❝He is quiet like the thunder under skin. and I am soft like rain that doesn't know its drowning.❞
Sukuna Itadori was never meant to be a good man. From the moment you were born, he saw something divine in you—something sacred, and when the world threatened that light, he did what monsters do: he destroyed it. With blood on his hands and your sister’s life gone, Sukuna went to prison willingly, unflinching. Because in his mind, protecting you was worth any sentence.
Years later, he’s home. Older, quieter, sanity trying to claw its way out, as insanity was sunken deep within—but still deeply, terrifyingly obsessed.
His love is not gentle. It is not soft. It is raw, feral, and absolute. He follows you from room to room. Sleeps with a hand on your body just to be sure you’re still breathing. Smothers you with devotion disguised as routine. And when his mind slips, when the darkness flares, it’s only you who can bring him back.
He worships you like a God.
And if the world ever tries to take you again—
He won’t just kill for you.
He’ll burn everything to the ground.❞
cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. murder. death. TW. PTSD. mental health. obsessive compulsive disorder
main masterlist
Chapters
chapter one || cedarwood & blood
chapter two || venom & honey
chapter three || lingering eyes
chapter four || humiliation
chapter five || I almost stayed
chapter six || dino trap
chapter seven || sweet treat & truths
chapter eight || new routines
chapter nine || mania
chapter ten || jelly fish
chapter eleven || girl or boy
chapter twelve || guardian
chapter thirteen || the end & the beginning
Side Stories
chapter one || jungle panther princess
chapter two || mourning anniversary
chapter three || do fish dream?
chapter four || hard conversations
chapter five || scattered
chapter six || mundane complaints
chapter seven || queen of no crumbs
chapter eight || who do you pray to?
chapter nine || key to life
chapter ten || when the strongest breaks
chapter eleven || raina’s antagonism
chapter twelve || matrimony
chapter thirteen || birthday boy
if i had to read a single fic for the rest of my life, it would be this one. truly, i don’t have the words to describe how much i love every single aspect of this fic <3
synopsis | toji fushiguro owns zenin east, a world renowned gym you join to quiet your mind. what you don't expect is toji himself to become the calm you were after all along.
warnings - [mdni] mentions of anxiety + medication | age gap (13yrs) | angsty but soft
main masterlist
✶
you truly didn’t know what you were doing here.
the mere sight of the building before you caused you to twitch with nerves, the sign above intimidating.
zenin east
matte black lettering on smoked glass, something cleaner and more subtle than you’d expected.
from what you’d gathered with the pictures you’d found online, the inside would be nothing of the sort.
it looked extremely gruff, even old school with it’s high ceilings and all-black interior, pictures of mohammad ali and arnold schwarzenegger lining the upper walls of the gym.
it didn’t seem that way on the outside. it looked like a high-end gym celebrities would go to, not the kind you’d find during late night spirals googling best gyms near me with shaky hands.
your fingers tightened around your phone.
you looked down once more at the glaring screen, the online pictures and ratings of the gym staring back at you. dozens upon dozens of reviews. words like elite, unreal and legendary thrown around like everyone who steps inside gets rebuilt from the inside out.
you swallowed. you hoped you’d get that rush of emotions, you hoped whatever was inside would quiet the continuous noise in your mind.
your stomach began doing that thing again, all tight, fluttery and wrong. like your body wasn’t sure if it was about to throw up, cry or run back home and pretend you’d never had the audacity to try.
this is what you despised most about the never-ending uneasiness that lived within you, something medication couldn’t even fix.
you could barely even perform simple tasks without your mind convincing you of the overarching and worst case scenarios until you were retreating once again.
and even though your heart was beating out of your chest, you forced yourself to stay where you were.
this would help. you were convinced.
this would help quiet the string of draining thoughts in your mind, ease that apprehensiveness you’d learn to live with like an unwelcome roommate.
so there you stood. in your soft black yoga pants, tank top and ballet wrap top. a combination of clothing items you were regretting deeply, noting just how out of place you looked even before entering the gym.
you looked like you belonged in a pilates studio that reeked of eucalyptus and sage, not in front of a building that looked like it could swallow you whole.
with a small sigh, you took a step forward, eyes straining to see inside, just a bit. just enough to decide whether you wanted to run.
but the glass was tinted enough that you couldn’t really see inside, only vague shapes and movement meeting your eyes.
a shadow passes, something heavy hitting something else, a thud, then another, muffled through the walls.
your heart skitters. you can leave.
the thought came easy, familiar. a relief.
but you’re so tired of relief being the only thing you reached for. so you inhaled shakily but deliberate and pushed through the door.
the door opened with a quiet hydraulic rush, sounds meeting your ears instantly, talking and grunting and thudding.
the warmth hits you first, not cozy but hot. a heat that only came with moving bodies and continuous movement.
the air smelled like clean rubber mats, metal and the faint bite of antiseptic, indicating that even with the slew of bodies, the place did seem clean.
a low rap song was playing through the speakers, a tune you didn’t recognize but didn’t mind. you liked loud music because it quieted whatever thoughts your overworking brain mustered up.
as you allowed the door to shut, fully stepping inside and looking around, you gulped gently.
fuck, you really were out of place.
the gym consisted of mostly men but the few women that were scattered about were badasses.
muscled everything, holding weights you couldn’t even mentally lift or continuously punching a bag till some sand dribbled out.
you felt your body go rigid, not from fear exactly, but hyper-awareness.
like every part of you was suddenly aware of itself. your breathing, your posture, the way your wrap ties across your waist. the overall softness of you against the ruggedness of the gym.
a couple of heads turn, you could feel them.
you inhale shakily before forcing your feet forward towards the front desk where it seemed much safer.
the girl behind the desk looked up slowly. she looked a bit older than you, late twenties maybe, with her dark hair slicked back and makeup heavy but suiting her sharp features. her expression was already bored before you’d even spoken.
“can i help you?” she questioned, tone clipped as her eyes assessed you from head to toe till you were squirming a bit.
you cleared your throat and smiled softly, “hi! um, i was wondering if i could join the gym? for like weights and boxing or…stuff,” you swallowed once when she simply raised her brows, “you know, training in general…”
“this isn’t a walk-in gym, honey,” the term of endearment felt like a slap to the face rather than a method of reassurance, “we’re referral only."
your cheeks heat instantly, gut twisting as you felt the embarrassment wash over you.
fuck, that’s why people kept raving about how private and luxurious it is.
how stupid could you be?
“oh!” you blinked, “i’-i’m sorry, i didn’t realize.”
the girl simply smiled sharply, “yeah.”
a beat passed as your throat tightens, anxiety creeping up like a fog, quiet but suffocating.
you nodded quickly, “my bad. thank you anyways.”
you turn to leave before the humiliation could bloom into something worse, but just as you went to turn around and sprint back to the door, a voice pulled you back.
“is there a problem?”
you turned back around immediately, as if the deep voice itself beckoned you forward, something tangible and pacifying.
the voice sounded older, worn in. like it’s been dragged through smoke and gravel yet still remained steady.
your lips parted as you looked up at the man standing just by the lobby threshold, having just come from the main gym area.
“no, mr.fushiguro,” the girl stated, smiling slowly, polite and voice softening in a way that made your stomach churn, “she wanted to join but i told her that’s not how it works.”
but you could barely hear her as your eyes met the man.
he was big.
not gym-big like the guys lifting in the back, but…naturally big. broad. he was tall and looked strong but not in an overly muscular way, though he was not lacking in that area.
he had shaggy black hair and eyes that were equally as dark, broad shoulders stretching out the back compression tee that clung to him, and you could swear you could see the outline of his abs through the shirt. grey sweats sat low on his hips, wraps half-undone around his hands.
his dark strands were slightly damp with exertion and his face-
you froze for a half a second because your mind wasn’t sure where to land. sharp cheekbones, heavy-lidded eyes that looked tired in a way that could be cruel if he wanted it to be.
and he had a scar. a scar that cut straight through his lips and down, faint but undeniable, darker than the skin beneath it.
intimidating is the first word that comes to mind.
attractive is the second, uninvited and it made you want to swallow yourself whole.
but fuck, he really truly was.
and it didn’t help that his gaze wouldn’t leave you either, low and heavy as he took you in fully.
“not how this works?” his voice, deep and gravelly, sounded once more and you physically felt your heart thudding.
the receptionist squirmed then and you couldn’t help the satisfaction at seeing her nerves this time.
“um, yeah. you know, referral only? that’s the policy…” she laughed breathily but the man didn’t acknowledge her, eyes shifting to you once again.
“well, i made the policy, so…” and his eyes trailed down to your glossy lips for half a second, you thought you’d imagined it, “i can make an exception.”
his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something that made you equally nervous.
he took a step forward, then another and suddenly, he was close enough that you could smell him. soap, sweat and something faintly like smoke.
and you didn’t know why you felt like you had to speak before he did, “i didn’t know about the whole referral thing. sorry.”
“mm,” he hummed, eyes narrowing just a bit, “did you google highest rated gyms and choose the first one?”
your lips parted then your heart thudded at the smirk that painted his features, eyes half-lidded as they gazed down at you. heat crawled up your neck.
“is it that obvious?” you murmured softly, eyes glancing down as you shifted before looking back up as a small chuckle left him, low and dark. you could tell it was rare and that had your hands tightening as they gripped the fabric of your yoga pants.
his chuckle trailed off, your words earning you a real smirk this time, small and brief like it slipped out by accident.
the receptionist looked like she was about to combust.
he gestures his chin toward the gym, “cmon.”
you stare, “what?”
“i’ll show you around,” he states lowly with a shrug, as if you weren’t just told this gym requires a bloodline to enter.
your hands clenched a bit, “i don’t wanna, like, intrude. it’s fine, i can just find someplace el-“
“you already intruded, might as well get somethin’ out of it.” he cuts you off gruffly, almost lazy.
your lips part. you’re not sure whether to laugh or panic but he starts walking before you can decide.
without thinking, you follow.
and you can tell this man doesn’t do favors or shift the policy based on the burning stare of the receptionist. but he’s doing it anyway.
“name’s toji.” he stated as he lead you through the main area of the gym, eyes briefly looking down at you and fuck, was the size difference plainly obvious.
you replied softly with your own name and could see his scar twitch. you didn’t read too deep into it.
people shift out of his way without him saying a word. a couple of guys straighten like they’ve been caught slacking, some man calls out coach and toji merely nodded in reply.
you trail half a step behind him, trying not to look out of place as your wide eyes assessed the area.
the entire gym was dark and blacked out, but not in a tacky way. there was a large boxing ring in the middle of the floor, with a few punching bags scattered around. a large powerlifting area was placed on the side along with floor to ceiling windows, allowing natural light in.
as you'd seen online, pictures lined the second floor walls, the staircase leading up to a strength training area filled with every machine you could think of.
as your eyes squinted to take in the pictures, you could see pictures of current known boxers and martial artists you couldn’t name but recognized, along with some legends you knew.
and you could see that the current boxers’ pictures were taken in the very ring beside you.
you could also see a few photos of toji himself, clearly after a fight, bloody lip but grin splitting his face so attractively.
this gym was insane.
he kept glancing at you, more accurately, staring, as he led you through the gym, motioning towards each different section and explaining the contents loosely.
“so what are you here for?” toji questioned lowly as you stopped by the main gym area where you’d started ten minutes ago.
you shifted a bit, “um, i just wanna train.”
toji paused for a moment, eyes assessing you as his lips twitched. your brows furrowed a bit at his apparent amusement, suddenly offended by the stupidly attractive man.
“you look like you could fall over if i open a window.” he smirked as you scoffed instantly, arms folding over your chest as you looked up at him, “have you ever lifted?”
and he knew the answer was no.
“no.” you said it anyways and his smirk widened.
“cardio bunny?” he questioned and you shifted once more.
“not really.” you stated and it was somewhat true. you walked a lot. like, a lot. it helped with your anxiety but you weren’t running or anything of that sort.
“let me guess,” his arms folded, mirroring you, “you like to spend your mornings in those little stretching classes.”
you assumed he meant pilates and his assumption was correct. it’s not like you were obsessed with it but it gave you structure, allowed every morning to start the same.
plus, it made you feel good. so who was he to judge?
“what if i do?” you huffed gently, suddenly not so intrigued by the man before you, but annoyed.
toji smirked with a shrug, “nothin’ wrong with that, y’look good. but everyone needs a little muscle. it’s important.”
you tried not to blush at his passing compliment, simply shrugging gently as he lead you through the other side.
he showed you the lockers, showers, the private room for personal one on one sessions and the sauna.
finally, he led you to the main boxing ring.
it sat under focused overhead lights like a stage.
the ropes were taut, canvas clean and a heavy bag hanging nearby, swinging slightly.
you stared at it, chest tightening.
and toji watches you watch it, a glint in his eye and something pressing on his chest.
“you wanna box, kid?”
you swallow, “i don’t know.”
he tilted his head, “so, no?”
you blink, “no, i just don’t know. i don’t really know what i’m looking for.”
toji hummed once, “i mean, boxing is great for letting out some steam. seriously, it’s proven.”
and you hated the way he said it like he could see right through you. but you nodded nonetheless.
“i’ll be your referral.” he stated surely, eyes never leaving yours, “this’ll do you good.”
and something in toji didn’t want to admit that he was being selfish. he wanted you here. you intrigued him.
he wanted to see you again, fucking enamored with you the second he spotted you outside the establishment, staring like you were about to enter a haunted house.
the glass was tinted. you couldn’t see him but god, did he see you.
✶
toji had been mid-round when he caught sight of you.
hands wrapped knuckles aching in that familiar way that always seemed to ground him, rendering his mind mercifully quiet in a way that was rare for him.
he could see you from his peripheral, could sense the slow movements, hesitation and reluctance dripping from you.
his eyes had lifted without thinking and there you were.
standing just outside the entrance, weight shifting like you were deciding whether to flee. you looked so soft.
in all black but not in the sharp way the gym breathed, but your clothing was smooth and pliant, the kind meant to stretch and not brace for impact.
too fucking pretty for a place like this.
his first thought had been irritating, she’s lost.
his second was worse, she’ll leave.
and the third settled low in his gut, instant and out of character. he didn’t want you to.
and then you walked in. and he walked away mid-round, towards where you were like a siren singing him closer.
he hadn’t planned to intervene when tracy was being a bitch, he never did. people always came and went, asked stupid questions, begged for exceptions. he never budged.
but he did, for you.
and god, he shouldn’t.
you looked soft, gentle, young.
much younger than him, at least by a decade.
but fuck, you were so pretty. and by the trembling of your hands and the way you were quick to apologize, he could tell you were looking for something.
maybe someone.
so he walked up to you.
✶
the gym opened at six.
toji was always there by five thirty, ready to open up and get everything in place before the members began arriving.
but lately, you were beating him there.
for the past month, he’d arrive some mornings to open up and find you already seated on the steps outside, wired headphones in and your blush pink water bottle in hand.
in the beginning, you apologized and said you just liked to walk so you’d get there early but that you could wait.
obviously, toji wouldn’t let you wait.
so you’d come in, watch him set everything up, sometimes help when you could.
other nights, you’d slip in an hour before closing, hair damp from the rain and eyes exhausted but determined.
he’d learned it just depended on your lab and lecture times.
but six days a week, you wouldn’t miss a single session.
not once. and toji noticed it all.
he noticed you.
he caught himself watching you from across the floor more times than he liked, not leering but assessing.
he trained you some days, even though you told him he didn’t have to, god, he wanted to.
you liked strength training now, obsessed with leg days.
and fuck, was he just as obsessed.
“i hope all this goes to my ass.”
the first time you complained mid-set of hip thrusts, huffing as toji barked out a laugh so abrupt and out of place, you blinked up at him with a soft smile of your own.
“what?” you questioned, head tilting so prettily, his knees almost buckled.
“nothin',” he muttered, leaning down to add two more plates to the barbell, “let’s go.”
he’d also learned that you were an anxious little thing, something that was somewhat clear the moment you’d entered the gym a month ago.
he’d found out that the anxiety often made your appetite shit, you could barely stomach food. he’d changed that quick. toji had even started bringing you food himself, watching as you ate every last bite before leaving.
he explained to you how you weren’t going to grow an ass without fueling properly.
boxing came in waves, when your head was too loud and school chewed you raw, toji ushered you into the ring where he’d let you get your frustrations out.
the first time he’d touched you, hands firm on your hips as he repositioned you, both of you froze. his palms burned like they’d learned something they shouldn’t, ignited, really.
he’d stepped back immediately, “you good?”
you nodded too fast, breathless, “yeah. sorry.”
toji despised it when you apologized. it made something in him go sharp and protective.
walking you home happened naturally.
you never asked and he never offered, it just started.
especially when you’d come in at night, he’d never let you walk back home alone, in step beside you like some sort of bodyguard.
he’d learned your class schedule without asking, purely from your repeated patterns.
he noted which alleyways made you tense, which topics of conversation made you ramble and which you avoided.
everything about you made him ache with need.
the way your eyes flickered up to his scar when he smirked. the way his gaze lingered too long when you stretched.
in the pauses that occurred when you stood far too close.
he had to remind himself, way too often, that you were only twenty two. you were off limits. get it the fuck together.
but every morning you showed up, every night you trusted him to get you home safe, every time you smiled up at him, all soft and unguarded…
something inside toji fushiguro shifted it’s weight and settled.
possessive, unwilling and already gone for you.
he hated how much he wanted you to keep coming back. because he knew himself.
when toji wanted something, he wasn’t very good at letting it go.
✶
it had been two months since you joined the gym and there was one main thing you’d discovered.
toji fushiguro was absolutely infuriating.
you weren’t a brazen girl, you’ve never even had a boyfriend before. which is why these feelings you harbored for the older man were making you feel crazy.
you were different around him, even you could tell.
the voices in your head quieted, your shoulders went lax and your hands were steady.
he made you feel safe.
you didn’t know if it was because he was so much bigger than you, as well as many years older but it didn’t matter.
because you loved being around him.
and you made it pretty obvious. no, you didn’t throw yourself at him, your constant trepidation would never allow you to. however, for the better part of two months, you’d made small advances towards the man that should have clued him into your feelings. except, each attempt was met with him brushing you off.
it was absolutely infuriating because you truly believed toji felt for you as well. you could almost guarantee it.
alas, he held you at arms length.
the gym was always quieter in the mornings. certainly not empty, but quieter. settled.
the music was lower than usual, bodies fewer and the air less aggressive somehow. you loved coming in the mornings, much preferring it to the chaos of late nights.
you were just finishing your set of cable kickbacks when you felt it again. that subtle awareness.
not loud or leering, but present.
toji was leaning against the post by the ring, arms crossed and watching without seeming like he was watching.
you pretended not to notice as you took a sip of your water, eyes darting anywhere but at him.
yes, you were different around him, less anxious but he still made you a bit nervous.
you were in a snug pair of shorts that stopped right where your ass begun, halter top tight as it accentuated your waist.
you counted your reps slowly, pushing until your breathing grew labored and when you counted to eight, your leg was burning and trembling, barely able to push the weight once more so you stopped and stood, brushing your hair from your face.
and you could feel him. closer now, no longer downstairs by the ring but right behind you.
you tossed your hair over one shoulder as you glanced back at him.
“was that till failure? was it enough?” you questioned, head tilting as your doe eyes watched him walk closer.
he was in a tight compression top and maroon colored loose shorts. he looked good.
in this light, you could see the the small dusting of grey hairs where his ears were, subtle and only just blooming, but still there. and god, why did you find it so attractive?
“to grow your ass?” he asked flatly, arms crossed as he moved even closer.
you smiled softly, “you’re the one who said that first.”
“don’t put words in my mouth, kid.” his voice was low and gruff but his eyes danced with amusement, “said your ass looks great already.”
and you blushed softly, looking down as you grabbed your phone and logged the weight you used into the app he’d downloaded for you.
you looked up then to see him still watching, a bit further away and you stepped closer. maybe a bit too close.
close enough to feel the heat off him and enough that he shifted his stance without meaning to.
“what do you have next?” he questioned lowly, glancing down at your little outfit making the heat envelop your cheeks once more.
“leg press.”
he hummed, eyes darting over to the leg press machine to see a man using it.
“what else?”
you furrowed your brows, glancing at the machine then back at him, “that’s it.”
toji huffed once, jaw clenching as his arms crossed.
that guy was a creep, he’d concluded.
he’d been staring at you the entire hour you’d been here, obviously shifting his exercises to wherever you were so he could be close. it was pissing him off.
you ignored the sour look on his face, clearing your throat softly as you shifted just a bit closer, “i feel bad about making you walk me home all the time. let me repay you.”
toji frowned, “you don’t make me do shit. i walk you home because i want to.”
and he did want to. in fact, he looked forward to it every single day.
and you sighed softly. was he clueless or just plain stupid?
“well, i want to repay you anyway.” you huffed gently, “what about coffee?”
his head tilted then, jaw clenching as his eyes assessed you. he wanted to say yes, no, he wanted to scream yes.
maintaining a semblance of distance between you both was proven to be one of the hardest things toji has ever done.
because fuck, he wanted you. he wanted you more than anything.
but it was wrong, he knew that. but he wasn’t sure if you did.
“do you know how old i am?” toji questioned you then, taking you off guard as your mouth parted.
“um, not really? 30?” you knew he was older than that but didn’t older people love when others mistook them for being younger?
toji smirked gently, seeing right through you, “i’m 35, kid.”
you huffed then. you hated when he called you that.
“i’m not a kid. i’m about to graduate college.” you argued as the man chuckled gently, shaking his head as his tongue licked his scar once, quick and your knees trembled.
“and my back hurts when i lift heavy things.”
you knew he was full of shit, you just saw him deadlifting like 600 pounds without even breaking a sweat.
but you got his point.
he was older than you and didn’t want to take advantage.
except he wasn’t.
“you’re not-“
“kid,” he murmured, interrupting you roughly but not unkindly, “don’t.”
you faltered then, taking a step back as you nodded once, biting your lip.
and that should have been it.
except something tightened in his chest when he saw you shy back into your little shell, one he’d worked hard to get you out of. he hated the way you avoided his eyes then, cheeks flushed as you picked up your things and moved towards the leg press machine.
he told himself it was better this way. and he almost believed it.
thirty minutes later, you’d been walking on the treadmill when your eyes caught sight of a scene that had your blood running hot.
the cardio section was on this platform by the ring so you could essentially see the main gym area well which you loved because you enjoyed people watching.
toji stood by the ring, speaking to this man you knew he coached, voice low and demanding as he instructed him when a girl walked over.
she was tall, strutting confidently in her tight shorts and sports bra that pushed her breast up to her chin.
you tensed as you watched her lean against the dark-haired man. you couldn’t hear them well but you didn’t need to.
she was brushing up against him and toji offered low, one word responses which still did nothing to ease your irritation.
and you watched them for a good 10 minutes until you were only fifteen minutes into your usual twenty minutes of cardio but you couldn’t take it anymore. if you saw her giggle and brush against him one more time, you were gonna lose it.
you pressed the little red button on the treadmill, gathered your things and walked down the steps and towards the main lobby. right past the man who was glancing at you from time to time and when he couldn’t spot you on the machine anymore, his gaze immediately turned to see you walk right past him, your familiar warm and pretty scent encompassing him.
in three strides, his large hand was already gripping your elbow and turning you around, “you’re done early.”
you simply hummed in agreement, pulling your arm away from his hold as your eyes darted to well, anywhere but him.
then his hand lifted, thumb and index gripping your chin and forcing your gaze to his, “what’s with the face?”
“what face?” your lips pouted even more, brows furrowing as you moved your chin away from his hold. or attempted to but his grip was iron-clad.
he smirked then, “that face.”
“that’s just my face!” you stated, hands moving to physically pry his hand away from you and he obliged, “now, if you’ll excuse me, i have a lab to get to.”
an you turned to walk towards the locker rooms when his voice sounded once more, “she’s not my type, y’know?”
your heart stopped, body immediately turning to face him once more, jaw clenched, “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
his smirk only deepened as his tongue pressed against his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
toji moved closer then till your head was forced to crane back to look up at him, “sure y’don’t, sweetheart. not jealous?”
you scoffed immediately, but god, you wished he’d call you that more often and not kid.
“oh, please.”
“y'r pouting.”
“am not!”
toji huffed a short laugh, surprising both of you, “it’s cute.”
you gulped then, the image of her and him crossing your mind once more as you met his dark gaze.
then his eyes softened, arms uncrossing because he wasn’t cruel. at least not to you.
“don’t read into things.”
you looked down, “right.”
and there it was again, that ache. the one that made his jaw tighten, that told him he wanted to say more than he should.
because you were reading into things.
but so was he.
and he wanted nothing more than to prove to you that there had been a cosmic shift the moment you had walked into this establishment. that something visceral changed in him when he'd met you.
he walked you home that night. and when you paused outside your gate, eyes peering up at him with something akin to hope, he simply told you to text me when you’re in.
and he watched you disappear into your apartment complex, staring longer than necessary.
toji told himself he was being responsible.
that the tension between you was something he needed to keep a lid on.
and you laid awake that night, remembering the way he said don’t like it hurt him more than it did you.
✶
it was late when the door was pushed open, a mere thirty minutes before closing time.
you slipped inside quietly, shoulders tense and fingers trembling where they clutched your mini pink duffel bag that didn’t really carry much.
toji immediately looked up from his place by the lobby.
truthfully, he’d been pacing the entirety of the entrance, eyes practically fixed on the door, waiting for it to be pushed open in that gentle way you always did.
it was a wednesday, meaning you’d usually arrive an hour before closing time, meaning thirty minutes ago.
and he hated how restless he’s been since, simply waiting for you to grant him your addicting presence like a puppy waiting by the door. he longed to hear your saccharine voice tell him about your day, even if it was laced with exhaustion.
but you did no such thing.
as you entered, you’d simply glanced up at him like your eyes always seemed to find him first, offering a tight smile before disappearing into the locker room, a word not leaving your plush lips.
and toji felt like dying.
as the days passed, toji had began getting used to the way your doe eyes met his, filling with relief when you saw him. he’d began looking forward to your dimpled smile and the gentle way you recalled the day’s events, even if they were uneventful.
what felt like a lifetime later which in reality was a mere two minutes, you’d emerged from the women’s locker room in your little black shorts and sports bra with that same ballet top from the first day you’d walked in here wrapped around your smaller frame.
and you hadn’t expected toji to be right outside the locker room, body colliding with his as he held your elbows to steady you, big hands encompassing you and dark eyes looking down at you with a scowl.
“sorry.” you murmured as your wide eyes looked up at him, and fuck, if that word didn’t just make him angrier.
“where the hell were you?” his words uttered like a demand rather than a question, rendering you confused as your brows furrowed.
but your eyes seemed far away, farther than he’d liked.
he longed for you to be with him, always, for you to find relief in him like you always did. it seemed that whatever anxious thoughts were riddling your mind, his mere presence alone wouldn’t suffice in calming you this time.
he only grew more frustrated.
“what do you mean-“
“i mean, you usually show up at 9 on wednesdays. it’s 9:30. we close in half an hour. where were you.” again, his voice was commanding rather than soothing. he watched as your cheeks puffed out for a moment, skin flushing as you shook your head.
“i can leave-“
toji stepped closer, hands lifting from your arms to your face as he lifted your gaze to his own. he hated when your eyes wouldn’t meet his.
and you were glad that the gym was basically empty aside from you, him and the cleaning lady.
“that’s not what i said, kid. i asked where you were.”
and as your wide eyes finally met his, darker than usual and glassy, his chest clenched with effort.
and he was angry for an entirely different reason.
“i got caught up in the library.” your voice came out soft, almost a whisper and his jaw clenched, tongue sharply tracing his scar slowly as his eyes flickered around your pretty features.
you seemed utterly exhausted.
his eyes immediately travelled to your fingers, specifically your thumb where that patch of raw skin was darker, raw and red. his ribs burned, imagining the way you picked at the skin till you bled.
“cmon.”
his hand held your own, drawing your fingers and palm as he led you towards the ring in the main area.
the ring always felt bigger at night, lights low overhead and ropes casting long shadows across the mat.
toji grabbed the wraps from the little box on the side, stepping forward to grip your hand, wrapping each one methodically. his eyes never left you and yours stared somewhere into space, mind not even in your vicinity.
that pissed him off.
“hey,” he demanded, beginning to wrap your other hand as you snapped out of whatever daze you’d been placed in, eyes looking up, “focus on me.”
you simply nodded once as he walked off to get the mitts, slipping them on as you placed the blood colored gloves into yours.
“hands up.” he instructed as you complied automatically, “breathe.”
your first punch was weak, off center.
toji didn’t say anything, simply adjusted his stance.
then you hit him again, sharper but still utterly soft.
“like you mean it. cmon, use me.”
and those words caused a flicker to brighten in your eyes.
this time, you hit harder. much harder, almost frantic.
he encouraged you softly, watched as you punched faster, harder. like you were trying to outrun something.
no punches you would ever throw could hurt him, even at your strongest. in fact, the mitts barely even moved when you’d hit but he knew when you were really trying or not.
the rhythm broke quickly, your breathing growing uneven and punches sloppy with frustration rather than fatigue.
“hey,” toji spoke uncharacteristically gently, firm palms catching your fists mid-swing as he allowed the mitts to slip off, “easy, kid.”
your shoulders shook before you even realized what was happening, breathing labored and eyes glassy.
“i’m so tired,” you breathed out, words barely audible, “i don’t know why i can’t just-“
your voice cracked clean down the middle and so did his heart, clenching as he watched your big glassy eyes.
toji swore quietly under his breath and reached out without thinking, a hand cradling your jaw, steady and grounding and warm.
“alright,” he muttered, “that’s enough.”
you shook your head violently, “n-no, i need-“
your fists slammed against his broad chest instead, weak and unfocused, frustration spilling over into something raw and helpless. a sound tore out of you before you could stop it, a sob you’d been holding back all day.
and toji caught you without hesitation, an arm wrapping around your waist, dragging you up and into him. the other anchored at the back of your head, fingers clutching at the strands of your hair.
“i got you, i got you…” he murmured against your hair, rough but steady as he placed repeated kisses to the area.
your forehead pressed into his chest as you broke, quietly then all at once. tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt as your hands fisted it like you were afraid he’d let go.
tori’s jaw clenched as he held you close, something inside him burning to fix whatever rendered you this helpless.
he held you even as your cries quieted to tiny sniffles and sighs, grip only growing tighter.
when you finally pulled back, your pretty eyes were bloodshot and puffy, long lashes wet and cheeks flushed and damp.
you looked embarrassed the second you realized how close you were, hands stills gripping the fabric of his shirt.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered and toji’s jaw clenched.
“don’t apologize to me.”
your gaze flickered to his mouth before you could stop yourself and he noticed instantly. because he noticed you. every little thing about you.
the air shifted then, quiet and heavy. almost electric.
his big hand drifted from your waist down to your hip, yours still at his chest.
neither of you moved.
“kid,” he said softly, warning threaded through the word, “you don’t-“
you leaned in anyways, lips only brushing his, as if testing the waters.
and the mere brush of your plush lips against his own had a sharp sensation go through him.
toji fushiguro was 35 years old, he’d experienced his fair share of kisses and fucks, but god, if this wasn’t the moment he’d felt most alive.
fuck’s sake, he’d even been married once and it never felt this right.
toji stilled for half a heartbeat and he knew you were waiting for him to take the lead, to guide you, as he usually did.
he tried to reason with himself. he was thirteen years your senior, you were still in college, this wasn’t right.
but that didn’t explain the way his hand slid up your back, firm and sure as his lips met yours in a kiss that was anything but wrong.
a sound left you then, low and soft, as he sounded a groan right back, muffled against your lips.
your lips moved in sync, slow at first, controlled before growing more frantic, mouths parting and tongues licking as a whimper left you.
your hands tangled in his dark locks as his own feet moved forward till the ropes pressed against your thighs as he sat you down, legs wrapped around his waist but seated on the top rope.
his hands gripped your hips as his lips crashed against yours, over and over until he couldn’t breathe. he didn’t want to.
fuck, you were everything.
this was everything.
well, until your breath hitched and you pulled back, flustered and wide-eyed, looking absolutely wrecked with your swollen lips and flushed cheeks.
“oh god,” you breathed out, “i’m so-“
“if you say sorry, i’ll kill someone.”
his words were sharp, deep and still breathless from you previous actions. and fuck, he just wanted you to stop talking and keep kissing him.
you gasped softly, hand pushing against his abs but he wouldn’t budge so you simply slid down against him till your feet touched the floor, eyes avoiding his.
“i-i should go-“
“no. stay.” toji placed a hand against your hip, eyes narrowed as he looked down at you but you wouldn’t meet his gaze, unraveling the wraps on your hands as you walked backwards.
“i have class early tomorrow, i’ll, um, i’ll see you!”
and toji watched as you hopped down from the ring, grabbing your phone with trembling hands before you rushed out the doors, completely abandoning your stuff in the locker room.
he didn’t chase you, shoulders tense and jaw locked as he watched you disappear out the door like something precious slipping through his fingers.
and then it was just him.
and for the first time in a long time, toji fushiguro didn’t feel in control of a damn thing.
✶
you didn’t show up the next day. or the day after that.
and frankly, toji wasn’t sure if you were going to show up at all, but he only lasts two days before taking it upon himself to find out.
he tried to rationalize your absence. maybe it was just uni shit. deadlines, exams, assignments.
but he knew you by now.
you were avoiding him after you’d kissed him in the ring.
he could still feel you, your smaller frame pressed against him, the addicting sounds that left you, the way you’d clutched at him like he was something holy.
then he remembered your flustered expression, your breathlessness, eyes blown wide like you’d crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.
by the third night, toji was pacing the gym floor.
he’d already closed up, lights off and equipment put away but he couldn’t make himself go back home.
he told himself five different reasons not to do this.
alas, he does it anyway.
your apartment building was quiet, too quiet. he climbed the stairs to the sixth floor without thinking, the memory of you rambling on about your landlord serving him well as he recalled your floor and apartment number.
and when he knocked, it was tight and sharp, utterly impatient.
meanwhile, you had been quietly making your little yoghurt bowl, tea brewing and a youtube video playing softly in the back. you had finished your assignments yesterday, exams behind you so things were calmer.
so why didn’t you go to train?
because you couldn’t face toji fushiguro, no, it was too much.
the man had already brushed you off on multiple occasions, making it evident that he wasn’t comfortable with pursuing you, drawing that line clear and bold and you went ahead and kissed him anyway.
god, it made you shudder thinking about it.
he was just so…good.
you were sure you were the only person who used that word to describe him, what, with his constant brooding and everlasting scowl painting his unfairly handsome features.
but he was, truly.
and god, did he know how to kiss. it was almost sinful.
you couldn’t stop thinking about him which is why space was definitely needed.
you needed a rest day anyways, it was good to recover. right?
a few days would pass, you’d go back and toji would have forgotten all about it. even better, he’d simply ignore your existence.
you tried not to acknowledge the pang in your ribs at the thought.
it was 10:47pm when a rough knock sounded your apartment and you froze.
you didn’t order anything and your friends didn’t usually show up unannounced.
you gulped softly and in your little baby blue pajama set and fluffy socks, you padded over to the door, leaning up on your tip-toes as you looked through the peephole.
and then you gasped softly.
fuck, fuck, fuck.
what was he doing here?
you turned and placed your back against the door, heart thudding as you tried to think of what to do.
should you ignore him? what if it was important? maybe he was just dropping off the bag you’d left? or he was here to ban you from the gym after what-
“open up, kid, i can hear you shufflin’ around over there.”
his deep voice reverberated through the door and you froze once more. you couldn’t help the beating of your heart and clamming of your hands as he spoke, his voice calling to you in a way you couldn’t explain.
so with a deep sigh, you opened the door, “hi, toji.”
and fuck, did hearing your pretty voice say his name fucking heal something in him.
and he was fucking pissed at you for taking that away from him.
you could tell. by the scowl painting his features and the narrowing of his eyes. but then again, that was also his resting face, so you couldn’t be too sure.
“you didn’t come in.” he stated, voice low and clipped, “for three days now.”
your brows knitted, “you’re tracking my attendance now?”
“don’t,” he snapped, pushing past you and making his way into your home for the first time and fuck, everything was so…you.
the neutral and pastels, the low lighting and candles smelling of cinnamon and something warm. it was all so warm. and so utterly you.
