him go in even deeper than his jackhammers were going.
The spanking impact of his hips only growing more vicious- he rovers his free hand onto your throat and uses that to keep your restless body still. The perfect target for him to aim his vulgar thrusts, “Then you better allow me to- hah, give it to you there.”
“Yes- yes yes-” Your flooded pussy swallows him up readily with a sluuuuurp, and you feel him ultimately bottom out by your cervix.
“Come on then-” He’s spitting. He’s seething. “-fuck me harder. Fuck back into me.”
The goopy end of your cunt gets punished with a thorough slam of his blushin’ red cockhead. And despite stretching you out to your maximum already, Geto forces his weight down even further. Like he wanted his lengthy shaft to spearhead even deeper-
“Look at youuuu—” He’s crooning out, his breathy gasp botched with a few hitches now. You just felt so fucking—oh, he couldn’t even put it into words. “Look at you all t-taking it. Fuck back further into me and oh, we are going to have a ngh- niiiiice co-habitation, gorgeous.” Couldn’t even put it into feeling.
The only thing that Geto can do is squelch back his merciless hips. Carnally letting reach winding vein outline the inside of your cunt- and then he’s thoroughly jutting back in.
Hitting the back of your pussy. Swabbing his slick, drivelling tip into every crevice inside.
He’s smoothing out the ridges of your cunt on his veiny length again. And again. And again and again and again so many times that the spongy area of your cervix starts feeling raw. You stutter out a few sobs, “Oh my g-god, hnghhh—I don’t know if I’d be able to t-take it like this every day in that case.”
“You don’t know?” Geto’s face falls into a faux-pout. And then you’re gasping at the feeling of his frigid thumb gliding across your stomach, his powers fully activated. “Fuck back into me a little-” As you jostle yourself forwards. “Heh, a little more.”
You grab onto him for anchorage, “I’m t-trying.”
“Mhm, trying and I haven’t even shown you the, mmm, half of it.”
Your eyes widen, “What’s the half of it?”
“Well one half is kissin’ that cute little cervix of yours.” He’s smiling, hunching his shoulders forwards so that his pre-glazed tip was fully glued to your cervix. Drawing out little vertical lines every time he drills inside, “Feel that? Fuck- feel me in there, honey?”
“I d-do…”
“And then the other half- or, well, other part is to find that pretty g-spot inside here.” Swirlin’ the slicked end of his cock all around.
Geto’s using it almost like a spotlight, stirring it against the most delicate places on your walls. With each of his hammering thuds, he manages to probe his cockhead even closer to your g-spot. Right where he’d mapped it out before - and right where his ghoulish eyes could see.
With it, he could pinpoint that exact location of your sweetest, most favorite spot.
“And it can be fooooound…” Geto himself was starting to slobber out from the side of his mouth at this point, like every push of his sensitive length only left him more and more pussydrunk. “Riiiight…”
With every longing drag of his words, he accelerates his cadence.
And it was just the right tempo to make your pupils circle comically, your thighs twitching where they lay across his shoulders. You gasp for air once his fingers press, in—“S-Sugu, it feels like you’re reaching straight for my- fuck!”
He is.
A plump, plush smooch of his mushroomy tip straight into your g-spot.
Geto strikes his cock against that particularly treasured area so hard that you’re seeing stars. “Yeeees?” Driving into you like such a madman, such incredible strokes that leave you speechless. “Reaching straight for your-” Palm leaving indents where he pushed, where his nails clawed. “-what, gorgeous girl?”
“My- my- fuck.” Your throat clogged up with so many sobs and hitches. And you’re sure that by now you’d barely even be able to spell out your own name let alone-
“Can’t spell out your name, hm?” He tilts his head to the side, teasingly looking at you through the gaps of his shaggy black bangs. “Do you even know your name right now?”
You gasp, “Well…”
And at that even Geto himself seems slightly taken aback. You were that fucked stupid?
With one hand on your throat, the other then snakes down to the gooey in-betweens of your thighs. Swipin’ over your plump clit with his thumb, “Awww, that’s alright. Heh, let this ol’ ghost here do allll the work. And you just worry about that last- hck! part of it.”
“I—oh.” The rough fringe of his thumb outlines a few hearts on top of your nub for a few seconds. Before he’s suddenly drawing hearts- and his foggy pupils were shaped just the same.
Heart-eyed.
As you feel the molten bliss start to build up in the pit of your stomach, you strangle out. Slightly mesmerized by the way he was just so ruined. “And what is that, hngh, last part of it, Sugu?”
“Oh, well, y’know…” He casually looks down between your legs. The gooey splashes of slick n’ precum that kept on pouring out. It’s a sight that makes him smile. Geto sweetly kisses your lips, “The next part would be to cum inside.”
“C-can a ghost even cum inside?” You’re wondering out loud, now thoroughly gone on his large, plummeting shaft.
“Oh, honey-” Geto croons, “-you’re about to find out.”
And it’s with a few more sloppy thrusts, just a few more twists of his ravenous fingers- he’s toying with you, driving you wild until you’re finally crashing into your nth high of the night. Because it’s not just one orgasm - over and over, your entire body is being pounded by repeated waves of bliss.
Your clawed hand on his shoulder falls off, and Geto uses one of his to bring it back up to his mouth. He kisses the back of your hand softly as he cums deep inside your womb.
“Ohhhh, god.” Geto throws his head back, silky hair flying. Before he fights against the reflex- his urge to stare down at your pretty face was even stronger.
With one hand pushing up his curtain bangs, and the other pressing down on your cum-inflated stomach. Geto chuckles as he feels you drip down both your legs and his, a shiny coating of ivory white. “Oh fucking hell, I’d die another thousand times just to see a sight like this- fuck.”
“I f-feel so full.” You can barely gurgle out. Your voice feeling all thick at the sensation of his clingy wads of cum being pumped into you.
He’s cumming and cumming- and you swear that one of the lights on the other end of your hallway burst. Each of your skins covering with a layer of supernatural power.
Geto pushes and pushes each sappy layer of it inside with his crowned shaft, the bulbous end of it plugging up your every orifice with the thick knots of his seed. You can feel it splosh all about you, your legs thrashing on top of his shoulders as yet another thrust of his leaves your walls all raw. All overstimulated.
A thickened few drops of it slip from between your pussylips and drench his fat base. To which he’s swiping a finger around and coating it in the glittery moisture, sucking on it. “Mmm–” Geto savors the taste. “So you remember what I said about a ghost’s stamina, gorgeous?”
You were still shaking with the aftershocks of your high, and your ringing eardrums could barely believe what they were hearing.
But he leans in, emphasizing.
“And by that, I mean more.”
.
.
.
“Oh fuh-fuck…” You’re hiccuping out from the back of your throat. Barely able to even hold your head up, you rest it on Geto’s prominent collarbones, your spittle splashing out in waves.
Something that he’s staring down at with a chuckle, and swabbin’ the plump end of his thumb between your drooling lips. Pushin’ all those wads back, “Haaah, what’ve I said about keeping it- ngh, inside? Both those pretty lips of yours are the same, gorgeous.”
You’re whimpering at this tutted statement - what else could he expect?
After your first round there’d been the second, the third, then the fourth- then the fifth where your high was nothing but a few oversensitive tingles that left you crying. And yet, Geto still had the stamina for a sixth.
Even when his thick, bludgeoning cock was all red n’ raw. Even when he was swollen with need. Even when his precum was webbing out in milky ribbons like cum, and he couldn’t even control himself by now - he was still going.
One hand plastered on the side of your hips to help you ride him silly, the other cupping your face. Geto softly kisses your ajar mouth, before he then spits.
Thick and splattered on the side of your lips, Geto moves his hand down from your face to your neck then. Using it to help your overworked hips slide even faster down his cock, you twitch at the feeling of each vein scrapin’ your poor insides. “C’mon, cooooome on. I told ya what to expect with a- hah, ghost, honey. Didn’t I?”
“You’re no ghost- I think you’re some beast.” You whine out tearily. In response, he snakes the hand at your hips down. Latching on instead to your clit, and he bears no regrets simply puuuuulling.
He purrs, “What was that, honey?”
Your body is trembling on top of him. All wobbly, you angle the splotched area of your g-spot to meet his mushroom tip. Over and over. “I said you- you are a- fuck.”
“Mhmmm—?”
And by now you’re fully dumbified.
You should have known better than to think that Geto Suguru would go easy on you. In fact, he was only wildly thrashin’ his tip against your cervix harder, it draws with the creamy streaks of cum left before. And if you were any less ruined, then you might not have noticed the way that his supernatural eyes narrow down at your front. At the way he simply stares.
“Hmmm, can’t tell if it’s taken yet~” He muses, out loud. Head tilted, and with it so was the inky curtain of his hair. “But it hasn’t…not taken, heh.”
“Fuck- any chances that power of yours can tell when- hngh, when you’re showing any signs of stopping?” You’re huffing out, and he quickly gives a rude spank against the doorway to your womb to make you shut up.
Shaking his head seriously, “Ohhhh, honey.” Geto then lifts his hand off of your throat and drifts it downwards, letting the waterfall of sap drench his thumb. Before he plugs it inside your mouth, making you suck on it like some lolly. “You’d be lucky if either of us made it out of this alive.”
Oh.
You sure would be lucky.
Because within only a split-second, he’s slouching back sexily. Further against the pillows so that he could drill his hips up into you- your cute bounces n’ figure-eights just weren’t enough. Geto wanted to fuck you.
And he wanted to fuck you hard.
He wanted to pound his plummy, split-ended tip against the back of your pussy until you were practically sobbing. And he was.
Long, slurped drags of his vein-decorated cock. Ones that splosh around the oodles of cum layered on your walls, getting them into every tiny nook and cranny. He was so thick - you swear he was swollen with even more need than before - that he let you mewling after every ramming thrust.
With nose crinkled, teeth gritted into a snarl, Geto sticks his divot into the area of your g-spot. And he watches as you whimper, your mouth babbling out something half-nonsensical. “Gonna- cum- ngh, again. Sugu!”
“Mmm, love how you say my name.” You were burning up, practically at a fever-pitch by this point. “Can you say it even louder? Hmmm? Say it even hah! more?” With a few more hefty thrusts you’re feeling the oncoming wave of your high- though, by now it felt more like a few white-hot sparks.
Leaving your head completely blank. “I don’t- I don’t-”
“Yeahhh, you can.” He knew you were close. And he didn’t even need his powers to tell.
He could simply feel it in the way your walls were relentless in their adorable clenching. Their slick surfaces growing wetter by the second, a few lines of your honeyed slick glissade down your legs and up his prominent v-line - now all red with slamming impact.
Only flushing even further.
Especially when he speeds up, probin’ his tip mercilessly. And then, in a final pattern, Geto cups the base of his length and helps slide his glazed tip.
It almost feels like he’s circlin’ his girth around your walls, just stretching you out. But, really, he was writing out - a long, scrolly ‘G’ at the very back of your bruised pussy. One that makes Geto huff out in laughter, the burning sting sizzles against your most tender spots. “And what’s that spellll—?”
“G-Geto—” Another curling line that he was scouring out. Within your cockdrunken mind, it almost felt like an ‘S’. ’“Suguru- fuck. Suguru!”
And with that, you’re cumming.
Short and sharp- your vision in front shattered with a kaleidoscope of tears. Suddenly overtaken by so many spurts of high that you don’t know where yours ends and his starts. Your back arching, breath stuttered.
You’re so far gone that you barely even realize it once a sudden warmth seeps between your legs. Flooding out your tender orifice with a few hefty dollops of cum, “Mmm, yeahhh. Take it, gorgeous. Take- hah, take all of it.”
“I am-” You bawl out, “I am I am-”
Your bedroom lights were already long-shattered from hours prior, and it doesn’t take long for the sheer force of Geto’s orgasm to leave your unbolted furniture shaking. Hovering. You swear you catch your sagged bed lift off of the ground a few centimeters as he rides out his orgasm on your heated, wet pussy.
“S’right here.” His tracing index glides up the middle of your body, as if you couldn’t feel him. Even in the darkness. “Riiiight in the middle here. And- ngh-” His toned hips shift as he sees white with overstimulation, the dribble of his cum petering out after a sudden surge.
You suddenly realize that Geto’s cumming dry now - he didn’t even know that was possible.
The power goes off in your all-new apartment.
But also in every ward in Tokyo.
Burst after burst of his high leaving you completely spent. You whimper as you feel his supernatural energy let off a few sparks where he touched - but mostly where he plastered a few fingers to your clit. A constant, buzzing sensation even better than any of your toys and vibrators- honestly, you couldn’t even think of those right now.
As he feels his flinching tip stop moving, Geto looks up at you with the most heady, pussydrunken eyes. Parted lips. Messy hair.
He just looked so pretty. His voice trembling with need as Geto finishes off, “And I believe it’s taken now, gorgeous.”
You blink, “Taken? You mean…”
“Mhm.” He just looks so proud of himself. So accomplished. Lovingly grazing his hand down the front of your stomach, where a bulge of stuffed cum was starting to form, in a way that only ever could be done by him.
He embraces you tightly, head falling on your shoulder. And despite being cold, usually, you can’t help but notice that he was sweating. Warm. “All taken.”
“O-oh–” You shake atop him, vision still bleary with the haze of your high. But it was starting to fade back in, and so was your sense of rationality.
You could feel his ivory sap dripping out like a faucet from your core, all creamy and lust-filled. Looking down at it- the way it had completely ruined your silky sheets by now, almost made you feel shy. “B-before that we might have to discuss splitting rent, first.”
Summary: in which alien!reader crash lands right in front of Gojo and your story with him begins
Word Count: 1k (just trialing a new concept so it's a quick opening)
Warnings: a little cursing, allusions to experimentation and alien warfare, reader is naked but not in a sexual manner
Previous Parts:
Finders Keepers + Lights Show
Next Parts:
Movie Night + Bubble Bubble + Moon's light
Day 1
“I can’t believe aliens actually exist,” Satoru mutters to himself.
This has been an incredibly wild evening.
When he stepped out of his apartment to throw the bins out, he hadn’t expected to see a blinding flash of light zoom past him and explode in the parking lot. Thank goodness for his infinity, otherwise he would not have fared as well as the minivan you landed on.
Yes.
You.
The woman who came straight from the sky and fell on top of a car, missing him by just two metres.
At first, he thought it was a curse; these things get pretty weird sometimes, after all. But using his Six Eyes, he could tell you were different. Sure, you looked like any other person, with arms and legs and a head. But you had a unique aura to you, positively otherworldly.
If he was any other kind of man, he would have just left you there and pretended nothing happened — ignorance is bliss and whatnot — but what kind of Honoured One would he be if he didn’t do his duty and helped you out?
So, he slides down the massive crater you made (boy is that going to be a pain for maintenance to clean up) and carefully cradles your naked body in his arms, carefully so as to not touch bits and pieces no gentleman has a business looking at. Why are you naked anyways?
Sensing people making their way down the stairs to inspect the commotion, he teleports back into his apartment quick as a flash before anyone could think to look through their windows.
He throws a blanket at you and leaves you on the sofa as he paces the length of his living room and ponders what to do. On one hand, he could call the police and leave it up to them to deal with you. The government would know best about how to deal about falling space women, right? But then, don’t all the sci-fi movies talk about inhumane experimentation, weaponizing alien technology, and Area 51?
That wouldn’t be a very nice thing to do, at all.
And on the other hand, he could just take care of you himself. He has the means to, that’s for sure. You really don’t look any different from everyone else — surely, you need the same things he does: food, water, shelter and warmth.
Right?
Just as he’s about to pick up the phone to call his doctor friend, you begin rousing from sleep. Your eyes flutter open and they’re a normal colour, which freaks him out more if he’s going to be perfectly honest.
“Uh,” Satoru scratches the back of his neck, shuffling on his feet a little, “hey? I’m Gojo Satoru. You can just call me Satoru, though. If you want, or can, I guess.”
You tilt your head, scanning his body, and you open your mouth. What comes out is definitely an alien language. Or maybe he needs to travel more. But he certainly does not comprehend a single thing that you say.
Clearing his throat, he tries to smile comfortingly. “Okay, so I didn’t understand what you said. Sorry. But uh, do you need anything? Like, do you know where you are? Yeah, you definitely don’t know what I’m saying either, do you?”
You tilt your head again.
“What is wrong with me? Seriously. What was I thinking bringing you home? You may have fallen from the sky but I’m the one that clearly hit my head. I really am an idiot.”
Glancing around the room, you don’t look any bit as frazzled and panicked as he is. Actually, you’re as cool as a cucumber, and there isn’t a hint of shame or embarrassment on your face when you push yourself off the sofa, blanket sliding down your body.
“Woah! Woah!”
Satoru presses his hands to his eyes and leaves them there for a second or two before realising that does absolutely nothing and when he pulls them down, he doesn’t flinch when you’re standing before him, inquisitive eyes meeting his.
His infinity is on and he’s ready to subdue you if you prove to be a threat, but so far, he’s simply letting you reorient yourself, getting used to your surroundings and giving you the opportunity to decide he’s not a bad guy.
That being said, however, he’s still deciding whether to keep you or not. He doesn’t want you to be poked and prodded — that wouldn’t be a very cool welcome to planet Earth and he doesn’t need you to go around telling your alien friends humans suck, though they do. But he also doesn’t know if that’s the best decision.
You could be a danger to jujitsu society, to his students, to the world. What if, right at this very moment, you’re leaking deadly radiation? And what if his infinity can’t keep it out? Can’t keep you out?
Gosh, there are so many things that could go wrong.
It’s entirely possible too that you’re a blood sucking monster intent on wringing him dry for all he’s worth. Maybe you’re not even an alien. Maybe you’re a special kind of curse, the kind that can bypass his Six Eyes, though he’s fairly confident that’s not the case (there’s no one stronger than him, after all).
What if this is Kenjaku all over again?
Yeah, on second thought, he should definitely call the police. Or Ijichi, or the Prime Minister of Japan, or whoever will believe him when he says there’s a naked, alien lady in his home, and no, he’s not a pervert playing out some sick fantasy.
But just as he’s lifting his phone, you lift your hand the same time he does and cover your eyes.
Then you say his name in perfect Japanese with a sweet, soft voice, not a hint of hesitation or unsteadiness. You smile, eyes still obscured, and he feels himself mirroring your gleeful expression.
“That’s right. I’m Satoru. It’s nice to meet you.”
He decides, there and then, to hell with radiation, alien armies, and the deadly risk you pose to everything he knows or cares about. The military, conspiracy theorists, and scientists be damned.
operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru
synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.
contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably
notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P
The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.
Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.
“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.
“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.
“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”
“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”
You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”
“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”
You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”
He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”
“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”
He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”
You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.
His glasses are tilted again. Of course.
You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”
“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”
You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”
“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look.
“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”
You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”
It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.
He doesn’t say anything.
You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.
But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.
Another type. That’s not you.
“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”
He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”
“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”
He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”
“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”
He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”
You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.
You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.
But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.
So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”
He goes still.
His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.
“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”
His jaw tightens.
You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”
He finally turns to look at you.
His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.
You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.
Then he shrugs.
“…Nah.”
It slices through the air with quiet finality.
Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.
You laugh. It sounds forced.
“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”
He’s silent.
You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”
“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”
Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.
“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.
And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.
You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.
It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.
You’d been doomed since day one.
And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.
But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”
You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.
“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”
“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”
You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”
“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”
You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”
Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.
Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”
You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”
Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”
You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”
She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”
You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”
Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”
You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”
Utahime grinned.
“Whatcha doing?”
Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.
You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”
The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.
He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”
You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.
“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.
You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”
His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”
“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”
“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”
Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.
“Satoru!”
“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”
Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”
“Nothing~”
You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.
“Give it back!”
“Patience.”
“Gojo Satoru—”
“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.
You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.
“…What did you do?”
“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”
You narrow your eyes, suspicious.
“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”
“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”
“Good.”
The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.
You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”
He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”
You snort. “You are a guy.”
“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”
You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”
“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.
You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.
“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”
Silence.
It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.
Gojo freezes.
You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”
But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”
You blink.
And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.
“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”
You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.
You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.
Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.
You want to scream.
Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?