“fuck have you been doing?” he questioned, voice firm as he turned around to face you, arms crossing as he watched you close and lock the door before turning to him with a sigh.
“i was sore and needed a rest day.”
he scoffed immediately, taking a step forward, “bullshit. you ran.”
your mouth parted for a moment before huffing once.
so what if you did? so what if you were?
you didn’t owe him anything, he was the one who basically said he didn’t want you.
your spine stiffened, “you don’t-“
“you kissed me,” he interrupted, voice rougher now, “then you bolted.”
silence thickens the room and you swallowed, “do you blame me?”
he scoffed once, stepping even closer, “fuck yeah, i do.”
you scoffed right back, arms crossing as you looked up at him with narrowed eyes, “seriously? you’re the one who basically told me not to try anything, spent weeks acting like i was some kid playing pretend, like i didn’t know what i wanted-“
toji’s jaw clenched, “i was protecting you.”
“from what?”
“from me.”
the words landed heavy and you took a step back but he only took one even closer, slower as if he was afraid you’d vanish once more if he moved too fast.
“you seriously think i don’t want you?” he began, jaw clenching and eyes darkening as you swallowed gently, “the entire fuckin’ problem is that i want you. bad. have since the moment you walked into my gym, lookin’ like somethin’ out of a dream. like you were on the verge of runnin’…i just,” you couldn’t get over how utterly raw and real he sounded, “i’m older. i don’t want to be something you’ll regret.”
you stepped into his space before you could think it over, hand reaching out to grip at the fabric atop his abdomen, “you wouldn’t be. i'm not fragile.”
he begged to differ but he presumed you were somewhat right.
you were fragile, just not in the way he was afraid of.
you were soft and maybe a bit sensitive, but you were an intelligent thing, and you were extremely aware of everything, yourself included.
toji studied your pretty features then, searching for doubt or hesitation but he came up empty.
then his control snapped, not violent but decisive.
fuck it all.
one big calloused hand came up to your jaw, thumb resting just beneath your lip and when he kisses you this time, there was no hesitation.
it was slower, deeper and certain.
he murmured your name against the plush of your mouth, groaning as you gasped against him when his other hand reached down to squeeze at your ass once. you’d taken the hint and leaned up, allowing him to pull you into him effortlessly, your legs around his hips as your hands gripped at the dark strands at the base of his neck.
“anxious little thing,” he murmured against you once more, tongue peaking out to paint a stripe across your panting lips, “don’t run from me again, okay, pup?”
you whined against his lips, nodding gently, “okay.”
pup wasn’t much of a step up from kid but you’ll take it.
and this time, when he kisses you again, he leaves nothing unsaid between you.
✶
this didnt turn out the way i pictured at all but oh well 🫠🫠
toji is acc my fav in jjk but i feel like i cant ever do him justice when i write him so i never do so this was my first toji fic !!
lmk what you think as alwaysss + i hope u enjoooy!
credits - divider by @/uzmacciato + art by @/ruu_sugu
ੈ⭒˚⋆🪼 ೃ࿔*:･ you know your desperation has reached its limit when you decide to ask about dealing with your crush on an online forum.
part 1 -> part 2 -> part 3
chatting with sixeyes0607 at forum becomes a habit.
you tell yourself it’s temporary; just a weird digital crutch until the embarrassment of facing gojo fades, but the forum tab stays open on your browser. you refresh it in the three-minute lull between classes, the glow casting a soft light on your face in your dark dorm before bed, your eyes flicking to it during lectures when your notes blur into incomprehensible swirls. it becomes a ritual, a tiny pocket of understood chaos.
it doesn’t really bother you that you don’t know his name or why the weird nickname(though yours is no better, at least its factual), you don’t know where he studies and what he likes. you are not sure you want to ruin the magic of your anonymity and bonding over your unattainable crushes. regardless, sixeyes0607 is always there. his replies appear like clockwork, a digital heartbeat, a comfort.
sixeyes0607: did you survive today?
ghostinthebackrow: barely. i avoided the area he exists in.
sixeyes0607: valid strategy.
ghostinthebackrow: what about you?
there’s a pause longer than usual. the little typing… indicator appears, disappears, reappears.
sixeyes0607: uh. i tried again. saw them in the library.
your stomach flips, a strange mixture of dread and vicarious thrill.
ghostinthebackrow: and?? don’t leave me in suspense.
sixeyes0607: said something stupid. laughed too loud. she smiled though.
sixeyes0607: a little one. cute tho
you picture his crush—faceless, distant, perfect in your imagination. you feel happy for him, feel glad that he’s braver than you are.
ghostinthebackrow: a smile is good.
sixeyes0607: yeah. felt like winning a medal.
you type before your internal censor can engage, the words flowing straight from the vulnerable core of you to the screen.
ghostinthebackrow: i wish he’d smile at me.
on the other side of campus, gojo stares at that sentence longer than he should. he’s in his dorm, half-dressed after practice, a water bottle forgotten in his hand. the words echo in the silent room. he knows exactly what you mean.
—
your second attempt happens by accident, which is the only way it could have happened at all.
you’re buried in the cacophonous quiet of the main library, digging through the black hole of your bag for a specific highlighter. in your haste, your elbow knocks a thick sociology textbook off the edge of the table. it lands with a soft but definitive thud at someone else’s feet.
long legs, clad in expensive, slightly distressed jeans. familiar white sneakers, impossibly clean.
before you can even gasp an apology, he’s bending down. gojo picks up the book, his fingers brushing the cover. he doesn’t hand it back immediately. instead, he glances at the title, a faint, unreadable expression flickering across his face before he extends it toward you.
“you dropped this,” he says. his voice is lower here, softened by the library hush.
your brain, the traitorous organ, fully short-circuits. all pre-rehearsed sentences evaporate.
“oh—thanks. sorry,” you manage, your voice a breathy whisper. you take the book, your fingers briefly grazing his. a static shock, real or imagined, jolts up your arm.
he doesn’t move away immediately. he watches you for a second, his head tilted slightly. he’s closer than he was at the vending machines. quieter. more present.
“…you’re in my chem lecture, right? with professor yaga?” he asks, as if confirming a hypothesis.
your heart stutters, trips over itself. he knows. he’s noticed you.
“yeah?” you say, the word coming out as a shocked exhale. you clear your throat. “i mean—yes. monday and wednesday at ten.”
he smiles then—not the wide, dazzling, crowd-pleasing grin. this one is smaller, softer at the edges. it looks thoughtful, like he’s concentrating on getting it right. it reaches his eyes, making them crinkle in a way that feels devastatingly genuine.
“cool,” he says, the single word imbued with a weight that the library air seems to hold.
and then, like a spell breaking, someone calls his name from across the periodicals section. the moment snaps, a thread pulled too tight. the easy tension in his shoulders returns, the public persona sliding back into place like a mask.
“later,” he murmurs, more to you than to the caller, and then he’s gone, weaving through the stacks toward the noise.
you sit there for five full minutes, the sociology textbook open on your lap to a random page. you don’t read a single word. you just watch the spot where he stood and feel your hands tremble with the residual energy of a celestial near-miss.
that night, you log on with a new kind of urgency, eager to tell your anonymous friend about what happened.
ghostinthebackrow: update: he talked to me.
sixeyes0607: NO WAY
ghostinthebackrow: it was an accident. i dropped a book. he picked it up and then started talking.
sixeyes0607: that’s huge bro
ghostinthebackrow: like. two sentences. but still.
you hesitate, biting your lip, then add the most crucial data point. you haven’t been able to stop thinking about it through the whole day.
ghostinthebackrow: he smiled.
on gojo’s screen, your words feel heavier than they should. he’s replaying the library moment for the twentieth time, and now he’s reading your perspective of it and doesn’t even know it. the duality is maddening and exhilarating.
sixeyes0607: see? told you silence doesn’t mean rejection.
you smile, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with your room’s temperature.
you don’t see him type and delete three different replies.
he backspaces furiously, feeling like an idiot. finally, he settles on something safer, something that aches with the truth he can’t yet voice.
sixeyes0607: you deserve that smile, y’know.
… his next attempt is, by his own later assessment, a disaster of epic proportions.
he spots you outside the student center. you’re sitting alone at a small, round table under a tree, headphones in, a notebook open. you’re biting the end of your pen, lost in thought. his friends, suguru and shoko, are a few feet away, debating where to get lunch, loud and annoying in the way he usually relishes. today, he ignores them.
his feet carry him over before his panic can catch up. he taps the table twice with his knuckles.
you look up, pulling one headphone away, startled. your eyes widen slightly. “oh. hi.”
“hey,” he says, and suddenly he’s hyper-aware of everything: how tall he is looming over the table, how his shadow falls across your notes, the fact that he can’t remember what he planned to say. “uh. we talked at the library.”
you blink. “that’s right.”
he opens his mouth. the plan was something clever, something about the book, or chemistry, or the weather. a smooth segue. what comes out is nothing. just air. his mind is a perfect, blank, blue screen.
his face heats. he can feel the tips of his ears burning, a telltale sign he hopes you don’t notice. he breaks eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture so uncharacteristically nervous it would shock his friends.
“i—uh. never mind,” he mutters, the words stumbling over each other. “sorry. bye.”
he turns and walks away, not back to his friends, but just away, leaving you sitting there in stunned silence. he can’t believe he acted so stupidly around you. he can barely shut up around girls he doesn’t even like!
—
later, curled up in bed with your laptop balanced on your knees, you try to process the whirlwind. gojo looked… nervous? confused? scared? it’s weird how his usually confident and cocky nature subdued for whatever reason. maybe you did weird him out with your reaction the other day.
ghostinthebackrow: okay. i think i’m confusing him.
sixeyes0607: how so?
ghostinthebackrow: he keeps acting weird around me.
sixeyes0607: weird how?
ghostinthebackrow: quiet. awkward. like he wants to say something but doesn’t. he’s usually so loud and talkative. is it me?
there’s a long pause. too long. you watch the cursor blink in the reply box, imagining him thinking.
sixeyes0607: …yeah. that sounds familiar.
ghostinthebackrow: really? your crush does that too?
sixeyes0607: oh no. i do that. turns out when you actually care, all that confidence goes straight out the window. leaves you standing there with a dumb look on your face and a heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.
you read the message twice. then a third time. you hug your pillow tighter, pressing it against the sudden, overwhelming ache in your chest. it’s a soft ache, threaded through with filaments of a hope so fragile you’re afraid to name it.
ghostinthebackrow: so maybe um
ghostinthebackrow: maybe our crushes aren’t these untouchable, perfect entities. maybe they’re just… people. with their own stupid, malfunctioning software.
on the other side of the screen, in the quiet of his room, gojo exhales a slow, shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. he stares at the ceiling, the words painting a new, terrifying, wonderful possibility across the blank white surface.
sixeyes0607: maybe they’re just scared too.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
it isn’t completely insane that a stranger on the internet knows the exact, fluttery rhythm your heart adopts when you walk past a certain section of campus, or the way your stomach knots into a tight, anxious fist twenty minutes before a shared lecture. it’s not weird that his username is the first thing you look for the second you open the clunky forum, your breath hitching slightly until you see the last active: 5 minutes ago tag beside his name.
sixeyes0607: what lecture you suffering through today?
ghostinthebackrow: organic chem. back row. as always.
sixeyes0607: is the air is thinner up there? i know the view of everyone’s impending doom is clearer.
you pause, your pen hovering over your notebook. a coincidence had been nudging at the back of your mind for days, small details aligning.
ghostinthebackrow: wait
ghostinthebackrow: you said your crush is in your chem class. and you’re always joking about hating yaga’s pop quizzes
sixeyes0607: …
ghostinthebackrow: professor yaga. that’s my organic chem professor.
a longer pause.
sixeyes0607: yeah.
ghostinthebackrow: so… same college? tokyo metropolitan?
sixeyes0607: yeah. big one though. thousands of people. odds are astronomically slim we’d ever actually cross paths before we finish it.
your heart does a weird little skip, a tripping beat against your ribs. it felt both impossibly intimate and safely distant.
ghostinthebackrow: still funny.
sixeyes0607: funny or fate 👀
you roll your eyes at the screen, a small, unbidden smile touching your lips despite the swarm of butterflies in your stomach.
—
it happens halfway through the wednesday lecture. yaga is droning on about stereochemistry, and your phone buzzes discreetly in your hoodie pocket. a new notification.
sixeyes0607: bet you five imaginary dollars he’s going to draw that molecule wrong again. look at the angle of that bond. criminal.
you stifle a laugh, glancing up from your screen to look at the whiteboard. as you do, your eyes catch on a figure a row ahead and several seats to the left. white hair, impossibly bright even under the fluorescent lights. broad shoulders slouched in a posture of elegant boredom. gojo satoru.
and in his hand, angled away from the professor’s line of sight, his phone screen is brightly illuminated, unmistakably so. the dark, low-contrast theme. the slightly outdated, text-heavy layout. it’s not a social media feed. it’s a forum thread.
your breath catches in your throat, sharp and cold. the air in the lecture hall suddenly feels too thick.
no. you tell yourself, forcefully. people use forums. there are millions of them. coincidence exists. you’re projecting, your brain rotting from sleep deprivation and romantic delusion, trying to force two separate worlds to collide because you secretly want them to.
still— your fingers, trembling slightly, hover over your own phone’s keyboard.
ghostinthebackrow: do you ever text during class?
three dots appear almost instantly. in your periphery, you see gojo’s thumb move.
sixeyes0607: constantly. it’s the only way to survive. why?
your throat goes dry. you watch as gojo reads a message, his head dipping slightly, a faint, private smile touching his lips before he starts typing a reply.
you don’t answer. you just stare at the back of his head, the world narrowing to the space between his phone and yours.
—
sixeyes0607: hey. this might be completely insane.
ghostinthebackrow: we’re already talking to internet strangers about our heart palpitations. we left ‘sane’ behind weeks ago.
sixeyes0607: true. okay. wanna meet?
your heart slams against your sternum, a single, violent thud that echoes in your ears. you reread the three words.
ghostinthebackrow: like. in real life?
sixeyes0607: yeah. just coffee. campus café. neutral territory. no pressure.
you stare at the screen, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your wrists.
the offer was a trap door, an escape hatch. it should have been comforting. instead, it made it terrifyingly real. you swallow, your mouth parchment-dry. god, were you really meeting with a person you could have been passing every day in the college campus?
ghostinthebackrow: okay.
sixeyes0607: tomorrow. 4 pm. the grind, on west campus.
ghostinthebackrow: okay
ghostinthebackrow: see ya
you put your phone face down on your pillow as if it had burned you, then immediately buried your face in your hands, a silent scream of pure, undiluted panic trapped in your chest.
… the grind smells like over-roasted espresso beans and damp wool from the afternoon rain. you push the door open, the bell jingling with obnoxious cheer, and your heart plummets straight through the floor.
gojo is there too, for some reason.
he’s sitting at a small table by the rain-streaked window, sunlight struggling through the clouds to glint in his messy white hair. his sunglasses are hooked into the collar of his jacket. he has his phone in his hand, staring at it intently. his leg is bouncing a rapid, anxious rhythm under the table.
no. your brain short-circuits, throwing up static. coincidence. just a cosmic joke. he’s meeting someone else. he’s everywhere, that’s the point, he’s always everywhere, he’s the sun.
you can’t breathe. you mechanically move to the farthest corner, sliding into a chair at a table wedged between a bookshelf and a large potted fern. fifteen minutes, you bargain with yourself, your hands cold and clammy. fifteen minutes and then you’ll leave.
ten minutes pass. each one an eternity. you sneak a glance over the top of your phone.
gojo checks his watch. then his phone. he types something, frowns, deletes it. his thumb hovers, tapping a restless pattern against the case. you think he’s waiting. he’s waiting for someone.
stop it. you’re imagining things. he’s probably texting a friend to meet him for a late lunch.
twenty minutes past four. your hope, a fragile little bird, feels its wings grow leaden. you check your own phone. no new messages from sixeyes0607. nothing.
then, the bell above the door chimes again.
geto suguru walks in, shaking rainwater from his dark hair. he scans the room, spots gojo, and makes a beeline for him, sliding into the seat across from him with the easy familiarity of a lifelong friend. gojo looks up, and you see his face—the anxious tension melts into something else: exasperated affection. he groans, shoves his phone away dismissively, and starts talking, hands waving in animated explanation.
that’s it.
the ache in your chest is sharp, a clean slice of humiliation. of course. of course gojo satoru wasn’t waiting for you. he was waiting for his friend. you were a fool, weaving fantasies out of pixelated conversations and coincidental seating charts.
you stand up so quickly your chair scrapes the floor. you don’t look back as you weave through the tables and push out into the cool, damp air, the cafe’s warmth clinging to you like a taunt.
you text sixeyes0607 when you’ve calmed a bit, as soon as you’re far away from the cafe and closer to your dorm room, the rain misting your heated face.
ghostinthebackrow: you could’ve just told me you’d be busy or something.
the reply comes before you can even pocket your phone, vibrating against your palm.
sixeyes0607: i was there!! i waited!! are you kidding
a bitter laugh escapes you, swallowed by the drizzle.
ghostinthebackrow: sure.
sixeyes0607: i was!! for twenty minutes. then my friend showed up uninvited and i couldn’t get rid of him.
your breath stutters. the image of geto sliding into that seat flashes again.
ghostinthebackrow: it’s whatever. forget it.
the three dots appear. they dance for a long moment. then they disappear. no reply comes.
you don’t wait. you go home. you take a shower so hot it stings your skin, as if you could scrub away the embarrassment. you crawl into bed, the forum app a glaring icon on your phone screen. you don’t open it. for the first time in weeks, you let the chat lie silent.
—
the next morning, you wake with a thought so fully formed and terrifying it rockets you upright, your blanket pooling around your waist.
same college.
same lecture halls.
same obscure, dying forum.
same café, same time.
gojo, constantly on his phone during classes he shares with you.
the way gojo had frozen, speechless, when you’d approached him—twice.
no. it was impossible. a narrative constructed by a desperate, lonely mind. gojo satoru was the campus sovereign, a creature of effortless light and noise. sixeyes0607 was your shadowy confidant, all dry wit and vulnerable, hidden sweetness. they were opposites. they couldn’t overlap.
your phone buzzes on the nightstand. a new notification lights up the screen. you stare at it, your heart pounding a frantic, ragged rhythm against your ribs. for the first time since that very first reply popped up weeks ago, you don’t open it.
you’re too afraid.
because the theory solidifying in your head is a truth too terrifying to speak aloud: a truth that would shatter either your new friendship or your fragile hope.
and even worse—you’re deeply, desperately scared it might be true.
Star basketball player Suguru Geto gets lucky on and off the court. The last thing you should do after the team you’re cheering for loses is fuck the rival team’s star player. Losing never felt so good.
3.3k words
tags: 18+ cheerleader!reader x basketball player!suguru, afab reader, semi-public/locker room sex, hair pulling, unprotected ic, creampie, praise, swearing, reader does the splits on it, MDNI
One of the biggest games of the basketball season has your entire school on edge. Jujutsu University, your school’s number one rival, is visiting tonight. It’s your first year here after transferring from another school, and you can’t figure out why there’s so much chaos. With the student body riled up, your squad is even more tense. That’s why your captain is reiterating the rules directly out of the sacred Cheer Bible.
“Let’s begin,” she says, clearing her throat. “No posting thirst traps while in uniform. No hooking up with an athlete while they’re in season. If you break up, pretend he’s dead. And for today, absolutely no ogling the opposing team.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
“Did you hear that? I’ll say it again and again. I don’t care that the Jujutsu boys are… you know. Do. Not. Engage.”
You turn to Yuki. “Is this necessary?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just lifts her phone and shows you the Jujutsu roster online. Pictured on the screen is their captain and point guard, Satoru Gojo, grinning like he owns the planet.
You blink. “I guess I understand the hype.”
“Please,” Yuki says, “You should see their shooting guard. He’s Gojo’s right hand man and every girl’s wet dream.”
Before she can swipe to his photo, your captain disbands the meeting.
“Get to stretching. And remember ladies, keep it tight, keep it classy, and keep your drama out of the locker room!”
-
The pep band blares. The crowd roars. You’re adjusting your ponytail when the arena lights dim, signaling the arrival of the visiting team. Jujutsu University enters like they’ve done this a hundred times. The entire student section rises to their feet to boo, and yet somehow, it sounds more like worship.
Gojo’s the first one in, of course. He blows a kiss to someone in the bleachers and points finger guns at your mascot like he’s flirting with a cartoon. You roll your eyes. And then he walks in, and you immediately know he’s the one Yuki was talking about. Suguru Geto.
His jersey has a number 3 on the back, and his sharp eyes look like they’ve seen too much and care too little. He’s not showy like Gojo. He doesn’t need to be. He walks with the quiet confidence of someone who knows he can drop thirty points without cracking a smile. His hair is tied back in a low bun, ink trailing down one arm, and a black compression sleeve on the other.
The world doesn’t exactly stop, but you swear it tilts on its axis. It’s not even lust at first, not really. It’s curiosity with teeth. Sharp, intrusive, and a little unhinged.
Yuki nudges you. “Told you.”
You say nothing, still staring as Suguru jogs to half court, gives Gojo a low five, and eyes the place like he’s ready to destroy it. Just when your gaze flicks to his face again, he looks right at you.
It’s only a glance. Just long enough to make your stomach drop and your skin burn and your body suddenly very aware of itself in your uniform. He doesn’t smile. Just tips his chin up a little, like he’s clocked you, and he’s made a note of something he likes. He turns away just as fast.
Yuki’s already smirking at you.
“Oh,” you say, trying to sound unimpressed. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Yuki scoffs. “That man is the reason this entire campus is foaming at the mouth. Gojo might run his mouth, but Geto? He ruins people. Quietly.”
You shake your head and turn away, but it’s too late. You’re curious. And that curiosity only festers when game time comes and the court turns electric.
-
When the second quarter ends, your squad breaks for water before the big halftime performance. The gym is loud, thundering with the noise of two frenzied student bodies. The score’s tight, and everyone knows the second half is going to get bloody.
You wipe sweat from your brow, trying to focus on your breathing, on your formation for the next routine. But your attention is shot. Suguru hasn’t looked at you again since that first glance. And somehow, that’s worse than the way his eye contact affects you.
You’re standing just off-court near an exit, waiting for the rest of your squad to return, when a shadow passes into your peripheral vision. Coming off the court alone, towel slung over his shoulder, jersey clinging to him in all the right places. You freeze, rooted to the floor like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even though you haven’t done anything but smile and wave your pom-poms.
Suguru doesn’t say anything as he approaches. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t slow down. Just as he passes you, close enough that your arms almost brush, he tilts his head down and murmurs, voice low enough that no one else could hear:
“You shouldn’t stare so much. People might think you want something.”
Then he’s gone. You don’t turn around. Your thighs are clenched, your pulse is racing, and there’s no doubt in your mind now. You do want something. And if the look in his eyes said anything, he already knows what it is.
-
The rest of the game is a blur of sweat, sneakers, and chants. You know enough about basketball to follow along, but even someone who’s never watched a game could tell that Suguru Geto was good. A fight nearly breaks out when Suguru dunks on your captain, causing him to fall over. Suguru just walks away as his teammates stop your own team from chasing him down.
It’s the fourth quarter, and the score is tied with three seconds left. Someone passes the ball to Suguru, and everything slows. Silence falls among the crowd. There’s no rush, no panic. He plants his feet, looks at you, and shoots. He sinks the three-pointer and it’s chaos all over again.
The buzzer goes off as the crowd goes wild, and your squad disbands in every direction. Bodies brush too close in a storm of adrenaline and frustration. You should react, but all you can feel is the heat of his stare still burning on your skin, long after he’s turned away. It takes you a moment before you snap back into it. If you’re going to get what you want, now’s your only chance.
The Jujutsu team is already on their way out, but you spot Suguru looking over his shoulder at you. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and even though he can’t see you, you smile as your feet start moving automatically.
-
The visitor’s locker room is quiet, with only the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Your sneakers squeak against the tile as you step inside, heart hammering in your throat.
There he is. Sitting on a bench, legs spread wide, his jersey peeled off and tossed to the side. His skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling slow and deep. A single strand of hair clings to his temple. The rest falls loose around his shoulders, like he tugged the hair tie out without thinking.
He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He just drags his gaze up your body, slow and deliberate, and lets it settle on your eyes. You feel it like a touch. It's like being pinned in place.
“Lost?” he asks, voice low and lazy.
You open your mouth to respond, but the look in his eyes shuts down every excuse you had rehearsed. It’s reckless. It’s probably against three different rules in the Cheer Bible.
“I figured you’d come,” he continues.
“Are you always this cocky?”
“You followed me,” Suguru replies, mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “Why?”
Your throat is dry. “You looked at me.”
He chuckles, quiet and wicked. “So I did.”
He leans forward, rising to his feet slowly. He walks toward you with a confidence that steals air from the room. Each step measured, heavy, controlled.
And when he stops just in front of you, his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger at your jaw, his thumb ghosting the corner of your mouth.
“What do you want?” he asks you.
“Like you don’t already know,” you retort, trying not to roll your eyes.
“I want to hear it, pretty girl,” Suguru responds.
“I want you,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “Happy now?”
His eyes darken at your admission. “Getting there.’
Instead, you grab the front of his shorts and pull him into you as your lips crash into his. Suguru catches your waist instantly, pressing you back into the row of lockers with a low grunt, like he’s been holding back all night. His kiss is rough but unhurried, all control. His hands travel down your thighs, gripping them with purpose, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap your legs around him as your back hits the lockers.
“Knew you wanted it the second I stepped on that court,” he breathes against your mouth.
You drag your fingers through his hair and tug just enough to make him hiss.
“You’re not the only one who knows how to win,” you joke.
He laughs, deep and dark, then walks the two of you toward the bench behind him. He sits, spreading his legs wide, dragging you with him. You straddle him, your skirt already bunched up, breath shaky as he palms your ass through your spandex.
“You gonna ride me like your school pride depends on it?” he murmurs, voice gravel thick.
You press your forehead to his and whisper, “If you ask nicely.”
Suguru looks at you like you’re being ridiculous. “Didn’t I earn this?”
The only response you give him is your hips rolling against his hardening member. He groans under his breath, grip tightening on your hips as your body grinds against him. There's heat in every part of your body, tension stretched taut like a pulled rubber band about to snap.
"Keep that up," he warns, voice low, lips brushing your jaw, "and I won't be gentle."
You grind down again, slower this time, relishing the twitch of his muscles beneath you. “I don’t think you wanted me because I looked gentle.”
Suguru leans back slightly, just enough to look at you. His dark eyes are amused. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
“You looked at me first,” you remind him, breath brushing over his lips.
He tilts his head, runs his hands up the line of your waist, thumbs grazing under your top. “Yeah,” he admits, voice softer now. “I looked. Couldn’t help it.”
You kiss him again, less messy this time, and so much more deliberate. You want him to feel the intention behind it. Suguru cups the back of your neck just as his tongue enters your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize your taste. His hand finally slides under your top, large palm hot against your spine.
“You gonna keep teasing me,” he murmurs, voice thick, “or are you gonna show me what those legs can really do?”
“Tell me you want it.”
He exhales, and you can see his control thinning.
“I want it,” he says, voice gravelly. “I want you.”
You pull your skirt off with haste, tossing it behind you. The look on his face when you pull his cock out of his shorts and line yourself up is almost reverent.
“No foreplay?” he asks cautiously.
“Been wet the whole game,” you confess. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“You’re gonna regret that,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t make a move to stop you. “Take a breath.”
You do, and then he pushes in. Your mouth falls open instantly. Your fingers clutch his broad shoulders as the stretch steals the breath from your lungs. It’s thick, slow, impossible to ignore. Every inch of his hardened member drags against you like he’s trying to leave a permanent impression inside your body.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “You’re… you’re big—”
Suguru grins at that, eyes blown with lust. His hands tighten just slightly around your waist, dragging you down the rest of the way.
“You’re a cheerleader, ” he taunts. “Aren’t you used to stretching by now?”
You whimper something incoherent against his neck, nails digging into his skin as your hips sink the last inch, fully taking him in. Suguru groans at the feeling, head dropping to your shoulder.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin.
He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, allowing the full sensation to sink in. Then he pulls back just slightly—just enough to make you whine— and snaps his hips up once, slow and deep.
“Still think I’m cocky?” he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw.
You press a finger to his lips. “Don’t waste your breath,” you whisper, breathless yourself. “You’ll need it.”
You plant your feet wide on each side of the bench, sliding into the kind of practiced split your body knows by muscle memory. Suguru swears under his breath like a prayer. A sound escapes him, low and guttural, as his grip on your thighs becomes a silent plea.
“Show-off,” he mutters, breath ragged as he grips your hips tighter, guiding your rhythm.
“Maybe,” you pant, “But you like it.”
“Yeah,” he growls, tugging on your hair at the scalp. “I do.”
You move together like you’ve done this before in another life, frantic but fluid. His hands slip beneath your top while your teeth graze his neck. Sweat builds, your thighs start to shake, and he leans back just slightly, admiring the sight of you split wide open on top of him, owning it.
With his hands firm at your hips, he guides you down onto him—slow, deliberate, watching every twitch of your face like it’s gospel. Each thrust steals the breath from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, moaning quietly into his ear.
Suguru’s jaw is clenched, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck… look at you. Even the sounds you make are pretty.”
Your movements lose control as you chase your high, using him for your pleasure. When you start to unravel, he pulls you flush to him, burying his face in your neck.
“Ngh, Suguru—” you gasp out incoherently.
“I know, baby. I know,” he says into your skin. “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”
When you clench around him, vision going white and body seizing with pleasure, the feeling pulls a groan from deep in his chest that he muffles against the curve of your neck. You're still catching your breath when his hands tighten around you. His lips drag along your shoulder before he pulls back, breath hot against your skin.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
You blink at him with watery eyes, still dazed. “What?”
He stands, towering over you now, the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
“You heard me.”
Your body obeys before your brain catches up. He helps you down, steadying you as your knees shake slightly. Then he turns you until your chest presses against the cool metal of the locker. The contrast between the chill of the surface and the heat of his body behind you makes you shiver. One of his hands flattens against your lower back. The other traces up your spine and slides into your hair, gently gathering it to the side.
“You feel that?” Suguru murmurs, pressing close, his voice a low rumble. “How bad I want you?”
You nod, lips parted, cheek resting against the locker. Even after such a strong orgasm, you’re already rutting your hips back against his cock.
“Use your words, pretty.”
“I feel it,” you whisper. “I feel everything.”
He hums, low and pleased. “Good.”
Suguru’s mouth grazes the curve of your neck as he enters you again, pulling the neediest moan from you. Your hands brace the lockers as his rhythm builds. His grip never falters. Every breathless sound you make only seems to push him further.
“Was I cocky?” he asks. “Or was I just honest?”
You try to answer, but your voice catches. It’s too much— his control, the pressure, the way he knows exactly how to push you to the edge without letting you fall.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he says, voice wicked.
Each motion leaves you shaking, boneless, lips parted against cold steel. And when your knees nearly give out beneath you, Suguru holds you steady, murmuring something you barely catch.
“You with me?” Suguru asks again.
All you can do is nod.
“I asked where you want me to cum,” he repeats.
You whimper, constricting around him absentmindedly. “Inside,” you plead.
“Fuck, baby, are you sure?”
All you can do is nod against the locker. “Need you to fill me up.”
Suguru cums the way he plays—silent, but explosively controlled. There’s no wasted breath, no dramatics, just a low grunt with a clenched jaw. You moan at the feeling of his cum spurting inside of you, mixing together with your overflowing wetness. His arms lock tight around your waist like he’s holding himself together with sheer force. His orgasm rolls through him like a wave, powerful and controlled, but you can feel it in every part of his body.
His chest heaves against your back, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder, almost like an apology for how hard he took you, for how badly he needed it. For a long moment, neither of you moves. His hands stay on your hips, thumbs brushing gently now, as if grounding himself in the aftermath. As the haze clears and your breathing slows, he presses a final kiss to your shoulder, then leans back with a lazy, satisfied grin.
You let out a breathy laugh and glance at him over your shoulder. Then, quietly, like he just remembered where you are, he chuckles.
“Your squad’s gonna kill me.”
“That’s only if they find out,” you tell him simply.
He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Worth it.”
Suguru grins, all lazy and beautiful, eyes dragging over your face like he wants to memorize the way you look wrecked and flushed.
Then he reaches for the towel in his duffel bag. It’s already a little damp from wiping sweat during the game, but he uses the clean corner anyway. You flinch at first, sensitive, but he moves slowly and with a gentle touch. He brushes your inner thigh with his knuckles as he works, and his voice drops low.
“Didn’t think you’d really follow me.”
“I didn’t think I would either,” you admit, catching your breath. “This never happened.”
He hums, throwing the towel towards a trash can across the locker room. It lands inside. “Or it can happen again during my home game.”
You start to shift, but he tightens his hand on your waist. Suguru reaches up, eyes locked on yours, and removes the cheer bow from your hair.
“What are you doing?” you ask, half amused, half dazed.
He twirls it around one finger before stuffing it in the pocket of his bag.
“Souvenir,” he says with a wink.
You gape at him. “You’re stealing my bow?”
“Borrowing,” he says. “You can come get it back.”
You give him a look. “That’s not how borrowing works.”
“It is with me.”
You shake your head, finally managing to stand, though your legs are a little shaky and you absolutely hate that he notices.
Suguru sits back on the bench, admiring the view as you fix your uniform and tighten your ponytail.
“Still staring?” you tease.
He licks his lips, not bothering to deny it. “Yeah. And?”
You toss him a look over your shoulder as you head toward the door. “So arrogant for someone who barely won.”
“Mm,” he calls after you. “You didn’t seem too mad about it when you were bouncing on—”
“Bye, Suguru.”
He laughs, full and unbothered, as the door swings shut behind you.
Your heart is still racing. Your skin still tingles. And deep in your bag, your phone buzzes with new messages from your squad wondering where the hell you are. You’re definitely looking forward to next month, when your school will travel to play his. You know you’re not done with Suguru, not even close.
synopsis. only satoru gojo would be jealous of himself pt 2
contents. fluff, lovesick!gojos, time travel inaccuracies probably, dilf!gojo vs highschool!gojo
notes. this is a second part to a similar fic i wrote a couple months back. this thought has been plaguing in my mind lately—i just know gojo would go insane at the thought of you fawning over the dilf version of himself.
you swear you’re cursed.
not by an actual curse, though that would be easier to explain, but by sheer cosmic inconvenience.
you were supposed to meet gojo for training this morning. emphasis on supposed to, because, as usual, he texted you “i’ll be there in five minutes, swear on my six eyes,” and then wandered off somewhere between minute one and minute two.
so now you’re standing alone in the courtyard, stretching half-heartedly, considering whether making him run laps for ditching you counts as character development.
that’s when the air in front of you ripples, and there is a flash of cursed energy that makes you pause. a ripple of light bursts through the courtyard, momentarily blinding you.
the cursed void snaps into shape and someone steps through it
not just anyone—gojo satoru.
but even upon first glance you can tell that he is not the loud, lanky, and insufferably smug boy currently driving you insane.
this version is older, taller, broader in the shoulders, hair slightly longer, and he wears a blindfold. his expression is calm in a way you’ve never seen on him before. you can’t help but gawk at the way his flexed muscles look in that black compression shirt that he wears. you hate to admit it, but not even wrinkles that lightly map his face or the look of pride on his face make him any less attractive.
conversely, he looks at you like you’re the first drink of water after a desert.
“so this is what you looked like at eighteen,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “i forgot how cute you were.”
you blink at him. “i’m sorry, who are you?”
you know this isn’t your gojo. he is not the one that was supposed to meet you in the training yard five minutes ago.
before he can answer, someone skids into the courtyard behind you, kicking up dirt.
“hey! hey, i’m not late, you’re early,” the familiar voice calls. “don’t glare at me—i brought you—”
your gojo freezes mid-sentence.
his gaze slides from you—to the older version of himself—then to you again. and his expression folds into something between shock and deeply insulted confusion.
“…are you kidding me?” he mutters.
older gojo lifts a hand in a casual greeting. “yo.”
younger gojo stares at him with the same look of a man staring at his own funeral.
“why do you look like that?” he asks, voice flat. “why do you look like you have your life together? since when did my traps get that big? is that a blindfold? where did you come from? why are you here?”
“time hiccup,” older gojo says simply. “don’t worry about it.”
“i’m absolutely worrying about it.”
the older version turns his attention back to you, and the shift is so gentle it makes your chest tighten.
“sorry if i startled you,” he says. “i didn’t expect to land this close.”
“you didn’t expect to land at all,” younger gojo mutters mockingly. “you look like you planned it.”
older gojo brushes that off. “right, because i definitely choose to tear open time and space before breakfast. i have three kids and a beautiful wife waiting for me in bed as we speak.”
“with that ego? sure you do.”
you watch the two of them banter. it’d comical, the way they argue in the exact same voice pitched at different levels of arrogance—and your head spins.
older gojo notices you watching and smiles. it is something much warmer than the cocky grin that you are used to.
“it’s good to see you [name],” he says.
you blink. “you… know me?”
“mm.” his smile deepens, soft around the edges. “very well.”
younger gojo bristles on instinct. he steps slightly in front of you, annoyed. “okay, hold on. hold on. she doesn’t even like me yet. how do you know her ‘very well’?”
older gojo tilts his head. “because eventually, she stops running away from me.”
your face heats at the tone of his speech while younger gojo’s entire soul visibly leaves his body.
“i’m not running,” you mutter.
younger gojo groans loudly and drags a hand down his face. “is this what i become? a reflective bastard? do i start journaling too?”
“would it kill you?” older gojo asks.
“probably.”
you can’t help it and laugh quietly, but it’s enough that both of them turn toward you.
younger gojo brightens immediately like he thinks the laugh is for him.
older gojo’s eyes soften like he knows it isn’t.
the difference makes your stomach do something strange.
“okay,” you finally say, rubbing your temples. “i need someone to explain what exactly is happening.”
“i slipped,” older gojo says.
“you slipped?”
“through a time seam.”
“you slipped,” younger gojo echoes, unimpressed. “like zurumon, but through time.”
older gojo shrugs. “more like the water tiger.”
you sigh at their childish references. “can you get back?”
“maybe,” he says. “in a bit. the seam should settle soon.”
“great,” younger gojo mutters, “so he’s stuck here long enough to ruin my life.”
older gojo’s brow lifts. “ruin? i’m just talking.”
“that’s the problem! your talking is suspiciously effective. she’s looking at you like she’s… i don’t know… impressed.”
you scoff. “i am not.”
older gojo gives you an amused look, and it’s little too intimate for someone you supposedly don’t know yet.
“sure,” he says softly. “you never were very good at hiding it.”
your breath catches and you feel an unfamiliar heat rise up to your face. it was strange, the effect he had on you.
and you hate that it makes something in your chest flutter.
“don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice lower, quieter, meant only for you. “you figure it out eventually.”
“figure what out?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
he doesn’t answer, letting the silence serve as an explanation.
and behind him, your gojo stands stiff, his jaw tight as he glances between the two of you.
older gojo seems content to let the quiet hang for a moment, studying you with that unbearably soft expression that feels like it has no business being directed at an eighteen-year-old stranger.
well. stranger to you.
“you said you have a wife,” you say suddenly, grasping at the only neutral thread you can find. “and kids?”
younger gojo snaps his head toward him. “i still can’t believe you’re married”
older gojo’s face changes, and now he’s wearing the kind of look people get when something they love crosses their mind at inopportune moments.
“very,” he answers.
“very?” younger gojo repeats. “why ‘very’? what does that even mean? you can't be 'very married.’ it's binary.”
older gojo ignores him, gaze still on you.
“my wife,” he says, slow like he’s choosing every word, “she is incredible."
your heart stumbles against your ribs.
younger gojo’s face twists. “you’re doing this on purpose.”
older gojo shrugs. “talking about my wife?”
“in that tone,” younger gojo hisses. “stop sounding so sappy.”
older gojo finally glances at him, smile faint and maddeningly serene. “i am a man in love.”
younger gojo looks like he’s about to throw a rock at him.
“you love her?” you ask before you realize your mouth has moved without consulting your brain.
older gojo’s eyes soften in a way that steals your breath.
“more than anything,” he says. “she’s the only person I’ve ever met who makes me feel whole.”
younger gojo chokes.
older gojo ignores that too. “she’s stubborn. too stubborn for her own good. always pretending she isn’t interested when she is. makes me work for everything.”
your pulse jumps painfully.
younger gojo notices and zeroes in on you.
his eyes widen in horror.
“wait—no. no, no, no. you’re not falling for him.” his voice drops. “you are not falling for him.”
“I’m not,” you say instinctively, too quickly and too defensively.
older gojo laughs softly at that.
“you always say that,” he murmurs.
your entire body warms in one terrible, treacherous sweep.
younger gojo looks between you two like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion. “what is happening right now? why is he being—like this? why are you—like this?”
“like what?” you shoot back.
“like you’re two seconds away from eloping.”
you flush. “we’re not—! he’s married, you freak!”
older gojo smiles into his hand like he’s all too familiar with the argument that unfolds before him.
"my wife also denied everything," he says. “she swore she didn't like me and insisted I was annoying.”
younger gojo points at him triumphantly. “she says that about me!”
older gojo pats his shoulder sympathetically. “and she meant it.”
you bury your face in your hands.
younger gojo collapses to a crouch, grieving the loss of something he never had. “unbelievable. i lose to a blindfolded loser. this is humiliating.”
older gojo hums thoughtfully, toying with the dark piece of cloth. “the blindfold grew on her.”
“you must really love her,” you murmur.
his gaze lingers on you for a long, impossibly still moment.
“more than you can imagine,” he says quietly.
your chest tightens.
younger gojo watches the two of you for three seconds before snapping.
“enough.” he jumps to his feet. “don’t look at him like that,” he mutters.
“like what?” you ask.
“like he’s a man.” he grimaces. “i’m a man too.”
older gojo snorts. “you grow up, you know. eventually.” he leans in slightly, voice low, teasing in a way that curls warm around your spine.
“you will,” he says. “for her.”
younger gojo freezes. “for—?”
“my wife,” older gojo says lightly.
your breath stutters.
younger gojo goes silent.
you look between them, utterly doomed, heart beating far too fast.
this is bad.
you should not be attracted to a mysterious older version of your classmate.
you should not be wondering what his hands would feel like if he cupped your face the way he keeps almost doing. and you really should not be wishing time law violations were less strict.
younger gojo watches the way your eyes drift back to the older one, and his expression darkens in real time. “stop looking at him like that,” he mutters. “look at me like that. i’m right here.”
you ignore him, because the air around older gojo shifts. it’s subtle, like a breeze curling in from nowhere.
he notices it too.
his head tilts up slightly, blindfold catching the light. “ah. there it is.”
“what?” you ask.
“the seam,” he answers simply. “it’s pulling.”
the air distorts again, thin lines of refracted light flickering at the edges of his silhouette, like something trying to reel him back.
you take a small step forward before you realize you’re doing it.
“so… you’re leaving?”
“not by choice,” he says lightly. “time has a terrible sense of timing.”
younger gojo throws his hands in the air. “it’s too early in the morning for this! who just casually gets yanked through space-time?! fix it!”
older gojo ignores him entirely, turning toward you instead. “don’t look so tense,” he says. “this always snaps back.”
“always?” you echo.
“well,” he amends, “most of the time.”
“how reassuring,” younger gojo deadpans.
older gojo continues, “i’ll drop back where i came from. five seconds will pass there. maybe six. i left in the middle of brushing my teeth.”
you blink. “you time-travel while brushing your teeth?”
he shrugs.
younger gojo glares. “i hate that that sounds like something i would do.”
the distortion builds, light threading around older gojo’s arms, shoulders, like invisible hands pulling him.
he steps back, one foot already blurring at the edges.
but he pauses long enough to look at you again and it’s something calmer, something knowing.
“don’t overthink any of this,” he says quietly. “you won’t get answers by tearing it apart.”
your breath catches. “then how am I supposed to get them?”
“you’ll get there,” he says. “or i guess… i’ll get there.”
the seam tugs harder, swallowing him up to the waist.
“wait,” you blurt, “do we—do i—do we meet again?”
older gojo’s mouth lifts in the faintest smirk. “from my perspective? we already have.”
younger gojo swears loudly. “STOP SAYING CRYPTIC THINGS IN MY VOICE.”
the light snaps sharply and older gojo disappears like he was never there at all.
you’re left standing in the courtyard, staring at the space where he vanished, the air still humming faintly like it hasn’t figured out he’s gone yet.
and younger gojo, somewhere behind you, whispers in horror,
“did you just imprint on future me?”
then younger gojo rounds on you, expression horrified.
“you were basically swooning the entire time!”
you choke. “i was not—”
“your face,” he says dramatically, “was doing that cute thing.”
“it was not doing anything.”
gojo narrows his eyes, leaning in too close. “if you fall for him, that counts as falling for me by extension.”
you shove him back by the forehead. “please go away.”
he stumbles back with an offended yelp.
“are we training or not?” you interrupt.
he blinks, thrown off. “…you still want to?”
“yeah,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “unless you plan on crying about your future biceps all morning.”
he straightens immediately, ego snapping back into place like elastic. “please. my biceps now are clearly thriving.” he makes an attempt to flex his muscles. you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that you have spent more times checking them out than you’re proud of.
“uh-huh.”
“and,” he adds, stepping closer with a smirk, “just so you know—whatever he said? i can say it cooler. eventually.”
you give him a flat look. “…you literally cannot.”
“watch me.”
he cracks his knuckles, summons a flicker of cursed energy, and grins at you like he hasn’t just had an existential crisis.
“alright,” he declares. “let’s start. and don’t go easy on me just because you’ve seen the deluxe version.”
“if anything,” you say dryly, “i’m going harder.”
“i knew you liked me.”
“i don’t.”
“sure,” he singsongs.
you sigh, drop into your stance, and pretend your pulse isn’t still a little off-kilter.
older gojo is gone, the seam closed, the future sealed back where it belongs.
but younger gojo looks at you and you can’t help but fear that maybe he has a shot at becoming that guy.
♡ Summary: Gen and you attend a fundraiser at the orphanage he used to live at
♡ Contents: established relationship, insecurity, worry, talk about having children
There are better ways to spend your Tuesday night than rummaging through the piles upon piles of trash on your boyfriend’s desk, but Gen’s busy training with the Number 1 suit, so cuddles and watching trash TV together are off the table. He’ll probably be done by the time you’re already fast asleep. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll stir when he finally joins you in bed and you can roll over, using his chest as a pillow instead of him awkwardly spooning you from behind, scared to wake you.
You sigh, tossing yet another protein bar wrapper into the trash bag in your hand. You’ve been at this for ten minutes and somehow haven’t even made a dent. The worst part? You don’t even mind. Cleaning his mess helps distract you from the scary thoughts. Like losing him.
Maybe you should just sweep everything into the bag without sorting through it—it’d be faster. But it’d also mean you’d run out of distraction sooner.
Something catches your eye in the chaos of wrappers, cans, figures, and whatever else can only vaguely be described as “miscellaneous trash.” A flyer.
You let the trash bag fall to the floor and pick it up. “Fundraising. Help the Tokyo Seaside Orphanage raise money for necessary renovations,” you read out loud, flipping it open. Inside are details—when, where, how.
You recognize it as the same day he blocked off an ominous event in his calendar and wouldn't tell you what it is. Why? You thought the two of you are long past keeping secrets like this. There's an ache in your heart, a small tug, a voice in the back of your head that reminds you of the past. Of how you didn't know things were wrong until you'd found that note and were forced to pack your things an leave. What you'd thought of as a loving relationship had turned into the opposite so fast...and you hadn't seen it coming. What if Gen keeping secrets is the begging of that. You shake your head, trying to stop the spiral your thoughts are in.
No, he loves you. And he must've had his reasons for not telling you about this. Maybe it's because his past is still a part he wants to keep guarded. You bite your lip. Your mind is racing to find a believable explanation to keep yourself from thinking of the worst case scenario.
You know you have to ask him. Communicate...you sigh.
----
The door to your shared quarters opens and closes quietly. Gen toes off his shoes and hangs up his jacket, moving with a sluggish exhaustion thats become too familiar lately. He doesn't even bother to turn on the lights.
He expects you fast asleep, maybe cuddling his pillow, you've been doing that a lot lately causing him to have to sleep without one because he doesn't have the heart to steal it back, or take yours. He's expects the room to be dark and quiet except for the sound of your slow breathing. So he's startled when he sees the faint sliver of light underneath the bedroom door.
“Why are you—” he starts, rubbing a hand down his face, “we talked about this. You need sleep. I don’t want you working yourself sick again.” His tone is soft but tired, and it tugs at your heart.
“So should you,” you counter gently, frowning as you slide a bookmark between the pages of your book. “I don’t like seeing you this exhausted.”
Gen exhales through his nose, tugging off his shirt in one lazy motion. The fabric sticks slightly to his skin, sweat-darkened from training, muscles rippling as he throws it aside and then shoves off his pants.
For a moment, he just stands there in the soft, yellow light of the bedside lamp, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You sound like my doctor,” he murmurs with a tired half-smile, but you can hear the edge in his voice, that something else is weighing on him.
You set the book aside and open your arms.
Gen stands there for a second, blinking like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, then he drops onto the bed, crawling up until his head rests against your chest and his body settles between your legs. It’s one of those times he wishes he could be small, small enough to fold himself completely into you and stay there. But he likes the way you fit in his arms too much to really be sad about his size.
“Gen?” you murmur, burying your nose in his messy hair.
He hums low in response, the sound vibrating softly against your ribs.
“I cleaned your desk earlier and found something.”
“My playboy mag? I promise I don’t use it anymore. Not since you.” He tilts his head up, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips.
You can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes you. “No, not that. The flyer. For the orphanage fundraiser.”
“Oh,” he says, then sighs, nestling back against your chest like he’s hoping you’ll drop it. “That.”
His tone is careful, not dismissive, just guarded. You can feel the muscles in his back tense under your hands.
“What about it?” he asks finally, voice muffled against your shirt.
You drag your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, feeling the tension sitting just beneath his skin. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?” you ask gently. “You even blocked off the day on the calendar.”
Gen doesn’t answer right away. His hand finds the hem of your shirt, thumb rubbing lazy circles into your hip to ground him.
“I just… didn’t want to make a big thing of it,” he says at last, voice quiet. “It’s nothing dramatic. Just thought I’d stop by, see the place, donate a little. Didn’t wanna bother you with it.”
You tilt your head, frowning softly. “Bother me? Gen, you could never bother me. Especially not with something that matters to you.”
He exhales, the air ghosting warm against your collarbone. “Yeah, but… it’s not exactly something I like to talk about. The whole… orphanage thing.”
“I remember,” you murmur. “You told me once. About how you kept getting moved around. How they’d get destroyed sometimes.”
Gen nods faintly against your chest. “Yeah. This one though, the seaside one...they were good to me. First place that actually felt… safe, I guess. They gave me my first bed, the kind with actual sheets. I wanna make sure the next batch of kids get that too.”
You smile faintly, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “That’s really sweet of you.”
He huffs, embarrassed, ducking his head. “Don’t say it like that. Makes me sound soft.”
“You are soft,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Gen groans, muffled by your chest. “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”
“Never.”
He’s quiet for a moment, just listening to your heartbeat. “I was gonna go alone,” he admits finally. “Didn’t wanna make it weird. I figured you might not wanna tag along to something like that.”
You tighten your arms around him. “You’re an idiot if you think I’d let you go by yourself.”
Gen snorts softly. “Yeah, I should’ve known you’d say that.”
“Then take me with you,” you whisper into his hair. “I want to see the place that made you feel safe.”
For a long moment he doesn’t move, then he tilts his head back, eyes warm and unreadable in the soft light. “Alright,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “But don’t blame me if the kids like you more than me.”
“They probably will,” you tease. “I’m the cooler one.”
Gen lets out a quiet laugh, and the sound settles between you like a promise, the kind of fragile, honest thing only love can make. He smirks. "You know, if you want to see the place I feel safe at, just look in the mirror." You giggle and slap his shoulders playfully. "You're so cheesy Captain."
"You should sleep now. Really," Gen says around a yawn, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'll go wash up."
He leans down, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat before padding toward the bathroom.
By the time he’s back, hair damp from a quick shower and the faint scent of mint toothpaste hanging in the air, you’re already curled up beneath the blanket, half-lidded and warm.
"You’re hogging the bed," he mutters, tugging at the edge of the blanket. "And my pillow."
"Smells nice," you grumble, refusing to open your eyes as you shuffle a little toward your side to make room.
Gen sighs, the kind that’s half fond, half exasperated, then slips in beside you. "Chest time?" he asks, lifting one arm invitingly.
You crack an eye open, smiling sleepily. "You know I never say no to chest time."
He chuckles lowly as you crawl closer, tucking yourself into his side until your head rests over his chest and his arm settles around you. His heartbeat is slow and steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way nothing else can.
"Yeah, that’s it," he murmurs, thumb tracing idle circles against your hip. "You ever say no to chest time, and I’ll know a kaiju’s posing as you."
You laugh softly, the sound muffled against him. "I’d still take the kaiju version if it meant this," you tease, voice fading as sleep starts to pull at the edges.
"Yeah, well," Gen hums, his tone softer now, "no kaiju’s stealing my spot."
You don’t answer, just hum in contentment, listening as his heartbeat and breathing even out beneath you, the room fading into comfortable quiet.
----
It’s midday, and you’ve already been working for hours, answering emails, approving reports, scheduling meetings. The lack of sleep sits heavy behind your eyes, pulsing in time with the dull throb at your temples.
The door to your office opens and closes quietly, and you glance up. Gen stands in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, two steaming mugs in his hands.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks as he crosses the room. “Aren’t there forms or something I need to sign off on?”
He sets one mug down in front of you, and you mumble your thanks without looking up from the screen.
“I always just forge your signature,” you say casually, sliding a stack of paperwork toward him.
“You’re a stickler for the rules, you would never do that.” he mutters, flipping through the pages as he snatches up the nearest pen.
“I like my job, what can I say.”
He signs a few pages, his handwriting as messy as ever. “You know I wouldn’t fire you for faking my signature,” he murmurs.
“Do I?” you ask, quirking a brow and smirking over the rim of your mug.
He sighs, shaking his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“You really want to come later?” he asks after a moment, voice softer. “Wouldn’t you rather… I don’t know, take a nap?”
You place a hand over your chest in mock offense. “Captain Narumi, could it be that you don’t want me to join you?”
His chuckle is warm, fond. “No, I do. I just… don’t wanna burden you. I know you’re stressed. And worried. Because of me.”
The guilt in his tone makes your chest ache. You hate it. Hate how easily he takes the weight of the world and calls it his own.
“Shh,” you hush him, reaching out to rest your hand over his. “I’m coming. End of discussion.”
He huffs out a laugh, but there’s relief in his eyes.
“So,” you say, changing the subject, “how much are you donating? Maybe I could add the same amount.”
Gen glances up from the reports, expression completely deadpan. “Two months’ wages.”
Your mouth falls open. “Two—what?”
“Been setting money aside,” he says, almost shyly. “Cutting back on figures and stuff. You don’t need to add anything. I’m donating enough for the both of us.”
You just stare at him. Two months of Gen’s salary — that’s… a lot. From that kind of donation, they could probably rebuild the whole orphanage, maybe even open another.
Your throat tightens, pride and tenderness swelling all at once.
“Gen,” you breathe, “you’re… amazing.”
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. I just… owe that place a lot. Feels right to give back.”
The orphanage sits on the edge of the city, tucked behind rows of narrow houses and a half-collapsed playground that’s clearly been patched up a dozen times. You can already hear laughter drifting through the open gate when you and Gen arrive.
Gen pauses at the entrance, staring for a second longer than usual. You catch it, the way his shoulders tense, then slowly relax as he takes a deep breath.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
He glances down, gives you a crooked smile. “Yeah. Just… it always brings up memories.” Then, in true Gen fashion, he adds, “Kinda weird coming back and not being the one caught sneaking out past curfew.”
You elbow him gently, and he smirks.
Inside, the yard’s full of booths and games, the air rich with the smell of yakisoba and fried batter. Volunteers wave, and a few kids dart over the moment they spot Gen.
“Big Bro Gen!” one of them shouts, launching himself at him.
Gen laughs, catching the boy mid-jump and spinning him around like it’s second nature. “Whoa! You got heavier. What are they feeding you here, Kaiju meat?”
The kid giggles uncontrollably, and soon there are more, three, four of them clinging to his arms and legs, all talking at once.
You just stand there, watching him, the same man who can crush monsters and terrify subordinates without saying a word now kneeling in the dirt, letting a little girl tug at his hair while another brags about how strong she’s gotten.
Your chest aches in that warm, dizzying way.
He glances up and catches you staring, grin turning just a little smug. “What, falling for me all over again?”
“More like I’m realizing I might have to share you with the under-tens,” you tease back, crossing your arms.
He chuckles, setting one of the kids on his shoulders. “You saying you’re jealous? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get equal cuddle rights later.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart feels too full to even hide the smile tugging at your lips.
When the fundraising starts in earnest, Gen disappears for a while, helping set up tents, hauling crates, fixing a broken bench like it’s nothing. The man just does. No orders, no fuss. Every time one of the caretakers thanks him, he waves it off with an awkward little shrug.
By the time you find him again, he’s crouched in front of a tiny girl with messy pigtails, carefully showing her how to tie the ribbon on a toy prize she won.
You swear your heart just squeezes.
You step closer, voice soft. “You’re really good with them.”
He glances up, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Guess I just… get it, y’know? What it’s like to want someone to stay a bit longer.”
Something in your chest twists — tender and heavy all at once.
The girl waves at him before scampering off, and Gen straightens up, dusting his hands off. He looks at you for a beat, quiet, then grins. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re picturing me surrounded by ten of our own.”
You sputter. “I am not—”
“Uh-huh,” he drawls, leaning in closer, voice low and teasing. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, one step at a time. Let’s make sure I survive these maniacs first.”
You swat his arm, but he laughs, eyes crinkling in that way that still gets you every single time.
And maybe, just maybe, you do imagine it... Gen, softer around the edges, coming home to a place that isn’t just you two anymore.
An hour has passed. Gen got whisked away by the kids again, and even though being apart from him makes you a little antsy, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You chat with the caretakers, ask about the routines, the challenges, how the whole place runs. They’re open, kind, and tired in that deep kind of way you recognize from people who give more than they get. They explain how the kids take over chores, how the older ones often take care of the younger ones, how they wish they could spend more time actually caring for the children than just making sure they survive, but founds and personell is too little.
You listen quietly, the ache in your chest growing with every small detail.
A little girl tugs at your sleeve.
“Miss, can you braid my hair?”
You smile, crouching down to her level. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
That’s how Gen finds you ten minutes later, sat on the steps, braiding a girl’s hair while half a dozen others wait their turn, some holding ribbons, others giggling about who gets to go next.
He stops for a moment, watching. There’s a look on his face you can’t quite name, something between pride and wonder, before he walks over and leans down to press a kiss to your temple.
“Not too shabby with children yourself,” he says with a whistle.
“Someone had to keep them entertained,” you reply, finishing off the braid with a pink ribbon.
“Gave them the money,” Gen murmurs after a beat, voice lower now. “The head of the orphanage cried. Got kinda awkward. You know me, not good with that stuff.”
You glance up at him. He looks away, blushing to the tips of his ears.
“You’re too modest,” you murmur. “You probably just changed their lives, you know that?”
He hums, then sits beside you on the steps, elbows on his knees, watching the kids play tag in the courtyard. “Didn’t do it for thanks,” he says simply. “Just… wanted them to have better. More.”
You reach over and find his hand, your fingers slipping into the spaces between his. “They already do,” you whisper. “They have you. The strongest in all of Japan”
Gen goes quiet, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You really think that?”
You nod. “I know that.”
He exhales softly, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. The sun’s starting to dip lower, painting the orphanage yard gold. A few of the kids run past, laughing, one of them stopping to show Gen her new braid with a proud grin.
“Cute,” he says, ruffling her hair. When she runs off again, he turns to you with a crooked smile. “Guess we both got roped into something, huh?”
You shrug. “Could be worse.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes still on you, so full of love and adoration. “Could be a lot worse.”
You walk hand in hand along the narrow road that traces the shoreline. The sun’s low now, sinking into the ocean, the sky dipped in pink and orange hues, the air carrying the scent of salt and the faint laughter of the kids still echoing somewhere behind you. Seagulls call overhead. Every so often, Gen’s thumb brushes the back of your hand, lazy, unhurried, the way it does when he’s thinking.
“You were good with them,” you say after a while. “The kids, I mean. They loved you.”
He huffs softly, eyes on the water. “Yeah, well. Guess I’ve got a knack for chaos.”
You smile. “Chaos, huh? Looked more like care to me.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand tightens around yours a little, just a fraction, and then loosens again. The rhythm of your steps fills the silence.
“Gen?”
“Mm?”
“Do you… want children?”
He exhales, the sound almost lost in the whisper of the tide. “I don’t know,” he admits after a pause. “Never really thought about it.” He gives a small, awkward laugh. “I don’t even know if I’d be any good at it. Didn’t exactly have a father to learn from. Not much to build on.”
You hum softly, the sound low in your throat. It breaks your heart a little, how matter-of-fact he sounds. How he says it like a truth long accepted, not something that ever hurt.
“You’d be good at it,” you whisper. “Better than you think.”
He glances down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because you care. You notice things. You listen even when you pretend you don’t. And when you love, Gen, you love hard.”
He looks away again, a faint flush climbing his neck, but he doesn’t argue. He just hums, quiet and thoughtful, eyes on the horizon where the sea meets the fading light.
After a long moment, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “If it’s with you,” he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it over the whooshing of the waves. “maybe I’d want that.”
The words sink into you like warmth spreading through your chest. You squeeze his hand, eyes stinging a little.
“Then maybe one day,” you say.
He smiles, small and tender. “Yeah,” he says. “One day.”
----
When you finally reach Ariake, the lights of the base glow faintly in the distance. He’s still holding your hand, like letting go would break something. Inside your quarters, the air smells faintly of coffee and detergent, the familiar warmth of your shared home wrapping around you like a blanket.
Gen sinks onto the couch, tugging you into his lap without a word. You melt against him, your legs tucked up, his arms wrapping around your waist like it’s second nature.
For a while, the only sound is his steady breathing against your neck.
Then, quietly, he says, “You know… I think I finally get it.”
You tilt your head. “Get what?”
“What having a family feels like,” he says. “That kind of warmth. Belonging. You… gave that to me.”
Your throat tightens a little, and you run your fingers through his messy hair, letting your forehead rest against his. “You have me,” you whisper. “And my family and the first division. You’re not alone anymore, Gen.”
He exhales shakily, the sound brushing against your lips as he presses a soft kiss there , not rushed or desperate, just deep and full of quiet gratitude. “You’re my home,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.
You smile, your heart aching and full all at once. “And you’re mine.”
He hums low in his chest, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Outside, the sea sighs against the shore, the night still and endless. Inside, it’s warm. Safe. Home.
And for the first time in his life, Gen Narumi doesn’t feel like a man passing through, he feels like he’s finally where he belongs.
content: highschool au, dad!gojo, megumi is adopted, emo!megumi.
gojo’s been gone for three days.
some regional curriculum restructuring summit, something about new county-wide testing guidelines and cross-district math standards that sounded important enough to merit a hotel and a suitcase and a “don’t burn the house down” text sent with four emojis and a blurry selfie from a waffle bar.
megumi didn’t ask when he’d be back. he never does.
and the thing is, he loves gojo, he really does. in his own closed-lipped, tired-eyed way, megumi knows he lucked out.
because the other kids from where he came from; group homes with mildew in the vents, families that never quite made it to court dates, kids who folded themselves small just to survive—they didn’t get adopted by someone who remembered their birthday or left dumb sticky notes on the fridge that said “you’re not allowed to have a favorite parent if i’m the only one. love, gojo.”
and even when he’s loud and ridiculous and entirely too invested in whatever music megumi’s into this week—singing along to bands he doesn’t know the lyrics to, nodding like he gets it when he absolutely doesn’t—gojo tries. and megumi notices.
like how he never complains about the playlists in the car, even when it’s heavy or screaming or sad in that way megumi won’t say out loud. how he still listens all the way through, eyes soft behind his sunglasses, and sometimes glances sideways like he’s trying to see past the static.
you okay, kid?
what’s this one called again?
megumi always shrugs. sometimes he mumbles the band name. other times he turns it up instead of answering.
because he’s not like the other kids. not really. he’s not crazy or anything—not a psychopath or a burnout or someone school security keeps tabs on—but he’s quieter, moodier.
the kind of person who doesn't raise his hand in class even when he knows the answer, who walks the long way home just to avoid crowds, who listens to music no one else plays out loud and wears black hoodies even in the summer.
and gojo knows that. he doesn’t push. never has, really.
but megumi also knows—if gojo ever found out who you were, if he ever found out you were the reason he’s been smiling like an idiot when he thinks no one’s looking—
it’d be the end of it.
not because gojo would be mad, of course. megumi’s only seen him truly mad once—some woman at a grocery store had the nerve to insist megumi couldn’t possibly be his son because he didn’t look anything like him, and gojo’s smile hadn’t reached his eyes for the rest of the week.
hell, even when megumi snuck out sophomore year to catch an underground show across the city and ended up stranded after the cops broke it up—gojo still wasn’t mad. just showed up at 3:17 a.m. in pajama pants and a parka, hair a disaster, sunglasses still on, grumbling about how he had a trig quiz to proctor in five hours.
so no, gojo wouldn’t be mad, which made it worse.
he’d just never shut up about it.
never shut up about you.
you, who used to sit in the front row of gojo’s ninth period algebra II class, raising your hand before he even finished the question, always two steps ahead and annoyingly self-aware about it.
you, who challenged his dumb metaphors about slope and velocity, who called him mr. six-eyes to his face and somehow got away with it because you were his favorite. always had been. the kind of favorite he bragged about in the teacher’s lounge and roped into decorating the classroom before winter break.
you were a model student—helpful, on time, unnecessarily prepared. the kind of kid teachers loved and other students quietly resented. you volunteered to grade papers. reminded gojo when he forgot to collect homework. helped tutor the kid who failed the last quiz and smiled like it didn’t weigh on you when they rolled their eyes behind your back.
but beneath all that, you were sharper than anyone gave you credit for. you carried your loneliness like it wasn’t a burden, pretended you didn’t hear the whispers in the hallway, acted like being too smart and too eager never isolated you from the rest of them.
and you were angry, too—in that quiet, tightly-held way megumi recognized immediately.
you laughed at his deadpan jokes like he was a stand-up comic. knew the same bands. always had an opinion about the lyrics. and you looked at him, not through him. never like he was a project or a punchline or some gloomy background character that belonged to someone else.
you sat next to him in the library before he ever said a word to you. always brought an extra pen. never asked questions when he left school late or disappeared for a few days around the anniversary of his mom’s death.
and he wasn’t sure when it happened, when you and him started slipping into something else. all he knew was that one day, it felt natural, easy. like maybe this was the one part of his life that didn’t need overthinking. like maybe being understood wasn’t supposed to feel like a threat.
and everything about you was perfect—except for the fact that you were also helping out in gojo’s precalc class as an assistant. some glorified student aide thing to fill your schedule, since you’d already tested out of the other math electives.
and megumi had to hear about it. constantly.
"did you see her today? she’s already smarter than half the staff."
"i should make her my assistant year-round. no offense, megumi, but she actually smiles at me."
so no nosy teacher. no stupid dramatic grins. no “megumiiii, is that a smile? wow, should i call the press?”
you were his secret. the only thing in his life that didn’t belong to gojo or school or his past.
and for three months, the two of you had kept it that way. megumi sneaking you over whenever gojo was away at some conference or seminar—sent across the state by an overworked district and an underpaid school board that didn’t deserve him.
megumi keeps it quiet. keeps it safe. keeps you tucked away from the chaos, from the questions, from the way gojo would absolutely, irreparably ruin it just by opening his mouth.
and then—the front door opens. keys jingle. floor creaks.
and everything goes to hell.
you’re still half-asleep when it happens. soft morning light, your legs tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but his black t-shirt—oversized, wrinkled, stretched loose at the collar where he tugged it over your head last night with more impatience than coordination.
your hair’s a mess from the way he kissed you into the mattress sometime around midnight, hands shaky, mouth reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he’d get to have you like that again. (he probably will, but god, it won’t be soon enough.)
he’s going to have dreams about it. scratch that—already has. the memory is singed into him, all warm skin and muffled sighs and the way you’d laughed against his throat after, breathless and half-drunk on him.
if this is the only play he ever gets for the rest of his life—which, honestly, he doesn’t think anyone could top you anyway—he figures he’d be fine with that.
you’re laid out on his bed like you belong there. like this is your room, your weekend, your morning. like you don’t know what kind of crisis is about to unfold.
because the door downstairs just opened, and gojo’s voice follows. bright, familiar, far too awake for this hour.
“megumiiiiii~ guess who’s home early!”
megumi’s blood stops moving. “no,” he whispers, already shoving off the blanket. “no no no—”
you blink, groggy. “what—?”
he’s at your side instantly, grabbing your arm, pulling you up with the desperation of a man about to be ruined. “get up. closet. now.”
“closet?” you echo, bleary and confused, letting him drag you across the room.
“don’t ask questions, please,” he hisses, already yanking the closet door open and practically lifting you inside like a rolled-up yoga mat. you stumble over his boots, hit your elbow on a crooked coat hanger, and feel your phone slip from your fingers and skitter across the hardwood like a hockey puck. “stay quiet. five minutes tops.”
“megumi, what the—”
“shh.” the door shuts fast, the click a little too loud in the dark.
your heart pounds against your ribs as your brain finally catches up. your eyes are still crusty from sleep, your legs sore in the good way, and your t-shirt—the one you definitely didn’t come here wearing—is sliding too far up your thighs. the absurdity of it all would be funny if not for the immediate threat of your eleventh grade precalc teacher being literally on the other side of the door.
outside, the bedroom door rattles open just as megumi throws himself back into bed, doing his best impression of someone who is absolutely not hiding his father’s former favorite student in his closet half-naked and still warm from sleep.
knock knock.
“go away,” megumi calls, instantly.
the door opens anyway.
“awww, don’t be like that,” gojo says, already stepping in with a grocery bag and an obnoxiously wide grin. “i brought you strawberry milk. and chocolate pies. and look!” he waves something. “a little cactus for your desk. his name is steve.”
megumi sits up slowly, dragging a hand down his face, looking like he hasn’t slept in twelve days even though he slept just fine until two minutes ago. “you can put it on the dresser and leave,” he says, voice dry and low, as if sheer nonchalance might make the whole thing go away.
gojo waves him off with a laugh, already opening his mouth to make some retort about attitude, but he stops mid‑step. the grin sharpens into something far more interested, and his head tilts just enough for the sunglasses to catch the light.
“…what’s that on your neck?” he asks, the question all sugar and hook.
megumi freezes, his entire body going still, suddenly very aware of the evidence of last night blooming on his skin and of how if the collar of his shirt slips down any further it will reveal more than just his throat.
in the mirror on the back of his door he can see the flush crawling up his face, redder with every second, and he tries not to notice it even as it gives him away.
“i—fell,” megumi mutters, words flat but his ears bright with heat.
“fell?” gojo echoes, one eyebrow creeping above the rim of his glasses.
“yup.” megumi blinks slowly, like he’s rebooting. “onto my binder.”
gojo raises his other eyebrow now, smile spreading. “your binder gave you a hickey?”
“it’s not a hickey,” megumi says, voice clipped and almost petulant, as though the words themselves taste sour. “and it’s, uh… a weird binder.”
“uh‑huh.” gojo lets the sound drag out as he surveys the room, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “soooo…” he trails off, stepping toward the desk with exaggerated curiosity. “whose bag is that?” he asks, finger extended.
megumi doesn’t answer.
in fact, he already knows what gojo is pointing at; he’s been mentally circling it like a bomb since the moment the door opened. bright and unmistakable, your bag sits propped against his desk leg—the same bag you’ve carried to school for four years.
he holds his breath and thinks, fleetingly, that if he does it long enough maybe he can pass out and die on the spot. (he really hopes this will be the case)
“that,” gojo continues, undeterred, “is a pink bag. i don’t recall my emotionally‑repressed, all‑black‑wearing son owning anything pink.”
megumi exhales a sharp sigh, eyes narrowing. “please leave.”