Yeah. Not going great.
Not at all.
You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.
Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.
“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”
You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.
But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.
When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.
He didn’t notice you at first.
Then he looked up.
His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.
“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”
You blinked. “Hi to you too.”
He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.
He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”
You blinked.
Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.
And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.
You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”
“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”
Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.
But the moment passed.
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”
Different.
Not better. Not prettier.
Just different.
You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.
“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.
In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines.
What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.
He didn’t even notice.
“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.
He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”
Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”
Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”
It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.
Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”
Exactly. That was the point.
You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.
“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”
Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—
Satoru.
In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.
You blink. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”
“At this café? On this side of campus?”
“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”
Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”
“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”
“…Kazuya.”
“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”
But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”
Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”
“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”
Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”
“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”
Gojo beams. “Told you.”
Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.
“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”
“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”
You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”
Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”
“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”
Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”
You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.
“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”
“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.
“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.
By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.
Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,
“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”
The question hangs awkwardly.
You and Satoru answer at the same time.
“No,” you say quickly.
“Yes,” he says with a smile.
You both turn to stare at each other.
“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”
Kazuya blinks. “Right.”
You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.
“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.
Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”
You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.
Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.
Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.
You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”
“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”
“By who?”
“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.
You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.
“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”
You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.
“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.
“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.
You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”
He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”
You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.
Almost good, even.
Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.
You let yourself believe it, just a little.
And that was your first mistake.
It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.
You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:
“So, guess who asked me out?”
You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”
“Ayane.”
The name hits you like a slap.
You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”
“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”
You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.
She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.
But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.
“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”
You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”
“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins.
Your stomach sinks.
This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.
But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.
“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.
Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.
It’s that he chose her.
Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.
You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.
He doesn’t follow.
You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.
For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.
You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”
You go silent.
And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.
You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.
It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.
And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.
You weren’t just losing your best friend.
You were losing the love of your life.
And he didn’t even notice.
It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.
Well—no. That’s a lie.
He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”
But he tells himself you’re busy.
Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.
So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.
But then Friday comes.
And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—
You’d be making fun of me right now.
You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.
Ayane is lovely.
But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.
She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.
He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.
Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.
And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.
He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.
No new messages.
Just the last one you sent days ago:
“Laundry. Rain check?”
And nothing since.
He waits. Another day. Then two.
You don’t show up to class again.
You don’t like his latest meme.
You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.
You are silent.
And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.
That he didn’t just lose a study partner.
He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.
The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.
And for the first time since he was a kid—
He’s afraid.
It’s been a little over a week.
A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.
And Satoru is suffering.
He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.
But you were always one step ahead.
You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.
Gojo Satoru is just tired.
Miserable.
So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.
You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.
“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.
He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”
You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”
Gojo looks down at his feet.
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.
Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”
You glance up.
“I can’t either.”
Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”
“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
The words stop him cold.
“What?” he breathes.
You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”
His heart stutters. You don’t stop.
“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”
He looks like he’s been hit.
“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”
You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.
And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.
Not yet.
Not until he stops you from walking away.
“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.
“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”
Your breath catches.
He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.
“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”
You gape.
“Wait—”
“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”
You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.
“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”
You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”
“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”
He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.
“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”
A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.
“You idiot,” you murmur.
“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”
Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.
“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”
You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.
“It’s not too late,” you whisper.
He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.
Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.
“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.
And then, finally, he kisses you.
It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..
When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”
being married to the strongest jujutsu sorcerer on the planet had it’s unique pros and cons.
one of those cons being his clinginess. satoru was so clingy. he constantly followed you wherever you went. grocery shopping, to the vet for your dogs checkups, the gym, even when you went to the bathroom.
you recently got a new 9-5 at the office. when your husband was aware of this, it’s safe to say the poor man nearly broke down. what do you mean his wife was going to be gone for half the day? he felt his heart shatter. :(
on your first day, of course he was standing at the front door right next to you.
he was wrapping his big arms around your waist while digging his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hitching from inhaling your scent. “baby, please don’t go. i’ll miss you so much.” the poor man frowned as if he wasn’t older and more busier than you.
you gave him a slight reassuring pat on the head, “it’s my first day of work, you’re not a child satoru you can last a few hours with me.”
your words made him frown even more, he was nearly pouting at that point. “can’t you push it back a day? tell them your husband is the satoru gojo?” he whined.
his grip tightened as you attempted to pull back from his embrace, “baby, seriously. i have to go now. when i come back we’ll do everything together, okay?”
this still didn’t satisfy the white haired man. he wanted to be near his wife the whole day. “i have a great idea, how about i fuck a baby into you so you won’t have to go to work.”
you giggled while pulling back, “very funny baby. i actually have to go now.”
your husband let out a sigh in defeat while watching you walk through the door, waving you a bittersweet goodbye and blowing you kisses.
your job was amazing. it was quiet, calm, and you could work at your own pace.
as you were doing work you noticed a chair being pulled out right next to you. you turned to greet your new co-worker but to your surprise, it was your husband.
“satoru?” you silently shouted, “what are you doing here?”
he smiled while sitting down and turning on the computer, “had to make some calls, now we work together baby! aren’t you excited? because i’m really excited!”
he was such an idiot, but he was your husband. and you loved this idiot more than anything.
summary. you and satoru gojo absolutely do not have a thing for each other. you only spend time together because of your shared affection for his dragon. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself—because there’s no way you’d ever fall for the most insufferably cocky, sharp-tongued, ridiculously charming dragon rider on the entire isle of berk… right?
alternatively, in which a dragon plays matchmaker and you save satoru’s ass.
contains. fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, fingering, riding), action, frenemies to lovers, how to train your dragon!au. pining, idiots to idiots in love. profanity, injuries, blood, reader almost drowns, etc.
word count. 16.1k
a/n. part of the gojo satoru x httyd!au collab with @admiringlove. art by _3aem. thanks for reading!
song rec. test driving toothless by john powell
“Piss off, Gojo.”
Satoru Gojo does not piss off. You’re fairly certain he doesn’t know how to. It’s stitched into his DNA, being an annoying twat on the good days and an all-round prick on the others.
“I would,” he says. “But Sukuna really wanted head pats and for whatever reason, he thinks mine are unsatisfactory.”
The aforementioned Sukuna, of course, refers to his dragon—the last-remaining Night Fury on the Isle of Berk.
“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.
Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.
Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”
“Everyone likes me better.”
“Mm. Bold claim.”
“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.
“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”
“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.
“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”
You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”
“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.
“Barely.”
“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”
“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”
“That’s most people, though.”
“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.
It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.
You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.
“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.
“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”
You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”
“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”
“Name one.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”
“That’s not better.”
“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just casually dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.
The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and tumber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.
“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satoru says idly after a moment.
You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”
“Hey, I’m off-duty.”
“You’re never off-duty.”
“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”
You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.
Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.
“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.
Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“Do—”
“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”
“Shame,” you say.
Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.
“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”
It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.
Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”
“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”
The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”
Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, like he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.
Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”
“Not my dragon,” you remind him.
He winks. “Technicality.”
With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.
You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.
“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”
“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.
He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.
You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”
“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”
You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”
He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.
You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”
“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, as if he’s happy to escape the awkwardness, leaving you alone with the silence, the incomplete map, and the lingering scent of ozone and dragon scales.
You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.
You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.
You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him. You can’t help but wonder if you’re a little bit relieved that he used his dragon as an excuse to see you.
A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.
He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs, as if he’d flown through the crown of a tree. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry as old leather. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.
“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.
“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.
He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”
“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”
“The hair is secondary to the ecosystem, of course. Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”
“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”
“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”
You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”
Sukuna, who had been contentedly nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.
“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”
“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”
You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”
“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”
“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.
Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.
“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.
You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.
“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”
“Did you catch them?”
“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”
You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.
“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.
He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”
He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”
“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.
Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.
“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.
“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.
“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”
Sukuna huffs happily in response.
Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.
You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”
Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo had disappeared.
“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.
“What is?” he asks.
“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”
Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.
He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.
“Satoru!” he bellows.
Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.
“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.
“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”
You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”
He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”
The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.
Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.
“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.
“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.
You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.
“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”
“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.
“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”
You sigh. “You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”
He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.
Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”
You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”
The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind. It’s the whole reason why Satoru has made it his life’s mission to annoy in every possible way; it’s his way of thanking you for finding him in the woods all those weeks ago.
“I’d rather not,” you say.
He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.
The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.
You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.
At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.
“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”
You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”
“Sure, you did.”
Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.
“I’m working.”
He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”
“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.
“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.
“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.
“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.
You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.
You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.
“You did good,” Satoru says.
“So did you,” you say.
He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.
You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”
“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”
You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.
You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.
You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.
You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. He’s trying to tell you that there’s more to him than the smug grin and the witty remarks. He’s trying to tell you that there’s a place for you in his life, in their life.
You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.
“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.
Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.
“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”
“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragons wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”
You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.
“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.
“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”
“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”
“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”
You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.
He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”
“It’s just a rag,” you say.
He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”
He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.
“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”
“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”
He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”
“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”
“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”
You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”
“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”
“That’s because I have a working brain.”
He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.
You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.
“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.
Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”
You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”
“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”
Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.
“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”
“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.
You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.
“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”
“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”
You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.
Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, as though he’s silently grading your balance.
When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”
He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”
“Your continued survival.”
“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.
“Show-off,” you say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.
You focus very, very hard on the roof.
When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.
“Done?” Satoru asks.
“For now,” you say.
“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”
At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.
You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”
You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.
“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”
Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”
“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Sukuna lowers his massive head as you apprach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so fast, so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.
You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.
Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”
“You’ll live.”
He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”
“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.
“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”
You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.
“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.
He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”
“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”
“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”
You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”
“Souhtern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”
The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.
“But then?” you prompt.
“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Grimborn steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole schlong.”
Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Grimborn steel?”
“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”
Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.
“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“And by we you mean…”
“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual suspects.”
You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”
“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.
“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.
That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”
It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coind and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.
You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”
“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”
You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.
An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.
“You should be more worried,” you say finally.
“I worry plenty.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”
“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.
“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”
Your stomach sinks. Already?
Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”
The Night Fury rises in a smooth, terrifyingly graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.
“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”
“You don’t know that.”
He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”
“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”
“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”
You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”
“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”
You make the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me—me, a humble mapmaker who values being alive—to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”
“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”
You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”
“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.
“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”
“He’s effective,” Yaga says.
“He’s insufferable,” you say.
“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”
You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.
“Did somebody say my name?”
Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.
Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.
“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”
“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”
“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”
Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.
Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”
You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.
“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”
“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”
You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”
He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”
Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”
“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”
“Of course, boss.”
Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.
“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”
It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.
“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”
You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.
“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”
Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.
You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.
Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?
You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”
It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.
Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”
You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.
Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.
“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.
You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”
“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”
“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”
The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.
“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”
“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”
You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”
Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.
“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Eighty percent sure.”
You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.
Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.
“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”
Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”
You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”
“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”
You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your spine.
The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.
“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”
“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”
Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. You scream is swallowed by the wind.
Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. That Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and that Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.
The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.
Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.
You feel hands.
Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.
You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.
“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”
“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”
With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boost you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.
You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”
“I saved you,” he says.
“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”
“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”
Your jaw locks. You want to scream, the punch him, to shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.
Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”
“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”
Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.
You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.
Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.
“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”
“Not even a little,” he says.
You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.
“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”
“Before you hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”
“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”
“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”
You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”
“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”
“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.
“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. Best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”
You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”
“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered like constellations, lean muscle shifting as he moves.
You pointedly do not stare.
“You’re ogling me,” he says.
“I’m glaring at you.”
“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”
“Die.”
“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”
Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.
Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.
“Not one word,” he promises, then adds, “Plenty of thoughts, though.”
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”
“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.
“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.
You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs like gravity. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.
“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.
“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”
You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.
The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.
You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.
“Oh, my Gods.”
The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizone, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.
You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.
“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.
“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”
The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”
You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”
The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”
“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.
“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”
You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.
The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”
“Stolen?” you ask.
He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”
You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.
“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.
The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”
You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.
Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.
You want to believe him. You don’t.
“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.
“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”
You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.
“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”
The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.
You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”
Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”
You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.
Later. You’ll think about it later.
The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.
Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.
Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.
“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”
“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”
Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”
You open your mouth—and instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.
“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”
Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.
“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”
Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”
“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”
“It’s meant to.”
Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.
“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”
“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”
“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”
Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about this maps?
Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.
“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safe. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”
“Go,” Yaga growls.
Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.
“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”
“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.
You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.
Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infurating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.
The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.
The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.
Instead, you find the apprentice.
He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.
“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.
The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”
“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”
He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”
You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.
You slip inside.
The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.
It’s empty.
You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.
Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.
The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.
Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.
You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.
The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.
Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.
A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.
Sukuna.
The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.
He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.
He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.
“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.
He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.
Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”
Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.
The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”
Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.
Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.
Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.
“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.
The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.
Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.
You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.
In the centre of it all: Yaga.
The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.
Satoru.
He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, even gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.
You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.
“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”
“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.
“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”
Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.
Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”
“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”
“He’s not yours,” you say.
Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”
Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tried to spit out.
“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.
Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.
“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”
“You set them on us. You set them on him.”
A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, maybe more, their movements practiced, circling.
The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.
“You’re working with them?” you say.
“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”
You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.
“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”
“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”
Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough—tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.
“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”
Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin, and you know the shape of those words even if you can’t hear them. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.
You almost laugh.
Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.
You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”
“He will be.”
The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.
The Night Fury roars.
The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.
You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.
“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.
He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.
“Miss me?” he drawls.
You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.
Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and wheels his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.
A horn splits the night.
It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above. The kind of sound that makes your chest tighten because you know it: Berk’s call to arms.
Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.
The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.
“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”
“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.
The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru—only to freeze.
Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.
“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”
Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.
Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me—or you’re gone.”
You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.
Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.
Satoru’s lips move.
Eight percent.
You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.
Eighty percent.
Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.
The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.
You make the choice first.
Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.
The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the bacl water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.
The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.
Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.
You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.
“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eight percent.”
You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You also want to scream.
Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”
Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.
Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.
It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying sticky on your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.
Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.
He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.
You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.
“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”
“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”
You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”
“Nearly. Keyword.”
Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.
You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”
“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”
“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”
Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.
Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”
“He is not,” you say flatly.
“He definitely is,” Satoru insist. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”
You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.
You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.
Yet. The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the rops cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.
Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.
It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, hate how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.
When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.
“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.
You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns hot. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.
The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.
It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.
His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.
Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.
The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.
You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”
He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”
You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.
Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.
He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.
His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.
You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.
Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.
“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.
“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”
He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.
“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.
He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.
Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.
The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.
“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.
The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.
“Was that—” you start.
Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.
Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”
Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”
The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.
You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”
“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”
You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”
Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”
But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”
Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”
You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.
“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.
“Step in? He barged in. He ruined history in the making.”
Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.
Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”
a/n (again). a big, big thank you to @admiringlove for agreeing to collab with me, putting up with my endless rants about writer’s block, and refusing to let me abandon this fic. i love u. also, a huge huge thank you to @jeonwiixard for supporting me so much, (also) listening to me rant about my crippling writer’s block and beta reading this as soon as i sent the google doc to her; i love u too. thanks for reading, and be sure to check out sam’s gojo httyd!au installment as well! 🥰
Summary - You bribe your best friend Satoru Gojo with Digimon Merch into pretending to date you for your sister's wedding. In order to get your parents off your back about being a loner, you feel they'd buy it - you've been friends forever, after all. You all go full out, fake kisses, and sharing a bed - problem is that you both have feelings that are far too real.
Warnings - fluffy and cute, idiots in love, thigh riding, a fk ton of sexual tension, Toru being sweet, nerdjo mention. Oral ( f receiving) reader is a virgin, so first time with Toru (yay!) girl on top hehe, fingering, teasing, creampie, multiple orgasms, talking you through it -happy end of course! Oneshot - wc- 13k
This won the poll for the 25k event! thank you all so much for following me and being so amazing <3 got a girl blushing!
“Come on, please?” You tug at Satoru Gojo’s dark blue jacket, pouting up at him, he just rolls his pretty blue eyes.
“Don’t you make that face, I won’t give in this time.”
“I’ll buy you so much Digimon merch!” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Toru!”
“Don’t you ‘Toru’ me,” he crosses his arms, leaning back in the seat – the two of you are in a little cafe together, the one you meet up at once a month. It used to be once a week, but life has gotten ahold of you all pretty good, now that you are twenty three and out of college, both so busy it’s hard.
Satoru’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember, and you never want to lose him.
“Toru…”
“Stop using that to your advantage,” he looks at you again, pouting with those glossy lips of his. “You know I always do anything when you give the puppy eyes.”
“Pretty please,” you bat your lashes, so cute Satoru can’t say no. He was going to relent anyway, but he loves to get you going.
“Oh fine.”
“Yay!” You hug him tightly, that way you always do that makes it difficult to hug you back, you’re too close, pressed against him, making him feel too much.
Satoru’s been close to you forever, he can’t lose you because you’re just so pretty, you smell so good. Can’t lose you because your touch makes him ache more and more over the years. All of that, bad ideas, especially when you’re one of the closest people to him. His hand comes to the small of your back, inhaling the sweetness of your shampoo, letting it fill his senses.
“Are you sniffing me?”
“Huh, what? No.” Satoru so was, you pull back and giggle all cute, eyes lit up when you kiss his cheek. His hands tense, shoving you playfully. “Yuck.”
“Oh what, I still have cooties?” You raise a brow at him, he shivers in feigned disgust.
“Worse than ever now.”
“Psh,” you sip your drink, his thigh is brushing against yours, and you don’t move away like you should. Satoru’s body feels far too good against yours.
Your parents seem to think you’re hopeless, since you really haven’t ever dated, but how can you, when Satoru exists? It’s a hopeless state of affairs, loving someone you’re so close to, literally in the damn sandbox together. Even if you crossed that line – Satoru’s never shown any interest.
How embarrassing would that be?
“Maybe it will be fun, you think of that?” You tease, trying to feign a little more ease than you have.
“You just wanna lay in bed with me,” Satoru brushes his hair back and winks, grinning when you glare at him. “Admit it.”
“Yeah, never happening - but we will have to share the room to make it believable for sure.”
“Are they really on your case that bad?” You wrap your lips around your straw, addling Satoru’s senses so badly he can’t even look at you.
The feelings just grow more and more, and pretending to date you would just make him want what he shouldn’t. “They are on my case, they think I’m just wasting away and gonna be a cat lady.”
“You do give cat lady energy.”
“Hey!”
He’s chuckling now, sipping on his own drink, you watch how the sunlight filters in through the window, casting shadows across the hard planes of his face.
Sometimes Satoru is just too handsome for his own good.
“Did you hear me?” He waves a hand in front of your face, and you realize you spaced out looking at his lips too long.
“Sorry, what?”
“How much Digimon merch?” You laugh, shaking your head just a bit.
“However much you want, but you’ll have to be very convincing, you’ll have to kiss me and everything,” you tease, smacking your lips at him, he tenses a bit then, picturing his lips all over his best friend. “Will it be that bad?”
“The worst,” his voice is soft, hoarse with desire that he almost lets spill from his lips. “Bet you suck at it.”
“Bet I’m better than you,” you lean close, far too close, a hand on his chest then, looking up at him under your lashes, his heart races just a bit even as he puts on a casual smirk. “Wanna practice?”
“I’ll require so much merch, in fact you’ll have to come to the con with me – all dressed up as one – if you want a kiss before I have to.”
“You’re so bratty, Satoru Gojo,” he exhales when you pull back, realizing he’s now throbbing under his damn jeans in a coffee shop with his best friend. “Fine, we’ll wait until we have to.”
“We’re staying three days, right?”
“Yes, mom and dad love you anyway.”
“How will you break it to them when they find out it’s not real?” You wrack your brain, sighing then.
“I’ll think of something, but at least for this wedding, I'll be in your debt forever.”
“That’s tempting, I can’t wait to take advantage.” You both laugh, and Satoru tries to figure out just how he’s going to handle ‘pretending’ with you.
*****
“I’m never letting you drive again.”
“I wasn’t that bad!” Satoru pouts at you, damn near running out of the car when you all step out.
“Horrible, god how’d you get a licence,” you glare, and he snatches your keys up, holding them high. “Hah! Can’t reach?”
“Who can, you giant!” You’re hopping while he laughs, but then your tits just bounce too much, so he falters, letting you tug his arm down. “Got 'em!”
Satoru tries not to focus on that, quickly looking away and rubbing the back of his neck, the last thing he needs to do is let his gaze linger longer than it should. “You really almost killed me, I’m driving back.”
“That’s fine, eight hours sucked anyway,” you stretch just a bit, and so does he, turning and avoiding how your shirt lifts just a bit. “Are you ready for this?”
You walk up next to him, he’s snatched up your bags on one shoulder, you hold his other hand, feeling it tense in your grip. He pauses, looking down at you then, gripping your hand just a little tighter, memories flashing of all the times he’d snatched your hand and run out of class when you were younger. Why does it feel so different now that you’re both older?
“Make it look real, remember? I have the merch all picked out,” you wave your phone around just a bit, earning him squeezing your hands just a bit. “There you go, we got this yeah?”
“Yeah…” You both walk up and are greeted with your very surprised parents, the house just full of your entire family, all bustling and fussing over your sister and all the planning. “Hey there.”
“Satoru Gojo!” Your mom tugs him in for a hug, your dad snatches the bags and sets them down in the living room. “Look at you, you’re taller!?”
“I know,” he laughs a bit, slipping up his black shades to rest on those snowy locks, while your dad hugs him too. “Hey pops. Ah, hey sis.”
Your sister comes out, hugging you tightly, then peeking over at Satoru. “Gojo, you finally admitted you’re in love huh?”
“What!?” He pulls back, your dad and mom are laughing behind their hands, and you mouth to Satoru silently.
Remember!?
Digimon!
“Oh, hah – yeah I guess we really have been in love,” he snatches you up, arm wrapping around your shoulders, smacking a kiss on your cheek. He feels it warm under his lips quickly, the little breath catching in his ears. “Aren’t we, pookie?”
Pookie, huh?
You wanna laugh at that, but you instead put a hand on his chest and tiptoe, giving him a kiss on his chin. You wonder if you’re imagining the blush that decorates his cheeks for just a moment, but it’s distracted by all the commotion.
“You’re finally dating someone!”
“Mom!?”
“I’m just so happy baby,” you want to fall into a hole, as aunts, uncles and cousins all come to just express their surprise. Satoru’s snickering so you decide to ‘accidentally’ stomp his foot, earning your six foot four friend hopping one one foot.
“Oops, sorry baby.” Satoru’s so gonna get revenge later on you, with your bratty little smile.
“It’s fine, sweet sugar bear!” You almost snort out loud, he smacks a kiss on your cheek and damn near slobbers on you.
It’s a flurry of action while everyone sinks their teeth into Satoru and you, all nosy and curious, many of them making comments like you’re an old maid when you’re still young. Your family is a little too traditional, and they’re all in love with Satoru so much you’re damn near ignored, he eats up the attention like he always does at these sort of things.
You can’t say anything about it, Satoru’s parents have been so distant his entire life, you actually love that your family is so close to him.
“Do you wanna freshen up before dinner?” Your mom asks, you nod gratefully. “Perfect, we set up a room for you two.”
“Um… one room?” You ask, seeing Satoru chuckling, slinging an arm around your neck.
“Show us the room, mama.”
“Of course Toru!” You roll your eyes a bit, no one loves Satoru as much as your mom does – aside from you.
But you can’t admit that.
A part of you starts enjoying just how easy it would be to make this a part of your life, at least this aspect, your family, and likely all of your friends. Yet you know fully that it’s a bit of a show, yet it makes your mind drift off – imagining too much, so much so you almost bump right into his back when you all come to a stop in front of the stairs.
“Oof!”
“Clumsy,” he teases, catching you before you tumble back with ease, one arm shooting up and wrapping around you. “Clumsy little pookiekins.”
Oh jesus.
Does he have to feel this good?
Your mom leads you up the stairs, their new house is still a little unfamiliar, you’ve only been there a couple of times since they moved. It’s a pretty room you’ve slept in before when you stayed, cream colored walls and perfectly clean, even the little throw pillows are all arranged. “Do you need extra pillows, Satoru?”
“No, that’s perfect, I appreciate it.” Your mom doesn’t ask you if you need anything, but then she’s always loved Satoru – you joke that it’s more than she loves you all the time.
“The shower is right in there,” she points to where the room connects to a little bathroom. “Get washed up for dinner, I’m ordering your favorite Satoru.”
“Um, hi? What about me?” Satoru is snorting practically.
“Honey, you know I’m just excited, I haven’t seen Satoru in a year!”
“I see how it is.” You narrow your eyes, earning your mom kissing you on the cheek.
“I will order your favorite dessert.”
“I’m an afterthought.” She laughs and shuts the door, leaving the two of you alone, Satoru sobering up just a bit as he sits on the bed, you turn and look at him then, suddenly feeling so nervous.
He’d spent plenty of nights on the floor or couch at your childhood home, but not in the same bed, taking it over when he lays down, crossing one ankle over the other. “Nap time.”
“Nap time, huh?” You sigh and scooch his big body over, lying down next to him, yawning just a bit when you snuggle against the pillow. “I’m tired too.”
“Are you?” You nod, eyes fluttering shut, leaving Satoru to study you carefully. “You think they bought it?”
“With ease,” you snuggle a little too close to him, making his heart race in his chest, fingers itching to caress your cheek. You look at him with sleepy eyes, breath right against him, tickling his neck. “They were convinced I had a crush on you when we were younger, sis tortured me about it.”
“Aww, that’s because I’m so pretty,” Satoru bats his long snowy lashes, you snort a bit, whacking him with one of the pillows. “What, not gonna admit it?”
“You’re conceited is what you are,” he smacks you with a pillow hard then, you gasp, getting on your knees and whacking him back. “You’re also the biggest brat to exist.”
“That’s you! Hah, and you’re weak.” Satoru yanks the pillow from your grip, tossing it on the floor and then smacking you with one again. “Can’t win against me, can you?”
“Don’t count me out, ruining my nap!” You hop down on the floor, grabbing it and hitting him right in his pretty face. “I’ll make your face prettier.”
“Swear to god-” You pounce on him, the bed springs creak just a bit, while you smack him again, only for him to yank you down and start tickling you. “Hah, I know all your spots.”
“Stop, stop!” You’re trying to get out of his grip, the tickles on your waist too much, you can’t stop laughing, wriggling until somehow…
You land right on top of him.
Satoru’s laughing softly, before he realizes it, that you’re straddling his lap, thighs pressed on either side, and your heat is against him. You’re still giggling, his fingers pausing then, looking down nervously and swallowing. “What is it, my turn?”
You lean over and begin to run your fingertips teasingly over his lower abdomen, he’s always ticklish there, but he just grips your hands in his hold, not making a sound. You blink a bit in confusion, breathless from the battle – one you both frequently had as kids – until you feel it.
You follow his suddenly intense gaze down, to where he’s pressed against you, hard and thickening by the moment, your breaths come even quicker, hands still in his grip as you feel him. Your eyes both lock then, his dilated in a way you’ve never seen, lips parted just so, and it’s not like he’s ever looked at you.
You should get up, you should move right? Yet you’re stuck there, unable to do more than blink rapidly and open your lips to say something, anything at all, but both of you don’t speak. The silly laughter has quit spilling from your lips, left with hot desire clenching your tummy at the sensation – at just how good Satoru feels against your cunt, aching for more.
You try not to roll your hips, you try not to shift, when he lets go of your wrists, and his hands slide down, across to your hips, an exhale escaping his mouth. You watch his chest rise and fall with his breaths, his fingers curling around the curve of each hip, and you realize you’re soaking wet embarrassingly fast.
“Satoru, I’m sorry…” You shift to move, earning a little moan from his throat, cock leaking pre against his boxers as his cock insistently nudges between your lips, just your panties as a barrier.
“Fuck, don’t… don’t move,” he whispers then, you tense, struggling to just stay still. “You’re making it worse.”
“Making… what worse?” He sighs, leaning up on his elbows, your breaths both mingling together, in a way that makes you question everything.
Could Satoru feel the same?
He doesn’t speak, instead he gently presses you down, watching your eyelashes flutter, your hands gripping his shirt so tightly the material is balling up in your grip. You move your hips just a bit, making him groan again, ever so softly, noses touching, foreheads resting together. You swallow, throat gone dry at what you feel, the nerves, the desire, the worry for ruining the most important relationship you have.
“Toru, um- ah!” You jump when your sister just opens the fucking door, and you fall right off the bed with a thud since Satoru jumps too, like two kids caught.
“We were… talking!?” Satoru covers his bulge with a pillow, and your sister just bursts out laughing, wearing a tiara and a sash that says bride to be.
“Get out!” You throw a pillow at her, knocking her tiara clean off, Satoru would laugh but he’s still throbbing and it fucking hurts.
How would he ‘pretend’ to kiss you!?
“Rude, it’s my wedding you know.”
“Why are you barging in?”
“I wanna see my sis and her pookie,” she’s giggling, while you start shoving her out the door. “Don’t you miss me?”
“Not really, annoying little sisters still suck, even when they get married.” She winks over at Satoru now, laughter still coming out and making you heat up in embarrassment.
“Looks like you two are next, I could feel the tension!”
“Out!” You shove her unceremoniously, resting your back and the door and huffing, you’re far too cute like that, and doing nothing for his situation. Your eyes meet his, before you look down a bit, pushing off the door to stand. “Sorry, she’s as much of a menace as ever.”
“She certainly is,” he teases, smiling a bit at you and feigning ease. “Um… I’m sorry that…”
“No, no it’s cool, um… it’s just a normal reaction for a guy, right?” You’re so clueless you wouldn’t even know. “Aren’t you experienced?”
“Callin’ me a slut?” He raises a brow.
“Not a virgin, is all.”
“You’re… are you…” You blush furiously, this whole thing is more embarrassing every freaking second. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” You sink down and cover your face, Satoru wills his damn cock to fully go down so he can get up, but he’s toxic and thinking of having you first.
Stop that, stop it, go down.
Down boy.
He finally just adjusts it up into his waistband and comes up to you, sitting right on the plush carpet and wrapping an arm around you. “Why be embarrassed, what’s wrong if you’re picky?”
“I’m twenty three, that’s what’s wrong,” you peek at him then, and he just looks too good in that moment, your body still throbbing from sitting on him. “I’m the forty year old virgin.”
“You are not,” he’s snorting in laughter, playfully pulling you close, tilting two fingers under your chin. “I could fix that for you.”
You pause just a moment, lips parted, eyes wide.
“What!?”
“I was kidding,” he lets your chin go, before raising a brow. “Unless?”
“You’re annoying!” He gets shoved away, laughing at himself like he’s just so funny, but all he does is embarrass you more, confuse you more.
What dumb idea was this?
“Do we need to practice kissing too?”
“I’ve kissed, you know.” Why are Satoru’s lips so glossy?
“Plant one on me, rockstar,” he taps his lips with that annoying smirk of his. “Don't want the first to be in front of them, what if they know?”
“Oh fine, you brat,” Satoru smooches his lips all dramatically, when you get on your knees, hands on his shoulders. “Pucker up then.”
“I'm scared!?” You both laugh then, you've always been so comfortable with each other, until your lips land on his.
You both pull back, his hand slipping up your back. Your lips tingle, this little shock you can't explain, looking down at glossy lips. “There, I kissed you.”
“You did, a little peck. That's all you know?”
“You're an ass,” he chuckles, trying to ease the tension, but you felt too good. “I can kiss.”
“Lemme see, bet I'm better.”
“You always think you're the best at everything,” you roll your eyes, then your little hands are on either side of his face, kissing him deeply. He exhales, tongue slipping against the seam of your lips, you damn near squeak, pulling back quickly with a gasp. “What're you doing?”
“Kissing you,” he captures your lips again, hungry as he pours all of the desire he's had into it, tilting his head to the side to dive deeper. You’re trembling, hands gripping in fists at your sides, struggling to collect yourself. Your tongue moves back against his, lashes fluttering shut, letting him drink up your little sighs.
His hand entangles in your hair, tongue dancing along your teeth, his taste so sweet it’s intoxicating. Slipping closer, a hand on his thigh, letting him overtake you completely, gripping his thigh and clinging for some sense of normalcy. Whatever you’ve imagined this kiss would be like over the years couldn’t have prepared you – your heart hammering, desire clenching your tummy.
He pulls back a bit, just as lost as you it seems, but only a moment – then it’s a little smirk and a raised brow. “Mmm. That's how you kiss.”
“Not in front of people you don't,” you stare up at him, dazed, seeing a blush form on his own cheeks. “You wanna have your tongue in my throat in front of them?”
“What!? No… I was showing you for… later.”
“Later.”
“Mmm,” he brushes the air next to your cheek before he gets up quickly, clearing his throat. “I need um… a shower.”
“Right, go ahead,” he darts to the bathroom, leaving your legs trembling, your lips tingling from him. Just what was that!?
****
“So, when did you two know you were in love?” Satoru almost spits out his drink the same time you do, simultaneously panicking and looking at each other.
“We didn’t figure out a story!” You whisper in his ear, trying to look like you’re being loving, a hand on his thigh driving him to insanity.
“Well, she confessed her love to me,” you scowl, Satoru holds your hand with a devious grin, keeping it on a well muscled thigh that’s fucking your sense. “She told me she’d loved me since… let’s see, kindergarten!”
“Called that,” your sister says, snuggling up to her fiance while she sips on champagne. “She said you were - the cutest boy she ever- hey!?”
“That’s quite enough,” you mumble, launching a little garlic knot at her head, Satoru’s snickering and it’s hard to pretend you don’t wanna punch him. “So yeah, kindergarten, but he’s the one who confessed first.”
“I did?” You stomp his foot, he hisses and scowls. “Oh yeah, I did… I told her I love how mean she is.”
“That’s an odd love confession,” your mom says, looking between you both with an amused expression. Satoru kicks you back under the table and you yelp. “Are you two… good?”
“So good mom! Aren’t we Toru?” You nuzzle his cheek but that little act makes his heart race, his stomach tense from just how good it feels. “Answer.”
Your whisper reminds him of the goal here, he smiles and turns then, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, and the two of you freeze. You’d practiced in the room, he was curious if it was the nerves of the first time together, but nothing felt like that, like the sweetness of your lips under his, eyes looking right at him in shock when he wraps an arm around you.
“Aw!” They’re all cooing over you both, Satoru pulls back and you both fail to compose yourselves for just a moment, before Satoru grins.
“We are good, aren’t we pookie?” He murmurs, you shake yourself out of it, remembering what you’re doing here.
“Yes, for sure. When is the rehearsal dinner?” You ask, looking at your sister now, who launches a garlic knot back at you. “Hey!”
“You started it,” you both stick your tongues out at each other. Satoru snatches the flung knot and pops it in his mouth, sighing.
“Yummy.”
You giggle at that, but he licks the buttery garlic off his lips and fucks up your head instead. You’re trembling just a bit at his tongue rushing across his lips, yeah it affected you before – you’ve had it bad for Satoru for a long time, but now it was even worse than before.
“Want a bite, little shnookums?” Satoru teases, forking the spaghetti and swirling it around. You go to say no when he raises his brows.
“Oh, of course pookiekins!” He snorts just a bit in laughter, but when your lips wrap it and you take it in your mouth?
Fuck.
You have just a little sauce on the corner of your lips – Satoru wipes it without thinking, making your eyes dart up to his contact. “You’re messy, sugar shnookums.”
“Thank you, pookie bear.” You murmur teasingly, ignoring how good his fingers feel on your face.
“Oh you two are disgustingly in love,” your sister makes a face, Satoru just feeds you another fork full. “When are you gonna pop the question?”
“It’s new!?” You say in between bites – at this point Satoru is feeding you. Your aunt and uncle start going on and on about how much they love him – who doesn’t love Satoru?
The plan is working perfectly, they aren’t bothering you about dating someone, and they buy the friends to lovers story easily. Overall, it’s already a big success, which Satoru can’t help but gloat about when you step into the room, wearing your pajamas, which are just a shirt of Satoru’s you stole and a little pair of shorts.
He pauses as you step out of that bathroom, running a brush through your hair, the lights soft from behind you, making your skin look that much prettier, every inch revealed where that shirt hits mid thigh glowing. Your nipples are pressed against the thin, soft material, he struggles to rip his eyes off them.
You can’t get your eyes off him either, just wearing a pair of sweats with little digimon all over them and nothing else - chest bare. You’re used to that, his chiseled frame and narrow torso, however right now it makes you press your thighs together just a bit, tension so thick in the air it’s hard to even breathe.
Act normal.
This isn’t real.
“You stole my shirt?” He breaks that silence, raising a thin brow at you, you manage an eye roll, heading over to the bed and lifting the cover.
“Of course I did,” it makes you feel close to him, god it smells like him. “I love your bougie ass shirts, so comfy.”
“Tch,” you giggle, looking far too cute when you snuggle, and Satoru hesitates just a bit. “You want me to sleep on the ground?”
“No, no that’d be so rude, we can share right?” He eyes the bed again, sighing at how narrow it is.
He’d be pressed against you if he turned one wrong way.
Satoru slips in under the blankets next to you, laying on his back, studying your face carefully before flicking off the lamp on the bedside. “Think they bought it?”
You look at him, yawning a bit. “I do, pookiekins.”
Satoru snorts in laughter, ruffling your hair annoyingly, you smack at his hand and sit up a bit. “What’s the plan when you have to tell them the truth?”
You frown a bit then, brows drawing together. “I haven’t thought that far, I hope it won’t hurt them…”
“Can’t pretend forever, y’know,” you nod a bit, turning back to your side now, ass damn near touching him, making his heart thrum in his chest. “We can just tell them we’d rather stay friends?”
“We could,” your fingers trace the sheets in front of you, contemplative while the soft cotton runs under your fingers. “Don’t worry I won’t make you keep doing this or anything, I know it’s already annoying.”
“It’s…” not annoying. “I actually…” love this too much. “It’s not a big deal, you’d do the same for me.”
You look back with a pretty little smile – almost a sad one, making him contemplate that expression far too much. “Of course I’d be your fake girlfriend.”
“Aww, we’re bonding,” he rests on his side, grinning at you, making something in your heart flip before you turn back around. “What if I kick you off the bed by accident?”
“Psh, wouldn’t be an accident, you’re evil,” Satoru chuckles, feigning an ease he no longer feels, when your shoulders gently move up and down, falling asleep quickly. “Night Toru.”
“G’night…”
He slips the covers over your shoulders as you fade out.
One bed.
You’re both sleeping in the same bed.
Satoru can inhale your scent, feel the heat of your body when you're so close, hear your light little snore, and everything in him aches to tug you closer, to feel you against him. How would it feel to hold you in his arms? It’s like you belong there, truly, he can’t imagine how you’re not then, how he restraints himself.
Life moved on for you both, once inseparable, but you both always made time for each other, whereas when he’s had break ups, it was done for good. Satoru can’t risk losing you just because he can’t hold back anymore, he has to remember you just wanted to get your parents off your back, and that the kisses were just for show.
Everything changed when your lips met.
His fingers hover just a couple inches away from where the blanket covers your skin, tracing the curve of your hip, where he'd love to tug you against him, wrap his arm, before he lets it fall and turns to face the other side.
It's impossible to fall asleep next to you and not hold you.
*****
You wake up with Satoru Gojo’s heavy arm and thigh wrapped around you like a monkey, trapping you down with his heavy weight. You wriggle just a bit, blinking sleep out of your eyes while soft light filters in through the slots of the blinds.
Turning, you see his Adam's apple, his chin, pulling back to look up at him, far too pretty to exist. His snowy lashes are long and lush, the sharp plane of his jaw illuminated by the sun, his plump lips just the tiniest bit parted. He shifts just a bit when you try to disentangle yourself, a hand pressing on your lower tummy and tugging you against him.
That’s then his thigh comes between yours, and the hard muscles press against your cunt, you gasp and wriggle again, only enhancing how fucking good he feels. Satoru murmurs your name softly, you worry he’s awake - but he’s still knocked out, while you’re drooling down his bare skin.
Fuck.