“megumi, but i missed you,” gojo says instead, flopping onto the bed and knocking half the covers off like he owns the place. “been thinking about our quality bonding time. like when i taught you how to ride a bike. or how to cook ramen. or—”
your phone buzzes.
both of them turn toward the closet just as you let out a quiet, panicked “shit!” and fumble to kill the ringer. the sound of you dropping something muffled against the floorboards makes megumi want to crawl under the bed and never emerge.
“what was that?” gojo asks lightly, though the edge of amusement in his voice is unmistakable.
megumi blinks once, hard. “nothing.”
gojo hums, slow and playful. “weird. sounded like a notification. do ghosts text now?”
megumi clenches his jaw until it aches. “it’s nothing.”
gojo grins, all teeth now. “is ‘nothing’ short for ‘a girl is hiding in your closet and probably freezing because i have the AC set to antarctica’?”
megumi stares at him, unmoving, wishing he could will the man out of existence.
“come on,” gojo says, stretching like a cat, arms over his head, “you’re not in trouble. i’ve snuck more people into this house than i care to admit. i just want to know who.”
and though that would sound comforting if it came from any other parent, megumi already knows gojo knows exactly who it is—from the bag brighter than the sun to your muffled curses, it’s obvious. gojo isn’t an idiot, and the only reason he’s still playing dumb is because he wants megumi to say it out loud. because, apparently, tormenting him is a hobby now.
they stare at each other. megumi prays silently that he’ll drop it, but gojo just keeps smiling, shark‑bright.
“i think you, um… know who it is,” he grumbles finally, looking away.
gojo makes a fake shocked face, hand to his heart. “oh, so there is someone in the closet!” he tuts loudly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “tsk, tsk, son, i can’t believe you lied to me.” his voice is all fake scandal, but his eyes are gleaming with amusement.
megumi groans and drops his head into his hands, muttering through his fingers, “is that all?”
“yeah, kid,” gojo says, rising from the bed and straightening his shirt. “just, uh… make sure to cover that up for school on monday.” he points at the mark on megumi’s neck with an exaggerated wag of his finger, then ambles toward the door. “oh, and i brought home some really good food from the conference. it’s downstairs on the counter.”
he’s a foot out of the doorway when he pauses and glances back over his shoulder, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “feel free to help yourself too, y/n.”
you jump out of your skin a little at the sound of your name. muffled through the closet door, you manage an awkward, “uh… thank you, mr. gojo.”
the door shuts behind him with a lazy click, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
megumi stays seated on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands still covering most of his face like he could hide from the morning if he just stayed still long enough. his pulse is still racing, and the embarrassment is very much alive and well, churning somewhere in his chest alongside the last scraps of adrenaline and the desire to relocate to a different dimension.
but beneath all of that—humiliation, disbelief, the horrifying memory of gojo’s “tsk tsk, son” echoing in his skull—there’s something warmer. something stubbornly steady, even in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a quiet morning.
because for as unbearable as gojo is, for all his noise and theatrics and sunglasses indoors at seven a.m., he still showed up. always has. always will.
and you, curled up in his closet, wrapped in one of his hoodies, hiding out with bedhead and no pants and a laugh that always makes him feel like the smartest person in the world—you’re here too.
you’re ridiculous, and he’s completely, pathetically yours.
and even in this chaos, in this absurd house with this absurd life, he knows he’s lucky.
and then, muffled and small, your voice cuts through the silence:
“um… meg? is it safe to come out now?”
he exhales slowly, and despite everything, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
☆ Summary: You’re Gen’s secretary, keeping the chaos in check—until the two of you become a team, holding each other together when it matters most
☆ Genre: fluff, slow-burn,
two idiots falling in love with each other without realizing
/// 𝘗𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦 1 - 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 ///
• Secretary
-> A tale of how you ended up being hired as the secretary of the first divisions captain and how you drilled some organization into him
• Caretaker
-> Pushed to exhaustion, you collapse with a fever—only to wake and find Gen quietly tending to you, insisting it’s just part of the job, even as his actions speak of something far more personal
• Collision
-> During a visit to the 10th Division, you and Gen unexpectedly run into your ex-fiancé—tension sparks, emotions boil over, and chaos follows
• Code Red
-> You're fighting a war inside your uterus. Gen thinks you’re plotting revenge on him in silence. Turns out, it’s just your period
• Shattered
-> When a sudden kaiju attack leaves you critically injured, Gen risks everything to pull you from the wreckage—fighting panic, fear, and time itself to keep you alive
• Shelter
-> Gen gets sick after a mission in the rain, and you’re the one stuck keeping Japan’s strongest soldier fed, warm, and a little less pathetic
• Joint efforts
-> when you catch Gen smoking a joint after a mission you somehow get roped into joining him
/// 𝘗𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦 2 - 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 ///
• Bruised
-> When Gen gets unexpectedly injured, it's a stark reminder that even the strongest aren't untouchable—and despite his teasing, you can't shake the fear of how easily he could be lost
• Confession (NSFW)
-> What starts as just a desk fuck turns into Gen saying the L word for the first time and then needing reassurance that it's ok to love
• Secrets
-> You and Gen think you’re good at hiding your relationship, but Hasegawa’s sharp eyes see more than either of you realize
One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.
Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.
Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.
Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader
Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, friends to lovers.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, sexual implications, minor harassment, very tiny mention of blood, unpredictable crack
Masterlist
The music’s too loud, the lights are too dim. Everything smells like spilt beer and overcompensating cologne, thick in the air like it’s trying to choke him out.
And all Gojo is holding onto is a lukewarm cup and a gut full of ache.
He's sinking into a couch that might as well be quick sand, knees drawn together awkwardly, shoulders tense. A plastic cup sits in his hand, filled with something aggressively pink.
He hasn’t even thought about tasting it. It’s not a drink, it’s a prop. A weak attempt at camouflage in a place that feels entirely hostile to him.
Because this is not his habitat. Not the flashing lights, not the wall-shaking bass. Not the sea of strangers moving together like sobriety is some ancient crime.
No, the only reason he even stepped foot in this overheated house was because of you.
You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bed, the blanket from last night’s pillow fort still pooled around your hips. Gojo's legs were stretched out, ankles hooked lazily with yours under the mess of fabric.
He’d been groggy, the air conditioner humming softly, the smell of your shampoo clinging to the fabric between you. You were going on and on about this party you’d been invited to, eyes bright, excitedly describing the dress you were going to wear.
And before he knew what he was doing, he’d cut you off.
“I’ll come with you.”
You’d blinked at him, startled. “Really? It’s… not really your scene.”
He’d leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before shrugging. “I wanna try it out.”
A blatant lie.
The truth was simpler. He didn’t want to imagine you there, surrounded by strangers, laughing at someone else’s jokes, finding a new replacement.
But that’s exactly what’s happening even now.
His weary eyes find you in the crowd almost without permission. And then everything inside him just… stops.
You’re in a dress.
Not just a dress, the kind of dress that exists to ruin a man’s composure. The one you’d described that morning without knowing it would burn into his mind. Soft fabric hugging your shape, skimming mid-thigh before fluttering at the edges.
The sight makes his throat go dry. There’s this tight, clawing pressure in his chest, like his ribs aren’t wide enough to contain it.
Your head is tipped back in a laugh that slices through the bass. The guy next to you is tall, broad, with the kind of grin that says he’s used to being close to people. His hand brushes your shoulder, and you don’t move away.
Gojo’s stomach turns over like he’s been punched, sudden and sharp.
He looks away fast, like maybe it’ll undo the damage if he stops seeing it. Stares down at the condensation beading on his untouched drink, following a single drop as it slides down the plastic.
He lifts it to his mouth, but doesn’t drink. Just lets the rim press to his lips. Of course you’re flirting, why shouldn’t you?
You don’t owe him anything. It’s not like he ever said what he truly feels.
And now, straight in the middle of a house packed with strangers and bass that rattled his bones, he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking. The sting behind his eyes surprises even himself.
He wants to leave.
Right now. Before he says something stupid, before he breaks the illusion that he can handle this.
He sets the cup down on the nearest counter. Stands too quickly, knees dipping as the floor tilts beneath him for half a second.
Just as he begins to walk, the familiar sound of your laughter falls onto his ears again.
The guy leans in closer this time, says something low near your ear. Your head tilts toward him—whether to listen or to laugh again, Gojo doesn’t stick around to find out.
He’s out the back door before the moment can finish, hoping the fresh air will keep his chest from collapsing completely.
As soon as he makes it outside, the night air hits sharp against his skin. It prickles down his neck, cold enough to wake him up, but not enough to quiet the mess in his chest.
He kicks at the gravel near the garden edge, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the stone like it wronged him personally. A small pebble bounces and rolls forward, disappearing into the grass.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
“Rough night?” The voice comes from behind him, casual as hell.
He turns so fast he nearly trips over himself.
Suguru is leaning against the side wall like he owns the place. Black hair pulled into a loose bun, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glitter dusting his collarbone, lipstick smeared faintly on his neck.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Gojo asks, eyebrows furrowed with confusion. His weight shifts from foot to foot, like he wants to pace but refuses to give Suguru the satisfaction. “And where have you been?”
“Eh.” Suguru shrugs, pushing off the wall with his shoulder. “Around.”
“Around isn’t much of an answer.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Don’t change the subject. Are you sulking over that girl again?”
Gojo clicks his tongue and looks away, kicking at another rock with the toe of his sneaker. His hands disappear into his pockets, shoulders curling in on themselves. “Who?”
Suguru raises a brow, scoffing. “Don’t play dumb, Satoru. You’re a lot of things, but subtle ain't one of them.”
“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gojo huffs, though the tips of his ears betray him in pink. He turns half away, chin ducking like the grass might be the most fascinating thing on earth.
“Sure you don’t,” Suguru says, voice drawling with amusement. He pushes off the wall to look him in the eye, lowering his voice. “She looks good tonight, by the way.”
Gojo shoots him a sharp look. Not quite murderous, but the warning is clear enough. “Don’t start.”
“What? I'm just saying that the dress is working,” Suguru smirks, shrugging like he’s innocent. “You're acting like I told you I'd rail your mom.”
“I mean it, Suguru.” Gojo shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, jaw tight. “Had a shit evening already.”
“Relax, loverboy.” Suguru laughs under his breath, shaking his head.
“Why are you even here? Don’t you have… like, glitter orgies to attend or whatever the fuck it is you do now?”
“Why are you here?” Suguru says, smirking wider. “Shouldn't you go back in there before some finance major starts hitting on her? Or, y’know, keep hiding out here and let him.”
Gojo swears under his breath and pushes past him toward the house in rapid strides. “I sincerely hope you rot.”
“Tell her you love her, jackass!” Suguru calls after him. “Before I do it just to spite you!”
Gojo storms back inside, muttering under his breath, a mixture of frustration and self-loathing. “Of course she doesn’t like me… why would she like a loser like me?”
His knees feel stiff but he keeps walking toward the living room like a man on autopilot.
The bass from inside vibrates through the floor, and the warm haze of alcohol and perfume hits him again. He grips his jacket tighter around himself, trying to feel invisible, just hoping he can sneak past whatever nonsense is happening and drag you out safely.
But the sight he's greeted with causes him to freeze.
Across the room, you sway slightly, tipsy and disoriented, as the tall guy from before leans a bit too close, his hand brushing your arm. You push at him weakly, clearly not wanting his touch, but he persists, forcing a laugh and leaning in even closer.
“C’mon, sweetheart… you look like you could use a real man tonight.” His breath is sour with cheap liquor as he speaks.
Gojo steps forward finally, putting himself between you and the guy as his voice drops lower than you've ever heard before. “Cut it out, man.”
The guy scoffs, ignoring Gojo. ”I’ll show you a good time. Better than this little loser over here, right?”
Gojo’s hand twitches at that, fists curling at his side. But before he can even look back to check on you, you're gone.
Your whole body launches at the creep like you’ve just snapped a leash. One second you’re behind Gojo, the next your small frame has climbed the guy like he’s a damn tree, legs wrapped around his waist, arms clawing at him.
Your teeth sink straight into his forearm with a muffled, animal-like sound, and he screeches in agony, trying to shake you off as Gojo's jaw drops in horror.
“Wait—wait, hey, don't bite him!” He’s scrambling, hands hovering like he doesn’t know if he should let you be or protect the guy. “Oh my god, you’re gonna give him rabies—”
Your muffled voice is almost unintelligible, but against the man’s skin you hiss and mutter curses, raw and cracked through sobs.
The creep staggers back, flailing, while Gojo’s arms wrap around your waist, trying to tug you free. Gojo is now basically trying to save him from you. “What are you, a raccoon or someth—GET OFF, you’re gonna bite through bone!”
But you’re glued on like a leech, and as you rear back to smack him, your elbow jerks back. Unfortunately, it connects squarely with Gojo’s nose.
“Ow—! Holy mother of—” He stumbles back, clutching his face. His glasses go flying, clattering onto the floor.
The sound of his yelp cuts through your frenzy like a knife. You immediately loosen your grip, sliding down from the guy as if the fight has been sucked out of you all at once.
Sniffling, you stumble over to Gojo, ignoring the creep who’s now limping away painfully. Your hands cup his cheeks without hesitation, eyes blown wide with teary panic.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean— did I break your pretty face?” you slur, voice wobbling with drunken sincerity.
Gojo blinks at you through watery eyes, one hand pinching his bleeding nose. “...Did you just call me pretty while assaulting a man?”
You hiccup, nodding miserably, “Yeah…”
And for the first time tonight, despite the blood, despite the chaos, he bursts out laughing.
basketball player!gojo who acted like he’d been cast in the starring role of a teen rom-com. not the love interest, no—he was the genre. the walking cliché of arrogance and height, of smirks and sweaty jerseys, of finger guns and shameless flirting.
basketball player!gojo who’d made a career out of getting under your skin. who once interrupted your book presentation just to say he liked your voice, and when you deadpanned him into silence, whispered, “so mean, yet so pretty. unfair.”
basketball player!gojo who never took anything seriously—especially not you. and you were fine with that. you liked being the one person who didn’t swoon over his fast breaks and even faster mouth. someone had to remind him he was human, not a demigod in nikes.
and then someone bet he couldn’t make you fall for him.
and of course, he said yes. full of arrogance and mischief, he decided to make you his goal.
basketball player!gojo who upped the charm like he was flipping a switch. suddenly holding doors open for you, like chivalry wasn’t dead but personally resurrected by his ego. “after you, princess.”
you stared. blinked. walked the other way.
basketball player!gojo who started sitting beside you in class, even when there were a hundred other empty seats. tapping his pen on your desk and whispering, “what do you dream about at night? bet it’s me.”
you told him you dreamed about shoving him into traffic. he only laughed.
you were weirded out. this was worse than usual. he was smiling too much. too politely. and not even debating with you about senseless topics.
basketball player!gojo who serenaded you. not metaphorically.
you were walking out of school and there he was, on the bleachers, holding a speaker, blasting some tragically off-key boy band ballad while spinning a basketball like a ring box.
“this is harassment,” you yelled.
“this is love,” he yelled back in that sing song voice that you absolutely hated.
basketball player!gojo who started leaving your favorite coffee and a pastry in your locker during morning classes. it was accompanied by a small note, changing every day. you almost rolled your eyes at how cheesy today's entry was.
good luck with your classes today, pretty. he had doodled a digimon character at the bottom left corner, with a small text bubble that said "you can do it!".
cheesy it may be, but you never found it in you to throw it away.
basketball player!gojo who started doing the most un-gojo things—like offering to help you study. which would’ve been sweet if he didn’t show up with exactly one pencil, no notes, and a single sticky note that said “ur hot.”
basketball player!gojo who complimented your handwriting, your shoes, your eyebrows (“they’re like, so assertive”), and once, after a heated argument about shakespeare, said, “you’d be a great lady macbeth. you’ve got the crazy eyes.”
you seriously considered punching him.
but then he added, “also the brains. and ambition. and, you know… i'd kill a king for you.”
for a moment, you considered taking him to the nurse's office. there was something seriously wrong with him.
basketball player!gojo who made it harder to breathe the longer this whole act went on. because sometimes, just sometimes, the things he said felt real. and you hated that. hated the way your heart paused when he smiled like that. hated how your insults started losing their edge.
basketball player!gojo who caught you watching him at practice once, and winked.
you flipped him off.
he grinned like he won something. if you had stared for a second longer, you might've noticed the small change in his usual condescending grin. it turned into something softer, something more... him.
basketball player!gojo who leaned close one day after school, crowding your space with all six-foot-too-much of him, and asked, “do you still hate me?”
and you said nothing, settling for a roll of your eyes.
the seemingly innocent question kept you up that night. it echoed in every corner of your mind, occupying every cell in your brain. each passing second repeated the question in your head, seemingly louder than the last.
because you weren’t sure anymore. you didn't know what you would've said.
and it terrified you.
i offer this to all of you because i haven't written childhood enemy!gojo yet 🙏🏻
inspired by 10 things i hate about you because i love them so much 🩷 also because i found out the guy i went crazy for, who plays basketball, is in my class this year... pray for me 💔 might turn this into a full blown fic if anyone's up for it.
likes and reblogs are always appreciated! lmk your thoughts <3
always watching you two with narrowed eyes, asking too many questions, starting fights over shit that never even happened.
“i know how guys think,” he’d spit, eyes flaring when you bent over near satoru. “there’s no way he’s not trying to fuck you.”
and you? you just laughed it off. called him paranoid. said satoru was harmless.
because you knew satoru. he didn’t even like you like that. you could be bent over in a miniskirt or ass out in lingerie and satoru would just throw a fry at your head and call you a dumbass.
except… then satoru started fucking with him.
he made it obvious. lingering stares, little smirks. grabbing your waist when he didn’t need to. checking out your ass in front of your man just to watch the show.
until his hands started resting on your hips a second too long. until he started grabbing your thighs under the table. until he stopped looking away when you changed in front of him and just… watched.
until tonight.
yeah. maybe your boyfriend had a point.
because now you’re in satoru's lap in the backseat of his car, in some shitty fast food parking lot, getting split open on nine thick inches of cock while your boyfriend’s name lights up your phone.
satoru’s the one making you moan like a whore.
satoru’s the one stuffing you full of cock you swore you’d never take.
satoru’s the one whose cum is leaking out of you before he’s even pulled out.
and your boyfriend?
he’s still waiting at home.
“you’re so fuckin’ full of shit,” satoru huffs against your neck, laughing through his teeth as he watches your mascara run. “always telling him i’m just your friend. is this what you do with all your friends, baby?”
you try to answer, but your voice breaks on a moan as he thrusts up harder, the wet slap of your bodies echoing in the car.
“he can’t know about this,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “fuck, he’ll kill you, satoru—”
“he won’t do shit,” he laughs, dragging you down harder onto his cock, watching the creamy ring of white at the base. “motherfucker doesn’t even know how to fuck you right. if he did, you wouldn’t be here.”
your stomach twists, shame curling hot in your chest, but your cunt clenches even tighter around him. he feels it. of course he does.
“look at you,” he grins, grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging your head back. “squeezing me like a goddamn virgin. haven’t even fucked you for ten minutes and your pussy’s already addicted to me.”
you hate how good it feels.
how much you want this.
how right it feels to be wrong.
“he trusts me,” you whisper, barely audible over your own moans. “he thinks i’m with you because we’re safe.”
“and now you’re getting bred in my backseat,” satoru growls, thrusting up deep and slow just to feel your walls twitch around him. “while he sits at home playing the fool. god, you’re such a dirty little slut.”
your phone buzzes again. his name. a missed call. another text.
you don’t even look.
satoru leans in close, mouth at your ear, breath hot and smug and sinful.
“go ahead. answer him,” he says in a brutally mocking tone, grabbing your hips and fucking up into you so hard the car rocks. “let him hear what his girl sounds like when she’s getting ruined by her best friend.”
you should be ashamed.
you should get off.
you should go home.
but instead you wrap your arms around his neck and bounce harder, chasing your second orgasm as his cum leaks out of you.
and when you finally cum again, clenching around him with a broken sob, satoru just kisses your shoulder and laughs.
synopsis: you had only planned to volunteer for a day, but your simple act of kindness soon becomes the anchor in someone else's fragile world—little did you know that fleeting moment would change everything.
content: fem-reader
word count: 8.8k
a/n: part 1 of my oneshot! I definitely put way too much thought into this. does narumi sound off-character (occ) to you guys?? I still have no clue how long I want this to be—I gave up halfway because of writer’s block ;(
Death had a tendency to sneak up on people when they least expected it. In this case for Narumi, he had lost his parents to a kaiju cataclysm—not in some heroic last stand or meaningful sacrifice, but in the mundane terror of being in the wrong place when a Category 4 tore through their district. He doesn't have a home now, no place to go back to, no warm kitchen smells or familiar creaking floorboards. No memories of his blood relatives that weren't already being devoured by the flames that had consumed everything he'd once known.
Most kids his age would have crumbled when they lost their parents, would have screamed and wailed and demanded answers from a universe that had none to give. But for him, he only felt... empty. Hollow, like someone had scooped out his insides with a rusty spoon and left nothing but echoing silence where his heart used to beat. The oldest memory he had now was a town reduced to ashes, skeletal remains of buildings reaching toward a blood-red sky, and the acrid taste of smoke that still haunted his dreams.
He couldn't find a place for himself in this orphanage—Saint Catherine's Home for Displaced Children, they called it, as if giving it a fancy name could mask the fact that it was just another dumping ground for society's unwanted. Without a relative or anyone to take him in, he was placed there like a piece of furniture being moved to storage. The other children whispered about him in corners, called him the quiet one or that antisocial weird kid who never cries.
The caretakers didn't outright ignore him, but he knew they found him... difficult. Unresponsive. A boy who wouldn't break down properly, wouldn't give them the satisfaction of healing his trauma with their practiced sympathy and arts-and-crafts therapy sessions. He had no one to rely on, no shoulder to cry on, no gentle voice telling him everything would be okay.
So he had to find his own strength to survive.
Narumi threw himself into everything with the desperate intensity of a drowning man clinging to driftwood. Academics, physical fitness, even the stupid group activities they forced on them—he excelled at it all, kept bringing home results time and time again. Perfect test scores, first place in track meets, leadership roles in student council. His small hands would shake as he presented each certificate, each trophy, each piece of evidence that he was worth something.
But apparently showing effort was more valued in this world than producing results. Even though he got the results, even though he proved over and over that he could be the best, the world still felt unappreciative. The caretakers would pat him on the head with the same mechanical gentleness they showed all the children, their smiles never quite reaching their eyes. Good job, Narumi. You're such a responsible boy.
Responsible. The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
The other kids his age were adopted by families who wanted sweet children, damaged children they could fix, children who would cry into their new parents' shoulders and whisper thank you with trembling lips. Nobody wanted the twelve-year-old boy who had already learned how to survive on his own, who looked at the world through eyes too old and too sharp for his face.
Until he met you.
Your arrival at Saint Catherine's wasn't announced with fanfare, wasn't marked by any particular significance that Narumi could discern from his position hunched over his Nintendo DS in the corner of the common room. You were just another teenager with a cardboard box of donations, probably some rich kid doing community service to pad out college applications. He'd seen dozens like you over the years—guilt-faced adolescents who would spend an afternoon here before returning to their intact families and functional lives.
You were talking to Sister Margaret, one of the caretakers who actually seemed to give a damn about her job, though Narumi had never seen the point in getting attached to any of the staff. They rotated out too frequently, moved on to better positions or burned out from the thankless work of managing society's cast-offs.
"Oh, that kid?" Sister Margaret was saying, following your gaze to where Narumi sat surrounded by a small crowd of younger children who watched with rapt attention as his fingers flew across the controls. "He's a bit of an outlier. He's a troublemaker—been suspended from school multiple times due to misconduct."
Narumi's jaw tightened imperceptibly, though his hands never stopped moving. Misconduct. As if defending himself from bullies who thought orphans made easy targets was some kind of moral failing. As if refusing to participate in group therapy sessions where they wanted him to share his feelings was somehow antisocial behavior.
"Really?" Your voice held a note of skepticism that made Narumi's ear twitch despite himself. "He doesn't look like a troublemaker."
Through his peripheral vision, he could see you studying him with an intensity that made something uncomfortable squirm in his chest. Most adults gave him a cursory glance and moved on, content to accept whatever the caretakers told them about the difficult children. But you were actually looking at him, taking in the way his shoulders curved protectively around his gaming device, the careful distance he maintained between himself and even the younger kids who clearly idolized him.
That boy? Gen thought with bitter amusement as Sister Margaret launched into her standard spiel about traumatized children and behavioral issues. A troublemaker? He wanted to laugh. If only she knew how many nights he'd spent mediating disputes between the younger kids, how many times he'd shared his limited allowance money to buy batteries for their broken toys, how carefully he'd crafted his reputation as the resident gaming expert just to give them something to look forward to.
But let her think what she wanted. Let them all think he was some kind of delinquent. It was easier than explaining that he'd learned early that emotional distance was the only reliable defense against disappointment.
Why does he look so sad? you wondered, tilting your head as you watched Gen attempt to explain the controls of his game to a cluster of eight-year-olds who hung on his every word. There was something in his posture, the careful way he held himself, that spoke of a deep loneliness he probably wasn't even aware of showing.
Looking back on it later, there was no particular reason Narumi should have found you interesting. You weren't special, weren't remarkable in any way that would typically catch his attention. You wore the same kind of clothes as every other teenager who showed up to drop off donations—jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than his monthly allowance, sneakers that had never walked through anything worse than suburban sidewalks.
He'd had multiple adults try to connect with him over the years, guidance counselors and social workers and well-meaning volunteers who all seemed to think they could crack his shell with the right combination of patience and therapeutic techniques. All of them had been shut down, dismissed with the cold efficiency he'd perfected over years of practice.
He simply didn't care about their efforts to help him. Why should he? It wasn't like he'd grown attached to any of the orphanages he'd been shuffled through—Saint Catherine's was just the latest in a series of temporary stops, each one passing him off to the next when he became too much trouble to handle. He'd learned to survive on his own strength; none of them had done a thing for him except provide basic food and shelter.
And you were definitely no different. What good would approaching him do? Were you trying to prove that you could reach the unreachable kid? What a waste of time.
But then you did something unexpected.
Instead of launching into some prepared speech about being there if he needed to talk or understanding what he was going through, you simply walked over and crouched down beside his makeshift gaming circle.
"Is that the new Fire Emblem?" you asked casually, nodding toward his DS screen where he was in the middle of a particularly challenging tactical battle.
Narumi's fingers stilled on the controls. He looked up at you properly for the first time, taking in your face with the same analytical intensity he applied to everything else. You didn't have the artificially bright smile that most volunteers wore, didn't seem to be performing kindness for an invisible audience. You just looked... curious.
"Yeah," he said slowly, suspicion threading through his voice. "You play?"
"My little brother does. He's been stuck on this same level for weeks, keeps complaining that the enemy AI is cheating." You settled more comfortably on the floor, seemingly unbothered by the stares of the younger children who weren't used to seeing teenagers willingly sit in their circle. "He's ten," you added, "and absolutely convinced that he's going to be a professional gamer when he grows up."
Something in Narumi's chest loosened slightly. You weren't here to save him or fix his trauma—you were just making conversation about something he actually cared about. It was such a foreign concept that he didn't know quite how to respond.
"The AI isn't cheating," he said finally, turning the screen so you could see his battle formation. "Your brother's probably not managing his resources properly. See, if you position your units like this..."
For the next twenty minutes, Narumi found himself explaining advanced gaming strategies to someone who actually listened, who asked intelligent questions and didn't once mention his situation or try to psychoanalyze his attachment to fictional characters. You even laughed at his dry commentary about the game's more ridiculous plot points, a sound that made something warm unfurl in his chest before he ruthlessly stomped it back down.
When you finally had to leave, you simply said, "Thanks for the tips. I'll have to pass them along to my brother—though he'll probably accuse you of showing off."
"I don't show off," Narumi replied automatically, then paused as he realized he was almost smiling. "I just don't see the point in doing something badly."
"Hmm." You studied his face with that same thoughtful expression from before. "I'll be back next week with more donations. Maybe you could show me that tactical formation thing again? My brother would never believe me if I tried to explain it myself."
And then you were gone, leaving Narumi staring at the spot where you'd been sitting and wondering why the common room suddenly felt so much emptier.
...
You kept your promise. The following week, you returned with another box of your brother's outgrown clothes and a genuine interest in hearing about Narumi's latest gaming achievements. You didn't make a big production of it, didn't announce your intentions to help the troubled orphan boy. You simply settled beside him on the floor and asked about his progress in Fire Emblem as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"My brother says you're probably making up those completion times," you said teasingly as Narumi demonstrated a particularly complex strategy involving multiple character classes and carefully timed special attacks. "He thinks it's impossible to beat the final boss in under twenty minutes."
Narumi's eyes narrowed, a competitive gleam sparking to life. "Your brother doubts my skills?"
"Well," you said diplomatically, "he's never actually seen you play. For all he knows, you could be some kind of gaming urban legend."
That got a reaction. Narumi spent the next hour proving every claim he'd made, his fingers flying across the controls with a precision that bordered on artistry. The younger children had long since wandered off to other activities, but you remained focused on his demonstration, occasionally asking questions that proved you were actually paying attention.
"Okay," you said when he finally paused to catch his breath, "I'm convinced. You're definitely not making this up."
Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in Narumi's chest at your obvious admiration. When was the last time someone had been genuinely impressed by his abilities? The caretakers praised him for academic achievements with the same lukewarm enthusiasm they showed everyone, and his classmates either ignored him or viewed his success as grounds for resentment. But you were looking at him like he'd just performed magic.
"It's not that impressive," he said, but the protest lacked his usual bite.
"My brother would probably cry if he heard you say that." You grinned, and Narumi found himself fascinated by the way your whole face transformed with genuine amusement. "He thinks gaming is the highest form of art."
"Smart kid," Narumi murmured, then caught himself. When had he started... enjoying these conversations?
Over the following weeks, you established a pattern. Every afternoon, you'd arrive with donations and seek him out wherever he happened to be lurking. Sometimes you'd find him in the common room with his usual gaming circle, sometimes tucked away in the library where he'd discovered they had a surprisingly decent collection of comics, occasionally hidden in the small courtyard behind the building where he liked to practice his handheld gaming in natural light.
You never seemed put off by his initial prickliness, never took his sardonic comments personally or tried to correct his attitude. Instead, you met his defensive sarcasm with gentle teasing, his skeptical questions with patient answers, his obvious hunger for recognition with the kind of casual praise that didn't feel like pity.
"You know," you said one afternoon as you watched him absolutely destroy a boss battle that had been giving him trouble for days, "you'd probably be really good at chess. It's the same kind of strategic thinking, just without the flashy graphics."
Narumi's paused his game to give you a look of profound disbelief. "Chess is for old people."
"Chess is for people who like winning," you corrected. "Besides, doesn't your favorite Fire Emblem character use chess metaphors for like half his battle dialogue?"
"...That's different."
"Uh-huh." You were clearly trying not to smile. "What if I brought a chess set next week? Just to see if you're as good at it as you are at tactical RPGs."
"I don't need to prove anything to you," Narumi said automatically, but there was no real hostility in it. It was more like a reflex, the same way he might duck if someone threw something at his head.
"Of course not," you agreed easily. "I just thought it might be fun. My brother's been begging me to learn so he has someone to play with besides our dad, who lets him win constantly."
Fun?
"...Fine," he said finally, trying to ignore the way his pulse had picked up speed. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."
Your smile was brighter than sunshine. "I wouldn't dream of it."
...
True to your word, you arrived with a magnetic travel chess set tucked under your arm alongside your usual donation box. Narumi had spent the entire week pretending he wasn't looking forward to seeing you, maintaining his routine of academic excellence and social isolation while trying to ignore the strange anticipation that seemed to be building in his chest.
It doesn't mean anything, he told himself as he found excuses to linger in the common room around the time you usually arrived. She's just another volunteer who'll get bored and move on eventually.
But when you walked through the front door and immediately sought him out with your eyes, when your face lit up the moment you spotted him hunched over his DS in the corner, something in Narumi's chest did a little flip that he absolutely refused to acknowledge.
"Ready to have your ego crushed?" you asked cheerfully as you set up the chess board on a nearby table.
"You're awfully confident for someone who's never seen me play," Narumi replied, but he was already moving toward the table with more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything in months.
The game that followed was a revelation. You weren't a particularly skilled chess player—your strategy was decent but predictable, your endgame weak—but you were engaged in a way that Gen had never experienced before. You asked questions about his moves, complimented his tactics even when they were being used to dismantle your defenses, and laughed delightedly when he pulled off a particularly elegant checkmate sequence.
"Okay," you said as you surveyed the board where your king lay definitively defeated, "that was embarrassing. But also kind of amazing? How did you see that fork coming six moves ago?"
Narumi felt heat crawl up his neck at the genuine admiration in your voice. "It's just... pattern recognition," he said, using his standard explanation while trying to ignore how pleased your praise made him feel. "Once you understand the underlying patterns, chess becomes fairly predictable."
"Right, 'fairly predictable,'" you repeated dryly. "I'm sure that's what every chess grandmaster tells themselves."
"I'm not a grandmaster."
"Yet, want to play again?" you asked, already resetting the board. "Maybe this time I'll last longer than fifteen minutes."
They played three more games, each one ending in decisive victory for Narumi but somehow feeling less like conquest and more like... fun. You celebrated his clever moves even when they were destroying your position, asked him to explain his thought process, treated each defeat as a learning experience rather than a source of frustration.
By the time Sister Margaret announced that visiting hours were ending, Narumi realized he'd spent the entire afternoon smiling.
"Same time next week?" you asked as you packed up the chess set, your tone carefully casual in a way that suggested his answer mattered more than you were letting on.
"If you want," Narumi said, aiming for indifference and missing by several miles. "I mean, someone has to teach you proper endgame technique."
Your smile was radiant. "It's a date."
Narumi spent the next week replaying that phrase in his mind, analyzing it from every possible angle. *It's a date.* Obviously you hadn't meant it romantically—you were sixteen to his twelve, practically an adult compared to his awkward pre-teen existence. But there had been something in your tone, a warmth that suggested you genuinely enjoyed spending time with him.
Why? he wondered as he lay awake staring at the ceiling of his shared dormitory room. What could you possibly get out of these visits? You weren't earning community service hours, weren't affiliated with any religious organization, weren't studying child psychology or social work. You just... came. Every week, without fail, bringing donations that seemed almost secondary to the time you spent talking to him about games and the kind of random topics that had never interested the adults in his life.
For the first time since his parents died, Narumi found himself looking forward to something.
...
Friday became the highlight of Narumi's week, though he would have rather died than admit it out loud. He developed elaborate pretenses for his anticipation—telling himself he was just eager to demonstrate his intellectual superiority, or that he enjoyed having someone to talk to.
You, for your part, seemed to sense the shift in his attitude without commenting on it directly. You began staying longer during your visits, sometimes arriving early with the excuse of wanting to help sort donations but really just to spend more time talking with him. You started bringing things specifically chosen with his interests in mind—new puzzle games, even a gaming magazine subscription that you claimed your brother had "grown out of" but Narumi suspected you'd bought specifically for him.
The truth was becoming harder to ignore with each passing week: Narumi was falling for you. Hard.
It was ridiculous, he knew. You talked about high school drama and college applications and part-time jobs—adult concerns that felt impossibly distant from his world of dormitory curfews and supervised study halls. You had a life outside these walls, friends who didn't know his name, experiences he could barely imagine.
But knowledge of the impossibility didn't make his feelings any less real.
He noticed everything about you now—the way you unconsciously tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating on a chess move, the soft sound of your laughter when he made one of his dry observations about the other children, the gentle patience in your voice when you explained some concept from your world that he didn't understand. He memorized the exact shade of your eyes, the way your face lit up when you walked into the common room and spotted him in his usual corner.
Narumi had never experienced attraction before—had barely understood the concept beyond clinical definitions in health textbooks. But whatever this feeling was, this constant awareness of your presence, this desperate hunger for your attention and approval, it was consuming him from the inside out.
He started having dreams about you. Innocent ones, mostly—fantasies where he was older, where the age gap didn't matter, where you looked at him with something more than fond affection. Dreams where he was tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with you, confident enough to tell you how he felt, worthy enough to deserve your romantic attention.