You push at his big ass arms, ignoring how good those biceps feel underneath your fingertips, but Satoru just increases how tightly he’s squeezing you, burying his face against your neck like you’re a body pillow. You’d laugh if you weren’t stupidly wet against your best friend in the world.
“Satoru, wake up,” you manage to murmur, despite him squeezing you so tightly you can’t breathe damn near. You take several breaths, shutting your eyes and trying to ignore how good it feels here. This was your idea – to fake date, to put yourself in a position like this, acting as if your feelings were gone.
They’re clearly more prevalent than ever.
He shifts once more, his scent enwrapping you just like his long limbs do, steady thrum of his heart and his deep breaths against your back moving ever so slowly, pressing his thigh higher. At this point it feels so good you can’t help but flutter your eyes shut, just stuck with him, biting your lip to try to hold back a filthy little moan when your slit drags against him.
Fuck, stop moving!
“Hmm,” he’s humming in his sleep, hand slipping up now until one grips your breast. “So soft.”
“Satoru!” You smack at his hand, hissing damn near when he squishes it in his grip, just making you wetter. “Get off!”
Satoru finally stirs away, realizing just how compromised your position was, blinking sleep out of his eyes and leaning up, feeling your soft breast in his hand, your heat against his thigh. He’s already throbbing just waking up, but then he feels you dripping against him? He sucks in a breath, frozen behind you, hand no longer gripping but not moving.
“Shit,” he grumbles, pulling his hand off reluctantly, ignoring the fact that your nipple grazed his palm like it did. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re suffocating me,” you shove his arm off you, but his leg stays, and you heat up when you realize how wet you got, embarrassingly so and there was no denying it. “I um… you’re… it’s…”
“Natural,” he murmurs softly, sleep making his voice raspy, making the situation a million times worse between your thighs. “I must have just wrapped around you, I usually hug like three pillows.”
“Yeah,” you can’t say anything else, his hand hovers over your hip, not touching but sitting there. He pulls back a bit, eliciting a whimper from your throat before you can stop yourself, covering your mouth and shutting your eyes. “Let the earth fucking swallow me now.”
He laughs just a bit, hand finally settling on your thigh, pressing it up against his hard muscles again, pressing right up between your folds. You look back at him with a glare, his smirk widening. “Need some help?”
“I swear I’ll beat you,” your lashes flutter when he moves again. “I didn’t make fun of you yesterday.”
“You were wet then too,” you glare now, just looking far too pretty. “Do you need me to take care of you?”
“Take care of… you’re Satoru and… fuck stop that!” You’re whining out again, slamming a hand on your mouth again, when his hand drags you on your thigh. “This is mortifying.”
“Been a while?” He’s acting like he’s not dying, leaking so much pre his shorts are stuck to him, an easy grin on his face.
“You’re a dick,” you sigh, burying your face in your hand now. “Your fake boyfriend skills do not need to extend to this.”
“I see, you don’t need any help at all,” he brushes his thigh up again, pushing down on your hip so you’re grinding on him now, you’re trembling, wanting to punch him as much as you want to hump his leg. “You could use me while I’m here.”
“Use you?” You look back at him, shifting your hips and watching his pupils widen, the only sign he’s affected at all.
“Mmm, could be a perk of the fake dating.”
“Fake orgasms?” You tease, then he leans low, lips almost brushing yours. Your heart hammers in your chest, you know he’s teasing you, but it’s impossible to maintain any calm right now.
“No, they’d be very real,” Satoru’s fingers slip up a bare thigh under the blanket that’s all askew and half kicked off, keeping that smirk on even though if he touches your pussy he’ll probably just cum. “I can show you how and everything, what are friends for?”
“You think I don’t masturbate because I’m a virgin?” It’s his turn to barely be able to form a sentence. “Just because no one has gotten me off doesn’t mean I don’t.”
“Ah,” the thought of you touching your pretty pussy is enough to make him bust and leak out all over that ass nestled against him. “So you’re good then, no need for my best friend services?”
“You joke too much!” You turn and shove him, until he flops off the bed, scowling up at you, you just giggle, trying to forget the fact that you humped his leg damn near. “Stop playing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he stays on the floor, just leaned back on his hands, legs crossed at the ankles, studying you, suddenly quiet.
“What is it?”
Satoru opens his lips, then shuts them, then opens again. “It’s just that… I didn’t agree to this for-”
“Who’s ready for a shopping trip!?” Your sister annoyingly bangs on the door, you roll your eyes and shake your head, getting up and walking over to open it before looking over at Gojo.
“What was it, Toru?” You ask softly, he stands then, looking far too good when you study his muscled back, making you ache in ways you can’t admit.
Satoru was going to tell you he didn’t agree to this for ‘merch’ or just because you two were best friends.
He wants more, he wants this to be real. Fitting in with your family like a glove, feeling loved from you and them, the closeness you two share that leaves a void any time he ever tries to date. What you don’t realize is he has been dying to get the courage to ask you out, but he’s always hit one road block.
Losing this forever.
Best friends can get through anything, but relationships scatter, they fall apart – they drift away, and he can’t imagine not having you near.
“What is it?” You’re smiling curiously, but he just shakes his head.
“It’s nothing,” he pats your head with a sad little smile, making the inner workings of your brain fire off in a myriad of signals. “Better get that.”
“Right,” your sister soon drags you out to shop, bombarding you about Satoru while he relaxes at home with your parents.
“Should we get lingerie?”
“Oh god,” you’re grumbling when you two pass a lingerie store, the mannequins up front wearing the most delicate lace that covers nothing. “No way.”
“Don’t you two…” You’re a flustered mess, your sister’s brows raising. “You’re not fucking yet?”
“Shut up!?” You cover her mouth, embarrassingly looking around to see who is within ear shot, she’s laughing against your palm.
“He must be a gentleman, well I’ll get you the sluttiest-”
“We’re here for you, not me, I already have my dress.”
“I’m the bride,” you roll your eyes at her. “What I say goes. Ooh! That screams - fuck me daddy.”
“I’m so done with you,” you’re laughing though, your sister is anything if not a fucking trip, younger and more experienced, a free bird truly. “Fine, one outfit.”
“Yay!”
*****
“Make a toast!” Everyone is urging you that afternoon at the rehearsal dinner. As the maid of honor you absolutely had to do just that, prepare the first toast.
You look over at Satoru, who’s sipping on champagne while you all sit around the banquet table, his Adam's apple bobs with his swallowing of the bubbly, fruity concoction. You smile at him, earning his little wink that just didn’t feel fake at all, a hand squeezing above your knee gently.
How could you separate what’s for show, what’s friendship, and what could be…
More?
Shaking that off, you focus on the bride and groom to be instead, who are both nuzzling each other’s noses. They’re sickeningly cute, naturally doing the things you and Satoru are pretending to, the longing fills you then and you despise it. You should be happy for her, not envious because you’re scared you’ll ever get that.
Not when Satoru exists.
“I’d like to toast to our soon to be newlyweds. To the two lovebirds, who have shown us all what it means to love someone unconditionally, and who have had the nerve to make it look easy,” your sister gets a little teared up then. “I don’t know how you deal with her crazy ass – but you do it well.”
“Hey!” They’re all laughing a bit, you smile over at her.
“I love you, and I love to see your relationship blossom,” a little more serious again, everyone settles in. “You both make me want that love.”
Satoru’s heart hammers in his chest while he watches you, in that pretty pink dress you’re wearing, the same shade as the blossoms decorated along the white tablecloth. You’re soft like this, usually so feisty and cracking jokes – this is a more serious side of you, the side that’s always pulled him in and intrigued him.
He’s avidly listening to every word that lingers from your lips, lost in how much he wishes they were for him, about him. He puts on a perfunctory laugh when he has to, mingling in with your family, trying to ignore how perfect and easy it all feels, but everything was easy with you, it always had been.
It was terrifying, how easy it was to hold you in his arms.
“How’d I do?” You whisper, leaning close – too close.
He gives you that easy grin, leaning over to press a kiss on your cheek, feeling it warm under his lips. “You did great sugar plum.”
You snort at the nickname, but all you can think is one thing –
You should have taken him up on his offer.
Soon the dance instructor is guiding all of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, along with your sister and her groom, but they of course set their sights right on you and Satoru. You could swear your sister was part demon – how could she at one moment shove you both together, then the other quite literally cockblock, you’ll never know.
“Dance you two,” your sister practically shoves you and Satoru to the wide space in the banquet hall, and the instructor steps up. “They don’t know how to dance, can you give them the basics?”
“Says who!?” You and Satoru demand at the same time, she snickers a bit.
“Says me seeing you two awkwardly shuffle every school dance.” You and Satoru flush then, he clears his throat a bit when the dancer takes his hand.
“One on her waist,” he murmurs, all seductive with some french accent that makes this all the more intimate. “And one on her hand, like this. Ah, so romantic!”
Satoru looks at your entwined fingers for a moment, how his hand swallows yours with his long, thick fingers, before he looks down into your eyes, seeing how dark they’ve gotten. Your heart races so quickly he can feel it when the instructor presses you both close together, his fingers squeezing your waist just a bit, feeling your skin burning underneath your dress.
“Ah, that is young love,” he blinks back tears, you’re so embarrassed then, even emotional when your mom is almost crying. You start to feel terrible for this little game, knowing it will hurt them.
You were so selfish, dragging Satoru in this too, who’s looking at you with those blue eyes that you could never figure out the shade of, holding your hand in his while pressing you against his firm, hard frame. You’re hardly able to form a word or a typical joke you two usually share, not like this, not when you believe this dance instructor’s flowery words.
Love.
You’ve loved Satoru for so long in so many ways, as a friend, as damn near family, as a confidant. Yet the love keeps changing, shifting and just growing with every moment you exist next to him, drinking up every bit of what Satoru Gojo had to offer – which was so much, too much.
Over the years watching him date, you tried your best to remain detached, and he never let your friendship go. You have been a priority to him since you both made friends on that playground back in first grade, he makes you feel so…
Special, seen, heard.
Even when he’s joking, teasing or annoying you, he’s been there to hold you when you cry, to distract you from your low times, whether he helped you study or he just sat there next to you in the quiet. Yet he never crossed the line, never even touched you like he has this week, in your little game that feels too perfect, making you realize that you’ll never have this with someone.
How could you feel this, the length of time you’ve known each other, the comfortability even as you’re physically on edge. The familiarity when he spins you on the floor tentatively, you misstep just a bit, yet he catches you with ease. He always has caught you in your clumsy bouts, usually teasing or making fun, but when his arm wraps your waist?
He’s too stunned to think.
You already look too pretty in that dress, you’re so serious tonight – not the goofy girl he usually spends his days with. That flush that spreads across your cheeks and nose, the lights dancing across your bare skin in that dress, he avoids looking too fucking long at it, at the pretty necklace resting between your collarbones.
He wants to trail his lips across them – then lower, to the pretty breasts he had in his hand this morning, the mere memory almost makes him misstep, narrowly catching himself beforehand. You look up at him as if you’ll say something, the eyes of the entire rehearsal dinner on you, before you look back down at his chest, worrying your lower lip with your teeth.
“Am I a good partner, sugar bear?” He teases, lightening the mood then, you sigh and plaster on a smile and a nod, but it feels fake.
This is fake.
Why are you so absorbed, so lost in the cerulean depths that look down at you, twinkling just a bit with playfulness, yet when they briefly sweep down across your chest, you heat up under their gaze. Satoru spins you as instructed, bringing your back against him, hands joined while you look at each other, ending the dance.
Everyone is clapping, earning the slight embarrassment of the two of you, but it’s worse when your mom pulls you aside, hugging you tightly. “I’m so happy for you, to see you both so in love.”
Ouch.
You’re gonna hurt her.
You’re gonna hurt yourself.
You and Satoru sit through the rest of that dinner with ease, his arm casually thrown over your chair, leaning close to pull off the roll that will be done soon. You don’t want this to end, the way he treats you, looks at you – as if he truly does feel the way he’s merely pretending to.
“Everything all right?” You look at him then, concern on his features. At your little nod his lips press together, eyes narrowing. “No you’re not.”
He knows you too fucking well.
“I’m good, promise!” You put a hand on his thigh and squeeze just a bit, smiling brightly up at him.
He doesn’t buy it of course.
*****
Later that night back at home your family is still enjoying drinks and talking, you two are thoroughly exhausted. Satoru is setting up blankets and pillows on the floor, you guiltily sit in the bed, tugging the covers up to cover your chest and sitting up. It’s probably fucking better he does lay on the floor for your own sanity, yet you can’t stand the thought of not enjoying him in your bed for this short amount of time.
“Satoru, I can take the floor.”
“No way I let you do that,” he looks up at you, shirtless and wearing his pajama pants only, the way that makes you ache. “I clearly in my sleep grab your tits and cling like a monkey.”
“Yes you do,” you laugh a bit, and so does he, self deprecating as always, then a quietness settles in the room. “We could put a pillow between us?”
“I’ll probably still attack,” he’s teasing, eyes glittering with humor. “Should probably keep me on the floor.
You want him in bed.
You want him to ‘help’ you, as he called it just this morning, taunting and teasing you until you almost begged him. Yet you can’t just blurt that out – what part had been kidding, and what was serious? What crossed the line with the two of you anymore, could things just be at some ‘friendship’ level truly? Or would it just ruin everything to have a taste of him?
“Is it because I was so wet?” The word almost makes him whimper, eyeing you with those baby blues gone round.
“Is it… huh!?”
You press your legs together, looking away nervously. “Wet, I was soaking wet on you this morning.”
He swallows then – as if he needed a fucking reminder, as if he didn’t desperately run his finger down his own thigh and lap your juices clean off it the moment he was away. Sucking it so desperately and pathetically it was damn near laughable, just how badly he wanted you.
Why do you have to look so pretty on that damn bed?
“No, no that didn’t bother me at all,” he rubs the back of his neck, cursing the way you make him feel like that nerdy little boy he was the first time he ever tried to kiss you, way back during junior prom. The sweaty palms, the shaky hands, the awkward shifting of his feet. “I promise.”
You exhale, shutting your eyes. “I am making things all so weird.”
“You’re not,” you cover your face then, wincing a little bit at yourself. “Hey, promise you aren’t.”
The bed sinks underneath his weight, Satoru sits next to you – brushing your hair back softly, before grabbing your wrists and lowering your hands, making you meet his gaze. It’s quiet, so quiet you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, the gentle sound of his breathing mingling with your own.
“Your offer to help, is that off the table?” Satoru almost cums at the mere thought of touching you, but he’s so in shock he just stares, mouth wide open, until you feel so embarrassed. “Shit, forget I said that…”
“What do you need help with?” His voice is hoarse, just a bit scratchy, he clears his throat, still holding your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles.
“Won’t it make it awkward, weird? I don’t want to fuck our friendship up, ever Satoru. It’s important to me.”
He cups your face gently. “Tell me what you want,” his raspy command almost destroys your resolve. “I’ll give you it.
You almost say – ‘fuck me please’ – Almost.
“Some relief you have so graciously offered,” you tease him a little, hand slipping up and down his chest. “I could return it.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He’s staring at your mouth now, picturing it wrapping his cock for a moment, then he pictures busting inside your mouth in one fucking second. He quickly shoves that idea out the window, he damn sure wasn’t gonna waste the moment he’s been waiting for since high school being embarrassed.
Your lips would feel so good. He shakes that off, pushing your back down on the bed and spreading your thighs before you can think. You gasp, his arms on either side of you, silky white locks falling over a brow, so close you feel his heart thrumming against your breasts, feel his heavy weight, touch burning your thighs, fingers pressing in.
“Satoru?” You manage a whisper, his hands slip up under his own shirt you stole, biting back a gasp when he realizes.
“Nothing under this?” You flush, looking down now. “Look at me.”
Fuck.
You just follow what he says when he’s like this, all the years of sweet nerdy best friend Satoru culminate in the man before you – still every bit Satoru Gojo – but this side of him you have never seen. A side you imagined so often, but nothing even prepared you for his fingers gliding up your thighs, causing them to tremble, slick dripping from your cunt from just the proximity.
“I’ll never not be here for you,” he whispers softly, as if sensing your every fear. “If you want to have a little experience with me, I’ll gladly give it and expect nothing in return.”
Your throat goes dry. “But why?”
“Why?” He reveals your cunt then, bare and glistening for his view, failing to control his hands from gripping you so tight you wince, from exhaling at how pretty it is. “Fuck… why what?”
“Why would you?”
“Hah, why would I?” He doesn’t even know where to begin to answer your nonsense.
“You’re looking at it!”
He laughs softly, nodding then, eyes affixed to how pretty your pussy is, touch trailing along your inner thigh, at the apex of it. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
Your eyes are locked, his fingers grazing little trails up and down smooth skin, until he almost touches your core, teasing but not fully, making you throb with need. “Then tell me what you want me to do.”
“Make me cum – oh my god I just said that! Out loud!?” You cover your mouth and he almost bursts into laughter, even as he’s pressing his cock against the bed for friction, at how cute you are, instead his lips quirk up.
“Shh, want your parents to know I’ve got you spread wide?” His words are too much, the way he says them, the way he moves lower, so low you tug at his hair. “Do you not want that?”
“You’re… down there… and…”
“It’s so pretty.”
You ease a bit at those words, eyes shutting in relief, Satoru sees the tension ease just a bit. “It is?”
“God, yes.”
You swallow nervously, breaths coming in little pants. “We will always be in each other’s lives, this won’t fuck it all up, will it?”
Satoru kisses your thigh then, tongue flicking up to lap up a little of the slick that’s dripped down, a sensual mark of his saliva glittering when he pulls back. “I’d never let you out of my life. You think I’d not be your friend?”
“Just can’t lose you,” you whisper, before moaning softly, the sound so sensual Satoru almost can’t handle it. “I thought you could um… finger me?”
“I can do that too,” he kisses even higher, breathy moans escaping his lips. “But I am very, very fucking good at this.”
“The best at everything, hmm?” You manage to tease, acting like his nose brushing up your folds wasn’t almost enough to end you, your fingers gripping the sheets underneath you.
“I am the best at everything, it’s true,” he smiles all devious and cute, while your hands slip up his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense underneath your touch. “Wouldn’t I be the best friend in the world if you came on my mouth?”
Your own mouth goes dry, your answer lifting and spreading your thighs for him, he inhales your scent still looking at you. “I want you to, please.”
Satoru uses this as the permission to do something he’s been dying to for as long as he’s known what it is – to lick your pussy, the prettiest one, the yummiest one, a stripe straight up your slit. He maintains eye contact, you’re struggling to keep them open, his tongue soaking up the juices that start pouring then, until the tip of his tongue flicks your little clit.
“Ah!” He shushes you with a little shh that tickles you more, your teeth grip your lip, watching your best friend start lapping at your cunt. “Oh my god…”
“Mmm,” Satoru’s tongue is filthy as it runs up and down your slit, collecting every drop like it’s precious – and it is to him. The taste of you on his thigh hadn’t come close to this, to just how sweet you were going down his throat. He eyes you, parting your folds, watching your face screw up in pleasure, brows drawing together.
Best friends just don’t eat pussy like this.
He’s fucking you with that tongue, nose bumping your clit that’s aching for more, twitching in response, and you know this is so dumb, you know there’s no coming back from having those blue eyes look at you like that. Signing your death sentence – your cat lady sentence – with three more flicks, until the wet muscle is gripped by your gummy walls.
“Satoru,” you’re whispering out his name, struggling to hold back all the moans that threaten, instead releasing them in little shaky spurts under your breath. Your core is tightening with every fuck of his tongue, gasps escaping your lips when he shoves your thighs up, smiling down at you for a moment.
“Hold ‘em up f’me.”
You’re so exposed, holding your thighs as he orders, opening up even more for him, he moans at the sight, pressing messy kisses to your clit now, over and over in little circles, causing your hips to jerk. He smacks your cunt, looking down at you under those snowy lashes, lips coated in your gloss.
“Stay still,” he swirls two fingers in that arousal that’s pouring, running them up and down your slit ever so slowly, inching them and stretching you out. “Fuck, you’re so tight…”
“Mnh…” You are gripping him too much, he eases his fingers out with a wet sound that echoes, spreading you wide again and spitting right on your cunt, using that to sink his fingers back in.
“Better?” He murmurs, you nod quickly, eyes rolling back in your skull. Fingers pressing up on that soft spot over and over, earning your weak little mewl as a response, he smirks down at you. “That’s a yes, I take it.”
You nod again, words escape you, how can you talk when he’s flicking his tongue over your clit and moaning against your skin?
He’s so focused, so intense, his blue eyes never leaving yours, even as his mouth works you over with a hunger you never knew he had, one he’s just held back. You’re mad anyone ever got this. Stupid thoughts, selfish and greedy, your fingers now entangling and tugging at his hair, just making his moans vibrate on your little clit again, sending jolts of pleasure up your body.
Satoru’s thick fingers slide in and out with greater ease despite how fucking long they are, curling inside you, pressing that spot that makes you want to scream out – barely muffling it with teeth that are sinking into your lower lip. His tongue is relentless, swirling around your clit, then flattening to give it a firm lick that almost undoes you completely.
“Taste so good, fuck,” he whispers then he fucking just dives back down.
The ecstasy makes you weak while the pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, your thighs start to tremble while you hold them up and he adds a third finger, stretching you even more, filling you up until you can’t take it anymore. You arch your back, your hands tightening their grip on your thighs as you open more for him, gasping out.
“You’re close, huh sweetheart?” The way that word feels, the way he’s watching you, fingers still pumping in and out.
“Please, Toru,” Satoru almost cums at that little plea, so sweet and pliant, holding your thighs up like a good girl. He presses a kiss on one of them, rutting his cock against the mattress for any pressure.
“Mmm, then cum for me.”
Like some obeyed command it hits, your pussy clamps down on his fingers, pulsing around them as you ride it out, screaming into your palm, white hot stars behind your eyelids. You’re barely able to contain those pornographic little moans, so sensitive you’re jerking when he pulls those fingers out.
He doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and suck you hungrily, desperately, drawing out every last bit of your climax until you’re a writhing mess, twitching underneath him, clinging to his hair to pull him off. Satoru’s so drunk off your taste, your scent - you.
He almost can’t unlatch his mouth until he realizes how overstimulated you are, your aftershocks die down but he slips a finger back in just to feel you pulse, moaning softly before he finally slips it back out, plush lips giving your clit one last gentle kiss before sitting back and sliding up.
“So, how amazing am I, hmm?” He drags out those words, chin coated in your slick, you swipe some of it off just for him to nip at your thumb.
“Fuck… you are amazing at it,” you earn his dopey grin, he licks the rest of you off his lips, making you flush. “Don’t get so cocky.”
“I knew you’d admit it,” he eases your shirt down, your fingers trail across his abdomen, watching the muscles tense, tentatively touching him. He grips your wrist then, shaking his head. “You don’t have to do all that.”
“Don’t you want me to?” You ask curiously, his gaze zones in on your mouth again, picturing just brushing his tip on it and cumming.
“In what world wouldn’t I? But I don’t want to overwhelm you, you’re a cute little virgin you know,” he taps your nose, chuckling at your glare. “Pussy is perfect, in case you ever worry.”
“Oh,” you snuggle up to him while he wraps an arm around you. “Thank you, that was insane…”
“I’m at your service.”
“More figures incoming.”
He chuckles, hugging you tightly, you feel so good in his embrace, as you both feign an ease you don’t feel. “Are you all right with what happened?”
“Yes, very,” you look back and smile sleepily. “Are you?”
“Mmhmm,” he can’t very well say he’d die to be inside you, he doesn’t want to push this too far, unsure of where you all stand. “I’ll miss this weekend.”
It’s quiet, save for your breaths.
You shift a bit, hand running up and down his veiny forearm, tracing a few of them, hearing the hitch in his rhythm. “I’ll miss it too.”
Satoru just holds you tightly, inhaling your scent in his lungs and sighing. “Are you excited for the wedding?”
“Very, they’re so happy, you know?” You yawn a bit, it’s too comfy here, so comfy you wonder if you’ll ever sleep good again, knowing he’s here.
“They are,” he leaves it quiet, scared and unsure what to say, aside from murmuring - “Good night.”
“Night, Toru.”
Satoru can hardly sleep, remembering the way you felt underneath him, it takes a while to let himself drift, when he knows that he won’t get you in his arms again, and he just wants to savor every moment. You’re lightly snoring, turning to face him, slinging an arm around his waist, your cheek against his chest.
He just holds you close, studying a face too precious, wishing he wasn’t so afraid to just admit what he feels.
*****
You woke up in Satoru’s arms again this morning, and it felt far, far too good to be there.
You’re not even sure where you stand with him, exactly what last night was for you both, but you know it wasn’t normal to feel that way. It went beyond any pleasure or skill, the way you fucking felt when that man looked at you was inexplicable. Not just a product of beautiful eyes, no there was something in the way you felt last night that’s lingering.
You heat up with the memory even now, you’re both at your sister’s reception – the game is almost over, the show is almost done. You’re struggling to keep it together when you watch your sister dance with your dad, when you watch your new brother in law dance with your mom, then with each other.
Love.
You love your best friend, Satoru Gojo, and you knew going into this how bad it would hurt, yet you set yourself up like a glutton for punishment. This morning he’d smiled so sweet, teasing you and joking before you all were basically summoned with the sheer insane amount of things that had to be done before this wedding began.
It was too perfect being held by him, as much as you loved him licking you, you loved him holding you, grinning against your skin. He was in full ‘fake boyfriend’ mode, full best friend mode, just being Satoru Gojo, the boy you’ve always known. Yet now there was more shared between you both, more than you can even comprehend and it fucking scares you.
A boy from your childhood strikes up a conversation while many of your old friends go talk to Gojo, a part of growing up together meant you both knew almost everyone here. The boy asks you to dance, holding out his hand then, you hesitate though, looking over at Gojo, who’s watching you while he sips on his drink.
What were you two?
You’re overthinking it, maybe it was just fun for him, maybe it was curiosity that had him worshipping you like that. You eye his glossy lips across the elegant ballroom, him in this sleek black suit looking far too handsome, so handsome he takes your fucking breath away.
You can’t do this.
You can’t stand to see a girl’s hand on his shoulder, something you’ve seen plenty of times before, but now it was different. Now it didn’t feel okay, it didn’t feel right, and you know it’s foolish. You smile and let the boy lead you out, trying to remember that this was all ending tomorrow night, and would just be a memory.
Satoru can’t stand to see you in someone’s arms.
He almost crushes the glass in his hand before he sets it down, catching your gaze when the boy is stumbling damn near, probably due to how pretty you are. And god you’re beautiful under these lights, glimmering off your hair that’s all done up, the dress molding to your body in soft, shimmery satin, making him want to fucking rip it off you then and there.
Last night meant too much – was it just experimental for you, just that you trusted him to be your first in that way, comfortability? He was overthinking it, he knows that when he is dancing right across from you, hand on a waist he doesn’t want, other hand entwined with a hand that’s not yours.
It fucking hurts.
He got a taste of what could be his, and he’ll play it off like it’s fine, like you two are just the best friends in the world and he wasn’t hopelessly in love.
You look up at your sister dancing, she’s getting bent over her new husband’s arm, giggling and waving at you. You smile at her, wanting to feel more joy and not this envy, before your eyes lock back to Gojo’s seeing him spin her in his arms. You don’t expect it to hurt like it does in that moment, to see his arm around someone else’s waist.
He’s looking at you over her shoulder, blue eyes lowering just a bit.
Your heart shatters.
Your mom comes up to you, smiling and cupping your face then, “I feel soon we will be planning your wedding.”
You pause, mouth opening then shutting, tears burning the back of your eyes, when you realize you’ll have to hurt her. You’ll have to hurt them all, because you’re so fucking selfish, and mostly you’ve hurt yourself. Getting a taste of what it would mean to have the boy you’ve loved for as long as you can remember, being greedy with all of those tastes.
Satoru would move on from this, live his life, but you’re not sure you can, how do you get over him, over his touches, his kisses? How he held you, how he looked down into your eyes? Even now, he’s watching you, like he’d rather dance with you in his arms – utter nonsense in your fucking head.
You’re mistaking it all.
“Honey, are you crying?” Your mom frowns, brushing her fingers up and down your cheek, and you realize you are.
“The wedding, it got me so emotional, um…” You’re lying through your fucking teeth right now. “Can I have some air?”
“Of course,” she looks at you concerned when you run out. Satoru excuses himself and rushes to her curiously. “I think this wedding is making her a little emotional, Satoru.”
“Yeah, I’ll go check on her, okay?” He touches her shoulder affectionately, she nods and he rushes out, seeing it’s drizzling out – looking at your retreating form in that frilly pink dress just standing against the lit gazebo, head resting on one of the wooden pillars. “You’re gonna get sick out here, it’s gonna downpour soon.”
“I’m fine,” your voice is weak and hoarse, and Satoru swallows down the pain he feels when you look at him. “Go have fun, this is almost over, you don’t have to ruin opportunities.”
“Ruin what now?” His teeth clench together, the rain spattering gently over the two of you, dripping down his hair as it pummels you. “You danced with someone too.”
“Yeah, I did, that’s what we should do. Right?” Satoru’s hands come to grip your shoulders, chilled from the night air, the lights from the gazebo dancing across your skin.
“Is it what we should do? Is it what you want?”
“It’s what you want.”
“You don’t even know what I want,” he presses your back against that wood pillar now, a hand against it braced, taking the pummeling rain on his dress coat to protect you, making you cry even more. “Was last night the only time?”
“Was it… you want to do it again?” You’re heated up, looking down shyly. “I thought you regretted it.”
“Regretted? Hah,” Satoru tilts your chin up now, making your eyes meet his, brushing a thumb over your lip. “All I regretted last night was not sinking my cock inside you.”
“Satoru…” You blink tears down your cheeks, a hand coming to his chest, he takes it and holds it close, while your body responds. “But it means too much, I can’t just do that as a… friend.”
“So be more,” he lifts you before you can blink, holding you with one arm around your hips like it’s nothing, carrying you up those steps. “And stop getting soaked, unless it’s from me touching you.”
“Fuck,” you grip his face, kissing him deeply, he sets you down, walking you back until the backs of your legs brush against the bench. “Toru…”
“I love you, okay?” Satoru’s voice is muffled by the pounding rain on the gazebo that shelters you both, droplets of water slipping down his skin, you’re sobbing then, so overwhelmed. “I have loved you.”
“I love you, so fucking much, it’s why I’ve never…” You trail off, he’s leaning down and cupping your face, studying you with eyes glassy with emotion. “There is no one for me when you exist.”
He kisses you deeply at that, you shiver as he slips your straps down, eyeing the pretty white lace and exhaling. “You’re wearing that underneath this?”
You say nothing, speechless as Satoru tugs your sopping wet dress down your chest, pulling out a pretty tit and moaning. You gasp out when he sits down, pulling you to straddle him, sucking one nipple hungrily in his mouth. Hands entangle in damp white locks, heat building, that heat that’s pressed against his thick cock, pressing so insistently.
“Wanna bury myself inside you,” he murmurs, looking drunk off you, sucking on the other nipple, his hands slipping across your hips. “I want her to know my shape only.”
“Satoru,” you kiss him again, he’s hastily slipping that dress up over your hips, sinking two fingers in with ease. “Ah!”
“Soaked,” he whispers in wonder, curling them up and looking up at you the way only he does. “Stop me before I fuck you the first time in this gazebo.”
“I don’t want to stop,” your whisper is met with a sharp whine, fingers curling in your messy hole. “Want more.”
“Want me to eat you out again?” He whispers, pumping those fingers while you hastily undo his zipper. “Fuck, you need more prep, don’t pull him out, I’ll fucking shove it so deep.”
“Good, do it,” he’s whimpering when you touch him, stroking your hand up and down, finding that pre and swirling your finger. “He’s so pretty.”
“Don’t praise me too,” he huffs, you manage a little giggle, and in that moment – you all are still best friends, every bit of the comfortability – but there’s more. So much more. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You would never,” he pulls out his fingers, sucking them and moaning out at your taste, before kissing you again.
“You wanna take me?”
You’re a flustered mess now, overheated and damp from the rain, chest rising and falling while lightning flashes all around you both. “The first time?”
“I’ll help you,” he grips his cock at the base, running that velvety tip against your soaking wet cunt, moaning. “You can take as much as you want of me this way, I won’t hurt you.”
You’re emotional again, how much he cares. You’re kissing him while tears fall, rocking against his tip while he whispers your name. “Ah!”
You’re barely taking the tip, stretching your cunt out so good, the burn something you’ve never felt. You pull back to look down at him, his hands are gripping your hips under your dress, thumbs pressing into your pelvis, the sweet ache and pressure building, he eases you up a bit, then down, sucking in a few inches of him, your head falls back, scream echoing quietly in the rain.
“You all right, sweetheart?” He kisses up your collarbone, cock wrapped by your tiny little cunt, already milking him.
“Need help getting… it in…” He exhales, lifting you again, pressing the tip back in, then further, this time it burns less – but the pressure. “So much… too much…”
“Relax baby,” he’s calling you baby. You blink rapidly, letting him guide you up again. “Sit down on it, take what’s yours.”
Your hands grip his shoulders, fingers grabbing the soaking wet material of his jacket, eyes locked while you take more, his gaze lidded and dilated. “That’s it, look how fucking pretty you are.”
You feel so pretty, working up and down again, whining out at how full you are, how deep he’s getting, cunt leaking more and more arousal to accomodate. You feel him everywhere, so deep in your tummy, he’s kissing your chest, your throat, lapping up the rain from your skin, whining out softly under his breath when you roll your hips.
“Is that good? I…”
“It’s perfect, god,” he guides you again, his lashes fluttering shut at the ecstasy of your cunt rocking up and down. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”
“Mnh!” You’re taking more, easier every time, your thighs tensing with each thrust, taking more and more until you bottom out, screaming.
“Fuck,” he rests his forehead on yours, hands slipping to grip your ass, a cheek in each of his big hands. “Can’t hold back.”
“Don’t.”
Satoru moans, kissing you again, pulling you towards his chest and leaning back on that bench, starting to fuck up into you now, slamming your cervix. He’s whispering your name while he’s got you stuffed, stretched out on his thick length, he’s just as lost in it as you are, whining out right with you against your lips. Hands pressing in bruisingly while he drags you down.
“Using you like my pretty toy, you like that baby?” He’s completely done for when your eyes get wide, lips parted while you whisper a little yes. “Feel her stretching out?”
“Y-yes,” you gasp again when Satoru slams you down hard. “Toru!”
“Hold on t’me,” you do just that, clinging to Satoru when he flips you to your back on the plush cushion of the bench, tie hovering over your skin so silky. You tug it, bringing his lips to yours. He lifts a leg, sinking back inside you, you’re taking me easier and easier, messy cunt opening for him. “Want you to cum, can you sweetheart?”
Your nod is his answer, he exhales, already close with how tight you are, trying to hold out so you can chase that high, because he wants to see it, wants to feel it. Satoru shoves in deep, rolling his hips just so, when the pressure is too much, fucking unbearable. You shatter underneath him, pleasure rolling over your body even more intense than his mouth had given you.
Violently shaking, you’re drunk off him like he is off you, kisses and mumbles, while his cock works you, wrecks you with every stroke, slower and more calculated, letting you ride that orgasm out. And fuck you’re beautiful underneath him, damp hair splayed, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, exposed breasts all littlered with marks from him.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers, kissing you again, softer strokes slowing down and feeling those aftershocks grip his cock. “Mnh, baby m’close.”
“Cum inside me,” he needs no further fucking invitation, Satoru does just that, whining out your name against your ear when he buries his face against your neck, shoving in deep. “Ngh!”
Cum coats those slick walls in white, so hot and so much, you can feel him pulsing and thickening, pouring more cum deep. You try to catch a breath, but his leaky cock and the warmth spilling from your sensitive cunt have to cumming again, a little smaller but more sensitive, gripping him tightly.
Satoru eases back, your name on his lips, running his fingertips across your cheek and sighing, cock still snug inside you. “I never pictured this, in all the ways I’ve imagined taking you over the years.”
“Oh, how many ways?” You tease, hand entangling in his damp locks, while he presses kisses along your jaw.
“I’ll show you them all on one condition,” you blink now, a little sleepy, the rain slowly dying down. “You’re not my ‘fake girlfriend’ anymore.”
“Real?”
“Real,” you blink back tears, kissing Satoru again, when he pulls out of you and moans at the loss, sighing and studying you. “I still want that merch though.”
“You’re such a jerk!” You shove at him, he’s laughing and the sound melts your heart, the boy you’ve always loved resting on top of you, soothing kisses like little apologies. “Fine, I’ll get you anything you want.”
“Right now, I just want to kiss you some more.” He does just that, and soon your ‘fake boyfriend’ becomes entirely real.
Thank the 25k of you SO MUCH again for always hyping my ass up and motivating me to put these out :') I rly love yall and hope you enjoyed this fluff hehe <3
SYNOPSIS ── The blue spring of their youths—and everything after it ends. Your story told from the perspective of your closest friend since childhood, Shoko Ieiri.
PAIRING. ── gojo satoru x reader
TAGS. canon jjk timeline, (or at least as accurate as possible) coming of age, sorcerer!reader, angst, fluff, slice of life, mutual pining, friends to lovers, nostalgia, hidden inventory timeline, the tokyo five plus you, emotional vulnerability, dreams and nightmares, missing scenes, domestic fluff, megumi and tsumiki / dad!gojo dynamic, we love and adore shoko ieiri on this blog
WARNINGS. ! manga spoilers ! depictions of grief & loss, canon typical violence (described but not in detail), use of cigarettes and smoking, character deaths
WORD COUNT. 13.2k
mae's note. my debut work !! thank u for all the support on 'of love & lesson plans', the first chapter will be out by tomorrow hehee but i wanted to share a project i've been working on for over a year now <3 i also PINKY PROMISE my other fics won't be this sad jsjdjskd but i love u all and i'm so sorry in advanced ... but likes and reposts are much loved mwah mwah mwah
inspired by ♪ from the subway train, vansire 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ── ao3 version. playlist. header art twt/@5booosa. dividers by @cafekitsune
The air in December tastes like endings, bitter like smoke and cold enough to hurt.
Shoko stands alone beneath the harsh fluorescent glow of a streetlamp, cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers, the embers burning quietly, steadily, a small star of comfort in between her fingertips. Snow falls in careless spirals, catching in her hair, dusting her eyelashes, melting against her skin.
She watches her breath leave her body, a faint cloud in the chill, and thinks about how strange it is—how terribly quiet the world becomes when there’s nothing left but memory.
She swears it wasn’t always this cold.
i. november, 1989
You were both born in early November, five days apart.
Shoko first—small, silent, blue around the lips. Her mother would later tell her she hadn’t cried, not even once. She just blinked up at the ceiling, like she’d already seen too much of the world. You had come days after—red-faced and furious, shrieking like you’d already been wronged.
Balance, their clanhead called it. One to make, one to unmake.
They grew up in a quiet prefecture, tucked between the mountains, where fog collected on windows in the morning and everything smelled like pine and old rain. Their family was not a traditional jujutsu clan—not in the way the Zenins or the Gojos were—but they still had blood that remembered power, blood that ran strangely cold.
Shoko discovered her technique early—reversed cursed energy, delicate and warm, the ability to stitch together what others could only destroy. It made her quiet, made her thoughtful, made her feel too responsible for things she didn’t understand. You, on the other hand, were all forward motion and fury, manifesting offensive cursed techniques with raw instinct and terrifying precision.
You burned. Shoko cooled. A soldier and a healer.
It wasn't rivalry. It wasn't even contrast, really. It was rhythm—two halves of a heart, orbiting each other, moving through childhood in tandem. You protected her from bullies, from curses, from the dark under the bed. Shoko bandaged your scraped knees, held your hair back with her small hands when you threw up after manifesting your cursed technique for the first time, whispered questions into your shoulder late at night about whether they’d ever be normal.
Neither of you wanted normal. Not really.