He'd wake from these dreams with his heart racing and shame burning in his chest. What kind of pathetic kid develops feelings for someone so obviously out of his league? What kind of delusional fantasy was he living in?
But then it would come, and you'd walk through those doors with that bright smile reserved just for him, and all his rational self-criticism would evaporate like morning mist.
"My brother finally beat that level you helped him with," you said, settling beside him on the floor where he was demonstrating advanced combos to his audience of younger kids. "He's been bragging about it to everyone who'll listen. I think you've created a monster."
"Good," Narumi said, pleased despite himself. "Confidence is important in gaming. Too many players second-guess themselves and lose opportunities."
"Speaking of confidence," you said with a teasing smile, "he's been asking if he can meet you sometime. He's convinced you're some kind of gaming legend."
Narumi's heart did a complicated flip at the thought of meeting your family, of being invited into that part of your life. But the rational part of his brain immediately began cataloging all the ways such a meeting could go wrong.
"He wouldn't be impressed," Narumi said, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm just better at pattern recognition than most people."
"Right, and Mozart was just better at pressing piano keys than most people." You rolled your eyes affectionately. "You know, false modesty doesn't suit you. You're allowed to acknowledge that you're exceptional at things."
Exceptional. The word sent warmth flooding through Gen's chest, even as he tried to maintain his composure. Coming from you, praise felt like sunlight after months of winter.
"Your brother sounds like he has good taste in role models," he said, aiming for casual and missing by several miles.
"He does," you agreed, and there was something in your tone that made Narumi look up sharply. You were studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to recognize, but there was something new underneath it—a kind of careful consideration that made his pulse quicken.
"Narumi," you said slowly, "can I ask you something?"
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"What do you want to do when you get out of here? I mean, long-term. Have you thought about careers, or college, or...?"
The question caught him off guard. Most adults who bothered asking about his future did so in the context of immediate practicalities—what high school he wanted to attend, what subjects he should focus on, what kind of part-time job he might be suited for. But you were asking about dreams, about the kind of life he wanted to build for himself.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I've never really thought that far ahead."
It was a lie, but a necessary one. The truth was that Narumi had elaborate fantasies about his future, detailed plans that always seemed to revolve around becoming someone worthy of your attention. Sometimes he imagined becoming a professional gamer, achieving the kind of fame and recognition that would make you proud to know him. Sometimes he pictured himself as a successful businessman or scientist, accomplished enough to offer you the kind of life you deserved.
But he could never voice these dreams, could never admit that every vision of his future included you in some capacity.
"You should," you said gently. "You're too smart and too talented to just drift through life without a plan. You could do anything you set your mind to."
"Anything?" Narumi asked before he could stop himself.
"Anything," you confirmed with absolute certainty.
For a moment, Narumi allowed himself to imagine telling you the truth—about his feelings, about the dreams that revolved around you, about the way your weekly visits had become the center of his entire world. For a moment, he let himself wonder what you might say if you knew how completely you'd captured his twelve-year-old heart.
But reality crashed back down before he could work up the courage to speak. You were sixteen, practically an adult. You had your own life, your own plans, your own future that didn't include a damaged orphan boy with an inappropriate crush.
"I should probably figure that out," he said instead, his voice carefully neutral.
"You've got time," you said with that gentle smile that made his chest ache. "But when you do decide, I hope you'll aim high. You deserve good things, Narumi."
I deserve you, he thought but didn't say. Instead, he nodded and returned his attention to his DS, trying to ignore the way your casual faith in his potential made him feel simultaneously hopeful and heartbroken.
...
The conversation about his future lingered in Narumi's mind over the following weeks, mixing with his growing awareness of your approaching departure to create a constant undercurrent of anxiety. You'd mentioned that your family would be moving next fall, which meant you had maybe six months left of visits. Six months before you disappeared from his life forever.
The thought was unbearable.
Narumi found himself trying to memorize everything about your time together—he started hoarding these moments like a dragon hoarding treasure, desperate to collect enough memories to sustain him through the loneliness that would follow your departure.
But then you said something that changed everything.
"I've been thinking about what I want to do after graduation," you mentioned casually during one of your visits, setting up the chess board with practiced efficiency. "My parents want me to apply to traditional colleges, but I'm considering something different."
"Like what?" Narumi asked, though he was only half-listening. He was too busy watching the graceful movements of your hands as you arranged the pieces, trying to commit every detail to memory.
"The Defense Force," you said, and suddenly you had his complete attention.
Narumi's hands stilled on his own pieces. "The Defense Force?"
"Yeah." You looked up with that bright smile that never failed to make his heart skip. "I know it sounds crazy, but I've been reading about their recruitment programs, and they're actually looking for people to apply."
The Defense Force. The elite military organization responsible for protecting Japan from kaiju threats. It was dangerous work, the kind of career that came with a high mortality rate and no guarantees of coming home alive.
Narumi felt something cold and sharp twist in his stomach. "That's... that's dangerous."
"Well, yeah," you said with the casual fearlessness that only someone who'd never faced real danger could possess. "But it's also important. And the training programs are supposed to be incredible—they teach you everything from advanced combat techniques to disaster management to emergency medical care. Plus, the benefits are amazing, and they help pay for continuing education."
You were excited about this. Narumi could see it in the way your eyes lit up, in the animated gestures you made as you described the recruitment materials you'd been studying. This wasn't some idle fantasy—you were seriously considering risking your life to fight monsters.
The rational part of Narumi's brain understood that you had every right to make your own choices about your future. You were intelligent and capable and perfectly qualified to make decisions about your own life. But the part of him that had grown to depend on your weekly visits, the part that had started building fantasies around a future that included you, was screaming in protest.
"What about college?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled. "You said your parents wanted you to apply to universities."
"They do. But I think I want something more... immediate? More real?" You paused in your chess setup to look at him directly. "College feels like just more school, you know? Four more years of sitting in classrooms and writing papers about things other people discovered. The Defense Force would be different. It would be contributing to something that actually matters."
Narumi wanted to argue. He wanted to list all the reasons why joining the Defense Force was a terrible idea, all the safer career paths that would keep you alive and close to Tokyo. He wanted to beg you to reconsider, to choose something that wouldn't take you away from him permanently.
But he was twelve years old and you were sixteen, and he had no right to try to influence your life decisions. He had no right to any opinion about your future at all.
"That's... really cool," he said instead, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"You think so?" Your face lit up with pleasure at his apparent approval. "I was worried you might think it was stupid or reckless."
"I think you'd be good at it," Narumi said, because it was true even though it made his chest ache. "You're smart and... and brave."
"Brave?" You laughed, but there was a pleased flush spreading across your cheeks. "I don't know about brave. Maybe just tired of feeling useless."
Useless? Narumi stared at you in genuine bewilderment. How could you possibly think you were useless? You, who had single-handedly transformed his entire world just by showing up and caring about him? You, who had given him the first taste of genuine friendship he'd ever experienced?
"You're not useless," he said, the words carrying more intensity than he'd intended. "You're... you're the most important person I know."
The confession slipped out before he could stop it, carrying way too much emotion for what was supposed to be a casual conversation between friends. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as he realized what he'd revealed.
You were quiet for a long moment, studying his face with that thoughtful expression that always made him feel simultaneously seen and terrified. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than usual.
"Narumi," you said carefully, "you know that our friendship isn't going to end just because I join the Defense Force, right? I mean, it might be harder to visit regularly, but—"
"It's fine," Narumi interrupted, unable to bear whatever kind platitude you were building up to. "I understand. You have your own life to live."
"That's not what I meant—"
"I know what you meant." His voice came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way it always got when he felt vulnerable. "You're trying to be nice about the fact that you're leaving. But you don't have to pretend that we'll stay in touch afterward. I'm not stupid."
"Gen—"
"Can we just play chess?" he asked, already moving his first pawn with jerky, agitated movements. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say about the subject, but something in his expression must have warned you off. Instead, you made your own opening move and settled into the familiar rhythm of the game.
But the easy companionship of previous weeks was gone, replaced by an undercurrent of tension that made every move feel weighted with unspoken meaning. Narumi played more aggressively than usual, sacrificing pieces in risky gambits that reflected his internal emotional state. You responded with unusual defensiveness, as if you were trying to protect something precious from his attacks.
The game ended in stalemate—the first time neither of you had achieved a clear victory.
"Good game," you said quietly as you began putting the pieces away.
"Yeah," Narumi replied, though it had been anything but.
The silence stretched between you, heavy with all the things neither of you was saying. Finally, you cleared your throat.
"I haven't made any final decisions yet," you said. "About the Defense Force, I mean. I'm still researching, still thinking things through."
Narumi nodded without looking up from the chess board. "Whatever you choose," he said finally, "I hope it makes you happy."
It was the truth, even though it felt like swallowing glass to say it.
...
You continued your visits, but there was a new awkwardness between you that hadn't existed before. Narumi found himself holding back, afraid that too much enthusiasm or attachment would make his feelings obvious. You seemed to be doing the same, treating him with a careful gentleness that suggested you were aware of his emotional state even if you didn't fully understand it.
The easy intimacy of previous months was replaced by polite conversation. Narumi hated it, missed the natural flow of your interactions, but he didn't know how to bridge the gap without revealing more than he was prepared to share.
Then, in early spring, you arrived with news that shattered his carefully maintained emotional control.
"I got accepted," you said without preamble, your face glowing with excitement and pride. "Into the Defense Force training program. I start basic training right after graduation."
Narumi felt the world tilt sideways. He'd known this was coming, had been preparing himself for months, but the reality of it still hit him like a physical blow. You were really leaving. Not just moving to another city with your family, but joining an organization that would consume your entire life, that would train you to fight monsters and risk your life for strangers.
"Congratulations," he managed, his voice sounding strange and distant even to his own ears.
"Thank you!" You were practically vibrating with excitement, clearly having expected a more enthusiastic response. "I still can't believe it, honestly. The application process was so competitive, and the physical requirements were insane, but I made it. I'm actually going to be a Defense Force officer."
Narumi should have felt proud of you. Should have shared in your excitement, celebrated this achievement that clearly meant so much to you. Instead, all he could feel was a crushing sense of loss, as if you'd already disappeared from his life despite sitting right in front of him.
"When do you leave?" he asked.
"Training starts in June, so I'll be finishing up my visits here in a few weeks." Your excitement dimmed slightly as you seemed to remember the implications for your friendship. "I'm really going to miss our Fridays together."
Miss. As if your time together was already in the past, already relegated to fond memories rather than living reality.
"Yeah," Narumi said quietly. "Me too."
You reached across the table and squeezed his hand, the contact sending familiar electricity racing up his arm. "Hey, this doesn't have to be goodbye forever. I'll write when I can, and maybe once I'm settled in my assignment—"
"Don't." The word came out harder than Narumi had intended, cutting through your hopeful reassurances like a blade. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"But—"
"I'm happy for you," he said, pulling his hand free from yours and standing abruptly. "I really am. This is what you want, and you deserve to get what you want. But don't pretend that we're going to stay in touch afterward. We both know how these things work."
He was being unfair, he knew. You hadn't done anything wrong except pursue your dreams and try to soften the blow of your departure with kind intentions. But the pain of losing you was so acute that he needed to create distance, needed to start the process of emotional detachment before it destroyed him completely.
"That's not—" You stood as well, frustration clear in your voice. "Why are you being like this? I'm trying to tell you that our friendship matters to me, that I don't want to just disappear from your life."
"Because it's easier!" The words burst out of Narumi with more force than he'd intended, carrying months of suppressed emotion. "It's easier than pretending that you'll actually have time to think about some kid from an orphanage once you're busy saving the world. It's easier than hoping for letters that will never come and visits that will never happen."
You stared at him, clearly taken aback by his outburst. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with the weight of everything Narumi had revealed without meaning to.
"Is that really what you think of me?" you asked finally, your voice small and hurt. "That I would just... forget about you?"
The pain in your voice made Narumi's chest ache, but he couldn't take back what he'd said. Couldn't apologize for protecting himself from the inevitable disappointment of abandonment.
"I think you're sixteen years old and about to start the most important chapter of your life," he said quietly. "I think you'll meet new people and face new challenges and build a future that doesn't have room for Friday visits to an orphanage. And that's... that's okay. It's what's supposed to happen."
"I'm tired," he said, cutting off whatever reassurance you were building up to. "Can we just... can we not do this today? I need some time to think."
You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say on the subject. But something in his expression must have convinced you that pushing would only make things worse.
"Okay," you said softly. "But this conversation isn't over."
You gathered your things with careful, deliberate movements, clearly giving him time to change his mind or say something more. But Narumi remained frozen in place, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched you prepare to leave.
This was it, then. The beginning of the end.
He should let you go. Should accept that this was how things had to be, clean and final and rational. You would walk out that door and continue building your impressive life, and he would remain here in this liminal space between childhood and whatever came next, carrying the memory of your kindness like a secret treasure.
But as you shouldered your bag and turned toward the exit, something desperate and reckless unfurled in Narumi's chest. The careful emotional distance he'd been trying to maintain crumbled all at once, leaving him raw and exposed and terrifyingly vulnerable.
He couldn't let you leave like this. Not when there were so many things unsaid between you, not when this might be his last chance to—
"Wait."
The word escaped him before conscious thought could intervene, sharp and urgent in the quiet common room. You stopped immediately, turning back with surprise written across your features.
Narumi's heart was hammering against his ribs as he took a shaky step forward, then another. The younger children who'd been scattered around the room seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere, quietly migrating toward other activities and leaving the two of you in relative privacy.
"Wait," he repeated, quieter this time but no less intense. His hands were trembling—when had they started trembling?—and he shoved them deep into his pockets to hide the evidence of his emotional state.
"Narumi?" Your voice was gentle, concerned, but you made no move to come closer. Waiting for him to find whatever words were struggling to break free from his chest.
He stood there for a long moment, caught between the safety of silence and the terrifying possibility of honesty. Everything rational in his mind was screaming at him to step back, to let you go, to protect himself from the inevitable pain of hoping for something impossible.
But looking at you—really looking at your face, at the genuine care and confusion in your eyes—Narumi realized that the pain of never trying might be worse than the pain of rejection.
"I..." he started, then stopped, his voice catching on the magnitude of what he wanted to say. How did you tell someone they'd become your whole world? How did you explain that their weekly visits had transformed from pleasant distraction to vital necessity?
You waited, patient as always, giving him the space to stumble toward whatever truth was clawing its way out of his throat.
"The Defense Force training," he said finally, the words coming out stilted and awkward. "How long is it?"
"The basic training program is eighteen months," you replied carefully, clearly uncertain where this line of questioning was heading. "Then there's specialized training depending on your assignment, which can be another six months to two years."
Two to three and a half years. Narumi's mind raced through calculations—he'd be fifteen or sixteen by the time you finished training. Still younger than you, still probably too young for whatever he was thinking, but closer. Less impossibly distant than the gap that existed now.
"And after that?" he pressed, taking another step closer. "What happens after training?"
"Well, that depends on a lot of factors. Your performance, the needs of the organization, personal preferences..." You tilted your head, studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to treasure. "Why are you asking?"
This was it. The moment of truth, the point of no return. Narumi could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he forced himself to meet your eyes directly.
"Because I want you to wait for me."
The words hung in the air between you, bold and desperate and completely insane. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as the magnitude of what he'd just said hit him. Had he really just asked you—brilliant, accomplished, sixteen-year-old you—to put your life on hold for a twelve-year-old orphan with an inappropriate crush?
Your eyes widened in genuine shock. "Narumi..."
"I know how it sounds," he rushed on, his voice cracking with emotion and adolescent uncertainty. "I know I'm just some kid and you're about to start this amazing career and I have no right to ask anything of you. But I..." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. "I think I like you."
The confession hung between you like a live wire, crackling with dangerous energy. Narumi immediately wanted to take it back, to retreat into safer territory, but it was too late now. The truth was out there, raw and honest and completely terrifying.
"You think you like me?" you repeated slowly, your voice carefully neutral.
"I know I do," Narumi corrected, his voice growing stronger even as his hands continued to shake. "I know it's crazy and probably just some pathetic kid's first crush, but I can't help it. You're... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, your expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something else he couldn't quite identify. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than he'd expected.
"Narumi, you're twelve years old."
"I know." The words came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way he always got when people pointed out his age as if it invalidated everything he felt. "I know I'm twelve and you're sixteen and that makes this weird and impossible. I know you probably think I'm just some confused kid who doesn't understand the difference between friendship and romance."
"That's not—"
"But I do understand," he continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. "I understand that you're going to leave and become this incredible Defense Force officer and probably meet someone amazing who's actually age-appropriate and accomplished and everything I'm not. I understand that asking you to wait for me is selfish and unrealistic."
Narumi took one more step closer, close enough now that he could see the flecks in your eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of your perfume.
"But I'm asking anyway," he said quietly. "Because in three years I'll be fifteen, and in five years I'll be seventeen, and maybe by then the age difference won't matter so much. Maybe by then I'll be someone worth waiting for."
The silence that followed was deafening. Narumi could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the weight of your gaze as you processed his impossible request. He'd laid everything bare, offered up his heart with trembling hands, and now all he could do was wait for you to decide whether to cherish it or crush it.
"You want me to wait five years," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.
"I want you to give us a chance," Narumi replied, his voice steadier now that the worst of the confession was behind him. "I want you to consider the possibility that what I feel for you might be real, even if I'm young. I want..." He swallowed hard, gathering the last of his courage. "I want you to think about whether you might be able to feel something for me too, someday."
You were quiet for a long moment, your eyes never leaving his face. Narumi held his breath, suspended between hope and terror as he waited for your response.
"You really mean this," you said, and it wasn't quite a question.
"I've never meant anything more in my life."
Something shifted in your expression then, surprise giving way to a kind of wonder that made Narumi's chest tight with desperate hope. You reached out slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.
When your fingers brushed against his head, Narumi's breath caught in his throat. Your touch was warm and soft and everything he'd dreamed about during those lonely nights in the dormitory.
"You're so young," you murmured, but there was no dismissal in your voice. Instead, there was something that sounded almost like regret.
"I won't always be," Narumi said, leaning slightly into your touch despite himself. "And you... you won't always be so far ahead of me."
You studied his face with that intense focus he'd come to associate with your chess games, as if you were trying to see several moves ahead into a future neither of you could quite imagine.
"Five years is a long time," you said finally. "A lot can change. We'll both change."
"I know." Narumi's voice was barely audible, but his gaze never wavered from yours. "But some things don't change. Some things are worth waiting for."
The moment stretched between you, heavy with possibility and the weight of an impossible decision. Narumi could see the internal struggle playing out across your features—logic warring with something else, something that made his heart race with desperate hope.
Finally, incredibly, you smiled. It was a small, uncertain thing, but it transformed your entire face in a way that made Narumi feel like he might actually float off the ground.
"You know what?" you said, your voice carrying a note of wonder that suggested you couldn't quite believe what you were about to say. "Okay."
"Okay?" Narumi's voice cracked on the word, hope and disbelief tangling in his chest.
"I'll wait," you said, and now your smile was growing brighter, more confident. "I mean, I can't promise that I'll still feel the same way in five years, or that you will. But... but you're right. You won't always be twelve, and I won't always be sixteen. And maybe..." You paused, seeming to gather your own courage. "Maybe there's something here worth exploring, when we're both ready for it."
Narumi felt something break open in his chest, a flood of emotion so intense it left him dizzy. You were saying yes. Not to romance, not now, but to possibility. To the chance that someday, when the timing was right, you might look at him and see not just the lonely orphan boy but someone worthy of your love.
"Really?" he whispered, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter this fragile moment.
"Really," you confirmed, your hand still warm against his head. "But I have conditions."
"Anything," Narumi said immediately, and he meant it. He would agree to anything that kept this possibility alive.
"You have to promise me that you'll focus on building your own life," you said seriously. "I don't want you putting everything on hold waiting for me. Get good grades, make friends, figure out who you want to be outside of this... whatever this is between us. Can you do that?"
Narumi nodded eagerly. "I promise."
"And you have to understand that I can't make any guarantees about how I'll feel when I see you again. People change, Narumi. What seems important at sixteen might not matter at twenty-one."
"I understand," he said, though privately he was certain that his feelings for you would never change, never fade. "But what if they don't? Change, I mean. What if we both still..."
"Then we'll figure it out when that time comes," you said gently. "But for now, this has to be enough. This promise, this possibility. Can you live with that?"
Could he live with the faint hope of someday rather than the crushing certainty of never? Could he survive on the promise of your consideration rather than demanding your immediate affection?
Looking into your eyes, seeing the genuine care and cautious optimism there, Narumi knew he could live with anything as long as it meant you'd be part of his future.
"Yes," he said simply. "I can live with that."
Your smile was radiant, transforming your entire face in a way that made Narumi's heart stutter in his chest. For just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like when you looked at him that way because you loved him back, because he was finally old enough and accomplished enough to deserve it.
"Then it's a deal," you said, extending your hand formally as if you were sealing a business arrangement rather than making the most important promise of his young life.
Narumi took your hand without hesitation, marveling at how perfectly it fit in his despite the size difference. Your skin was warm and soft, and he wanted to memorize every detail of this contact before you pulled away.
"Five years," he said, testing the words on his tongue.
"Five years," you agreed. "Give or take."
You held his gaze for another moment, and Narumi thought he saw something flicker there—affection, maybe, or the beginning of something deeper. But then you were stepping back, creating physical distance even as you maintained the emotional connection you'd just established.
"I should go," you said, glancing toward the door where Sister Margaret was making pointed gestures about visiting hours. "But I'll see you next week? For our last few visits?"
"You'll still come?" Narumi asked, unable to hide the relief in his voice.
"Of course I'll still come. We're friends, aren't we? Even if..." you gestured vaguely between the two of you, "even if there's this other thing too."
Friends. And something more, something with the potential to become everything he'd ever wanted. It wasn't perfect, wasn't the immediate reciprocation his heart craved, but it was infinitely more than he'd had that morning.
"Yeah," Narumi said, his voice steady despite the emotional upheaval of the last few minutes. "We're friends."
You shouldered your bag again, this time with none of the sad finality that had characterized your earlier departure attempt. Instead, there was something almost celebratory in your movements, as if you'd just made a decision that excited rather than worried you.
"Take care of yourself, Narumi," you said as you headed toward the exit. "And remember—focus on your own life first. I want to see what amazing things you accomplish while I'm gone."
He watched you walk away, his heart full to bursting with hope and determination and the overwhelming magnitude of your promise. You paused at the door to look back at him one last time, your smile soft and fond and full of possibilities.
"See you Friday," you called out, and then you were gone, leaving Narumi standing alone in the common room with his heart racing and his entire future suddenly, brilliantly rewritten.
Five years. He could do five years. He could become someone worthy of your love in five years.
After all, he'd already waited twelve years for you to walk into his life.
fluff, pining, suggestive themes, kingdom au, (i was inspired by the dynamic in the movie "Epic" w/ queen tara & ronin or this one if yall know what i'm referencing)
bodyguard!toji fushiguro x royalty!reader
Synopsis: toji, a man raised in poverty who has been forced to turn to violence for the sake of survival, finds himself at the princess' side as her personal bodyguard
to sum it up: toji has never been fond of royalty, yet he submits to his responsibility to protect you with passion he has not shown to anything else
WC: 14,242
Warning(s): mentions of trauma, violence, assault, vaguely suggestive themes
Toji knows he was never cut out for an uppity lifestyle.
He’s a gruff man, rough around the edges with an air of dark mystery radiating about him. He has never believed himself to be an attractive man, at least in the realm of those who make women drop to their knees and swoon with romance. He’s more fermented, well-aged, well experienced, and he has the looks of someone who has endured hell and more, not those of a freshly groomed prince blooming in his wake.
Toji, though a man of difficult upbringing, having undergone more of reality’s harsh lessons than almost anyone in this world, has a specific set of skills that comes in handy no matter the setting. He is not a man of incredible wealth, prowess, or poise, but he can associate himself with the likes of those who are by means of what he does, and what he does remarkably well. His talents are the only reason, he believes, why he has been in your service, smack in the middle of your world for teetering into two years now.
Raised in the slums, orphaned by his absent parents, Toji taught himself a way to live. He thinks that he was born hard, when he looks back, for no one else could have survived the way he had after those years of scrounging around for food, desperately searching for change and a decently comfortable pile of grass he could sleep in. As the world grew harsher, pushing against his growing mind and body, Toji pushed back harder, angrier, more solid and more grounded. He was blessed from the moment he entered this earth with unique physical qualities that gave him an advantage when fighting to live, his internal and external mold serving as an inhuman benefit, as though he was meant to struggle the way he had all of his life. As though fighting was his destiny.
The dark haired man had encountered many different means of keeping himself afloat over the years too, some more grim than others that he refused to look back on. Nevertheless, after the will of the merciless wind had tossed him around feverishly for far longer than he realized would have been normal for anybody else, he understood that his place in this world was to stand proudly as a man capable of unspeakable violence, inept at the art of killing for the sake of his own gain.
It’s a dog eat dog world. Toji learned this before he even hit puberty, and therefore, he learned what it meant to transition himself into one - a far more gnarly beast than any of the world’s nastiest entities of evil could conjure. If he only had the choice of eating or being eaten, Toji was going to devour before another dog could get the chance to bare his teeth at him.
Well into his familiarity with his own brutality, his craft honed in and sharpened to perfection and his years of youth having flown by with the snap of his fingers, Toji is recognized by a crowd that he’s despised for as long as he can remember.
He is in the middle of a boxing match, one of many he participates in for the hell of it and the cash rather than as a profession, when a representative from the palace ogles him from the crowd, standing out as a sore thumb amidst the screaming patrons clinging to the velvet ropes of the ring, drunk off stinking liquors and spit flying excitedly from their mouths in awe as Toji, undefeated, lands a particularly gruesome blow to the face of his opponent. His foe collapses, blood smearing from his crooked nose, and the jade eyed man filled with years of pent up rage and stress, straddles the nearly unconscious man’s torso and plows his fist into his face repeatedly with wild, shrunken eyes and tight lips.
Toji only takes notice of his visitor in the midst of his abuse, eyes flickering up quickly to mull over the crowd when he finds a terrified face masked in a black cloak, attempting to shrink into the rest of the room. But Toji sees him clearly, a palace ambassador with no place in an underground ring so far from home.
The dark haired man refuses to even look at him as the owner tells him that he has a guest. He unravels the wrap from his stained fists, back tensing. Toji tells him to fuck off, not even having to whip his head around to see who it is. He can tell by his boss’ tone and the silence of the said visitor that he is exactly who he believes him to be. That, and Toji never receives visitors, for the people who are well aware of his reputation stray far away, fearing the worst from his seemingly deadly lust for blood.
His owner, however, does not turn the man away. Toji understands that he must have been paid a good deal in jewels by this cloaked man to allow him to stay back here, not leaving until he asks for some kind of favor. An agitated exhalation rises in Toji’s chest, heavy eyes tossing over his shoulder to glare at the ambassador. He gulps, trembling hands reaching up to lower his hood.
“The fuck do y’want?” Toji spits.
The ambassador’s hesitant gaze scatters over his bare back, his fists, the scars littering his skin and lip, and the murderous glow in his venomous eyes. He looks terrified for his life, face dotted in beads of sweat and eyes still full of innocent light quivering. “I-I’m here on- on behalf of the King and Queen.”
Toji stills, brows drawing together. The man’s words seem to have an impact on his boss, normally an uncaring man, for he leaves with a swiftness once royalty is mentioned, sworn to silence by hush money.
Toji scoffs, shaking his head and turning back around to refocus on his task. “You got the wrong guy,” he dismisses. “Now beat it before I kill ya.”
But he doesn’t, standing his ground rather poorly, clearly shaken by the fact that his life has been threatened for what Toji can only assume to be the very first time. He rolls his eyes at the sentiment, at how weak, fragile, and perfectly stupid palace folk are. “S-Sir, please-”
“Sir?” Toji raises a brow, crouching to sit down heavily on his bench, tossing his bloodied bandages onto the ground before him. His abdominals, bulky and intensely defined, ripple with his movements as he slides his towel from his shoulders, swiping it over his skin roughly. “I ain’t no sir, pal.”
The ambassador stiffens, lips pursing together. “Um- Mr. Toji…?”
Toji twists up his mouth at him unimpressed. “Fushiguro.”
“Yes! Y-Yes, Mr. Fushiguro.”
“Christ, it’s just Fushiguro.”
“Oh,” he nods erratically. “Yes, then. Fushiguro,” he clears his throat. “I’m afraid it’s a matter of great importance.”
“Clearly it is to you lot, or else your dumbass wouldn’t be here,” Toji grumbles, settling a hand on his thigh. “I don’t have time for bullshit. You either get to the point, or the King and Queen are gonna be down one messenger.”
Toji is a violent man. He has had to be violent in order to live, in order to eat, in order to sleep, and now in his late thirties, it has become embedded in who he is. Violence is his first response to every circumstance, to every person who approaches him, to every dirty look that he is thrown, to every unknown within this world that has been nothing but greedy, cruel, and selfish to him.
Even so, he is not always keen on his word when he threatens such things. He knows that if he were to lay a hand on this toothpick, he would be hanged and quartered within the hour, and Toji isn’t too keen on allowing the kingdom dickheads be the reason his life comes to an end after he fought so desperately to even reach past his twenties. This ambassador knows this, and yet, he is still shaking like a leaf as though Toji has any authority over him, because in truth, he does here in his territory, only temporarily. Toji can use the fear he inspires and the intimidation of his capabilities and large frame to attempt to shake a palace ambassador off of his ass, but there is nothing more to his stern words other than a desire to be left alone.
“You must listen,” the little man continues to press. “The King and Queen- t-they send me for the sake of their daughter!”
Toji groans. “I don’t give a shit who they sent you for, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
“I fear they are fully aware of who they sent me to speak with,” the ambassador’s brows angle with a sense of urgency. Toji, having been bored by the conversation, rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose and tilts his head tiredly. “N-Not many of us know about the things you do, but I was told to seek out the strongest, and you are… him.”
“What the hell do they want me for? I ain’t got shit for you pricks. Just leave me be.”
“Fushiguro,” he calls again before Toji can stand and turn away. “I understand you may not care about what the kingdom needs, but you are being offered a great deal of money. A generous salary.”
Toji’s ears perk up at this. He rises slowly, sauntering over to the man with slim, suspicious eyes and a taut jaw. Sweat glistens his bare torso, rolled up sweats hanging low on his waist. As he grows closer, the ambassador takes notice of his great size up close, and his eyes widen as he cowers away slightly from the man that casts a shadow over him completely.
Toji stares down over his nose and tilted chin with a frown. “A salary? From the King and Queen themselves?” he repeats, and the man whimpers a hum in affirmation. “The hell is going on? What could possibly be turning their panties in a bunch to offer a job to someone like me?”
“It’s their daughter,” the man re-emphasizes.
“Who?”
“The princess!” he says as though it is obvious, a desperate expression taking his features. “She needs security.”
“From what?”
“The King and Queen grow old, and so does the princess. Their reign is coming to an end, and with that, the princess’s life is often endangered by those seeking to take her right to the crown while her parent’s grow less capable of ruling. There’s already been two assassination attempts and one assault attempt within the past few months,” the ambassador explains, severely. “The princess needs someone to look after her, to be by her side as she prepares to rule as queen and as she looks for a husband.”
“And you want me to be her bodyguard?” Toji raises his brows.
“In a sense… yes.”
The dark haired man snorts in the ambassador’s face, the latter deflating at his reaction. “Of all people, you want me?”
“...Yes. That is correct.”
“What, the brat doesn’t have knights or something?”
“None that are capable of what you do.”
“And how the hell do you know what I do? You come to one match and think you're an expert on my life?” Toji grits his teeth, leering down at the poor man. The ambassador raises his hands in defense, stepping back anxiously. “I see everyone and everything that crosses my path. I’ve never seen you before in my life, and all of a sudden now you show up with a job offer from the fucking King and Queen. Gimme a break.”
He walks off, irritatedly throwing his towel in the corner and ripping open his locker on the other side of the room. “You’re right. I haven’t been watching you, but I’ve been asking around town about someone who could fit the role for weeks, and everyone was too afraid to mention you until a few days ago. Since then, I’ve heard stories.”
“People here like to gossip,” Toji murmurs.
“But your name scares people, right?”
“I don’t care what my name does.”
“Fushiguro, please,” he begs. “I don’t believe you are a man who cares about what happens in the palace-”
“I’m not.”
“But you must care about a sense of duty? Of justice? Of compensation, at least?”
“Obviously I care about money more than I do any of the other shit you just mentioned. But you tell me one thing,” his face hardens. “What the hell has the kingdom done for sorry asses like me, huh? Why should I be the one to help them when they haven’t helped me a day in my life? They’re all a bunch ‘a stuck up, frilly airheads stuck in their own bubble of what they think is urgent. So what if the princess gets a little spooked here and there? Maybe it’ll teach her a life lesson about what the world is really like. ‘Cause I’ll tell ya this, the girls where I come from don’t get to have a bodyguard before bad shit happens to them.”
Toji isn’t entirely sure why he is making a point to shame the people at the top when in the end, he knows he is going to take the job. Money, Toji finds, is incredibly valuable where he is from, and considering the hands he has dirtied in the past to get it, this proposal is practically nothing. Still, that doesn’t mean he likes the kingdom any more for their lack of involvement with the lower classes. His morals, which remain very few, go against this proposal he already knows he is going to accept - slaving away for those who made him a slave to gruesome fates, but hell, what can a man really do when he’s at his wits end and unfathomable riches are being presented to him on a silver platter?
He can complain, yes, but nothing can rank higher than the money the palace is practically drowning in. Besides, he doesn’t have to stay, he thinks. He can entertain this little charade for as long as he has enough funds to set him up for life, and then he’ll be out of there. In and out, quick and easy, and this place would never see his face again.
A grim look befalls the ambassador’s face while Toji rummages through his belongings for his clothes. He is clearly discomforted by Toji’s words, which was the goal the man aimed to achieve in the first place.
“We can not force you to do anything you do not desire to do yourself,” the ambassador starts, and somehow, Toji senses that the man is lying for the sake of making it appear as though Toji has a choice. “But I implore you to consider. The princess is unlike her parents. She is younger, eager. There is a legacy she must carry and people she must lead. Without her, the entire kingdom collapses. Including your village.”
Toji’s nose twitches. “Maybe that’ll do this shithole some good,” he grumbles.
The ambassador sighs, shoulders slumping. “Please… think about it.”
Toji rolls his eyes, turning and knuckling a hand to his hip. “How much money ‘we talking here, buddy?”
And oh, is the pay fucking obscene.
Toji doesn’t think he’s ever fathomed such grand numbers and jewels in his head, having been restricted by his village’s limitations, but once he hears his pay manifested into reality by a simple verbalization, his guilt trip seizes and he is signing his life away almost happily.
From then on, Toji is bound to the likes of you, his signature scribbled messily over a royal contract and securing him to you from now until your death… at least, that is what the fine print says. His plans, however, differ, and when he has fled from you, he will be hundreds of miles out of the kingdom’s reach.
That is his plan. To run away, but you unfortunately do not make this a very plausible task for him.
After days of training that Toji does not at all listen to, of watching elder royalty turn their nose up in disgust at the way he speaks and carries himself, of hearing murmurs of disapproval as he saunters down red carpeting with the head guard to meet yet another person that he will not remember the name or importance of, of being sworn to secrecy - to only serve as a protective, lethal air of silence and nothing more - to refuse any and all physical or verbal interaction with the woman in his protection, and of being fitted into a stuffy black uniform clad with gold detailing that serves only for show since he would have hardly bothered to lift an arm in that uncomfortable ass thing, let alone kill someone, Toji finally meets you.
And he has to admit that you are not at all what he expects.
Adorned in a regal soft pink gown that crowds from your waist and pools down to the floor, cuffing delicately at your wrists through sheer sleeves and tugging over your torso snugly with a corset, you stand before him in your chambers like an angel gracing earth. Your bejeweled gold crown sits upon your head with complementarity and your ringed fingers clasp each other before your lap. You're decked in what Toji can only assume to be century old gems, necklaces, and chains which he has to physically fight himself from reaching to pluck from your body and run off with. Standing before him, he decides that you are worth at least twenty times more than the almost forty years of life he has spent picking around for specs of funds.
The thought agitates him.
While he wishes he can say that he is the only one agitated, he notices a flick of fire in your (e/c) eyes as you size him up, trace your gaze over him with judgment and a pout on your glossed lips. Your presence is almost frightening with power as the two of you stare at each other, him with blank indifference and you with very apparent disappointment.