So when your mothers had suggested both of you for Jujutsu Tech—you didn’t hesitate. It is the slight chill that Spring of 2005 that Shoko remembers most. Fifteen years old, uniforms they’d taken customized to their liking just a month before—Shoko, with her wide turtleneck and midi skirt. You, in a well-tailored blazer, and much to your mother’s disapproval—a short skirt.
Even after the arguments and bickering, their mothers had cried. Their fathers had barely nodded at them. The train took them away to Tokyo with petals sticking to the window, and their only belongings in duffle bags at their feet. Shoko’s hands were cold where they held yours softly.
She was afraid. You weren’t.
You had always loved the idea of being chosen, and Shoko just didn’t want to be left behind.
And maybe that’s how it all began—not with power, or fate, or bloodlines. Just two girls stepping onto a train together, one chasing strength, the other running away from a world she’d one day have to hold together with her hands.
ii. april, 2005
Jujutsu Tech was nothing like Shoko expected.
She thought it would be colder, older, more like the hospitals she’d passed on the train—tall and sterile and gray. But it was… softer. Vines curling around wooden buildings, laundry strung between windows, the hum of cicadas already testing their voices in the trees. it smelled like dirt and chalk and something faintly sweet, like sakura or summer air caught in the stairwells.
She didn’t talk much those first couple of days. Neither did Suguru Geto.
They met on their first day of class, standing awkwardly apart. Shoko was pressed against the wall, you beside her like a shield, when she noticed him—black hair long just at his shoulder, eyes unreadable, hands folded neatly behind his back like he was waiting for something more important than small talk. He caught her looking, and they didn’t smile, but something passed between them anyway. A kind of shared silence.
Then came Gojo.
She had heard of him before, of course. the honored one, the destined boy of the Gojo Clan. He arrived like a storm—messy white hair, too-tall frame stuffed into the uniform like it didn’t quite belong to him. He talked too much, laughed too loud, tripped over his own shoes, and still managed to radiate something untouchable. He was awkward, undeniably gifted, and absolutely convinced he had nothing to learn from anyone.
Shoko didn’t really like him.
You despised him worse, found him amusing. You would say he was infuriating, sure—but interesting.
“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” you whispered one night, grimacing into your pillow. “But his ears turn red every time I catch him staring.”
Shoko rolled her eyes, gave you a half smile. “He’s insufferable.”
“You're just mad that he said you would look better if you grew out your hair.” you teased.
“That's not true. I like my hair.”
“I like it too.”
“Then why does it matter to me what he thinks?”
But slowly—so slowly it almost escaped her notice—he changed. He started making jokes with them. And regrettably, Shoko would sometimes laugh at something he said. He started sitting with them at lunch. Picked up Suguru’s habit of folding napkins into strange little birds. Borrowed Shoko’s pens and returned them. Awkwardly, with both hands. always with a muttered thanks.
He began learning them. Their rhythms. Their silences.
It was the end of summer when it started to feel like something real.
Missions were few and far between in those first months. They trained hard, sweat and bruises under the cherry blossoms, sparring on grass that still held morning dew. Shoko hated sparring. She wasn’t built for it—not the way you were, with your reckless cursed technique and even more reckless joy.
But she tried. Because she had to. Because she wouldn’t let herself be the weak link.
And Gojo—he always held back when they fought. Even then, before he understood how to be gentle, he understood that she needed to win sometimes. Needed to prove that she could. He let her land hits, not because she needed help, but because he saw the way she looked at herself compared to the rest of them. She knew that Gojo—the freak of nature he was with those blazing blue eyes—saw her beneath her dry sarcasm and grins and tired eyes.
Suguru, on the other hand, never let her win. But he gave her pointers after. Explained why she slipped, what her stance betrayed. His feedback was quiet, clinical, never cruel. Always gave her a nod and a smile. Shoko trusted him for it.
Those were their blue springs—their youth washed in cloudless skies and laughter and rain-soaked uniforms drying on sun-warmed rocks. Those were the days of early friendships, of discovering who they were becoming.
They took the train into Tokyo for missions, packed into cars half-asleep, heads knocking against windows. You would always take the window seat. with your far too expensive mp3 player and ratty wired earbuds, you’d hum under your breath, fingers tapping a beat on your thigh. Gojo sprawled across two seats, his head inevitably ending up in someone’s lap. Suguru read novels and pretended not to notice you and Gojo’s helpless bickering.
❀
The first storm of the summer comes sudden, like most things that mattered back then. Sheets of water turning the courtyard into a lake, petals plastered to the stones.
Gojo didn’t run for cover. Of course he didn't. He stood in the middle of it all like some idiot, arms outstretched, hair plastered white against his forehead, laughing so loud it made the rain sound shy.
“You'll catch a cold,” Suguru called from the walkway, voice dry as the towel slung around his shoulders.
“Colds are a myth,” Gojo shot back, spinning in a circle, water flying from his sleeves. It wasn't rare back then for Gojo to turn off his infinity, especially for rain storms he used to practically bathe in.
Shoko watched from the step, dry under and an awning with a cigarette between her fingers. Smoking was a new habit she’d picked up, in spite of the protests from her friends, in spite of the distaste and the mini interventions and scoldings you’d given her. All these years later, she can’t really remember where it started from.
You had taken the cigarette from her fingers that day and threw it in the rain, leaving her a little frustrated. Then she watched as you tried not to smile, and bolted straight into the storm after Gojo, shoes kicking up water like wings.
The both of you were soaked in seconds—shrieking, colliding, their uniforms clinging like second skin. Grinning too bright for the gray sky above them.
❀
They went on their first mission as a full team in late October.
A cursed spirit in a temple in the countryside—nothing particularly dangerous, but big enough to warrant the four of them. The four of you, as it turned out, had garnered somewhat of a reputation in the Jujutsu world by this point, even though it had only been a couple months into your first year. There was Gojo, being who he was, and then there were you and Geto, two special-grade hopefuls, and then Shoko, with her reverse cursed technique abilities. It was hard not to hear the excitement, the chatter from your seniors and teachers and higher-ups and worse, the curses, as they marveled at what potential the four of you possessed.
On their first mission together they took the train, bundled in thin jackets, feet tangled under the seats. You sat next to Gojo this time, their knees knocking occasionally as the train curved through the mountains. They didn’t talk much, just passed a packet of rice crackers back and forth, you opening them with your teeth and Gojo laughing, soft, like he couldn’t help it.
Suguru fell asleep with his head against the window. Shoko watched the landscape blur, temples and fields dissolving into dusk.
She remembers that October day clearly — because the first time they saw a body together was on a bridge, the river swollen black beneath it, the cold gnawing at their ankles. The mission shouldn’t have had civilian casualties. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Yet their world didn’t care about supposed to.
Shoko stood back as Suguru exorcised the curse, her hands clenching the strap of her med kit, heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out. When it was over, the corpse of the victim lay sprawled against the guardrail, mouth full of frozen air. A little girl—her hair so matted in blood Shoko couldn’t tell what color it was anymore.
Gojo tried to crack a joke, to distill the buzzing in the air—something stupid about ghosts haunting bridges—but no one laughed, not even him. You touched Shoko's arm, light as breath, and for the first time Shoko wondered if maybe they weren’t weapons at all. Maybe they were just kids with blood under their nails and no way out.
It's that night she remembers all these years later, coming home from the mission. They stayed up talking until sunrise. They lay on futons in someone’s dorm room, the windows open, moths circling the lights.
“Do you ever think,” you had asked, staring at the ceiling. “That we’re not meant to survive this?”
There's a quiet that fills the room, uncomfortable, like understanding the inevitable.
“Don't say that depressing shit,” Gojo said sharply, but his voice still held a hint of something that could’ve been mistaken for vulnerability.
“I'm serious. We're weapons. Tools. They'll use us until we break.”
“Then we don’t break,” Suguru said quietly.
“Or we break together.” Shoko said, so softly no one answered.
That first year, they were just kids. Cursed kids, sure. But kids.
And even though Shoko knew better—even though she could already see the shape of blood and bodies and burials in the future—she let herself believe in nights like those. The four of them sprawled on the floor, laughing at someone’s expense, playing cards and cheap candy wrappers littered on the floor.
In the way Gojo looked at you when he thought no one else saw.
In the way Suguru never raised his voice, but always listened.
In the way you gave your heart like the world hadn’t hurt you yet.
In the way they all leaned on each other like scaffolding, like maybe if they held tight enough, they wouldn’t fall.
iii. june, 2006
Summer in Tokyo hit different when you were sixteen and almost certain you’d die before twenty.
They weren’t supposed to go out—they had curfews, missions stacked like bones at the start of their second year—curses growing restless, schools asking for protection, strange whispers threading through reports about ancient prisons and shifting power balances. Still, they trained. Still, they laughed. Still, they stole naps on rooftops and dared each other to eat expired convenience store pudding.
Still, they were kids.
Gojo whined until Suguru sighed and gave in, and you had tugged Shoko by the wrist before she could protest.
The festival was a crush of lantern light and smoke, sweet batter curling through the air, fireworks cracking open the dark. You darted ahead, yukata swaying, hair pinned up with something glittering like starlight. Gojo stuck by your side, wolfing down skewers two at a time, Suguru following at a distance with his hands tucked in his sleeves, gaze flicking toward the crowd like a man always counting exits, but still roaring in laughter as Gojo almost chokes on his third kebab.
“Try this,” Gojo said, shoving a stick of candied fruit under Shoko's nose.
“I don’t want your leftovers,” she muttered, unimpressed. But after a bit of nagging she took it anyway, quietly unwrapping it and biting through the sugar shell and pretending it wasn’t good—just to spite him.
Fireworks bloomed overhead—white, then red, then a scatter of gold that turned every face strange and beautiful. For a moment, Shoko saw them like strangers: Suguru haloed in crimson, Gojo’s grin carved bright in the dark, and you tilting your head back to watch the sky like it would never fall.
The boom of the next firework swallowed her thoughts, and she let it.
❀
Shoko always thought the end would come like a firework—loud, blinding, impossible to ignore.
But it hadn’t. It came instead like fog. Slow, creeping, impossible to trace where it started.
By the time they noticed it was already over, the fog of it had already filled the room.
She thinks she can trace every lamentable moment of her life back to that August of 2006.
Gojo, Geto, you and the star plasma vessel mission she hadn’t been a part of. When she thinks back on it, she can’t exactly understand what happened in that week to have changed the course of their entire lives. Was it before Gojo died in a bloody mess? Was it after he came back, blood-stained, eyes dark, buzzing with an energy that she acknowledged—with bated breath—had finally crossed to godhood?
Gojo was stronger. Far stronger. Six eyes sharp as knives, his cursed technique threading into infinity like it had always been waiting for him to catch up. The elders watched him now—not as a student, but as a threat. You noticed it too. Started staying closer to him, stepping between him and the higher-ups during briefings.
“They're grooming him,” you told Shoko once. “not for leadership. for war.”
Shoko looked at you—at the calluses on your hands, the scar on your jaw you hadn’t let Shoko heal.
“They're grooming all of us.”
You didn’t deny it anymore.
❀
There are softer things that year, where Shoko can’t remember the exact moment things changed.
Only that something had slowed, gone hazy. Like the last layer of frost on a windowpane, melting so gently it almost went unnoticed.
It felt like fall had come early. The leaves on the tech’s old trees went gold and red like they’d been waiting to burn. There were still wounds to be tended to, and there were still things they couldn’t talk about from the end of that summer.
But Gojo had grown taller over the summer, like his body had finally remembered he came from giants. His hair had grown shaggier, uniform didn’t fit right anymore, and he refused to ask for a new one. Shoko watched him adjust his cuffs every morning like it was some kind of ritual, then pretend not to notice when you offered him your spare hair tie for his sleeves. He took it without meeting your eyes, and wore it like armor.
Shoko noticed the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way that you had started lingering after training, towel around your neck, laughter caught in your throat like a secret. Or the way Gojo stood straighter when you walked into a room, blinking too slow, like he hadn’t meant to look. Maybe it was how the two of you had stopped fighting in that way you used to—loud, fast, like lightning cracking open the sky—and started teasing instead. Light, easy, ridiculous. Like you didn’t know how else to be near each other.
Shoko noticed it in the quiet, in the pauses between conversations, and in the way you touched your own wrist absentmindedly whenever Gojo spoke, like grounding yourself. She noticed how Gojo—always so proud of his attention span—started forgetting what he was saying mid-sentence if you laughed too loud.
“You're obvious,” Shoko told you one evening, as you stood in front of her dorm mirror brushing your teeth. It was practically your dorm now, too.
You spat into the sink. “He’s worse.”
“You're both insufferable.”
“He’s insufferable. I'm charming.”
“He told Nanami you punched him in the throat during training.”
“I did, so what? He totally deserved it.”
“I just can’t believe he let you in the first place.” Shoko shook her head, and thought of the infinity around Gojo, the invisible barrier between him and humanity. The thing that put him closer to godliness. A smile curling at her lips despite herself, understanding the implications of Gojo turning it off around you. “And yet you still gave him your last Milkis at lunch.”
“It was strawberry-flavored.” a shrug. “I don't like strawberry.”
Shoko didn’t say anything else. Didn’t point out the way you lingered when Gojo wasn’t around, or how your voice got quieter when you talked about him. Didn’t say that she’d seen Gojo staring out windows when he thought no one was watching, fingers tapping the rhythm of your laugh on his thigh.
There was something sacred about their closeness. Something fragile and half-formed, still soft at the edges. Shoko didn’t want to break it by naming it too soon.
She just watched. Just remembered.
Suguru was the only one who never commented.
He saw it too—of course he did—but he never overtly teased, only gave a knowing smile quietly to Gojo who would glare back, but never really poked at the obvious tension between the two. Maybe because he understood it, or maybe because he was the kind of person who noticed things and let them be.
He grew quieter that fall, but not in a way that worried her yet. It was more like he was watching, gathering. She felt like something was shifting behind his eyes, too slow and too early to name yet. He still joked with Gojo, still helped Haibara with his footwork, still spent long evenings reading next to Shoko in the common room without saying a word.
But he didn’t smile as easily. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would close his eyes like the world was too loud.
Shoko didn’t ask. She didn’t know how.
Maybe she should have.
❀
It's late November and the mission went fine.
They exorcised the spirit, cleansed the space, burned the remains. but it was what happened after that stuck.
They stayed overnight in a small inn at the base of the mountain, just two rooms—boys in one, girls in the other. The floors were tatami, and the air smelled like cedar and sulfur from the hot springs nearby. it should’ve been peaceful.
But Shoko couldn’t sleep.
You lay on your side, back to Shoko, eyes open in the dark. She listened to the wind outside, the drip of water from a leaky faucet, the quiet hum of something that felt like change.
And then, sometime past midnight, you slipped out of bed.
Shoko didn’t move, just watched the shadow cross the room, slide the door open, and vanish into the hallway.
It wasn't long before Gojo left too.
You weren’t subtle. Maybe you didn’t want to be.
Shoko waited a full minute before getting up. Her feet were cold on the floor. She didn’t know what she expected—to interrupt them, to tease them. She heard echoes in the hallway, but couldn’t make out a word. Just the shuffling of feet, and the wind blowing against the door.
But when she found the two of you — you weren’t touching.
You were standing in the snow-dusted garden outside the inn, facing each other, breathing visible in the cold. Your arms were folded tight across your chest. Gojo's hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets.
You weren’t saying anything, but she felt this air around you two. In your distance, in the heavy breathing and puffs of smoke between your lips, like you had run out of words to say.
Now, you were just looking.
And maybe that was worse. More intimate, somehow.
Shoko didn’t move. She stayed hidden by the shadows, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
Then you reached forward.
Your hands touching Gojo’s cheek, just barely.
He flinched.
Not away. Not exactly. Just — startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.
Shoko could see it then—how scared he was. Not of you, but of what it meant to want something in a world like theirs.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you said quietly.
Gojo looked at you. “I should.”
“You never say anything you don’t mean.”
“I don’t know how to mean this.”
A pause. Your breath hitched.
“Just don’t look away.”
He didn’t.
And she watched as you leaned in, closing your eyes for your first kiss. How his lashes had brushed against your cheek as he let you pull him in, his hand finding its way to hold your waist.
Shoko had left after that — witnessing a moment so intimate she felt shivers just watching it, intruding in it. Or maybe it was the cold that got her. But, she waited to sleep until you went back inside. Waited until you crawled into bed beside her again, colder than before, but smiling softly into the dark.
Neither of you said a word.
Shoko stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how everything had already started to change.
❀
The next few weeks felt warmer, somehow. Like something had opened in their group that wasn’t there before. Not just between Gojo and you—but all of them.
They trained harder. Laughed more. She wanted to believe they were healing the cracks from that August, that the feeling of finality sinking into her wasn’t real.
Even Suguru seemed lighter again. He stopped frowning at the radio when the news came on. Started humming again while he read. He taught Haibara about a complicated binding technique in the training yard one afternoon and let out a laugh when Haibara tried it himself. There was a moment—a brief, impossible moment—where Shoko almost believed in forever.
They sat on the school rooftop one evening, all four of them, sky streaked violet and pink and gold. Someone had brought a speaker, and someone else had brought a bottles of various soda. Music played low. She noticed that you had rested your head on Gojo's shoulder, and he didn’t move, just leaned into it like gravity.
Suguru was telling a story about a curse he saw shaped like a crab. Shoko laughed. The wind was cool and sweet. The world didn’t feel like it was ending yet.
“You ever think we’ll get out of this?” Suguru asked, voice low, cigarette between his lip.
“Out of what?” you asked.
“This. Jujutsu. Destruction and death and chaos—whatever it is.”
Gojo stared at the sky. “No.”
“Maybe,” Shoko took the cigarette from Geto’s lips, and took a puff. “but not whole.”
They sat in silence for a long time after that.
The sun set, and Shoko watched the light disappear behind Gojo’s glasses, behind your smile, behind the quiet curve of Suguru's mouth.
It felt like a beginning.
But all she could think about was how beautiful things always seemed, right before they broke.
iv. march, 2007
It’s cruel to her, how the missions only seemed to get worse after that.
Higher-ranked, more volatile, more death. More nights in strange towns with blood on their hands. They started seeing each other less and less. In the aftermath of Riko Amani’s death, after last August, that Gojo had been assigned onto more missions alone—acknowledged for the first time in finality as the strongest. Started carrying all the mission files himself, memorizing them down to the street corners. Shoko started collecting more tools, more supplies, more sutures for the clinic at the tech, where she stayed more often than not now. She stopped wearing earrings because they got in the way of her face mask. You had learned how to kill without hesitation.
And she swore Suguru never complained about the missions he went on alone. But now he flinched when they passed playgrounds. Tensed when civilians asked for help. The curses he swallowed grew sharper, crueler. nastier, he had once told her late one night, the word leaving his tongue like he had coughed up bile.
“Don't let them suffer,” he said once, without blinking. “Fast is better.”
Shoko nodded.
She didn’t ask what he meant.
❀
The last mission they took together was in the early spring of 2007, before the start of their third year.
A cult in Hiraizumi—dark rituals, civilian disappearances, cursed users hiding behind holy symbols and incense. They traveled light, only the four of them. It felt like the early days again, for a moment—suitcases and jokes and Gojo making dumb puns as they checked into a cheap ryokan.
But the mission itself was ugly.
Children locked in closets. Blood on the temple floors. Curses formed from fear and starvation, clinging to walls like rot.
Suguru lost control halfway through.
Not of his technique. Not of his mind. But of his restraint.
He killed too quickly. Didn’t wait for surrender, and didn’t leave the last cursed user breathing long enough to answer questions.
Gojo grabbed him by the collar after.
“What the hell was that?”
“They were killing kids.”
“They were running away.”
“And they would’ve kept going.”
Gojo's hand tightened. his voice dropped. “We follow orders.”
“Do we?”
Suguru's eyes burned—hotter than Shoko had ever seen. “Whose orders, Satoru?”
Shoko watched you step between them. A hand on Gojo's chest. Your voice low. “Not here.”
Gojo dropped his hand, and Suguru had turned and walked away, scoffing.
The two of them didn’t speak again the rest of the trip.
❀
Haibara died not long after.
He had been bright—sun-bright, laughter-bright, too-young-to-fall-bright. He said “good morning” like it mattered. He addressed them all formally even when they told him to stop. He sparred with you like he was dancing, ate lunch with his mouth full, had dreams about being a sorcerer who saved people and meant it.
The mission was supposed to be simple.
Shoko remembers the call. A cursed womb, grade 3, nothing extraordinary. She remembers you saying, “they’re strong. Nanami'll be with him. they’ll be fine.”
They weren’t.
What came back wasn’t a body, not really. It was a mess of limbs and red and something too silent to be the Haibara she had known.
Nanami carried him. Wouldn’t let go, even as his uniform soaked a darker shade from the blood.
Shoko stitched Haibara's body together with shaking hands—not to save him. Just so his mother could recognize his face.
You threw up in the courtyard after the funeral. Gojo didn’t speak. Suguru didn’t cry.
Grief had finally split the group like glass under pressure—fracture lines running between them, invisible until the light hit just right.
Gojo got louder. More obnoxious, more ridiculous. He made jokes during meetings, fell asleep in class, tripped over his own feet just to make you laugh.
And you did laugh. Loud and real and reckless. But there was something sharp underneath it. A glint in your voice. A kind of defiance.
Suguru got even quieter.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the kind that meant calm or ease.
This was the kind that clung to him. That narrowed his eyes when he passed civilians on the street. That curled his lip when they reported to elders who hadn’t lifted a hand in battle in years. That made him look at Haibara’s photo like it was a question that would never be answered.
Shoko felt it most at night.
Suguru used to accidentally fall asleep reading in the common room, head tilted back, glasses slipping. Now, he sat up long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at nothing, fingers curled like he was still gripping a weapon.
She said something once. Tried to, at least.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, as they stood in the hall one night. She can’t recall why, or where, but she remembers this moment because there has never been a part of her that hadn’t wished she had pushed back harder.
Suguru looked at her.
His smile was soft, fake. “Yeah.”
By then she knew he was gone.
❀
A couple weeks later, in the midst of an August heatwave — Suguru Geto disappears.
He left a note on the dorm kitchen table and a photo of the four of them.
Just one sentence: I can't do this anymore.
The rest was silence.
Shoko found it first. She read it twice, then sat down at the table and stared at the handwriting until you walked in and asked where everyone was.
Gojo didn’t say anything after meeting with Yaga. Didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the morning.
Though it’s the last time she sees Suguru, she understands this is it.
She had heard, just a little after reading his final note, what he’d done. A town massacred, burned to the ground and cursed residuals that couldn’t have been anyone’s but the man next to her — his own mother and father killed by their only son’s hands.
Yet here he was, lighting her cigarette for her and laughing. At least she could pretend for a moment that this didn’t have to be over.
She gives Gojo a call and waits with Suguru for his best friend to arrive and she wonders if Gojo could change the outcome of this. If Gojo Satoru could save Suguru Geto from himself. But another glance up at him, long hair disheveled, the purpled skin under his eyes deeper than she’s ever seen, and the emptiness behind his smile, that she realizes she doesn’t know the man next to her. Not anymore. Maybe not at all.
So he waves goodbye, and she nods and lets the smoke cloud her lungs.
And she never spoke to him again.
❀
That winter, the sky felt heavier. The air full of ghosts.
You stopped wearing bright colors. Started sleeping in your uniform, like you expected to be called into battle at any second. Gojo trained until his hands bled, and didn’t let Shoko bandage them.
“What if he’s right?” he asked her once. His voice barely audible. “What if we’re just killing things to delay the inevitable?”
Shoko didn’t answer, because she didn’t know. (Because something in her still wanted to believe.)
But by the end of that year she had found herself alone more often.
In the morgue. On the roof. In the silence between patrols. She smoked less, not because she wanted to live longer. Just because it didn’t feel worth the taste anymore.
You had stopped talking about the future.
Gojo stopped calling himself the strongest.
They were eighteen then. Too young to have seen so much. Too old to unsee any of it.
v. 2008
The years felt blurry after.
Like the sky after a firework show, after the beauty of it wears and you are left with the remains. Of the sky billowed in smoke, and the ground covered in ash. Shoko remembers the firework show during the summer festival in their second year, how she had watched the lights change your faces. How when she thinks of Suguru, she remembers him back then, hair in a half bun, wearing a yukata, his profile cast under the red glow of fireworks.
Mission after mission. Report after report. Half-empty dorm rooms. Birthdays that passed unnoticed. Names that became numbers. More curses. More blood. Fewer friends.
By then she had stopped smoking entirely, not because she wanted to live. But because you had always hated the smell.
And for a long time after Suguru left, Shoko couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the morgue.
The lights were always too bright. The steel trays too cold. Her gloves slick with blood that would never dry. In the dream, you always walked in first—whole, alive, laughing. And Shoko would reach for you. Call your name. But you would just smile, step onto the autopsy table, and lie down.
“You're early,” Shoko would whisper.
“I know.” you would say.
Then the door would swing open, and Suguru would walk in next. But his face would be hollowed out, eyes dark like tunnels. He'd sit beside your body, light a cigarette, and say nothing at all.
Shoko always woke up with her hands clenched tight around the sheets, fingers aching.
❀
Gojo never talked about Suguru.
Not once.
Not even on that day all those years ago when he came back from the confrontation in Shinjuku with blood in his nails and grief in his eyes.
He got stronger. Faster. Untouchable.
The elders stopped looking at him like a student and started looking at him like their greatest tool. He didn’t flinch, just started smiling bigger, make louder jokes, wore sunglasses indoors, and flirted and teased and deflected.
Shoko could see it, thought. In the slump of his shoulders, or the way his laugh caught wrong in his throat.
He was grieving like a dam breaking. Slowly and inevitably.
But never where anyone could see.
You stayed close to him after that. Stopped being fire and became gravity. Quiet and steady. The only thing that could bring him back when he started spinning too fast. You were the one who waited outside meetings. The one who kicked open his door and pulled him out of bed on the days he refused to get up, muttering, “If you don’t move, I'll set your curtains on fire.”
He always moved. Shoko thinks that it’s less because he believed in your vague threats, and more because he just believed in you.
Shoko watched it all from the edge.
The way you stopped waiting for him to say how he felt. The way you just stood there—open, unwavering—until he stopped running.
The two of you never made it official. Not with labels. Not with grand declarations or anything, But Gojo started showing up late to meetings because he walked you home.
Shoko didn’t know if it was healing, but for a while, it was peace.
vi. april, 2009
Around this time, the Fushiguro’s arrived.
Megumi. Six years old. Too serious. too quiet. walked around everyone like he was ready to hit, or be hit. His older sister, Tsumiki. Not older by much, just eight years old, but she was sunshine, warm and motherly beyond her years. Shoko saw that you took to her instantly, buying her hair clips and braiding her hair — showing her how to throw a punch if she ever needed to.
Gojo brought them to the school with a box of takeout and a stubborn glint in his eye. "Don't say anything weird,” he told you and shook. “He already thinks I’m an idiot.”
“He's not wrong,” you smiled, and Gojo pouted at you.
Shoko bent down to meet the boy’s eyes, unsure of what to say. “Hmm. What’s something you like?”
He shrugged, and gave her an unimpressed look. “I like dogs.”
“Me too,” she said. “They’re honest.”
That night, they all sat in the common room eating cold noodles. Gojo told a story about a cursed tanuki that stole his left shoe. Megumi didn’t laugh, but he leaned into his sister when she did. Shoko watched as he leaned by Gojo's side as the lights went out.
You and Gojo had opened your arms and made space for the two of them.
Or maybe you had filled in the spaces left behind.
❀
Gojo cooked more, and wasn't great on his first try, surprisingly. Shoko had to supervise so he didn’t poison anyone, and you would’ve eaten anything Gojo cooked, regardless.
Shoko watched as the four of them fell into something like a rhythm. Not a family. Not quite.
But something softer than she had become used to.
The kids brought color back to the halls when they came to visit. Laughter that didn’t feel borrowed. It wasn't like before—but nothing ever was.
Gojo had bought an apartment for Megumi and Tsumiki, and the two of you stopped by almost everyday that year. You and Gojo made bento boxes. You went on grocery runs. You argued over what show to watch on Saturday nights. When Shoko would come over, Tsumiki would beg to paint Shoko’s nails, and once she had given in with her nails painted badly in rainbow and glitter, and you and Gojo had made fun of her for weeks when Shoko didn’t wipe it off.
You stopped wearing your uniform outside missions. Started wearing sweaters with loose sleeves, earrings again, mismatched socks.
You started reading books and magazines and things that weren’t just mission reports. Bought a plant for their windowsill. Put post-it notes on the fridge.
Shoko found one once that said, “Satoru, if you forget to buy me dorayaki again, I swear to God.”
He forgot anyway, but he came back late that night with flowers.
Shoko watched from the couch as you opened the door, just to see you blinking down at the bouquet like it had grown a second head.
“They didn’t have dorayaki,” he said, sheepish. “But they had these.”
You didn’t speak—just grabbed the collar of his coat and stepped into the apartment hallway with him, shutting the door without looking.
Shoko looked away, and gave them the evening. She hung out with the kids, because they were cooler, and let them sleep on the couch watching movies.
It’s after they had fallen asleep, and you and Gojo were nowhere to be seen, that she sat on the balcony and watched the city lights flicker, listening to the hum of traffic into the night.
For the first time in months, she felt… full.
Not happy. Not yet healed.
But full, like maybe all her pieces had stopped rattling.
Just for now.
❀
She still worked long hours, because the clinic never slept.
New students. New injuries. New names she tried not to memorize.
She stitched and cut and stabilized and cleaned. Practiced her technique until it no longer felt like a gift but a reflex.
She stopped praying, though she had never been good at it anyway.
But every time a body came in, not yet cold, not yet gone, she held her breath.
Please, not them.
❀
They didn’t talk about the past. At least not often.
But sometimes, when you had already fallen asleep and the wind whistled through the hallways, Gojo would sit next to her on the balcony and say things in a tone older than his twenty years.
“He liked soba more than ramen. I never knew that.”
And Shoko would nod.
“He read faster than anyone,” she’d add. “even me.”
“He believed in this more than we did.”
“Yeah.”
Then silence.
Then the night.
Then the world turning, regardless.
❀
Shoko isn’t sure what time it is now, but it feels like a bit past midnight. In here, it’s just the two of you on the couch with the weight of exhaustion like a second blanket. The balcony door is half-open, and the September chill is blowing in softly. There’s a glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, that she keeps forgetting to drink, and you’ve got your legs tucked underneath you, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of those shirts that’s probably his — though neither of you ever acknowledges it out loud.
Shoko tips her head against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like it’ll tell her the future, and mutters, “I feel so old.”
You laugh, soft, incredulous. “We’re twenty-one.”
“Exactly. And yet my back feels like I’m fifty.” You give her a side glance, smiling.
“My back feels perfectly fine, granny.”
“That’s because you have two little minions who give you back massages whenever you ask. And they can’t say no because you house and feed them.”
You nudge her knee with your own, half-amused, half-affectionate. “They’d starve if it wasn’t for us.”
“They’d at least learn how to cook instant ramen properly,” she fires back, though her tone is fond. She knows it as well as you do—how Megumi sometimes falls asleep at the kitchen table with his homework still out, how Tsumiki always insists on washing the dishes even when her fingers are pruned from her bath. How the apartment has begun to feel not just like a place to sleep, but like the kind of home you were never supposed to have.
It makes her chest ache.
She glances at you again, more carefully this time. “You’re happy, right?”
You blink at her, then tilt your head like you don’t quite understand the weight of the question. “Happy?”
“You know what I mean.” Shoko shrugs, too casual. “With all this — and with him.”
There it is. Not accusatory, just curious, like she’s been holding this thought in her mouth for months, letting it turn over until it smoothed into something she could say without breaking it.
You’re quiet for a moment, your gaze lowering to the glass of wine you still haven’t touched. “It’s not simple.”
“Nothing ever is with him.” She huffs a small laugh, but she doesn’t look away from you.
“Sometimes,” you admit, your voice softer, “it feels like we’re still kids, sneaking out after curfew, daring each other to jump rooftops. And then sometimes I look at him and I feel like—” You break off, shaking your head as though it’s too fragile to name.
“Like what?”
You exhale slowly. “Like he already belongs to the world, and I’m just borrowing him for a while.”
That hits Shoko harder than she expects. She shifts on the couch, watching the way your fingers worry at the hem of your sleeve. There’s something unguarded in the way you say it, something that makes her throat tighten.
Shoko leans her head against the couch cushion, her glass dangling loosely from her fingers. “You talk like he’s a library book or something. Checked out, due back in three weeks.”
You laugh, though it’s small and tired. “Maybe that’s all love really is. Borrowing someone for as long as they’ll let you keep them.”
“Morbid.”
“Honest.” You glance at her, and your smile is crooked, fond. “You know him. He’s… a hurricane in human form. Everyone wants a piece of him, and half the time I feel like I’m just holding on, hoping he doesn’t blow past me.”
Shoko hums, noncommittal, but her eyes are sharp. “And yet you’ve been holding on for who knows how long. Most people can’t even last five minutes with him in a room.”
“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, though your lips curve. “He still leaves his socks everywhere. Still eats candy for breakfast if I don’t stop him. And he—” You pause, and the softness of your voice betrays you. “He still looks at me the same way he did when we were sixteen. Like he can’t believe I’m real.”
Shoko conceals her smile, and masks it with a sip of wine. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
“I think about it sometimes,” you admit. “If we hadn’t met so young. If we hadn’t been thrown together in that pressure cooker of a school — would it have still been him? Would he have still found me?”
Shoko stretches her legs out, her gaze slipping toward the ceiling. “I think he was always going to be yours, you know. Some things just… fix themselves in place before you even notice.”
You fall quiet, staring at the wine in your glass, watching the way the light fractures against it. When you speak again, it’s hushed. “I’m scared, Shoko. I– I think I’m scared of losing him. Of the day the world asks for more than he can give, and I have to watch him walk toward it anyway.”
Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She looks at you — really looks — the girl who grew up at her side, who always chose kindness even when it cost you. You, who Gojo has loved since he was growing into his height, awkward and half-feral with grief and brilliance. You, who still look at him like he’s worth the trouble.
Finally, she says, “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to wonder if you’d grow tired of him. If one day you’d realize it was too much.”
You blink at her, startled. “And now?”
Shoko shrugs, her expression softening. “Now I think — if anyone was ever built to love him, it was you. Stubborn, patient, stupidly brave. He’s impossible, but you’ve always made the impossible look easy.”
Your laugh catches in your throat, trembling somewhere between joy and sorrow. “Don’t make me cry, Shoko.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She lifts her glass in a lazy toast. “To you and him. To sixteen and twenty-one, and however long you can keep borrowing each other.”
You tap your glass gently against hers, the sound ringing low and warm. “To growing older.”
Shoko watches the way your face lights up at the thought, and takes a long sip from her glass. She tries for levity, though it comes out a little rough. “Well, if he breaks your heart, I get to kill him. That’s the rule.”
You laugh—really laugh this time, the kind that crinkles your eyes and warms the air between you. “You’d have to fight him first.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “He’s all bark. I’d win.”
“You’re funny, Shoko.” You smile a little sleepily, and lean your head against her shoulder, the way you used to when you were girls hiding from the elders in the back hallways of the clan compound. She doesn’t move, just lets you settle there, the weight of you a reminder that some things never change.
There’s a long stretch of silence, broken only by the city hum outside. Then, almost shyly, Shoko says, “Well, I hope he loves growing old with you as much as I loved growing up with you.”
You still against her, then let out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t push. That’s never been your language. Instead, she reaches for her wine, takes another sip, and adds, almost casually, “And if he doesn’t, then screw him. You’ll still have me.”
You laugh again, watery this time, and lean closer. “Always.”
❀
In the mornings, she drank coffee alone.
In the evenings, she liked to come to your apartment to the sound of laughter, and nonsense on the TV. To the smell of your cooking, which had gotten better than Gojo’s after a couple months. to Tsumiki and her hands that grabbed Shoko’s wrists and led her to the dining table. To Megumi, who Gojo tried so hard to make smile at his awful jokes.
Sometimes, she let herself believe it could last.
Sometimes, she let herself want more.
That was enough.
vii. 1997
When they were seven, you and Shoko built a grave for a bird.
They’d found it after a storm — a small thing, all bones and feathers, collapsed in the mud beneath a persimmon tree in the compound’s garden. You crouched beside it, poked it with a stick. “Is it sleeping?”
“No,” shoko said. “It's dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Its chest isn’t moving.”
“How do you know?”
Shoko didn’t answer. Just knelt down, tiny hands damp with soil, and began to dig.
They buried it beneath a square stone, lined the edges with pebbles. You picked wildflowers and bundled it with twine from the kitchen. Shoko pressed her fingers to the earth and whispered something she didn’t really understand — a wish, maybe, or a prayer.
They sat there until the wind died down, until your mother called them in, until the sky turned the color of ash.
“We should’ve saved it,” you whispered, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
Shoko didn’t say it, but she knew it then: sometimes you’re too late.
❀
january, 2014
The call comes at 2:19 in the afternoon, a higher-up’s voice, clipped and formal.
“She’s been recovered. We’re bringing you the body now.”
The world doesn’t spin, it just stills. Though Shoko sits at her desk for a long time after, the phone silent in her lap, her hands empty.
Shoko doesn’t ask whose, because there’s only one person left.
She's already standing.
Her coat’s already on.
Her tea’s gone cold. The light in the infirmary has gone muddled and slanted, painting long shadows over everything like a warning.
Her hands move automatically. Clipboard.Pen. Gloves.
The air starts to feel static.
The mission was supposed to be easy. “A clean-up.” A second sweep.She repeats, and repeats. Yet how many other times has she thought this?
You weren’t supposed to go alone, but someone backed out last minute, and you were never one to wait around.
Grade one curse. Warehouse District.
Shoko remembers the briefing because she was in the room. Because you had smiled — tilted your head, chewing gum, loose-limbed and tired. “I’ll be home quick.”
❀
Shoko gets a morbid sense of déjà vu when she sees you laid out on the table, covered with a sheet pulled too high.
But when she sees the body, it doesn’t feel like you.
Not you. Born five days apart. The soldier to her healer. Balance, the clanheads had once called them. One to make and unmake.
Not the same girl who used to share her shampoo, or talk in her sleep. Not the girl who burned bright and reckless and kissed Gojo Satoru like it was the only truth left in the world.
The word balance keeps running through her head as she stares at your face. So still.
No, it wasn’t you. This body is cold, and broken in ways Shoko doesn’t have the words for.
Her gloves are on. Her cursed energy thrums at her fingertips.
But it’s all useless.
The wounds are clean. Carved into you like declarations. Chest collapsed, Ribs fractured inward. Shoko's already cataloging the report in her head. Trachea crushed. Internal hemorrhaging. Cursed lacerations across the sternum.
Then she moves.
Like a surgeon. like a healer with something to prove, even if there’s no one left to prove it to.
She doesn’t try to bring you back. Not really. She's seen too many bodies to believe in resurrection.
She stitches muscle back together like it’ll matter. Seals split skin. Brushes blood from your scalp. A ritual, maybe. or penance. And as she runs her fingers through the ends of your hair, she thinks of being five years old when you had taught her how to braid it.
When she feels her vision blur she whispers, “don’t be stupid,” just like you used to.
Her voice doesn’t tremble until the end.
Too late, she thinks, and she sees a dead bird cupped in your small hands. Wildflowers wrapped in twine.
Too late, too late, too late.
She writes the report with mechanical precision.
Her handwriting doesn’t shake.
She signs it, and place it on top of the clipboard.
Then folds your arms across your chest, straightens your uniform collar, uses a towel to wipe a smudge from your chin, and the drawer of the morgue clicks shut with a hollow finality.
And she finally lets herself cry.
Just once.
Quietly.
Like a confession.
❀
Shoko takes the train without really knowing why she’s chosen this route over the school car. After she explained what she was doing, Ijichi had told her he could drive her with a solemn look in his eyes, always so insistent. She had declined, so now she sits by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, the tunnel lights strobing against her reflection until her own face starts to look like a stranger’s.