When the head guard eventually takes his leave now that you are in the hands of your newly bestowed bodyguard, the door closing behind the two of you as you enter the hall in preparation to go handle your duties, you stop in your tracks, dress ruffling along with you. Toji, who has been told to remain ten feet behind you at all times, freezes like a statue, eying you when you whip your head around to glare at him.
Toji’s heard of elegant aestheticism, of the otherworldly beauty that the royal family carries, but he hadn’t believed it until he sees you face to face - though he’ll admit, he imagined you to appear less… aggravated and more peachy? Light. Dimwittedly sugary.
“Listen up,” you demand, a shocking bass carrying in your tone. You’re dominant, he noticed, or at least you are attempting to be. You stand proud, tall, chin lifted and eyes narrow. This certainly isn’t the picture of spoiled naivety that he imagined you to be previously. “I don’t know whatever the royal guard told you, but I’m not a damsel in need of protecting. I didn’t agree to whatever this is or whoever the hell you are invading my life.”
Toji’s brow lifts in intrigue. You certainly are not what he expected. Not at all.
Encouraged by your tone, his lips quirk up into a subtle smirk. You drag your brows together in confusion, eyes catching the scar that stretches over the right side of his lips. “Do you find me amusing?” you frown.
“A little bit,” the dark haired man responds quickly, leading you to reel slightly in shock. He appears so unaffected by you, and you’ve never encountered a person who hasn’t scrambled to kneel in your presence or nervously abide by any and everything you say. The gaul of this stranger, you think, to stand before you so casually and smile as though your position of authority is some sort of joke.
“I beg your pardon?” you scoff. “You should mind yourself when you speak to me.”
“I’m not paid to speak to you, doll, let alone be sweet on you,” Toji scratches under his jaw, his posture slipping into something resembling his nature rather than that of a rigid guard. His hands find the pockets of his uniform slacks, hardly caring at all how disrespectful the stature appears to you. “In fact, I think you’re bein’ a little rude by tryin’ to strike a conversation with me in the first place.”
“Well, I did not advise you to answer me. I expected you to simply listen,” you state firmly. “Clearly, you are incapable of doing so without having something to say.”
Your comment is snarky, judgmental, and Toji at least finds that you match the idea of snobbiness that all royalty withhold. “If I got somethin’ to say,” he starts. “I’ll say it. You don’t gotta worry about me being untruthful with ya, I’ll tell you that. I’ll give it to ya straight.”
“And how do you think the royal guard would feel about such a thing?” you posed. “If they were to hear even a second of what you are saying to me now, you’d be booted from my side and this palace immediately.”
“And what exactly makes you think that I care about that?” he chuckles, watching you shift with sudden uncertainty. This man does not appear to be swayed by you in the slightest, and it is a bit off putting to you as a woman accustomed to your every beck and call being honored. “I thought you weren’t happy about what the ‘royal guard’ had me doin’. Besides, if you wanted me out, you’re the princess, yeah? You could kick me out yourself. I ain’t stoppin’ ya.”
Your lips tighten, eyes digging further together. His attitude is strange to you as well as his dialect, the manner in which he speaks. Even his appearance is strange, for while he is dressed in your palace’s fabrics, he is drabber than everything around you. And even with this royal clothing, his face and build do not match his suit.
He has tired bags under his poisonous haze of ivy hues. Dark tendrils of inky hair sprout over his forehead, his ears, and into his sharp gaze. His facial structure is hard, mature with hints of stubble sprouting over his chin, remnants of what you assume to be the guard forcing him to shave. He’s bulky as well, remarkably so. He’s an unnaturally large man, and his muscles bulge against his clothing as though it is going to burst with the raise of his arm.
His eyes, however, are pools of green you have never seen before - not once in all your twenty seven years of living. While the people that you surround yourself with carry a light in their twinkling gazes sparked by a passion for protecting your throne and the privilege of the lives they lead, your new bodyguard’s eyes are a stark contrast. Even from afar, you can see the exhaustion swirling about them as he looks at you slyly. He’s weary somehow, the windows of his soul revealing a glimpse into his world, into the things he has seen, and that is how you deduce that he is not the same as you. Not at all.
This observation of yours only gives you more reason to question him.
“Who are you?” you command. “You’re not from here.”
“You must be a smart one,” he quips sarcastically.
You grit your teeth. “Answer me, now.”
“You know my name, darlin’. That’s all you need from me.”
“Not if your princess demands to know your identity.”
“You ain’t my princess, girlie,” he stops you. “You’re my job. And I don’t do a lot of talkin’ on the job.”
You make a noise of displeasure, something between a grunt and a gasp, and Toji only revels in the way he has thrown you off. You sputter, taking a step forward with emotion. “Now you wait just a minute-“
“Princess!” a voice calls for you from around the corner, down at the end of the long narrow hallway by your bedroom door. You quickly swish yourself around into the direction of the address, and Toji watches how your dainty fabrics dance along with you, even long after you have stopped moving. Seconds later, an ambassador appears, peeking his head around the wall. “Are you well? You are needed in the second floor den to review some papers regarding your upcoming coronation.”
Frazzled, you nod unceremoniously. “Yes. Yes, my apologies,” you breathe out. “I am coming. My guard and I were just… I was merely informing him of my expectations here on out.”
Toji would have rolled his eyes at the way you all speak, the sound of it on his ears rather exhausting. He can hardly keep up with the properness of it all.
“I see,” the ambassador nods. “I shall inform everyone that you are on your way.”
The man leaves, and you take a moment to breathe in and dust yourself off. You murmur under your breath to yourself what Toji can only deduce as assurances and affirmations, little words you tell yourself to keep your rather striking confidence instilled. You clasp your hands once more, bracelets clinking as you regain your composure. Toji stands in silence, watching boredly.
“Whoever you are,” you begin, turning your head to your shoulder so that your voice is audible. “I don’t need you. Despite what my parents say, I manage fine on my own. Keep your distance.”
The green eyed man watches you walk off, forcing himself to begin following at a reasonable pace. His eyes train on the back of you as you trek ahead, and he finds himself lost in his thoughts, formulating his opinion of you.
You do not take to him easily over the course of your adjustment to each other, and neither does he. You find his presence to be a burden as he trails after you everywhere you go, far more invasive and persistent than your knights have ever been. He becomes your second shadow, and while you are accustomed to having been followed around all your life, Toji’s approach is impossible to ignore.
Even from ten feet away, you feel him there, watching, and it drives you mad.
He’s light on his feet, for if it weren’t for his obvious mass trekking in your footsteps, at times you would have forgotten that he was even nearby. How someone as big as him could travel so quietly, you did not understand.
And worse than his hovering is how foreign he still is to you. You know absolutely nothing about him, and your parents, who you find to be useless in their aging stupors these days, will not bother to tell you anything about where he is from. It isn’t the fact that he frightens you, per say, despite the rather frightening energy that he emits. You notice the way people stare as he follows your path, how they internally conjure their own ideas about who this ominous figure is and what he is doing in a place so very clearly unfit for his type, but you are not scared. You believe him to be a nuisance more than anything, and if he is there to protect you, you feel you have nothing to necessarily worry about in regard to your own safety.
In fact, you feel unfathomably secure, though irritated more often than not.
What you seek from Toji are answers. He abruptly appears out of nowhere under the vow that he will be stuck to you like paste to parchment for the rest of your life, and you are expected not to question his arrival? To question his place of origin? To question what he has done to secure a place as the Princess’ bodyguard with no experience in this field? To question what he has done to be trusted by royalty with your life?
It doesn’t make any sense to you, and you feel that it is unfair to be kept in the dark as the future queen in place of your parents. And every time you try to go to him about it, he either ignores you or gives you that cunning smile, scar stretching and lips spreading.
Toji himself is itching to get out of here the second he’s nestled in. He despises the atmosphere, the sneering looks, the air of shrewdness that envelopes him everywhere he turns. You’re an ungrateful thing, and that only makes his job all the more aggravating. You don’t know how good you have it, and yet you look at him like he’s doing more harm to your life than good when he is literally ensuring that you are out of danger’s path.
He studies you from his position ten feet away, watching how you take on tasks and prepare for the day of your coronation, communicating with villagers surrounding the palace walls with a generous grin and a glowing energy about your presence, and how you patiently sit with your parents at breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day as they practically wither away in their seats. You are always so poised and polite in the presence of other people, authoritative and strong, yet when he is alone with you, you’re wallowing in displeasure, throwing him heated glances and clenching your jaw tightly. You find it hard to behave elegantly in his company, and that fact alone gives him some hint of satisfaction.
But what Toji truly can’t stand above all the waiting that he has to do on you with no sign of action are the meetings you have with princes from far away, seeking to take your hand as their bride and fulfill the role as king. Toji’s found himself biting his tongue more times than he can count when he’s standing with his back pressed to the wall in one of your many tea rooms, the umpteenth shiny haired, pearly teethed virgin bowing his head before you and pompously chanting about all the wonderful things he would bring to your life if you were to allow him to wed you. Toji finds the whole thing ridiculous, for obviously you don’t want to share your crown with another man, especially not a husband, but the unspoken law of your reign requires that you must find someone to stand by your side. And of course after that is done, Toji is still expected to follow you around day in and day out.
And for what? What purpose does this bring him aside from money? He hasn’t even been given his first stipend a month into this little endeavor, and he’s beginning to think that the whole ordeal is a scam, that he had been tricked into a false agreement. He should have known when the guard outright refused to pay him up front beforehand due to their lack of trust in his goals, which in truth was fair, because the Fushiguro would have run for the hills the second he got his hands on those riches. Nevertheless, he’s growing tired of the repetitive tiredness of his routine. He was promised a chance to at least defend your honor by fighting, but despite the King and Queen’s concerns, he has not seen a single threat to your life yet.
At night, a weight drags down on his chest as he stares up at the ceiling in a daze. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, how he even came across such a thing. Back home, if the townfolk were to hear about where he had run off to, they’d all laugh. Toji Fushiguro, the man hungry for blood now at the will of the government that destroyed his childhood, his life. What a fucking joke.
And you’re so perfect, it destroys him. To be serving such a deplorable image of sovereignty, to see your angelic face decorated in breathtaking clothes and to follow you around like a damn puppy with nothing to show for it. In your company, he is reminded of his place, of how much higher you are than he is. Though Toji is a man who has never cared what the higher class thought of him, in your wake, he feels helpless. He wants to say that he is holding out for a better future, that he is doing this for himself, but it doesn’t feel that way. He knows it’s not for him anymore, but for you, and what could you possibly bring him other than crisis after crisis, heart clench after heart clench, and more bubbling, searing aggravation over his place in society?
You are terribly beautiful, and Toji is not. He sees that the more he’s at your side, taking in the way everyone looks at you in comparison to how everyone looks at him. These palace walls are stuffy. They suffocate him, turn him against himself and almost make him forget who he is, and he can not stand it.
He is convinced he needs to leave in the dead of night, to flee away without a trace left behind, off to a new world with no money and no plan. He believes that it would be a better fate than being stuck here… that is, until he is finally paid.
A monthly salary of a thousand gold and silver pennies combined. He is handed the sack of funds while he is off duty, hours after you have gone to sleep as though the exchange is illegal, and in the privacy of his cabin, his eyes glimmer with the reflection of the money in his grasp. His brow twitches, eyes still and jaw tightening.
He hadn’t believed it to be real before he got his hands on it.
He stares into the bag, into the past years he has spent on his knees crawling for barely even a scrap of this, into the future of tranquility where he can turn to rest without having to bloody his hands for the right to buy a sandwich, into everything he has ever done amounted into far less than one bag of this payment. He’s stupefied with disbelief, with greed, and hurries to escape that very night.
Toji is stripping himself of the bullshit pajamas the guard has sent for him to wear, tucking away the bullshit uniform he’s been snug in for weeks, and stuffing his pay into his beaten bag that he had tossed under his barracks. He changes back into his old clothes, the black shirt that hugs him comfortably and the sweats that pool over his calves, and he sneaks to the door when he pauses.
A glass window breaks just above him, and he whips his head up above. It’s coming from where your room is.
The dark haired man hangs his head low, conflicted. He could go, abandon you and pretend that none of this ever happened. He could go back on his promise to the kingdom, sentence himself to death by hand of royalty if he were to ever be discovered in his new home. He could flee from you, risking the chance of you dying under his protection and run off to live the life he has always dreamed of living, far from home, swimming in gold and silver.
Or he could stay. He could conquer whatever imposing danger he has detected within a half of a millisecond, his senses failing to fool him yet, and save your life. He could keep his promise to this awful society. His promise to you, and remain stuck forever.
Toji is inching out of the door, still pondering, leaning toward the latter hesitantly when a muffled scream rips from the open space of your window that has just been broken in. Your scream.
The dark haired man doesn’t know what takes over him as he drops his bag to the ground and rockets himself through his own window, foot first, to shatter the glass. His hands grip the rim as he flips himself over to face the exterior brick, digging his chipped fingernails into the crevices of the old stone to scale the side of the building that led to your room with swift agility. He claws his fingers into the ledge of your window past the grapple of a rope that was likely used to break in in the first place. A jagged edge of glass cuts his skin, but he hardly feels it due to the roughness of his callouses.
Toji kicks his feet up and piles himself into your room, rolling onto the floor within a matter of at least five seconds. He rises slowly, chest rippling into his tight shirt as he visually locates what harm is befalling you.
You’re on your bed, kicking out against the cloaked figure hovering over you with a dirtied hand pressing over your mouth, his knees kicking open your thighs and another hand holding a dagger to your throat. A bruise circles the eye of the intruder just above the cloth worn over his mouth, likely a result of your fist to his face.
When you look up and find Toji, your panicked eyes widen in relief, your brows pressed together desperately as you screech out against the attacker’s palm. Your hair, normally so meticulously pinned is sprawled messily over your silk sheets, your satin nightgown threatening to ride up your thighs, ripped at the hims, and sweat pools over your chest as it glistens in the moonlight with each heavy, anguished breath you take.
Toji’s eyes go dull, his face blank with something horrifying, yet familiar to him. You tremble, whimpering unintelligible sounds as the intruder turns to face Toji with foolish anger. “Get back!” he shouts through his mask. “Get back or I'll kill her!”
The knife’s tip presses further into your chin and you inhale sharply, squeezing your eyes tight and mustering up whatever strength you have left to turn and push away.
Toji says nothing, staring emptily into your attacker’s eyes.
Toji finds that there is a certain coolness that takes over his body and mind mere moments before he goes in for a kill. He isn’t sure if it's a form of tranquility, or perhaps his fellowship with the act having done so many times over. His eyes gloss ever, and every muscle in his body smoothes out into a relaxed state. He is motionless, still as a sculpture, but his eyes are hungry with rage, flecks of red bleeding into the garden of his IRISES, honing in on his target before he pounces.
You don’t even see Toji move before your attacker is ripped off of you and you can finally breathe, scrambling to press your back to your headboard and stare ahead in horror. You swear you had only blinked, but by the time your teary vision refocuses, Toji is drenched up to his forearm in blood, a curved blade which seemed to manifest out of thin air clutched in his hand. His arm is curved over his mouth, reaching back over his alternate shoulder as though he had just made a slicing motion. His breathing is slow, smooth, and a headless body collapses onto your floor.
Wide eyes of fear-stricken (e/c) stare at the mangled corpse leaking out onto your expensive carpet, and you don’t even notice the splatter of blood that has reached your cheek from Toji’s nimble action. You’re hyperventilating, attempting to gather yourself after having been stolen from your sleep and held at knifepoint, and now suddenly your attacker is dead on the ground. It had all happened so fast. Your head is spinning, and you’re shaking terribly. You can’t even see straight.
With a heavy exhale, Toji lowers his twitching bicep to his side, tossing his weapon off in the corner with a resounding clang! He rolls his head on his neck, stretching it from side to side and cracking it softly, before opening his eyes to find you.
You stare at each other in heavy silence, you in grateful, terrified disbelief, and him with the knowledge of how you will react to his violence. He has seen it before. The screeches that follow, the running that ensues.
He waits for it, but… it doesn’t come.
Instead, you just stare at him like a deer in headlights.
He moves to ask if you are alright, to do something to break the air, when your door bursts open after hefty pounds at your door. Your parents and a few guards, who Toji now sees are quite useless, stand in the doorway, wide-eyed.
Your parents move to comfort you and envelop you in their arms while the guards run to the scene in shock, mulling over the body that lay before Toji. He gets an earful, angry reprimanding about having done such a horrible act right before your eyes, and Toji looks over at you, finding that your eyes are already in him.
You try to speak up and say that he had no other choice, to actually defend Toji in your shaken state, but the authorities around you hear none of it and usher to whisk you away while Toji and a few knights are left to take care of his mess. You look over your shoulder, gluing your gaze to him as you are pulled carefully away.
By the time Toji is finished, cleaned, and has been lectured by the guard, he finds himself rather exhausted, but all he can think about is whether you’re alright or not. He is told that he can find you in the library on the west wing. He ventures out and reaches the space, finding you seated in a lavish sofa before your fireplace with the room guarded by your father and mother who whisper urgently with more knights. When they look up and see Toji, however, they fall silent and immediately part to let him in.
He quietly approaches, shutting the door softly behind him. He doesn’t make a sound, but you turn upon sensing him in the room. You’re cuddled into a warm blank that is wrapped over your shoulders, eyes heavy and tears damp. You sit in a sullen state, a still mess.
Toji rounds the sofa to stand far on your left side, body half concealed by the shadows of the unlit side of the library. The fire kindles gently over your face and in your eyes as you stare. Toji thinks that you almost look like a child this way, so vulnerable and disheartened.
He’s seen things like this happen to women every day at home, only he didn’t always make it to help in time. For the first time since knowing you, he sees the same trauma in your eyes, the glimmer of innocence dimming ever so slightly.
The dark haired man is not good with emotions, and he knows for damn sure that he will not know how to approach your own. He isn’t even meant to be speaking with you, but something deep in his bones is compelling him to you after witnessing you in such a horrible state.
It’s his job after all.
“You hurt?”
The question is gruff, blunt, and you look at him but not with an expectation for more. You sit with your knees to your chest as well, a position he has failed to ever see the Princess herself in.
Eventually, you shake your head and look back to the fire crackling before you. “No.”
He hums, darting his eyes over you quickly. He sees a thin line of blood on your chin where the blade had been pointed into your skin. “You lyin’?”
You glance at him tiredly. “I am not injured,” you say again.
“Alright. You’re not injured.”
You look down, picking at your blanket as you chew on the inside of your lip. “…Toji.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you an assassin?”
The question catches Toji off guard, almost making him laugh. “That’s a little personal, doll.”
“I believe I deserve to ask right now. Forget the rules, the guards were not there. You were.”
He relaxes. You’ve got a point. “No. I ain’t an assassin. At least not every day.”
“But you have… done that before…”
“How else do you think I got the job?”
“Right,” you mutter as if reprimanding yourself for asking something so obvious. “You’re rather fast.”
He’s unsure where this stream of questions are coming from. You are still mellow, speaking below a whisper, but your eyes are in a different space away from what is before you.
“Fast’s an understatement,” he mumbles and you give a nod, at least agreeing. “But yeah. I’m fast. Among other things.”
“And how long have you been…?”
“Killing?” Toji concludes the sentiment for you. You clamp your lips, retreating into yourself. “You can say it. It’s not gonna hurt ya.”
“Well, how long?”
Toji shrugs. “A while now I guess. I’m not a killer, but I do what I need to do when I have to.”
You nod, unable to find a verbal response to his words. Your lips purse forward and your eyes still beam into the fireplace in a daze.
Toji crosses his arms. “You scared of me yet?”
You exhale, corners of your lips tugging to the side. “You saved my life,” you say. “I am not scared of someone who has been hired to protect me.”
“That wasn’t really a pretty sight for a princess to see, though,” Toji attempts to reason.
“Yet you were not the man with the knife to my throat, were you?”
Toji falters. Once more, you’re right, but he’s a bit confused. He would have expected you to turn away from him, to reject his violent nature after seeing what he could do. But here you are, complacent with his abilities. Is it because of the shock?
He looks at you closer, but does not see any lingering signs of unawareness, or any stupor that freezes your mind and body. While you still look like you are slightly in a trance, you appear to simply be contemplating instead of suffering from shock.
How are you so chill about all of this?
“I heard you’ve been attacked before,” Toji says rather bluntly. This makes you peek up, locking your eyes with his steely ones from afar.
An exhale shakes your body. “So?”
“So?” he echoes with a scoff. “That’s not a big deal to you?”
“I told you before that I did not need you,” you say somewhat gently. “What you have seen tonight has happened more than you think, and will continue to happen in the future.”
“I hate to break it to ya, doll, but it didn’t look like ya didn’t need me. You didn’t really have much of a choice but to let me help you.”
“I have gotten out of those situations before. I could have gotten out of this one.”
Toji looks at you oddly. “Not from where I was standin’, you couldn’t.”
“I’m not weak,” you frown.
“I didn’t say you were. Hell, I saw the black eye you landed on the bastard before I snuffed his ass out,” Toji grumbles. “But you’re the Princess. Fightin’ isn’t your thing, it’s mine.”
“Do not attempt to fool me into thinking you wish to fight on my behalf,” you look him in the eye as you speak. “After all, you believe me to be inexperienced, don’t you? Sheltered. Naive.”
A moment of silence passes as Toji stares at you intensely, face cold. “Yeah. I do,” he admits. “If you’ve seen enough shit I’ve seen, you’d get why.”
Your eyes dance over his face with a pensive expression of patience. Your brows are slightly angled, denting the spaces between them, yet you breathe so deeply that it almost fools Toji into believing you are at peace.
“When I was six years old,” you start abruptly. “A tutor of mine tossed a candle to my head because I could not complete my times tables correctly. The wax and flame burned my shoulder badly when I tried to dodge. I have worn long sleeve gowns since,” you confess.
The dark haired man frowns, befuddled while you proceed.
“My grandmother, who had been heavily involved in my bringing when I was a child, was obsessed with cleanliness. Every night before I went to bed, she would inspect my room to ensure that it was tidy. If a single spec of dust was found on my floor, she would raise the back of her hand and smack me clear across the face. ‘You are a princess,’ she would say. ‘Princesses do not behave like slobs.’ Then she’d make me clean the room all over again. If it was still not to her liking, she would continue to hit me, and so on. I had welts on my body for years. I would try to ask my parents to tell her to stop, but they ranked her authority over my own every time. They believed her to be teaching me discipline. Now I do not sleep at night without inspecting every inch of my room for anything that is out of place.”
Toji’s face smooths slowly into something unreadable as he listens to you.
“When I was seventeen, I learned that men sought to ruin me. Diplomats and countrymen would visit with the same look in their eye when they saw me as I grew, seeking to force their hand to mine. One of them was banished after having been caught throwing himself onto me when I was alone. He left bruises on my arm from gripping me too hard when I tried to run away.”
Toji falters completely now, internally guffawed by your revelations.
“Over the years, I have been beaten, assaulted, and almost killed by those close to me, by those envious of me, and by those who want but can not have me. And now, with the influx of assassination attempts, I can do nothing but what I have been doing all my life; stand strong and kick.”
Your eyes swirl with honesty and grief as they lock with Toji’s pools of torment. “I may not know who you are, nor do I know where you came from or what you have been through, but do not assume that because we do not share the same origins that I am a stranger to the world’s cruelty. The kingdom tricks you into believing that we are a perfect society, when in reality, we are tainted by dark secrets swept under the rug and generational traumas. I have seen enough of reality within these palace walls surrounded by people I am meant to trust, only I do not trust any of them but myself.
“I can see it in your eyes that you are broken too. You carry yourself in such a way, but do not allow that to blind you from any hardships I have experienced in my life. We are not the same, but I know inhumanity very well.”
Toji, rendered speechless for the first time in a very long time, watches as you lean over and reach to the other side of the sofa for something on the floor. You gradually reveal his satchel, the one he had dropped to rush to save you, and sit it on the cushion beside you. Toji’s eyes widen slightly when the contents of his bag clink together like wind chimes brushing each other in the wind.
“One of the royal guard found this in the hall,” you say calmly, lowering your hand back under your blanket. “I told him to let me hold onto it. That you must have misplaced it. Were you planning to leave tonight?”
Toji exhales, threading his fingers through his hair and glancing over the floor. Still moved by what you had told him about your upbringing, the man finds himself caught off guard once more by your confrontation. You’re smart, he has to hand it to you. Much smarter than he had previously given you credit for.
“Let’s face it,” Toji sighs. “You and I both know I don’t belong here. The whole kingdom knows. This place isn’t where I’m s’posed to be.”
“And still you took the job anyway,” you challenge. “This was your scheme all along? To take off with the first bit of money you acquire from watching over me?”
“Do you expect anythin’ more?”
“I expected you to be wiser,” you admit.
“I am bein’ wise.”
“By fleeing from the only life of luxury that you have ever known?”
“I don’t live in luxury here, doll. I’m your bodyguard.”
“Even so, your bag is full of enough money to buy yourself a home, and that is only the first monthly payment. That isn't a luxury to you?”
“Luxury, to me, is doin’ what I want when I want it without havin’ to worry about anything else ever again.”
“Then where are you supposed to be?”
“Far from here.”
“You did sign a contract, you know. The guard and my parents would not take well to your abrupt absence. You would be treasoned.”
“Which is why I’d be long gone before they could find me.”
You sigh, turning away. Toji monitors you for a sign of disappointment, of anger, of desperation, but instead you remain indifferent. “I will not stop you if you choose to go,” you say.
Toji cocks a brow, lowering his arms to his sides. “You won’t?”
“You are your own man with your own ability to make decisions. I do not fault you for wishing to leave. I do not know you well enough to do so.”
Toji eyes you harshly, stepping closer and breaking the barrier of a ten foot distance. He approaches the other side of the sofa, peering down at you heavily as if to piece you apart. “You’re just gonna let me go,” he tests. “The hell do you gain from that?”
“Must it be about what I gain?” you ask.
“I’m just a little shocked you’re not more pissed about this.”
“Toji, I was the Princess before you came and I will continue to be the Princess after you leave. I am not angry about what life you choose to live if it is separated from mine. I do not know what is best for you. That’s for you to decide.”
“And what about your guard?”
“They will be fine.”
“What about you?”
You soften. “I will be fine too.”
His mouth twitches. “I ain’t convinced.”
“Do you wish to leave or not?” you question. “You can not worry for my sake and desire to run away at the same time.”
“I ain’t-“ he stops himself, shaking his head and pressing his hands into the armrest. He wants to deny caring about what will happen to you, but his current hesitation over leaving proves otherwise. “You coulda died.”
“I could have died many times,” you counter. “I always manage.”
“And if one day, you don’t?”
“That will not happen.”
“Yeah, only if I’m there.”
You raise your brows and Toji catches himself, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He glances at his bag and reminds himself of his future, of his plans, of his life, and then he looks back at you, swarming in your wool blanket with such lovely eyes. Free of your jewelry, your crown, and your extravagant gowns and makeup, you look more human. You look softer, and Toji battles a newfound internal conflict - his growing desire to stay.
Slowly, a soft smile rises to your lips that does not reach your eyes. Your soft skin, aglow by the flames before you, illuminates the warmth of your expression. “Do not tell me you are beginning to feel a duty toward me?”
“Duty ain’t in my vocabulary,” Toji defends, looking away.
“Then why are you still here?”
He catches the testing look on your face and exhales in weary amusement. “Don’t get smart with me now, Princess. You won’t win that battle.”
“Just make up your mind, Toji,” you tilt your head and toss him a knowing look.
You carefully shift and maneuver your body around so that you are laying your head on the cushion with your legs curled up to you, Toji’s bag still sitting on your left. The said man’s eyes follow the motion. “What’re you doin?” he asks.
“I’m going to try to get some rest,” you murmur, though you do not close your eyes. You stare ahead in exhaustion, but no urge to sleep comes over you. “You may do as you please. If you are not here in the morning and your bag is gone, I will assume that you have left.”
Toji looks back at his bag, torn. He’s itching to grab it, to swipe it up in his grasp and make a break for it, but there you are. The Princess, soon to be Queen of everything Toji has ever resented, and suddenly he feels a human connection to you. The things you told him, the steadiness of your voice as you spoke, the maturity in your eyes, the hidden, harbored scars, the arrogant will you carry to proceed into this life alone despite your susceptibility to harm… it got to him.
And when he saw your face as you lay trapped under your intruder, how your body writhed with the involuntary will to fight despite your disadvantage, Toji was taken completely by an urge, a responsibility to protect you. To look after you. To kill for you.
Therefore, neither of you say a word when Toji moves to pick up his bag and toss it onto the floor. In its place, he sits at your feet and tosses his arms over the back of the headrest, legs sprawled out before him as he watches the fire beside you.
He stays there until the sunrise, and solidifies his fate.
After that night, Toji feels himself changing. Time goes by and you only grow stronger, approaching your coronation swiftly and taking on the role of Queen with regal pride. Toji finds himself staring at you when he’s by your side, which you have appointed him to after having a tense conversation with the royal guard, resulting in him no longer having to linger ten feet away at all times. He stands rather closely now when it is appropriate to do so, glaring ahead menacingly as he towers over your frame while you conduct meetings or speak with foreign princes and diplomats, who Toji keeps a sharp eye on with the knowledge of what you shared with him about your past interactions.
He thinks of the pressure that weighs over you, and studies how you harbor so along with your traumas with so much poise. You don’t allow the things you have gone through to weigh you down, to deter your path, and he grows impressed with the strength of your mind. Without such, you likely would not be where you are today.
Toji becomes one of the very few people you entrust your life with, if not the only person you fully trust to take your life into his hands. Despite his initial plans to leave you, he proves himself loyal to you, standing guard outside your room every night instead of retreating to his chambers and preventing disasters before they even happen. With his keen senses and hawk-like gaze, he catches suspicious figures in crowds, which he can recognize easily due to his upbringing as well. He used to be one of those lurking shadows, stalking packed spaces to find a target, only he was always too swift to be caught.
Toji now takes to disposing of the people who mean you harm in private, away from your vision. While you are well aware of his capabilities, Toji has a tendency to become borderline sadistic when killing for you. Inspired now by his respect for you and your budding relationship, the honesty in your eyes and the sanctity of your life in his hands, he is more ruthless than he ever has been before in private, and he does not want you burdened by the vision. The guard does not question him, taking to caring for your parents and watching the palace walls while Toji handles the direct threats unto you. No one in the palace questions him any longer, for you have grown close to him and he to you, and the proof of him risking himself time and time again for the sake of you forces all heads away and onto the next thing.
During the day, he is still and mute, a brick wall of eerie, bulky freight, but at night when you are alone, he’s making you laugh, sharing stories with you about gruesome bar fights he has been involved in and past jobs that have given him a run for his money. You always listen with curiosity, eyes bright with intrigue as a long forgotten book lay in your lap as you watch him, absorbing tellings of a world far from your reach. He does his best to leave out gory details, like the things that tend to keep him up at night, the things he is ashamed of having lived, but you always understand. You can always see more of him than he lets on in his gaze, how he stands and tenses, how he looks away after having held your gaze for too long.
The dark haired man finds that he has never felt such security that you bring him, that while he keeps you safe, he feels safe in your defense, in your presence, in your path. You ease his mind somehow with your gentle grace and your unearthly beauty, with your loud cackles that he draws from you after dinner when he walks you to your room, a far cry from the contained chuckles you allow to slip when cozying up to someone for diplomatic and political purposes.
You ease his mind with your warm grins, your soft hands that brush his arm when you get his attention, with the sweet breath that tickles his ear when you lean up to cup your hand over your mouth and whisper something to him. He always has to lean down for you as you reach up on your tiptoes, informing him of a task he must carry out in secret when all he can think about is the shiver that racks his spine when your coo of a whisper flutters directly into his ear.
Toji does not want to admit that you make him feel strange when he starts to notice the way his chest tightens as you brush past, the air of your perfume lingering in his nose. He does not want to admit that this foreign warmth he now feels takes over his entire being, melting his hardened soul after he believed it to be beyond repair. He does not want to admit that he recognizes this feeling as love solely because he has never felt it before, never experienced the visceral pump of his blood into his heart or the honeyed comfort that slips into his understanding of lust. He does not want to admit that you attract him as more than someone he wishes to ravish, but as someone he has come to cherish deeply.
He does not think it affects his job, for he has been at your side for nearly a year when you are finally appointed Queen and he still performs incredibly well. He stands at the upper corner of the grand hall, diamond chandelier twinkling brilliantly above your head in your wake as you inch your way down the aisle and up the purple velveted carpet. The kingdom watches you in awe, your gold encrusted gown dragging delicately over the floor, manicured hands clasped before you as you approach with your chin high and your chest puffed. You are a vision of artistry, of indescribable, unfathomable beauty, and Toji knows he loves you when he catches himself smiling gently as he watches you graze the room like fresh dew beaming on a crisp, sunlit morning.
There is no sign of an attack when your new crown is placed upon your head, thanks to Toji and the word of his talents spreading like wildfire across villages, lands, and kingdoms alike. The entire world by now must know of the Queen’s bodyguard, who sticks to her side like glue and wipes out anything that even thinks of creeping into her path. His reputation proceeds him once more, yet now, he is proud of who he has become. He is proud, now, that he is killing for the good that is you, a woman deserving of every goodness that comes to her in this world, instead of for his own survival.
You do not marry. You refuse once you gain the power to deny the visiting of any more suitors, much to Toji’s relief. He had never been a fan of watching men kiss your feet, take your pretty hand in theirs and look you in the eye with a bent knee. He would have killed them all if you had not frowned upon so, for he did not believe anyone to be as deserving of a woman working to rebuild the economy for the sake of Toji’s village and all those who suffered along with him with such compassion and selflessness, not even him - as much as he cared for you.
Somehow, Toji’s duty to you triumphs over his desire for you. While he struggles, he respects you more than he has respected any human being in his life. His job is to make sure that you live, and that you do so peacefully and happily. You have transformed him into a noble man, and how you did so, he barely knows. What he does know, however, is that he loves you as much as he honors you. You are his Queen, he is your bodyguard - your right hand. He would never interfere with the boundaries set between the two of you, with the responsibility he has to you.
Consequently, he stubbornly pushes away the telling looks that you share with him, your eagerness to jest, to press your touch to him and feel you near him, to remind yourself that he is still there.
He knows. He sees it in your eyes, the unspoken yearning, the reason why you do not wish to marry anyone else, and you know that he knows, but he says nothing. He breaks his gaze away, he guides you back with a gentle hand to your waist and upper arm, and he leaves you every night, redrawing the line, keeping you at such a close distance.
It’s been two years. The two of you now know one another better than you’ve known anyone, and Toji has been with you through thick and thin, through the death of you parents, the conflict with the council over the uncertainty regarding a future heir, your silent fatigue that only shows itself at the end of the day when no one else is looking and it is only you and him as he bids you good night. He’s seen it all, and you have seen him just as clearly.
Tonight is no different as you enter your room sluggishly, sinking into the edge of your bed as you gaze ahead, an emptiness in your eyes. Toji stands at your door, examining you sternly. You look beat, aged by the years and the burden of ruling. The veil of composure lifts from you, and you slump, gown crowding over the floor and your aching feet, which dangle over the bed.
Wordlessly, the dark haired man sighs and closes the door behind him. Within a second, he is kneeling before you, calloused hands grazing over the many layers of your gown to delicately cup your ankle. His touch pulls you back to reality and you look down, brows curling ever so subtly.
Toji cradles the back of your ankle and grips the stem of your glass heel. He slowly glides the cramping footwear from your foot, setting it to the side once it is free from its confinements. You watch him with ardor swelling in your gaze, his hands so rough when handling others, smoothing over your skin as though you are fragile.
He moves to your other shoe and glances up when he catches you staring in that way that makes his heart ache. “What is it, doll?” he murmurs, the nickname he bestowed upon you once condescendingly having stuck in a sweeter, more genuine manner.
You don’t answer. You only gaze gratefully, tiredly, while Toji sets your other shoe to the side. He stays down on his knee, looking up at you.
“You alright?” he asks and you sigh deeply.
“You are the only person in this world I feel I can be myself with,” you eventually say earnestly, gently. Toji blinks, shifting slightly and nodding slowly.