She's still in her work clothes, still smells faintly of antiseptic and smoke, and the folder in her lap feels heavier than it should. She keeps one hand pressed flat to its cover like she’s holding a wound closed.
People filter in and out of the train at each stop, their chatter muted, just faint shapes moving through her periphery.
She doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The only thing she lets herself look at is the glass, and the snow on the other side of it—each flake blurring against the motion of the city, small and perfect and already gone.
Yaga had told her, after, that Satoru wasn’t told yet, but she wonders if he already knows. If some part of him—whatever raw, uncanny instinct makes him the strongest—registered it the moment your heart stopped. Maybe he felt it like an earthquake deep in his bones, the sudden, wrong absence in the air. Maybe he was sitting on their couch, turning toward the door without knowing why.
Her mind drifts, unspooling memory:
Summer afternoons, the four of them sitting on the roof with drinks to cool the sweat on them. Your hair tangled from the wind. Gojo leaning back on his palms, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head so she could clearly see the way his gaze snagged on you like he didn’t even notice he was staring. The quiet shift over months from banter to something slower, gentler, like they’d started speaking a language that Shoko didn’t know but could still recognize in the spaces between words.
A late night after a mission, all of them exhausted, half asleep in the common room. Shoko had woken to see them leaning together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his hand resting loosely on yours. The kind of touch that wasn’t accidental.
There had been other moments—quieter, private ones she hadn’t meant to see—that told her this was the thing that had changed him. He'd always been brilliant, unbearable, untouchable. but with you, his edges softened. He laughed differently. He listened.
Now she wonders how much of that she’s about to take from him in a single sentence.
The train slows into her stop, brakes screeching. She rises, folder in hand. She doesn’t know why she carries the hardcopy—maybe it makes it feel more real, more final, more like evidence of something she already failed to prevent.
She had stopped by a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes and a small black lighter for the first time in almost six years. There’s now a cigarette clamped between her teeth, though she hasn’t lit it.
Snow is falling.
It catches in her hair, her sleeves, her lashes.
When she reaches their apartment building, she stops at the bottom of the stairs and thinks about turning around. But she doesn’t. She climbs each step like she’s approaching a grave.
The light’s on under the door.
She raises her hand.
And knocks.
❀
The door opens almost immediately.
And for a second — just one, flickering, incandescent second — Shoko sees the look on his face.
Gojo Satoru opens the door like he expects you to be behind it. Not Shoko. Not grief incarnate. But you. The woman he loves. The only thing in the world that could quiet his mind and hold his entire future in her palms.
He opens the door like someone in love. Like someone relieved. Like someone who still dares to hope.
And then he sees Shoko.
And everything stops.
His face doesn’t fall.
It freezes.
She watches the hope die in his expression. It doesn’t vanish — it dies. Like something physically collapsing inside of him. A structure caving in, silently, under its own weight.
His shoulders lock, and she watches his jaw tense. He doesn’t move aside to let her in, doesn’t say a word.
Just stares.
He looks at her like he had known this would be how it ended all along, but still — still, deep down, some piece of him had been holding on. Had left the light on. Had made her side of the bed. Had waited.
Shoko clears her throat.
The words don’t want to come.
"I’m sorry—she’s gone.”
That's all it takes.
Gojo doesn’t flinch.
But she sees it in the way his hand clenches around the edge of the door. The way his breath leaves him — sharp, shallow, wrong. The way he looks past her, like he’s trying to reframe the hallway, the scene, the moment.
Like maybe he can rewind it.
Undo it.
See you behind her, scolding her for delivering bad news like so bluntly.
But Shoko is alone, and the silence is loud.
He steps back, and turns.
Walks into the apartment like everything inside was knocked over.
Shoko follows and shuts the door behind her.
The apartment is dim. Bathed in soft warm light. The heater hums gently in the corner, and there are two mugs on the table, one empty and one half-drunk. Your sweater is still hanging over the back of the couch, sleeves inside out. Your boots are by the door. The windows are covered by sheer white curtains, but the shade of blue that appears just after sunset peeks through, framing the room the same color as melancholy.
Shoko wants to scream.
Instead, she places the folder on the table.
Neither of them look at it.
She taps the folder once, not to push him, but to make its presence undeniable.
“Are you going to read it?”
His back is still to her. She can see the angle of his spine through the thin cotton of his shirt, every muscle tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
With no hesitation, “No.”
Shoko expected that answer, but she still feels something drop in her chest.
“You sure? It’s not… it’s not just medical jargon. I kept it clean. No gore.”
He turns his head just enough for her to see one sharp eye over his shoulder.
“You want me to read the autopsy for the love of my life?”
She pauses, feeling herself hold her breath.
“I want you to know what happened,” she says, voice level. “Exactly what happened. Without the stories you’ll tell yourself later.”
He scoffs—a sound halfway between disbelief and exhaustion—and shakes his head.
“The story I want is that you’re lying.”
Silence.
He pushes away from the counter, crosses to the table. His height makes the space between them smaller without him even trying. He puts a hand on the folder like he might open it—thumb brushing the edge, fingers curling.
And then he just… freezes.
Shoko watches him, and for the first time she sees it—not the usual walls, the sarcasm, the easy dismissal. This is different. This is a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s nothing but rocks and cold water below.
“I can't,” he says finally, and it’s not defiance. It's quiet. almost gentle.
“Why?”
he swallows, eyes still on the folder.
“Because the second I read it, it’s over. She's gone in ink. In numbers. In your handwriting.” he glances up at her, and there’s no shield in his expression now. “If I don't read it, she’s just… late coming home.”
Shoko's throat tightens.
For a moment, she wants to tell him she understands. That she’s done the same—taken certain pages out because the words make her feel sick. But she doesn’t. She just nods, takes the folder back, tucks it under her arm again.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
He’s not moving.
Not breathing, maybe.
His hand rests on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright and she watches his shoulders shake.
Once.
Then still again.
His face is unreadable.
But his eyes — god, his eyes.
Shoko has known him for more than a decade, has seen him bloodied and laughing and blind with pain and victory. But she has never seen him like this.
Not even after Suguru.
Not even after Toji.
This isn’t rage.
This isn’t despair.
This is something else.
Something jagged. Something bottomless.
He looks at her like she’s the executioner. Like she didn’t just bring the news — but she made it true. But maybe, in some way, he’s right to feel that way.
“You’re sure that she’s—?” he asks, voice quiet. She could’ve mistaken his tone for desperation.
Shoko nods.
That's when it happens.
He laughs.
Short, ugly, and bitter.
An instinct, like flinching.
He runs a hand through his hair. Leans back against the counter.
The quiet settles like dust.
Shoko sits down on the couch. something crackles beneath her — one of your notebooks. She picks it up, flips it open without thinking.
The last page is filled with sketches. a little cartoon version of Gojo, grinning, speech bubble saying “have you seen my honey?”
Her throat tightens.
She doesn’t speak.
“I thought I had more time,” he says. Shoko doesn’t have it in her to speak.
“I wanted to take her to Okinawa again. Not for a mission this time. Just because.”
He closes his eyes.
“She never got to see it in winter. She would’ve liked the cold.”
And she stays the night on their couch. Like old times, except there is no wine and no laughter and your warmth isn’t beside her. Shoko never really registered that she’ll never see you again. Even now, it feels like you’ll call her at any moment and ask her if she wants a drink.
But that first night without you, she doesn’t think she could really fall asleep.
And he doesn’t really cry.
But in the morning, he makes coffee with hands that won’t stop shaking.
She drinks hers cold, and so does he. But she watches him press your mug to his lips and set it down again, like it burned him.
❀
august, 2014
Gojo is twenty four, and he’s older than he was meant to be. More tired than he lets on, and somehow still waiting for something that already ended.
Sometimes, when it’s late, and the city is loud, and the stars don’t show themselves—Shoko catches him leaning against the doorway of his apartment balcony, looking at the buildings and cars and passerbys like he’s trying to remember the shape of your face.
And that, she thinks, is love.
Not flowers.
Not vows.
Not even the waiting.
But the remembering.
The carrying.
The way his world stopped. The way he never quite leaves the doorway, just in case you might still come home to him.
viii. 2015
Grief, when it lingers long enough, becomes routine.
Shoko wakes the same way every morning: early, cold. the city a dull hum outside her window. The kettle clicks on. She measures out coffee. Drinks it black, because that’s how you liked it, and then cooks konnyaku because you hated it.
The irony keeps her company.
The mornings are always quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and stays.
And Nanami leaves the Jujutsu world around that time.
Quietly. Respectfully. Without fuss.
He came to her clinic on a Tuesday, knocked once, sat down across from her, and said, "I'm leaving.”
She didn’t ask why, because she felt like she already knew.
He was twenty three and already looked like he’d seen the end of the world twice.
“You'll be good,” she said softly. “Too good for this place.”
Nanami looked away. “I just want to live like a person.”
She envied him for thinking it was still possible.
Before he left, he placed a small paper-wrapped gift on her desk.
Inside was a lighter, clean, silver, unused.
She held it in her palm for a long time that night.
But she didn’t smoke.
Not yet.
❀
She sees Gojo more often these days.
Not because they talk more, and not because they seek each other out. Just because there’s no one else left.
They don’t need to make plans anymore. They just end up in the same places. The clinic. The faculty room. The convenience store on that street with the broken traffic light.
Sometimes he brings her canned coffee. Never says anything when he hands it to her.
She drinks it anyway.
It’s the only thing he offers that she can still take.
And he laughs a little more now, but it’s not the same.
When he does, it’s wrong. Jagged. Like something trying to escape from under his skin. It reminds her that he’s still grieving, even when he tells her “he’s over it.”
The students adore him. Still think he’s invincible, and think the blindfolds and wit and charm are who he really is.
But Shoko knows better.
❀
december, 2017
Suguru's death didn’t come like she expected, though to her, Suguru Geto had died the August they were seventeen.
From the outside, he went out in flame and fury.
But then again, it feels like he went out quietly. Gently. By Gojo’s own hands.
Because, in the end, that was the only way it could’ve happened.
Not in hatred or vengeance, but in recognition of what they’d been. Of what they’d lost. Of the thin line between who you are and who you become when the world stops making sense.
“It was quick,” Gojo told her afterward, his voice steady, eyes blown wide with something far beyond pain.
Shoko believed him. Not because she trusted the words, but because she trusted the silence between them.
❀
She thinks of Suguru now more than she admits.
Remembers how he used to hum under his breath while taking notes. How he’d hand her highlighters during meetings without looking. How he used to let them braid his hair on missions just to make them smile.
Remembers the way he stood the last time she saw him, on the night of the cursed parade—back straight, curses curling around him like smoke, eyes tired in a way that made her want to scream.
He broke long before he died.
Shoko knows this.
She also knows he would’ve been a wonderful teacher.
If the world had been kinder, and if someone had stopped to tell him that softness wasn’t weakness. That wanting to save people didn’t make him naïve.
That watching them die wasn’t his fault.
❀
Gojo comes to dinner sometimes.
Not often or predictably. Sometimes he just knocks, steps inside, doesn’t take his shoes off properly, and drops onto her couch like he owns the place.
She used to yell at him for that, but now she just lets him.
He eats whatever she makes. Doesn’t complain, even when it’s instant ramen or cold rice or nothing at all.
They don’t talk much during those nights.
But sometimes, he falls asleep.
And sometimes, she covers him with the old blanket you used to use when you were over — just because. Just to remember what it felt like to care for someone who was still breathing.
There's one night that she remembers, after a long day of treating a couple injured sorcerers in the midst of a mission, that she finds him already waiting.
In the kitchen, cutting vegetables.
“What are you doing?” she asks, flatly.
“Trying to give you a break,” he says.
“By mutilating my carrots?”
“They fought back.”
She puffs a breath from her nose and smiles.
It’s the closest she’s come to laughing in days.
He makes curry. It's too spicy. The rice is slightly undercooked — but it’s not half bad.
She eats every bite, and doesn’t thank him for showing up.
They’re not close, not in the way people imagine. They don’t tell each other secrets. They don’t hug. They don’t reminisce out loud. Their bond lies in the memory of what it meant to be sixteen and still whole. Of how it felt watching the strongest boy in the room slowly learn how to be gentle. Of seeing him break and build and break again.
Of surviving the wreckage together.
He keeps her from vanishing. She keeps him from shattering.
They exist near each other.
Orbiting.
Keeping each other tethered.
❀
Shoko's the only one who doesn’t have a grave.
Not really.
Haibara's is now marked in a clean Kyoto cemetery. Suguru's ashes were never recovered, but there’s a stone for him outside his old temple. You have a simple plaque under the oak tree they used to study beneath.
Shoko visits them all, but she doesn’t linger.
Because it’s not the places that hold them.
It’s the way she still turns her head when someone says “Geto” in a briefing. It’s the way she keeps chopsticks in her drawer for four, not one. It's the way she wakes from a dream, disoriented and reaching for an image of herself, of when her hair was cut to her chin and she is surrounded by people who were once her home — before she remembers that no one’s coming.
Though, there's a new photo on her desk now.
Four teenagers. Uniforms on and grins wide.
Gojo has his eyes closed. Suguru is pretending to look annoyed. You’re flipping off the camera. Shoko is mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes crinkled.
She doesn’t remember who took it.
Doesn’t remember what they were laughing at.
But she leaves it there.
Next to the medical files and the pills and the list of new students.
It’s a reminder — not of who they were, but that they were. That at one point in time, the four of them had existed together. That at some point, that was all that mattered.
viv. december 24, 2018
The first snow falls unceremoniously. No warning and no wind to carry it.
Just flakes, slow and fat, drifting sideways over the rooftops of Shinjuku like ash from something that’s already burned.
Shoko watches it from the roof.
She doesn’t move.
Not yet.
It's the holidays, and she hates this time of year. There’s too much pretending, too many bright windows, too many mouths grinning like the world hasn’t ended five times already.
This year, the snow comes early.
And with it—him.
She thinks the city is strange under snow. Not soft. Not pretty. Just muffled, hollowed out. Sirens echo longer. Footsteps vanish quicker. The skyline dissolves behind a white veil, lights blurring like bruises.
She walks through it alone. Past vending machines glazed in frost and power lines sagging beneath the weight. There are paper lanterns swaying over shuttered storefronts, their glow smudged and dim.
Her boots crunch the snow like something brittle and alive. She isn’t wearing gloves. She likes the cold biting at her skin. It feels honest.
She finds him in the square.
Tall. Unmovable. Eyes like winter distilled into glass.
He's facing Sukuna, and there’s no backup. No panic. No speeches or horns sounding in the dark. Just two gods standing where no man should be.
She doesn’t call his name or break the silence. Only stands at the edge of it all, smoke slipping from her mouth, her eyes dry as bone.
He knows she’s there.
He doesn’t turn.
But he tilts his chin, barely, like a gesture carved out of stone.
And she understands, like she did all those years ago in August, when Suguru Geto had lit her cigarette. When he smiled and waved and she had turned away, for the last time.
That this is the end.
Not just of him. Not just of this fight.
But of everything that tethered them to a time when living felt possible.
Springtime in Jujutsu Tech. Sunlight tangled in white hair. You, singing too loudly, Suguru sighing like the world rested in his lungs. Sandos split in half. Train cars rattling at dusk. Leaves falling as soft as promises they never kept.
All of it.
Ending here.
Under a sky in a city stripped down to bone.
He burns too bright, even now. bends space like a god, cuts air like a blade, shoulders the infinite and makes it look like art. and still—sukuna is cruel. patient. inevitable.
Shoko watches as it begins: sharp, merciless, a brilliance that blinds and dies just as quickly.
She sees him hold and hold and hold—until he doesn’t.
He doesn’t scream.
He just folds.
Quietly.
Finally.
And the moment he hits the ground, the world doesn’t shatter.
But something in her does.
Everything slows.
The air thickens. Her breath fogs in front of her. Her hands are shaking, not from fear, but because she’s remembering. Nostalgia has always had its way of killing her, of creeping up on her and leaving her feeling sick. There is nothing left to reminisce now, as the last remaining part of her youth lies split in half in the show.
❀
The lab smells like steel and antiseptic, like every failure she’s ever catalogued. Fluorescent lights hum above her, sickly and bright, making her want to tear them out of the ceiling. She doesn’t. She just sets the instruments in place, lines up scalpels with the precision of someone who cannot afford to think.
Yuta lies unconscious on the table, his chest rising shallow, his pulse steady under her fingers. Now, she moves over to the drawer, where she placed Satoru’s body after stitching it back together. When she pulls back the sheets, she touches his hair once, brushes it off his forehead the way she remembers you used to when he was too stubborn to sleep.
Now she stands over him, and for the first time in years, her hands shake.
Not from inexperience. Not from fear of failure.
But from knowing that if she succeeds, it won’t really be him. And if she fails, she will have killed the last piece of her friend’s legacy with her own two hands.
Her cursed technique hums, steady, inexorable. flesh unravels, rewrites. Neurons glimmer under her touch like constellations in a dark sky. She threads them carefully, patient as a weaver, until she feels something spark. until she feels him.
Not Yuta, not exactly.
But not Satoru either.
Something between.
A gasp, sharp and wet, tears through the air. fingers twitch. The body arches against restraints she swore she wouldn’t use, but had to.
And then—eyes.
Too blue. Too familiar.
Her knees nearly buckle.
Because for an instant it feels like the dorms again and being a teenager. Then for an instant, she is twenty two again, and she watches Gojo lean down to talk to Tsumiki and Megumi, to give them reassurance, to protect their youth.
But then the boy blinks, coughs, chokes on his first words, staring at his hands. and Yuta is suddenly speaking to her, from Satoru Gojo’s lips.
And it’s not him.
It’s not him.
She forces her hands steady, swallows down the tremor in her throat. “Well, it worked.” She says, clinical, detached. Like she didn’t just carve open time and stitch it into something monstrous.
The snow keeps falling outside.
❀
Later, they ask her what happened. after transferring Yuta back to his own body, after dismantling Satoru, pieces lying on a table in her clinic — while Yuta walks, unscathed.
She gives them the facts. stripped bare, like bone. No softness. No poetry.
“Gojo fought. He fell. He's dead.”
Nothing more, because she refuses to let them dress it in glory, refuses to let them write a hymn where there was only silence.
He was tired.
He died.
And there’s nothing beautiful about that.
❀
She cremates him herself. in the same furnace that once took you. Her gloves are soaked by the end of it, dark and slick, but she doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t cry either. Not this time.
x. 青春
Tokyo feels different after. like the city is holding its breath, waiting for something that will never come.
That evening, she stops beneath a streetlamp outside the school. Cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers. Snow catching in her hair, turning her into something ghostlike. Embers glow like memories in the dark.
For the first time in forever, she speaks. Not to anyone. Just to the cold, to the shadows that linger in her bones.
“You win.” she whispers.
The lamp above her flickers once, then dies.
And Shoko stands alone in the dark. Utterly. Finally. Completely.
Yet that night, she finds herself dreaming in color that she thought had left her vision over a decade ago now.
Dreams not of blood. Not of battle, or of bodies in a morgue, or the harsh December air.
But of summer. The old apartment bathed in sunlight. Then, you’re next to her, seated cross-legged, fingers deftly braiding Tsumiki’s hair. Gojo at the table, laughing, trying to pry the cap off a bottle of soda with his teeth while Suguru shakes his head, pretending not to smile at him. Somewhere on your balcony, Haibara’s voice rings out, bright with Nanami’s deeper murmur tucked inside it.
Shoko feels a weight in her hands, and forces herself to look down for just a moment just to see that she is holding a camera. She lifts it. Frames them in her viewfinder — her whole heart in one room. Click.
A still life. A stolen moment that no one else notices.
They’re too busy being alive.
(終わり) END.
When August comes, I don’t count the days
Transitory views from the subway train
How strange, when life unfolds this way
In the drift less zone, sky’s prone to stay off-gray
Clouds are omens too, fading at the rate
That most pleasant memories do
mae's note. first chapter of "of love & lesson plans" out tomorrow, and i pinky promise it won't be this sad </3 likes + reposts are appreciated, thank you soso much for reading
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