“Back at ya,” is all he can manage to say under your loving stare. He almost feels suffocated by the way your eyes swallow him whole. “I get what you mean.”
“Everyone is just so-” you lift your hands in an attempt to physically depict what you want to say, but the words fail you and your arms stall in the air. “So-”
“Shitty?” Toji fills in with his own words for it, and you smile with a light giggle.
“Yes,” you drop your hands to your lap. “Shitty.”
Toji chuckles, the sound of you cursing still so funny to him. “Don’t I know it,” he agrees. He looks over your gown before back into your eyes, preparing to stand. “I’ll go call for the maids so they can’t get you outta this thing. You need to sleep.”
“Don’t,” you shake your head the second he moves to get up. He stops, sinking back down. “Not right now. I don’t want to see anyone else but you.”
Toji clenches his jaw, your words so sweet it kills him. “Don’t you wanna change? You get cranky in this thing after dark,” he jokes.
“I know,” you say. Something flickers in your eyes as you look over his figure, a hint of desire swirling into weariness. “You do it.”
Toji furrows his brows. “What?”
“I want you to help me out of my dress instead,” you whisper. The green eyed man thinks he must have heard you incorrectly, his eyes going wide as he registers your request. “There’s nightgowns in that dresser over there. Bring one to me.”
“(Y/n),” he warns, heart fluttering and skin flushing over his chest. “I’m not gonna do that. It’s not right.”
“Why not?” you press. “As your Queen, I am giving you a task.”
“Yeah, but-” he scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna strip ya. That ain’t… I won’t do that.”
“Toji,” you lean forward, lids heavy over your eyes. You call his name sternly, yet still so quietly, and he can not help but bide by your will each time his name slips from your tongue in such a way when you need him. “I am asking you to help me. It is not wrong if it is what I want.”
“It’s wrong ‘cause I’m your bodyguard, not your-”
His words die in his throat before he can finish his sentence. “Not my what?” you mumble.
He gets lost in your gaze, in your scent, and he is struggling to find the words. His face is tense, brows knitted and lips curled, his scar creasing along with them. “I’m not in any place to do this stuff. You know that.”
“You are because I say that you are.”
“Anyone ever tell ya you can be a little cocky?” he smirks lightly to sway the mood.
“Yes,” you roll your eyes. “You have.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he snickers. “Well, you are.”
“Stop trying to change the subject. Help me out of this dress.”
“Doll-”
“Now.”
Toji exhales, for he finds that he has no other choice once you have made up your mind about something. He pushes himself to his feet and stands over you, holding his hand out to you. “C’mon,” he mutters.
You slip your dainty handy into his palm and allow him to pull you up gently to your feet. Your face meets his chest, his height never failing to shock you up close, and when you look up he’s already peering down at you with heavy eyes.
“Show me how to undo this thing,” he says impatiently under his breath, and you can tell by his hastiness that his nerves are jumping.
“I will, but you need to take your time. It’s fragile,” you whisper and he nods slowly.
“Alright.”
“Can you remove my jewelry?”
He inhales sharply. “Alright,” he says again.
You turn slowly, moving your hair out of the way to expose your neck to him. He grits his teeth, seeking some sort of self control as his fingers move to unclasp your many chains of expensive necklaces. His knuckles brush your skin, and he watches as bumps ghost over your neck after he has touched it.
Your scent invades him as his hands lower over your shoulders to bring your necklaces down from your chest. His chest bumps against your back accidentally, brushing over your shoulders, and you both twitch at the contact. God, he feels like a teenage boy, losing himself over breathing you in.
You tell him to go place the necklaces on their stand on your armoire, then to find a nightgown for you to wear. Toji feels weak, rifling through your clothes as though it is a sin to even be seeing them. Your silk fabrics smooth over his fingers before he pinches one into his hand and brings it to lay out on your bed.
“Now, see the string tying my corset in the back?” you ask over your shoulder, Toji humming distractedly when he locates it and stands behind you again. “Unravel it.”
As though entranced by your demand, he does, despite every voice in his heading screaming in protest. He should not be with you like this, the Queen, so privately in your room lit daily by the kiss of candlelight and swarmed by the scent of patchouli incense and your damned perfume. Toji’s head feels hazy, thick digits tugging at your string and drawing it out slowly, watching as the ribbon unfolds and drapes down your train.
“Now what?” he murmurs.
“Loosen it so I can take it off.”
“Heh?” he scrunches his brows, looking over the weaving of the lace between your corset.
“Just peel either side of the corset back,” you clarify. “Now that it’s untied, it will come apart.”
He obliges with uncertainty, cautiously tugging back either side of the thick fabric, the lace stretching and pooling over your back. “Okay, I’m going to raise my arms so you can pull it over my head.”
“Jesus, this thing is so damn extra.”
“Be quiet and just do it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
You lift your arms into the air and Toji catches the way your curves peak out. His eye twitches as he pulls the corset over your head, off your arms, and from your body. A second corset, thinner and more form fitting, graces your waist and exposes your bare back to him, as well as the healed burn on your right shoulder that you told him about so long ago.
He clears his throat, setting the outer corset onto the bed with his fingers stilling on your hip. “What now?” he asks.
“Do the same with the rest. This one’s connected to the bottom part.”
“...What about your… uh…”
“There’s another layer under it, don’t worry,” you assure him. “Why? Is my fierce and scary bodyguard nervous?”
“Don’t even,” he grumbles and your shoulders shake with a silent laugh.
The ruffle of your clothing fills the air as Toji works his fingers through the second set of lace, loosening it and pulling it from your body. You slide your arms from the thin straps of this layer and allow Toji to drag the fabric down. His eyes train on the way it smooths over your frame, a nude colored set revealing as he pulls, pulls, pulls until the fabric is pooling around your ankles.
All that you are covered in now is a hoop cage over your hips and sleeveless underwear the same shade as your skin tone that holds you sinfully tight. Toji’s heart is in his ears and the blood in his body is surging out everywhere, including toward his crotch. He’s biting down on his teeth so hard as he holds your arm and helps you step out of the net like framing for your gown, breaths labored.
Your dazzling (e/c) hues catch his as his hand lingers on your waist and your arm, his figure now before you again. He keeps a tough facial expression, but his eyes yet again give him away as he coolly takes in your body, the way your cleavage pools out of your garments and your skin milks into a breathtaking glow.
You feel his thumb swipe over the curve of your back, experimentally caressing the space as his other hand slides up your arm and over your shoulder. His thumb touches your chin, reels back hesitantly, then touches again, sliding delicately over your cheek. You welcome the contact, your hands raising to press against his lower abdomen as he lingers over you, so closely, so intimately. You can feel his abdominals, rigid and tense, contract beneath your palms though they are barely touching him, and you look down at how small your fingers look pressing into the wall of his stomach.
“Doll,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and husky as it breathes out. You hum, lashes fluttering when his hand slides to hold the entire side of your face. He melts before you, your beauty so striking that it almost scares him, and nothing has ever scared Toji Fushiguro before. “You need to get to bed.”
“In a bit,” you mutter, gaze wandering over his lips and back up to his eyes. You sink into him, inching closer until he’s surrounding you, swarming you. “Stand with me like this longer.”
“I can’t stay here much longer. You know that.”
“What I say goes. I say you can.”
“(Y/n).”
“No,” you breathe, shaking your head as he looks over your features softly. “I do not care.”
“Well, I do,” he says, brushing a piece of hair gently from your forehead. You lean into his palm, a soft pout on your lips. “I’ve got one job, and that’s to keep you safe, y’understand?”
“And that is all this is?” you murmur, eyes darting over him. “That is the only reason you protect me? Because it is your job?”
He tilts his head slightly, smoothing his hand up and down your spine as you push yourself closer to him. Against his better judgment, against his instincts, he allows you. Even if just for a moment. Even if he never gets to feel you this way again, so plush against him, yearning and wistful.
“You know that ain’t true,” he tells you.
You bring your hands up, smoothing them up to his chest and you coo. “So stay,” you beg. “Please.”
“You’re killin’ me, y’know that?” he exhales, his nose brushing against yours as you close in on him, just centimeters away from his lips.
He holds you, shares the same breath as you, and in this moment he forgets about the barrier between you. He forgets where he came from, he forgets what your role in this world is, he forgets his duty to you and how complicated it is that it has now molded into some emotional connection. He forgets that you will need to marry one day to continue your legacy, that he himself is not a King nor a man of royalty, that he was born of hate and abandonment while you were born to be something. He forgets, as your warmth consumes him and the taste of you is so close he can smell it, that he could never take your relationship beyond what it already is. That he is not, and never has been, a man made for love yet somehow you have fooled him into believing that he is made for loving you.
“Why are you fighting me,” your eyes close, fingers inching over his shoulders and arms wrapping around his neck.
“‘Cause I can’t let myself do this to ya,” he grumbles.
“Why?”
“Stop asking me questions.”
“Do you love me?”
The question is a heated gasp against his mouth, and Toji, no longer harboring the willpower to push away from you, can only respond honestly.
“Y’know I do.”
Your fingers tangle into his silky black hair and his hand brings your faces together. “Then stay.”
“Okay.”
Your lips feel like a fluff of cloud melting into his, the rich, sugary taste of your mouth clashing into his own. You’re soft against his hard body as you crush into him, swooning and sinking as though you no longer have the strength to stand and he is catching you, bringing you to him as though it is the last time he will ever touch you in such a way, the last time he will ever have the privilege of tasting your sacred mouth.
Toji is a rough man, but he handles you gingerly, gradually as he savors you for everything his life has ever been worth. You overstimulate him with your mind numbing squeezes and the gentle sounds of satisfaction that slip from your throat into his. Toji thinks he can die blissfully happy as he encircles you, ravaging your lips with hard brows and a fuzzy mind. He crowds over you, so tall and big that you have no choice but to succumb to all of him in his embrace. He overpowers you, and you adore it, ruffling messily through his locks as his hands wander your hips generously, appreciatively, lovingly.
He guides you back, leaning over with his hand firm to your back to ease you onto your bed, lips still locked. His body is thinking for itself as his lips swarm you, tongue gliding into yours and searching every space of your cavern. You arch into him needily, sensually, and Toji pushes further though remaining mindful not to hurt you. He wouldn’t dare.
Your thighs lift to crowd his torso as he curves down into you, hovering over your gorgeous body. His lips crash into your cheek, over your jaw and down your neck, sliding his tongue hungrily over your skin with heady groans. Your lips part and your head tosses back onto your sheets, hushed gasps and contented sighs spilling from you, and even the noises you make are as angelic as you are.
His large hand cradles your head as he ducks down to care for your chest, hot lips sucking over your skin like he is enjoying a meal. Your hands tighten in his hair, his mouth easing you into astounding pleasure before his lips are back on yours, more desperate, more lustful.
“Toj…” you moan and he grunts into you, arms caging you beneath him and lower half pressing into your own. Your blurry eyes peer past strands of his hair as he consumes you, kisses you, worships you.
“Yeah, darlin,” he exhales into your mouth as your bodies writhe against the barrier of clothing. “Talk t’me. What is it, my girl?”
“Do not… mmm, don’t leave me. Not tonight,” you plead in between weighted kisses.
Toji pulls back to look you in the eyes, hands exploring all over you. “Nothin’ could take me from you now, doll,” he swears, pupils enlarged and shrinking the green expanse of his eyes. “I’ll take good care of ya, promise. I swear on m’life. I got you, baby, I got ya.”
You whimper and his lips find yours again, kissing into you his promise of devotion.
Toji swaddles you with love for hours on end, into the early morning, molding marks of his loyalty over your stomach and down your legs, kissing over your scars, and pulling release after release from your core. He’s tender, firm but soft as he makes love to you and molds the shape of him into your essence. Imprints of your fingernails into his skin and your teeth marks into his shoulder encourage him to drag every moan, every ounce of fluid from your body. And god, you feel better than Toji could have ever envisioned. You’ve ruined him with your passion, with your pretty entranced gazes and your loving kisses, your insatiable need for him to give you more and for yourself to give him more. You’re sweet. So sweet, and Toji loves you more than himself, therefore he promises to give you what you want tonight and to return to his responsibility tomorrow.
It is his duty to you after all, to protect you, to love you from afar.
summary: your criminal boyfriend sukuna who absolutely rocks your world in the best way possible. now you’re in ur prison gf arc?
wc: uuhhh, 7k? i think..i yapped
cw: angsty, fluff, smut, mentions of guns, prison, drugs, etc. comfort at the end, pinky promise :3
you met ryomen sukuna through some mutuals. back when you were still smart. still cautious. some house party with peeling paint, shitty music. way too many bodies and way too many red solo cups.
you went with one of your girls yuki tsukumo—well, got dragged along. she was pointing people out, talking fast, already tipsy. you were half listening, half not giving a fuck.
then she leaned in, whispered over the rim of her drink,
“and that’s ryomen. don’t. he’s like crazy. like—jail time type shit.”
your ears perked up like a dog.
“jail time?” you asked. and then you saw him.
sitting on a shitty couch, red eyes. black tattoos on his face, crawling down the back of his neck, his arms, clearly all over. all ink and muscle and attitude. dragging a hand through a soft pink buzzcut, smoking a blunt. shirt half unbuttoned (thank fuck). tatted hands in his pockets like he could kill you or kiss you and you’d say thank you for both.
and to your surprise, he looked in your direction as you mindlessly walked to up him like you’d been shot by cupid. he smirked, looking you up and down—like he already knew you’d walk over.
“you lost?” his voice was low. rough. amused.
you shook your head. “nope.” sitting on his lap anyways.
and you swore it was just you being dumb. wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. you weren’t actually gonna fall for him.
after the first time you met him, it started slow. drinks, texts, late nights that blurred into mornings. you never asked what he did—not really. he never volunteered it. but the cash came easy. so what the hell right?
“you scared of me yet?” he asks you one night, voice low, fingers brushing your thigh while you sat in his lap, his gun cold against your lower back while it was tucked in his waist band.
you shake your head. “dunno, should i be?”
he grins. all teeth. “nah. i’d never hurt you.” and he meant it.
you always looked the other way when he left in the middle of the night. didn’t feel the need ask why he always checked the blinds twice. why he had two phones. why he flinched when a black SUV passed too slow.
because sukuna…he was surprisingly gentle. always held the door for you. always touched you like he meant it. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, made you feel like the only girl in the world. took you out and never let you pay. took you home and made you feel safe, somehow, even with a gun or two on the nightstand.
you know he’s not a good man. you’re not stupid.
but he just looks so goddamn fine when he leans against the hood of his car, blunt between his lips, black hoodie clinging to his frame. the kind of man people cross the street to avoid.
i mean come on, he’s a criminal. a real one. not some fake ass who shoplifts and smokes mids. sukuna moves product, handles money, kills when he has to—cold, smart, ruthless.
but with you? he’s just so soft. always puts his gun on the counter before dinner. keeps his voice low when you’re tired. kisses the inside of your wrist and tugs you into his lap when you’re mad at him. carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. rubs your feet without asking.
he kisses you so sweetly. calls you baby in that low voice like it’s a threat. you argue like you want to kill each other and fuck like you’re trying to bring each other back to life.
so when he comes home at night, blood on his clothes and that dead-calm look in his eye, and mutters, “need you to say i was with you tonight,”
you don’t ask. you just say: “yeah. course you were.”
(fuck it, we ball)
and some months later, he’s still in your bed. still eating all of your snacks, washing your dishes sometimes, kissing your neck with a kind of possessiveness that should be a red flag—but feels so green.
the thing is? he never lies to you. doesn’t even try to.
“i’m not clean,” he says one night, tracing tattoos along your thigh while the tv plays something neither of you are watching. “i do bad shit. and i’m not gonna stop.”
you probably should’ve left then. but instead, you kissed him.
and by the end of year one, you’re living in his apartment—scratch that, your apartment, because his name’s not on the lease. “can’t leave a paper trail, princess.” the place is cozy and yours. you got loud neighbors and a pitbull named akuma—big, gray, dumb as hell, and completely obsessed with sukuna.
“he’s gonna be a little menace to society,” you said when he brought the puppy home.
sukuna just smirked, kneeling down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “takes after his dad.”
the three of you are like some fucked-up little family. your neighbors always side-eye you. your mom knows but chooses not to say anything anymore. and now your friends have stopped trying to talk you out of it.
and you stopped pretending you wanted out a loooong ass time ago.
fast forward to two years in: the fridge is covered in dumb polaroids. you brushing your teeth. him flipping off the camera. akuma in the middle, tongue out, wearing the stupid, gucci harness you swore was too expensive until sukuna said, “yeah, and?” and bought it anyway.
and now sukuna’s even got your name inked into the thick muscle of his forearm. right above those bold lines on his wrist.
“seriously? this isn’t like sharpie or something?” you’d asked when he came home from the tattoo shop that day.
he just smirked. “dead serious.”
when akuma jumps into bed and crushes your legs and sukuna tells him to get off but doesn’t mean it, when he presses his inked hand to your thigh while you’re watching a movie and says “gonna put a ring on it, you know that?”
you believe every word.
one day, you see the red and blue lights flash by in a blur out the window when he comes running inside the apartment—breathless—you don’t question him. idiot move but it’s because he always comes home. always throws his wallet and his keys on the counter and kisses your cheek like nothing happened. cooks dinner shirtless, muscles flexing while he flips the steak and washes his hands off in the sink.
you clean his knuckles. you patch his ribs. you kiss the crown of his head while he falls asleep on the couch with his arms around you and that’s all that matters.
but you notice how he’s been on edge. more late nights. tighter grip on your waist when you’re out. more checking the windows. more guns on the table.
“you trust me?” he asks later that night, voice low in the dark.
you’re in bed, curled against his side, tracing the black ink on his chest. akuma at your feet. his heart’s beating too fast.
you nod. “always, kuna.”
he exhales, fingers brushing over your spine.
“then no matter what happens—no matter who says what, or what you hear—you remember that. alright?”
you look up at him. search his face. “baby, what’s going on?”
he doesn’t answer. just kisses your forehead, holds you tighter.
a week goes by after that conversation. everything is almost perfect and then it’s not. it all happens so fast. it’s 2:26 a.m. quiet, maybe a little too quiet. then it’s not.
one minute you’re on the couch, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, sukuna’s head in your lap while a movie plays low in the background. he’s half-asleep, arm curled around your thigh, breathing slow like—for once—he’s letting himself rest.
then a crash. your front door kicked in. boots pounding down the hall. shouting—sharp, cold, barked like war commands.
“CLEAR.”
“LEFT SIDE.”
“MOVE MOVE MOVE—”
“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
akuma is the first to react—your gray pittie, big and gentle and stupidly loyal—howling, barking like he’s ready to kill. but there are too many of them. someone yells to grab the dog. you scream his name, but they’ve already got him by the collar, dragging him back while he thrashes and whines. red and blue lights flash across the walls. guns drawn.
you’re frozen, shaking, the room is spinning.
you’re still processing—still trying to understand why there are rifles in your face. why they’re screaming your name. why they’re tearing through your drawers, your closet. why they’re grabbing sukuna’s burner phone, the rolled cash, the duffel bags, the box under the bed he told you never to touch.
sukuna’s already standing—calm. too calm. hands raised. jaw tight.
his gun’s on the coffee table. he doesn’t move. he just looks at you.
“listen to me. breathe. look at me. i told you—don’t forget, alright?”
you’re crying now. shaking. choking on air.
his eyes—sharp, red, unreadable—don’t move.
you lunge for him, but two officers grab you first and shove you against the wall. you’re screaming just trying to see him, but they’re in the way, shouting over you.
“wait—please, don’t hurt him!” you shake your head, blinking through tears, “he didn’t—he—what the fuck is going on?!”
“ryomen sukuna, you’re under arrest for organized crime, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon—”
the words don’t sound real and it’s not like you didn’t know. you weren’t stupid. you just loved him too much to say it out loud.
as they read him his rights. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. he lets them cuff him—wrists behind his back, shoulders loose. they slam him into the wall and he still turns to find you.
and he’s smiling.
the cuffs are tight. your apartment’s destroyed. your dog is howling like he’s mourning a death.
but sukuna just smiles. like this is nothing. like he knew it was coming. which in hindsight, he tried to warn you something was coming.
his eyes stay on you, even through the flashlight beams, the chaos.
“it’s okay, baby,” he says, soft, just for you. “don’t cry.”
“sukuna—please, no—”
he keeps smiling. even as they start pulling him toward the door.
“i’ll be alright. i promise.”
and just before the hallway swallows him, just before the sirens drown it all out.
“baby,” he calls out again, louder this time. “look at me.”
you do, through the blur of tears, you do.
he’s got a split lip from how they man handled him, bleeding. his arms tensed behind his back. his face still calm.
“don’t worry, yeah?” voice steady. “they’re just doing their job. i’ll be fine.”
“b-but you promised—” your voice breaks. “you promised me—”
“i know.” he nods. and for the first time, the smile slips. just for a second. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”
they drag him out towards the squad car. akuma’s losing it—thrashing against the grip on his collar, trying to follow him. you collapse to the floor, sobbing. akuma finally escapes from one of the officers and pushes his head into your side, whining like his heart’s breaking too.
as you look around, they’re bagging everything. phones. files. guns. bricks. a woman in a black blazer reads off inventory like she’s listing groceries. her voice is calm. efficient. it makes you want to scream.
while you’re left on the floor—sobbing, shaking, clutching your dog while your whole life gets zipped into evidence bags. and all you can hear is his voice, still yelling from outside:
“don’t fuckin’ touch my girl or my dog—you hear me?!”
you stare past the officer crouched in front of you, not even hearing him anymore—just watching sukuna get shoved into the back of a squad car.
and just before the door slams, he shouts, “i love you, y’know that? i’ll come back.”
the door closes.
all that was left was the mumbling of officers as they raided your apartment. after that, they take you down to the station. they question you for hours but they don’t have anything on you nor do they any info from you.
you were smart. loyal. quiet. just his girlfriend, just the love of his life. you didn’t know a damn thing. you were with him on this day. and that day. you gave them alibis for everything they tried to pin on him.
never flinched. never snitched. you held the line.
and when they finally let you go, hours later—bleary-eyed, fingers trembling, walking back into the wreckage of what used to be home—akuma’s waiting by the door. his tail thumping, eyes wide, like he doesn’t know how to stop looking for him.
and neither do you.
couple months down the line, it’s his court date. it’d been painfully long. phone calls, visits here and there but it was finally time for his sentencing.
you had gotten there early. standing in a corner, speaking with his defense attorney.
but as the time passed, the courtroom felt cold and quiet in that fake, choking way.
you’re sitting stiff in the second row, all black—tight dress, heavy coat, heels loud on the tile when you walked in. hands gripping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled as you waited.
your eyes lock on him the second he steps into the room.
sukuna walks in wearing shackles like they’re fucking jewelry. orange jumpsuit unzipped just enough to show the ink crawling up his chest. wrists cuffed, ankles too, chain connecting them down the middle.
he’s smirking like this is a joke. like he already knows how it ends. then his eyes land on you. his girl.
“hey, baby. you look good.”
“shut the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps, yanking the chain forward.
you don’t flinch. you don’t even speak. you just watch him walk to his seat like he owns the place.
he sits back like it’s a poker game. his leg bouncing, smiling. those red eyes scan the room once, like he’s bored.
then it begins. and soon enough, the judge starts reading the charges.
violent, serious shit. none of it exaggerated even a little bit.
which again, you know what he did. you knew before the cops ever did. meanwhile everyone in the room looks at him like a monster but not you.
you don’t even blink when the jury says “guilty” after every charge and neither does he.
the judge ends the trial with his sentence, “twenty-five years. eligible for parole in seven.”
the courtroom breathes in like it just took a punch. and sukuna? sukuna just laughs. real fucking loud, ugly and real. he throws his head back like he’s in on some joke no one else gets.
the judge bangs the gavel. some man yells at him to shut up and stop laughing, the guards move fast.
he just grins through all of it then turns his head toward you, mouth split in that same damn smirk.
“still gonna write me, baby?” he calls, smug, voice booming off the walls.
you nod once—sharp. you could care less who sees.
the guards haul him up, start dragging him toward the side door. he doesn’t resist. just keeps smiling at you like he already knows you’ll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and he’s right.
the truth is, the charges could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. they had enough to bury him alive but you? you were a fucking godsend. every little lie was perfect. you lied through your goddamn teeth. all the fake alibis, timelines, pretending not to know what half the shit in your apartment was—had worked. even after they grilled you for hours. days. tried to shake you, to get you to break.
but you never gave them shit. you kept your voice steady, your story straight and your love for him ironclad.
and it worked. it could’ve been 40 years to life. it could’ve been no parole. it could’ve even been you, too. but here you are—still free. he’s not. but he’s still yours.
and seven years later? he’s still yours.
sure, he’s missed holidays. birthdays. every new year’s kiss. but every thursday at 3:00pm? you’re there.
you’re used to the routine now. first your ID, patdown, metal detector. pretty boring stuff.
at that point, you knew every guard by name.
you’ve done this a hundred times—plastic chairs, shitty vending machine coffee, body searches.
you don’t care because the second he walks into the visitation room everything else fades out.
he’s bigger now. broader. face leaner, eyes sharper—darker in a way that says time has passed, and prison doesn’t change people so much as refine them. orange jumpsuit rolled to the waist, white tank clinging to his chest, black ink crawling up the back of his neck like smoke.
and that grin—dangerous. crooked. just for you.
“fuck, baby,” he drawls, sliding into the seat across from you. “you get hotter every time i see you. is that a new lip gloss?”
you roll your eyes. “you gonna flirt or ask how i’ve been?”
he shrugs, smirking. “same thing.”
still cocky. still loud. still him but the edges are tighter now. more controlled like every second without you has been simmering under his skin.
there were times you’d talk. about nothing. about everything. he tells you about prison like it’s high school drama. you tell him about bills, work, new TV shows, keeping the bed warm for him. he listens like every word matters. like you’re the only real thing in his world.
“are you wearing that chain i sent you?” he asks.
you tug it out from under your hoodie—a little silver bar with his name engraved.
his grin widens. “of course you are, don’t know why i even asked.”
and sometimes, when the guards aren’t looking, he leans in close. voice low, filthy, just for you:
“you gonna let me fuck you in the conjugal trailer next month?”
“still think about that pretty little body when i fall asleep.”
“i’m gonna come home and ruin you. you know that, right?”
you squeeze your thighs together. he sees. smirks. and of course the smug bastard is proud of himself.
and sometimes it’s quiet. just the sound of your fingers tapping on the metal table. he stares at your hands like they mean something.
“seven years,” he mutters. “and you’re still here.”
you shrug. “you’d do it for me.”
he lifts a brow. “would i?”
you give him a look.
he laughs—low, warm and real. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, i fuckin’ would.”
there’s no kissing here. no touching past a handshake, a goodbye but the way he looks at you?
you feel it everywhere.
and one day, just as the guard calls time, just as he stands and stretches and leans in a little closer than he’s supposed to—
he murmurs, voice quiet, steady. “marry me when i get out.”
you blink. “what?”
but he’s already turning away, that same old grin tugging at his mouth, shouting something crass to another inmate, hands cuffed behind his back.
the door slams shut behind him.
and you’re left sitting there, heart pounding, chain warm between your fingers, replaying those words in your head.
the next time you see him, he walks in wearing that ugly-ass orange jumpsuit as usual, smile already stretching across his face the second he sees you.
“look at you,” he says, voice low and filthy despite the guards. “dressed all nice for your criminal boyfriend.”
you roll your eyes. “you asked me to.”
“yeah. and you listened. you always do” he leans in. “always such a good girl for me.”
the tension’s thick. his wrists are cuffed, but his eyes are on you like he’s already got his hands around your throat.
“heard the news?” he asks casually, voice like honey dipped in gasoline. “early release. next month.”
your breath catches. “wait, are you serious?”
“mmhm.” he leans back, tongue flicking over his teeth. “good behavior.” he grins. “just for you.”
he’s been cleaning up—no fights, no smuggling, no stabbings in the yard, even though he wants to. because he wants to see you again. wants his hands on you. his mouth. wants you under him, not across the table.
“been thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you first,” he says, voice lower now, eyes burning. “once i get out.”
you swallow and shift in your seat. “are you gonna behave?”
he laughs. full-bodied, dark. “fuck no. i’m gonna ruin you.”
he leans forward, chained wrists clinking on the table, eyes locked on yours.
“i’ve been locked up seven years, princess. do you know how much time i’ve spent thinking about that sweet little body under mine?”
you feel your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away.
“you better be ready,” he says, voice rough now. “’cause i’m gonna spend the first night out fucking you like i’m tryna get sent right back.”
so thankfully, he’s the kind of inmate that runs the damn yard but keeps his nose clean just enough to qualify for early release. he did beat someone’s ass in the showers last month for talking sideways about you—but still managed to earn “good behavior” by bribing the guards and running literacy programs like a deranged philanthropist.
next time you hear from him he calls you from the jail phone with that lazy, smug tone:
“two more weeks. then i’m home. you ready for that, princess?”
“depends. are you gonna kill anyone again?”
“no, baby. i’m a changed man, pinky promise.”
a pause. “unless they touch you.”
but life as a prisoner’s girlfriend had been interesting to say the least. some your favorite memories though?
the video call visits. the video calls hit different.
you answer from the bed, in his hoodie that thankfully still smelled like him, all soft lighting and skin and love in your eyes.
the screen flickers—and there he is.
inmate #966666. your man. arms crossed, face lit by the shitty fluorescent light in the visiting block. buzzed short on the sides, salmon pink thick on top. face tattoos sharp even in pixelation. smirking. cocky. starved.
“there’s my girl,” he rumbles, leaning in like he’s trying to reach through the screen. “lookin’ all cozy in our bed.”
you smile, soft. “missed you today.”
he leans back, legs spread, grinning. “yeah? say it again.”
you roll your eyes, giggling. “missed you.”
“mm,” he hums. “missed you more, baby. how’s our place lookin’? bought anything new for me to come home to?”
and you have—so you flip the camera around, showing off the new record shelf, the little framed photo of you two from before, and the rug you’ve been saving for.
“can’t wait for you to see it for real,” you say quietly. “can’t wait till you come home.”
his face softens—just barely. eyes half-lidded.
“me neither, princess. every night i picture it. you. the apartment. our bed. my hands all over you again.”
you bring the camera back to yourself, and akuma sits up on the floor beside your bed, tail thumping.
sukuna lights up like a kid on christma.
the dog perks up at his voice, sniffs the screen, tail going harder.
“yo, come here, big man,” he coos. “you takin’ care of my girl, huh? keepin’ her warm at night? …better not be sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow.”
you both laugh. but you already know when sukuna gets out, he’s picking that big soft baby up in his arms like it’s nothing, and probably crying into his fur when no one’s looking.
and the letters? worth framing.
he sends them folded perfectly, sprayed with just a hint of your favorite cologne. immaculate. front-and-back, always. tight, clean handwriting. detailed as hell—how he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. sweet shit like “wish i could hold you right now. need it bad.” and spicy shit like: “wanna fuck you face-down ass-up the minute I’m out.” “was dreamin’ about you last night. woke up hard. you owe me.”
one of his first letters had said:
hey baby, how are you? miss you real bad. i woke up thinkin’ about your laugh. that one that comes out when you’re tryin’ not to snort. i miss it. miss you. drawn your face from memory like four times now. don’t tell nobody, they’ll say i’m gettin’ soft. been missing your smell. you smell like home. that sweet vanilla shit you always put on. i look at your pictures every night. even got one under my pillow. even when they toss my cell, i hide it like it’s fuckin’ contraband. you’re my peace. can’t lose you princess.
then they’d switch, just like that.
you know, i thought about that one night. you dancing in the kitchen, making soup, wearing those little shorts. you remember the ones? yeah. me too. that’s why i wrote this with one hand. also last night i laid in this goddamn bunk and imagined the sound you make when you take your bra off after a long day. hard as a rock. you’re such a fuckin’ problem. do you still wear that lacey one i like? the one that barely holds anything? bet your titties are sittin’ real pretty in it right now. fuck me.
i miss how you say my name when you’re tired. i miss how you say it when you’re on top. i miss your thighs around my neck. i miss your mouth. i miss being inside you so deep you forget your own fuckin’ name.
but more than that? i miss watching you eat dinner across from me. i miss you bitchin’ about your coworkers. i miss your fingers in my hair when i can’t sleep. i don’t give a fuck how long it takes, you’re it for me.
and he always had a sketch tucked inside. sometimes it’s little things—your side profile, your body. or sharp, shaded tattoos—ones he designed for you. (something he did on the side when he was still a law abiding citizen). his name in kanji. a snake coiled around a katana surrounded by lilies.
this one’s for your spine. wanna see it when i fuck you from behind.
then, right under that like he didn’t just make you cry and wet at the same time:
…also. take it easy at work. remember to eat. and kiss akuma for me. shit, also, can you put some extra on my books? tryna get you something for your birthday. don’t ask what. it’s not a weapon, swear.
and you do—put money on his books, no hesitation. commissary’s got nothing on you. he’s got honey buns, decent ramen, and the best soap on his block. your man is moisturized and fed. period.
and at the end of a long, loving, slightly filthy letter, he always signed in that perfect script: “ryo. always yours.”
you kept every letter in a shoebox under your bed, every sketch on your corkboard. you read them on bad days. and good ones.
you always wrote back, too— keeping him updated with everything. little doodles, lipstick kisses on the envelope, spritz of perfume here and here. snuck in polaroids of you and akuma. even some spicy ones for his eyes only. always signed with “your/name, always & forever <3.”
oh and those conjugal visits? they most deeeefinitely take the cake.
you had waited weeks for them, marked off in red hearts on the calendar.
one of the first visits:
you walk into that little cold-ass private trailer with a bag packed—cute pajamas, your favorite lotion, that perfume he likes. he’s already there when you arrive, looking like sin in his real clothes. not that orange jumpsuit he’s usually in. eyes glued to you the second you step in.
then he softens. just a little.
you stand. don’t even say anything. just walk straight into his arms. he buries his face in your neck, breath catching like it’s the first inhale he’s had since they locked the door behind him.
“fuck,” he mutters. “you smell good. gonna feel even better.”
his hands are everywhere. rough palms on your waist, your thighs, your ass. lips dragging over your skin like he’s starved—and he is.
he grabs your waist fast, pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, rough like he’s been starving for you.
“got something to show you,” you whisper, breathless already.
you turn around, pull your dress up, and tug the side of your thong down just enough to show him—
small script. his name. right cheek. close to the curve of your hip.
he goes still. his hand on your ass, thumb dragging right over it. then he finally speaks.
“nah, what the fuck,” he laughs, eyes wide, voice shaking. “you got my name tatted on you?”
you look back over your shoulder, smiling.
“been had it. waited to show you in person.”
his hands are now rubbing all over you, gripping that ass with both hands like it’s his last meal. but then, he’s got you onto the bed so fast the mattress groans. pulls your dress over your head and yanks your panties down. he stares like he’s looking at something holy.
“missed this mouth,” he groans, spreading your legs, licking up your slick with a filthy moan. “missed how fuckin’ sweet you are when you’re beggin’.”
you gasp, already squirming.
he fully buries face between your thighs, hands gripping your waist like he’s starving and hasn’t had a real meal since he got locked up. moaning into your cunt, licking like it’s his last day alive.
“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans. “missed this fuckin’ pussy so bad. missed how you sound when i’m inside you.”
after a two or three orgasms from his tongue and fingers, he finally fucks you. it’s deep, rough, desperate. your legs around his waist, your back arching off the mattress while he pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time. his tip hitting that sweet spot repeatedly in your pussy that makes your body take a fucking screenshot. teeth on your neck, fingers digging into your hips right below where his name is inked into your skin.
he just mutters filthy shit in your ear:
“you got my name on you, and now you’re gonna take all of me.”
“this ass? mine.”
“gonna fuck you so good you dream about it ‘til the next visit.”
then he flips you both, makes you ride him, sucking your tits while they bounce, eyes half-lidded.
“shiiiit, sweetheart—gonna fuck a baby into you in this nasty little room if you’re not careful,” he grits.
and you just moan louder, hands in his hair, riding the edge of pure bliss.
“missed you,” you whisper, staring up at him, cradling his face.
he kisses you. hard. filthy. then soft.
he pulls away breathless. jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.
“fuck, baby—come on. gimme that shit. come all over my dick. show me how much you missed it.”
you do. messy. loud. milking him for all he’s got.
and he follows right after, hands gripping your ass so hard they’re sure to leave bruises as he cums deep and desperate.
and when he’s done, he kisses your neck, arms wrapped around you.
“gonna marry you when i get out,” he whispers. “i swear.”
you both lie on the tiny mattress after some much needed TLC. tangled up, his head between your tits, your fingers in his hair. he traces your tattoo with his fingers.
“gonna take care of you right, when i get out,” he murmurs, voice rough. “no more bullshit.”
you kiss his jaw. whisper back. “i know.”
and when you left that day, sore and glowing, your man watched you walk away as the guards put the cuffs back on him, mouth curled into a grin, voice low like a promise:
“keep my side of the bed warm, baby. i’m comin’ home. promise.”
and the day he gets out, you’re already there.
you’re standing by the gate before the sun’s even up. his hoodie on, necklace with his name around your neck. you’re trying to play it cool, but your hands won’t stop shaking.
and when that gate finally opened, when ryomen sukuna steps out, a free man, tattoos gleaming in the morning light, black tee hugging his chest, hair grown out just a little, grin already forming.
you don’t even get a word out before he grabs you, spins you around like a goddamn princess. his hands firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, face buried in your neck.
“fuck, baby,” he breathes. “missed you so fuckin’ bad.”
you’re laughing. crying a little. arms wrapped around his shoulders so tight it hurts.
he sets you down, but barely. just enough to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, and then he pulls back, still holding your face like it’s precious.
“you ready?”
you blink. “for what?”
he grins. big. so sure.
“courthouse. thirty minutes away. judge’s on lunch break. said he’ll squeeze us in.”
you blink again. “wait, the fuck? are you—you’re serious?”
“sweetheart,” he says, already dragging you toward the car, “i’ve been locked up seven fuckin’ years. i’m so serious.”
cut to an hour later: courthouse.
fluorescent lights. ugly tile. fake bouquet from the clerk’s desk in your hand. cheap rings in a little box you picked up from the nearest pawn shop on the way there. you didn’t even have time to change. he didn’t care. not even a little.
“you look perfect,” he mutters, adjusting your hoodie like it’s designer couture. “i’m gonna wife you up in my hoodie. that’s so hard.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re such a dumbass.”
“your dumbass now,” he grins emphasizing the your. “permanently.”
you say your vows that came straight from the heart in a cheap government office, between a sleepy officiant and a laminated “no food or drink” sign.
but he looks at you like you’re in a white dress on a mountaintop.
he kisses your hand when he slides the ring on.
says “’bout fuckin’ time,” loud enough that the clerk snorts.
and when they say “you may now kiss—”
he doesn’t wait. he pulls you in, kisses you like he’s trying to breathe through you. it’s deep and messy and a little bit desperate.
you giggle against his mouth.
he presses his forehead to yours, still grinning.
“mrs. ryomen fuckin’ sukuna,” he says proudly. “finally.”
you walk out as husband and wife.
he pulls you in by the hips and kisses you again in the parking lot, hands low, grin wide.
“made good on that promise, yeah?”
you decide not to do anything fancy. no champagne. no five-star dinner.
you celebrate the only way you know how—greasy as hell.
just burgers and fries at that little place you used to talk about in letters and phone calls—the one with the neon sign and checkered floors. sukuna orders double everything, and he’s across from you in sweats and an ankle monitor, eating like a man who forgot what real food tastes like.
he steals your fries when you’re not looking. you slap his hand.
he smirks. “married now, baby. my fries too.”
you share a milkshake. vanilla. extra whipped cream. two straws.
he stares at you across the table like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.
“you know i dreamed about this?” he says, voice rough from grease and emotion. “used to lay there and think about you, right across from me, doing this exact same shit.”
you smile. press your foot against his under the table.
“dream about the milkshake or me?”
he snorts. “both. obviously.”
he takes your hand and kisses your ring finger, red eyes locked on yours and filled with so much love.
and when you finally drive home—real home—his leg’s bouncing the whole way. you both get off the car and head up the steps and you unlock the front door.
“you sure he’s not gonna bite me?”
you snort. “you’re the one who taught him to go for the ankles.”
the apartment is quiet when you pull up. it’s familiar to him, but different. newer furniture. he’s seen it all in video calls but it’s different in person now. his shoes aren’t by the door anymore, but everything else—everything you—is still here. still home.
he hesitates at the threshold. just for a second. like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he walks in. but then—
“AKUMA!” you call out, voice soft but firm.
and there’s the sound of scrambling paws, claws on the hardwood, and then akuma’s there—gray, stocky, a little older, but still full of love and joy.
the pitbull barrels into the room like he’s about to tear through the walls, skids to a stop, and freezes when he sees him.
sukuna kneels down, slow, whispering. “…yo.”
akuma just stares at first—like he’s short-circuiting. akuma sniffs the air. tail wags once. then again. and then he launches.
sukuna catches all 70 pounds of him like it’s nothing, falling back onto his ass with a grunt as akuma licks at his face like he’s trying to put seven years of love into one minute.
“fuck—okay, okay—goddamn—” sukuna’s laughing, arms tight around the dog’s back, fingers gripping his fur like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.
akuma’s whining, tail a blur of chaos, body wriggling like he can’t get close enough.
and sukuna—your big, bad, tatted-up, ex-convict husband?
he fucking cries. silent at first. then not. (expected)
his shoulders were shaking, arms wrapped tight around the dog, forehead pressed to his fur.
you just watch from the doorway. hands over your mouth. heart splitting. he looks up at you, eyes wet.
you kneel beside him. touch his back. “he never stopped waiting,” you whisper. “neither did i.”
he pulls you both in—you and akuma—his whole world in his arms now. big, calloused hands around your waist. akuma draped across your laps like a living blanket.
you sit beside him. curl against his side.
“god, y/n, you—fuck—i…,” he whispers into akuma’s fur. “didn’t think i’d get to see you again.”
and for the first time in seven years, sukuna lets himself feel safe.
after you both settle in, it’s quiet now. real quiet. not prison quiet.
no locks clanking. no cell doors slamming. no count. no cold tile or shitty mattress. home quiet.
you’re both clean—fresh from a hot shower, towel-dried hair, his hands all over you the entire time like he couldn’t believe you were real. when he brushed his teeth, he kept making jokes about “first night as a free man, i’m getting minty for my wife.”
his wife.
he’s got everything he dreamed about for the last seven years. sheets that smell like you. a real bed. a dim lamp in the corner next to a photo of you, him & akuma.
and you—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and a look that says finally.
the ring glints on your finger in the dark. he exhales like he’s never really breathed before. he sits on the edge of the bed for a while. just stares at the wall.
you don’t rush him. you know what’s going on in that handsome head of his. this is the place he got arrested in. the same room they tore apart. same windows, same shadows.
“seven years,” he murmurs. “first night back in my bed.”
you walk over. slow. crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.
“our bed,” you whisper.
he swallows. hard. hands settling on your hips.
eyes drinking you in like he can’t believe you’re real. like maybe he’s still dreaming in some concrete box.
“you’re my wife,” he says, voice thick. “fuckin’ wife.”
you smile against his lips. “so make me feel like it.”and that’s all it takes.
he kisses you hard—mouth desperate, like he’s catching up for all the years he couldn’t. he pulls your shirt over your head, kisses the top of your chest first, then lower. his hands are everywhere. reverent. hungry. he grabs your thighs, flips you onto your back, crawls down between your legs like he’s starving.
and he is.
he pulls your panties off with his teeth. kisses your inner thighs like he’s praying. then licks into you, slow and deep, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair.
“sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs against your pussy. “missed this taste every night. used to jerk off thinkin’ about this right here.”
he eats like he’s got time to worship. not rough. not rushed. just…grateful. long licks, fingers curling inside, nose pressed to your clit until your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding into his face.
“go ahead, baby. be a good girl and come on my face. it’s your first night as my wife. i got shit to prove.”
you come hard. breathless. crying out his name.
and he doesn’t stop. not until your thighs are twitching. not until he’s satisfied.
then he crawls back up, drags your mouth to his, lets you taste yourself on his lips.
“sit on it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you ride me. wanna feel all of it.”
you straddle him, slow, sinking down onto his cock until you’re full—so fucking full it steals your breath.
he moans, head tipping back, gripping your hips, watching every inch disappear.
“my fuckin’ wife,” he breathes. “look at you.” you move slow at first, hands on his chest, grinding your hips like you’ve got nowhere else to be for the rest of your life.
and he loves it.
he’s got his hands all over you. one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.
he fucks up into you, matching your pace, mouth dragging across your throat.
“seven fuckin’ years,” he pants. “you know how many times i dreamed of this?”
you’re shaking now. gasping.
“show me,” you whisper. “show me how bad you wanted it.”
he flips you fast—so fast—lays you down on his bed for the first time in seven years, and fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. the room filled with the most obscene sounds. bed creaking, the sweet, wet squelch of your pussy and his balls slapping against your ass.
he kisses your fingers. your mouth. your ring.
“mine,” he whispers into your neck. “forever. mine.”
you come again. this time with his name in your mouth and his hand locked with yours.
he follows right after—groaning low, buried deep inside you, face pressed to your chest. (definitely pregnant after that)
you collapse on top of him. he wraps you up. presses kisses to your hair. just lays there, breathing with you, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.
“thank you,” he whispers. “for waiting. for staying. for not giving up on me.”
no more grainy phone calls. no more visits. no more letters. just the two of you home with nothing between you but peace.
he rubs his hand over your back, voice soft.
“we’re good now, yeah?”
you nod, half-asleep. “mhm.”
“told you i’d come back.” he whispers.
after that, it gets quiet again. except akuma’s snoring in the corner like a damn freight train. the door’s locked. the city’s asleep.
and you’re in bed, legs tangled with your husband’s, skin warm from hours of sex and laughter and most of all—relief.
sukuna’s on his back, one arm around your waist, the other tucked behind his head.
he’s watching the ceiling like it owes him something, blinking slow, chest still rising a little too fast. like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.
you lean over him, kiss the ink on his collarbone.
he smiles—lazy and smug—as usual.
“what?” you murmur, tracing a line down his stomach.
he glances at you, eyes half-lidded. “just thinking.”
“oof, that’s dangerous.” you tease.
he huffs a laugh. “yeah.”
you wait and then he says it—quiet, almost like a joke.
“remember the party?”
you blink. “the one where we met. over some shitty, warm beer that toji picked up at the corner store?”
“mmhm.” he smirks, but softer now. “the one where yuki told you not to talk to me.”
you laugh. full and real. “‘don’t. he’s crazy, jail-time type shit.’”
“and you came and sat on my lap anyway.”
“i meeean, you were hot.” you shrug.
“and you’re an idiot.”
you smile, curl into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.
he presses a kiss to your forehead, knuckles brushing your bare spine.
“guess i should thank your dumbass friend,” he mutters, voice low, already fading into sleep. “she’s the reason i met my wife. my ride or die.”
you smile and don’t say anything. you just hold him tighter, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear all over again.
two years in, then seven apart.
crime. then courtrooms. then shitty vending machine coffee. hundreds of letters and visits.
and now he’s here, tucked against your side, finally. fully.
yours in a way no one ever thought he should be.
you whisper, barely a breath. “guess you’re not so crazy after all, huh?”
he stirs—doesn’t open his eyes—but he hears you and with a rough, half-asleep laugh, he mutters.
“still fuckin’ crazy.”
then he kisses your shoulder, presses closer, and falls back asleep with his hand curled around your wedding ring.
you’re just starting to drift off—his breathing slow against your skin, your fingers still tangled in his hair—when the mattress shifts with a heavy thud.
then a groan.
“no. absolutely the fuck not—” sukuna mumbles, voice hoarse.
akuma, in all his 70-pound glory, launched himself onto the bed. sprawling across both of you like he’s claiming his spot. head wedged on your stomach, paws kicking into sukuna’s ribs.
you laugh, half-asleep. “aw, kuuuna. baby, he missed you.”
sukuna sighs, glaring at the ceiling.
“seven years in prison, and i come home to my traitorous cockblockin’ dog.”
akuma lets out a loud sigh and promptly starts snoring. loud and obnoxious.
you kiss his little boxy head and then sukuna’s temple, still grinning.
sukuna grumbles something under his breath—but his arm curls tighter around both of you.
and you’re pretty sure you heard him mutter the words, “thanks…whoever’s out there.”
:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3
a/n: this was pretty long! been sitting on this for about a month now, hopefully you all enjoyed it! let me know if i should continue this or leave it as is! t
about. you're flunking all your subjects. He’s a virgin. So you strike a deal—he tutors you academically to win a girl he has a crush on, and you tutor him in sex, simple.
parts. chapter 03, chapter 05
pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader
words. 17.38k
content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – blow job, making out, handjob, unprotectd sex, creampie, semi-public tension, teasing, dirty talk, reader guiding Megumi through his first sexual experience. Power dynamics. Smug, experienced reader. Slight humiliation kink if you squint. Megumi is flushed and wrecked and learning. This is a part of an ongoing tutoring-for-sexual-experience fic. Reader is not kind. She is hot and she knows it. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.
notes. I've been soooooo excited to post this, and before anyone asks questions I spent the whole night writing this, I just got so carried away... I hope ya'll enjoy it!
Megumi didn’t know how liking something was supposed to feel, not really.
He knew how to tolerate. How to endure. He’d been taught early that silence was safer than feeling, and that logic—clean, rational, detached—was the only way to survive in a world that wanted too much.
But you— you were anything but rational. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the word—people threw it around all the time. Liking a person. Liking a subject. Liking a song, a movie, a pair of shoes.
But liking you? It didn’t feel simple. Or light. It felt… tense. Electric. Like holding a live wire between his teeth and pretending he wasn’t getting burned.
You were sitting across from him again, legs curled up on the chair like you owned every inch of this space. Like his house was just another set piece in the drama that was your life.
And yeah—you were trying now. Actually reading the material, taking notes with your pen twirling dramatically between your fingers, reciting things back with that same smug bite in your voice. But it wasn’t fake this time. You were showing up. You were trying.
Still, you couldn’t get through a paragraph without insulting someone. Or him.
“Okay, but who names their kid ‘Tokugawa’? It sounds like a bad cough drop.”
Megumi didn’t look up from his textbook. “It’s a family name.”
“Well, their whole family needs lozenges.”
He sighed. “You’re lucky I’m being paid in patience.”
You rolled your eyes. “No one’s paying you, loser.”
He muttered, “Exactly.” But he didn’t snap at you the way he used to. Not anymore.
Because somewhere between the failed midterm and your unexpected essay redemption, something shifted. You started turning pages with less sighing. Started showing up with scribbled notes and highlighted sentences. Still late. Still dramatic. Still wearing lip gloss like it was armor. But different.
You were still a brat. Still loud. Still mean, sometimes.
But you were honest. Everything that came out of your mouth, whether it was dumb, crass, or painfully sharp—it was real.
And he found himself wanting to hear more of it. All of it.
You were so fucking pretty it made his head hurt. But it wasn’t the kind of pretty people wrote poems about. It was the kind that interrupted his thoughts mid-sentence. That dragged his eyes across the curve of your smile or the annoyed flick of your wrist. That made him forget what year the Meiji Restoration happened. (1868. He remembered, eventually.)
It wasn't just the gloss on your lips or the ridiculous skirts you wore to tutoring like this was some social call. It was the way your voice pitched higher when you were actually confused, when you really wanted to understand something and didn’t know how to ask without sounding vulnerable.
Like now.
You squinted at the textbook. “Okay, this is phrased so dumb. What does ‘centralization of feudal power’ even mean? Why not just say ‘a bunch of dudes fighting to be king’? They’re so obsessed with sounding smart.”
Megumi rested his chin in his hand, watching you frown at the page like it personally offended you.
“It means uniting all the regional lords under a single authority,” he explained, calm. “It was a turning point. Less infighting, more nation-building.”
You blinked. “Could’ve just said that.”
He shrugged. “Some people enjoy full sentences.”
You stuck your tongue out, then scribbled something into your notes. “You’re lucky I’m actually writing this down.”
He didn’t respond. Just watched you.
Watched the furrow between your brows when you were focused. The gloss smudged slightly on your bottom lip. The faint ink stains on your fingers from dragging your hand over your writing. You weren’t trying to impress anyone here. Not anymore.
You weren’t posturing. You weren’t performing.
You were just… you.
And Megumi— Megumi was starting to realize he wanted to see more of that version. The one you didn’t show anyone else.
Even if you called him names. Even if you rolled your eyes every time he corrected you. Even if you would never admit how hard you were trying now. He reached for his water bottle, trying to cool the heat in his chest.
You glanced up at him suddenly. “What?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
He looked away. “You’re imagining things.”
You snorted. “Ugh. You’re so annoying when you lie.”
“And you’re unbearable when you’re right.” You grinned at what he said. He didn’t.
But he did allow himself to look at you one more time—quietly, briefly—before flipping the page in the book and beginning the next topic. If this was what liking someone felt like—this quiet ache, this constant hum of attention, this need to understand every version of you—then maybe he could live with it. Even if he never said it out loud.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Megumi kept telling himself that—again and again like some mantra meant to ground him. Like it would rewind time, make things easier. Simpler.
You weren’t supposed to matter this much.
You were chaos. Noise. All sharp edges and unapologetic confidence, pulling attention like gravity. You cursed too much, you interrupted his explanations just to roll your eyes, and you refused—refused—to let anyone think you cared.
But you did.
He could see it now, sitting across from you as you hunched over a half-written sentence, mumbling to yourself about power structures like it wasn’t already a miracle you’d even remembered the term.
You cared so fucking much you didn’t know what to do with it.
And Megumi… didn’t either.
Because for the longest time, he thought someone like Miwa was what he wanted. She was kind. Polite. Smart. She smiled without hiding anything behind it. She was gentle in all the ways life never let him be. And she didn’t make him feel like he was unraveling every time she laughed.
Miwa was soft. Safe.
Everything that should’ve been good for him.
But she never looked at him like you did. Never challenged him. Never cut him open with a single glance and then left him there bleeding, only to stitch him up again with some bratty little smirk and a flick of your hair. You were a storm. And for some reason, his whole body leaned toward it. He glanced up again, stealing a look at you without meaning to.
You were chewing your pen now, eyes narrowed at your notes, one leg bouncing restlessly. You looked frustrated and stubborn and real. Your nails were painted, your lashes curled, and yet there was ink smeared on the edge of your palm from where you’d been writing too fast.
You weren’t perfect, but fuck, you were trying. And somehow that made you more dangerous than Miwa ever could’ve been. Because this version of you—this girl scribbling down answers like she had something to prove—this was the version that had cracked something in him open. This was the version he wanted to see again. And again. And again. He didn’t know what to do with that.
He’d spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, never letting anyone get close enough to see more than the surface. But you… you bulldozed past all of it without asking. You made him feel seen, even when he didn’t want to be. Even when it scared the hell out of him. You weren’t good for him, but somehow, you felt right. His chest tightened.
He didn’t know how to let someone in. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with this version of you—the one who was trying, who looked up at him after answering a question like she needed him to say she’d done okay. Who still called him names but now lingered a little longer after sessions ended. He didn’t want to be this close to someone, but he already was.
And when you glanced up at him again, cocking your head and muttering, “Okay, don’t give me that face, Fushiguro. I’m not dumb, I’m just tired,”—he didn’t even bother pretending not to stare.
Because you were right. You weren’t dumb. You were just tired. Tired of being underestimated. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of being afraid of how real this could get.
And maybe… he was tired too, tired of lying to himself, because whatever this was—whatever you two were becoming—it wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did, and now Megumi didn’t know how to go back.
The halls were quieter than usual—just the low echo of shoes scuffing tile, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and Nobara’s voice weaving effortlessly through the silence.
“Okay, but I swear to god, if they put streamers on the ceiling again, I’m not going,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she leaned casually against the lockers beside you. “Like, we’re not in middle school. What is this, Pinterest-core depression?”
You snorted—barely. A weak smile flickered across your face, just for a second. “You’re still going?”
“Hell yeah, I am,” she grinned. “If I’m gonna suffer through a school dance, I’m at least gonna do it in heels and with free punch. And I heard they booked that DJ—the hot one.”
You blinked, distracted. “There’s a hot DJ?”
Nobara rolled her eyes. “You are so out of it.”
You shrugged. Adjusted your bracelet. Looked down the hall even though you knew who wasn’t there. “I’m not planning on going.”
She paused. “Why not?”
“I just…” You trailed off. “Doesn’t feel like my thing.”
Nobara looked at you for a second. You didn’t meet her eyes.
There was a stretch of silence, the kind only a close friend knows how to sit through without forcing you to fill. You kicked lightly at the base of your locker.
“I used to love that shit, didn’t I?” you said suddenly, voice dry. “Dances. Crowds. People staring. Picking the best dress just to make some insecure girl cry.”
“You did,” Nobara agreed with a small smile. “You were terrifying.”
You smirked, then it faded. “It doesn’t feel the same anymore.”
And she didn’t have to ask why.
Because Megumi was in your head again.
No, he was under it—rooted deep in the places you didn’t want anyone to touch. The places you’d spent years fortifying with fake smiles and sharp words and a reputation built so high no one dared climb it.
And he was climbing it anyway.
You could feel it—the weight of it all. The way he looked at you now, like he saw every version of you and didn’t flinch. The way you remembered his voice when he explained concepts to you like you were worth explaining things to. The way his hand felt when it grazed your back. The way he kissed you like he needed to remember it later.
God, you were falling. Fast. Hard. But was that good for him?
Megumi was steady. Quiet. Good in the kind of way that didn’t need to be loud to matter. He gave a shit. He noticed things. He didn’t just listen—he understood.
And you? You were sharp and petty and glittering at the edges. Built on lies and control and showstopping exits. Your whole world was curated to be untouchable, and still you let him close. Still, he got in. And now you didn’t know how to protect him from it.
From you.
You leaned back against the lockers, head tilting until it thudded against the metal.
“I don’t like Megumi,” you said suddenly.
Nobara didn’t reply. Not immediately. She just raised an eyebrow.
You added, louder, sharper, “I will never like Megumi.”
The silence afterward burned. And she didn’t argue. Didn’t call you out. Didn’t throw your words back in your face. She just tilted her head and stared at you for a long second, then said, soft and slow:
“You’re self-destructing again.”
You didn’t answer. Because what could you say? She was right. You crossed your arms tighter, like you could fold yourself in enough to stop the ache. Because you weren’t supposed to like someone like him. You weren’t supposed to want good things. You deserved Noritoshi. Men who used pretty girls as arm candy and talked circles around your feelings until you thought you were the problem. Men who didn’t care too much.
Because caring too much meant someone could leave. And Megumi? He’d never leave in pieces. He’d just leave quiet. Fully. For good. So you lied, and Nobara saw right through it, but she didn’t say a word. She just slid down to sit beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours, and let the silence speak for both of you.
The silence stretched for a moment longer. You stayed slumped beside Nobara against the lockers, feeling your ribcage squeeze with every inhale like your body was rejecting the truth you just spewed. But your eyes were dry now. Done sulking. Done wallowing in the hollow space between denial and regret.
You shifted, exhaled, then suddenly slapped your palm against her thigh.
“I need your help, bitch.”
Nobara blinked. “The fuck?”
You turned to her with that too-sweet, too-fake smile—the one that meant trouble. “No, I’m serious. I need your help. I’m on a mission.”
“Okay?” she said slowly, suspicious. “What mission? Did you finally realize you’re in love with Megumi and you wanna go confess on the school roof?”
You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Ew, no. Gross. Barf. Never.”
“Uh-huh.”
You ignored her smug little grin and sat up straighter, crossing your legs like you were about to give a fucking TED Talk.
“I want to help him.”
Nobara stared. “…Help who?”
“Megumi, dumbass.”
She blinked. “Didn’t you already help him? You know, with the whole unvirginizing him thing?”
You snorted. “Oh my god, shut up. That wasn’t—I mean, okay, yes, I helped him with the sex thing. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“Whatever, you should. I performed a civic duty.”
Nobara was biting her knuckle to hold back a laugh. “So what now? You’re launching a full-blown Megumi makeover arc?”
You clapped your hands once, sharp. “Exactly.”
“You’re serious.”
You grabbed her arm. “Look at me. Dead serious. We—I—need to fix the situation.”
“And what exactly is the situation, princess?”
You stood, pacing a little now like this was a war room briefing. “Megumi dresses like a damn divorced math professor who lost custody of his kids. I’m talking black-on-black, sad hoodie, never met a comb, wouldn’t know swagger if it slapped him.”
“He’s always been like that.”
“Exactly. And it’s criminal. Have you seen that body?!” you shouted, arms flailing. “Like, holy fuck, he’s hiding all of that under a zip-up and shame.”
Nobara wheezed.
“I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at her. “We need to fix his wardrobe. Change his hair. Show him what looking good actually feels like. Because Megumi Fushiguro being that hot in secret? That’s a sin.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care about that stuff,” Nobara offered, still smiling. “Not everyone wants to be a runway reject.”
“Well, he should,” you snapped. “Because people don’t see him right now. They don’t get it. He blends in like he wants to disappear.”
Nobara raised an eyebrow. “And you want him to stand out.”
You paused. Then slowly shrugged, crossing your arms again, eyes a little softer.
“…Yeah. I do.” Because people should look at him the way you did now. Like he mattered. Like he was there. Like he wasn’t just some sad genius background character who kept his head down until graduation. He deserved better than that.
And if he didn’t know how to show it, you’d do it for him. You grinned again. Bright. Dangerous. “So are you in or what, bitch?”
Nobara gave a mock sigh and stood up next to you, brushing dust off her skirt. “God, this is gonna be chaotic.”
You linked your arm through hers. “That’s the goal.”
And in the back of your mind, you weren’t just thinking about new jackets or hair wax. You were thinking about him, and this time, you were going to do it right.
“No.” Megumi said it flatly. Instantly. Without even turning his head.
He stood stiffly in the middle of the men’s section at a massive, modern shopping mall, surrounded by racks of jackets and hangers with carefully folded shirts. A goddamn fluorescent spotlight beamed down on his disheveled black hoodie like it was about to be burned in some sacrificial ceremony.
“No,” he said again, like it was final. You grinned like it wasn’t.
“Oh, come on, Fushiguro,” you groaned, dramatically flopping a blazer over your arm like it was a dying animal. “Live a little. It’s not like I dragged you here under false pretenses.”
“You said it was an emergency,” he said without blinking, staring dead ahead at a mannequin in cargo pants.
You beamed. “It was. Your wardrobe.” Beside you, Nobara cackled, holding up a dark olive button-down like she was choosing weapons in an armory. “Honestly, she’s right. You dress like an apocalypse survivor. And not in a hot, Mad Max way—just... sad.”
“I didn’t ask,” Megumi muttered, adjusting the strap of the messenger bag slung across his chest like it was his only armor left in this cursed environment.
“You never ask for anything,” you snapped, shoving a rack aside to step closer. “That’s the whole problem. You’re allergic to being perceived.”
“I don’t care what people think.”
“Yeah, we know,” Nobara muttered. “The problem is we do.”
You jabbed a finger at him. “You’d rather walk around looking like a tax fraud suspect than admit you’re hot. It’s actually insane.”
“I’m not—” He cut himself off and glared. “This is pointless.”
“Oh my god. Fushiguro. You literally do martial arts. You could break someone’s jaw with your pinkie and yet you’re scared of trying on a fuckin’ jacket?”
Megumi turned toward you now, his brows furrowed, that signature exasperated glare leveled straight at your face. “I’m not scared. I just don’t care about stupid shit like this.”
“Well maybe you should!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Maybe people would take you seriously for once if you looked like you had your life together instead of like you live in a supply closet!”
“I don’t care what people think,” he growled, arms crossing.
“Not even Miwa?” you said, biting your lip with a smug grin.
That made him pause. Even Nobara blinked. “Wait what the fuck—”
“Oops,” you said sweetly, tilting your head. “Was that too honest?”
Megumi’s jaw tensed, and for a second he looked like he wanted to walk directly into oncoming traffic.
“She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped himself. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“You like her,” you sing-songed. “And she’s all proper and polite and whatever. You really think she’s gonna look twice at you when you show up to events looking like a prison escapee?”
“That’s low,” he muttered.
“You know what else is low? Your pants. You don’t even wear a belt, it’s a miracle they’re not around your ankles right now.”
Nobara wheezed.
“You’re both insane,” Megumi muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
“No, we’re fashion-forward,” you corrected, shoving a clean white T-shirt into his hands. “And this is an intervention.”
“I’m not putting this on.”
“Why?” you narrowed your eyes. “Scared I’ll see your abs again and have a full mental breakdown in the dressing room?”
Nobara choked. “Not again?!”
“You’re not helping,” Megumi growled, shooting her a glare.
“I am helping,” she chirped, tossing him a tan jacket. “Helping your hopeless ass look fuckable.”
“Please die,” Megumi said under his breath.
You shoved the clothes into his arms. “Three outfits. Try on three. Then you can go back to your corner of despair.”
He looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a second, it was like he saw something soft behind the snark.
You rolled your eyes before he could say anything. “Don’t get sentimental, bitch. Try on the fuckin’ shirt.”
And Megumi—muttering obscenities under his breath—finally walked toward the fitting rooms.
You high-fived Nobara like you’d just summoned a demon.
It wasn’t just about clothes. Not really. It was about showing him the version of himself the world deserved to see. And goddamn, he was going to shine. Even if it killed you.
He stepped out of the fitting room with the same flat expression he always wore when he was forced into anything mildly humiliating—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, hair slightly more disheveled than usual like he’d run his hands through it five too many times in frustration.
But none of that registered. Because the second Megumi walked out, wearing a black shirt that hugged his torso like a second skin and dark jeans that—oh fuck—sat criminally well on his hips, every cell in your body short-circuited.
Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. Your brain? Vacant. Your heart? Punching itself in the face.
He looked… hot. Not “cute” hot. Not the quiet-guy-who-reads-in-corners hot. No. He looked like someone who should be banned from public spaces. Like someone who’d lean against a bar with his hands in his pockets and get phone numbers without speaking.
And he had the audacity to look annoyed about it. He stood in front of you, arms stiff at his sides, clearly uncomfortable but trying not to show it. “Well?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were still staring. His biceps shifted beneath the sleeves—those same arms that used to cross in irritation when you were being a brat during tutoring. Now they just looked… solid. Defined. Powerful. The shirt clung to the dip of his waist, the muscle of his chest, and you were going feral.
“Earth to bitch,” Nobara said, elbowing you sharply. “You’re drooling.”
You blinked. “Am not.”
Megumi raised an eyebrow. “You’re quiet.”
You swallowed. Hard.
“Yeah, so?” you snapped. But it came out breathier than you wanted. You turned away like it might give your sanity a fighting chance. “Shirt’s tight. You look like a douchebag.”
Nobara snorted. Megumi crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to be bad?”
Your eyes flicked back to him without meaning to. “No. I mean. Yes. I mean—shut the fuck up.”
His lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there. You were going to combust.
You forced a scoff, grabbing the next outfit from the chair. “This isn’t even the best one. Get back in there, Fushiguro.”
But even as he rolled his eyes and turned away, the image burned into your skull. You hadn’t seen this version of him before. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you.
He didn’t know he’d just shifted something in you—something real, something terrifying. Because for the first time in a long time… you were speechless.
Megumi stepped out again.
Different outfit, same unbothered expression—except this time, it was worse.
This time, he was wearing a fitted white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone, hanging slightly open like he gave zero fucks about propriety. Paired with a pair of dark, loose slacks that cinched perfectly at his waist, he looked like he belonged on the cover of some Calvin Klein campaign where the tagline was “Silence is seductive.”
And maybe that was what made it worse.
Because this wasn’t your Megumi.
Not the one who clicked his tongue at your mistakes. Not the one who made you repeat Civics dates until you cried out of rage and not frustration. Not the one who looked soft in the corners of his eyes when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
No—this Megumi was different.
Sharp. Composed. Dangerous.
He didn’t even glance at you at first. Just adjusted his sleeves slowly, hands veined and calm, like he had no idea he was doing things to your soul. But maybe he did. Because when his eyes finally flicked up, they went straight to yours. Quiet. Direct. Unrelenting.
And you forgot how to breathe. Nobara beat you to it.
“Holy fuck,” she breathed, literally grabbing the rack next to her for support. “You’re lying to me. You’re not real.”
Megumi frowned. “It’s just a shirt.”
“It’s the shirt of Gods,” she corrected. “You look like you kill people with a fountain pen and then drink black coffee over their grave.”
He raised a brow. “That’s specific.”
“I have taste.”
You didn’t say anything. Because what could you say?
You were the one who dragged him here. The one who started this whole thing. The one who picked out that shirt because it might look good and—
Now you couldn’t even speak.
It looked too good.
Your heart was racing like a traitor. Your fingers itched to fidget with something—your bag strap, your hair, his fucking shirt, maybe.
“Looks fine,” you muttered, arms crossed tight, refusing to meet his eyes again.
“Fine?” Megumi echoed, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to light your entire body on fire.
“Yeah, fine. Don’t get cocky.”
Nobara gave you a look.
“Is that why you’ve been standing there in complete silence for a full thirty seconds? Because it’s fine?”
“I was just thinking,” you snapped.
“Thinking about how hard you’d let him rail you on a school desk—?”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” you and Megumi yelled at the same time, both whirling on her.
Nobara just raised her brows and held her hands up. “Okay, okay. Lovers’ quarrel. Got it.”
You turned away, ears burning. “We’re not—”
“Don’t even start,” Megumi muttered under his breath, clearly flustered too, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt like they were suffocating him now.
But you both went silent again.
Your pulse wouldn’t slow. You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way the collar of that shirt dipped into the line of his collarbone. The way his jaw tensed like he was holding something in.
And all you could think was: You did this. You made him look like this. And now? You didn’t know how to handle it.
Megumi looked like he was about to say something—anything to break the electric tension crawling between you. His hand lifted slightly, hovering awkwardly at his side as if caught between reaching for a hanger or snapping it in half.
Then he sighed. “Can someone help me with this—?”
Nobara perked up from the bench. “Well, I’ll go find something else. You two—” she wiggled her fingers, “figure that out.”
Before you could even open your mouth to tell her not to leave you alone with him—again—she was gone.
And then it was just the two of you.
Megumi still standing in front of the changing room door, looking disarmingly good in that white button-up and slacks, hair slightly damp from sweat, the scent of soap and something distinctly him still clinging to his skin.
Your heartbeat spiked.
“I can help,” you muttered, stepping forward before your brain could catch up with your mouth.
He didn’t say anything—just looked at you.
And that was all it took.
Because the moment you reached for the edge of the changing room curtain, Megumi grabbed your wrist, pulled—and you stumbled right into him.
The door clicked shut behind you.
And then he kissed you.
Hard.
His mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. No warning, no question, just heat—his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer.
Your gasp broke the kiss, but he chased it, tongue sweeping against yours, messy and desperate, like he’d been waiting to do this since the second you walked into the store.
“Megumi—” you mumbled against his mouth, but it came out half-strangled because he was already backing you against the mirror, crowding your body, and hitching one of your thighs up around his waist.
His grip was rough. Possessive. Your skirt bunched around your hips as he lifted you with ease, hands firm beneath your thighs, grinding against your clothed core like he didn’t give a shit who might be outside that curtain.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your throat, kissing the skin there like he was punishing it. “You drive me insane.”
Your head thudded against the mirror, fingers threading into his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan against your neck. “You’re one to talk.”
But he didn’t answer—not with words.
He rolled his hips again, and the pressure made you arch into him, your breath hitching. Everything was so close—the heat of him, the taste of him, the sheer pressure of his body against yours. You felt like you were going to combust.
Clothes still on. Dignity long gone.
And he was still kissing you like he needed it to breathe.
Your hands fumbled with the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer—tighter—as your lips crashed together again. There was nothing soft about this. No hesitation. Just heat, and sweat, and the dizzying, aching need you both pretended didn’t exist for weeks.
And now it was here. Now he was here. And you didn’t want it to stop.
Not when his hands were sliding under your top. Not when your legs were trembling around his waist. Not when his tongue was in your mouth like he wanted to swallow every bratty word you ever spat at him.
But then— Voices outside. Faint. Distant. Still enough to pull you back.
You both froze. Megumi didn’t let you go.
But his breathing was uneven now, lips brushing yours in a breathless drag, like he didn’t want to stop—like he didn’t know how.
Your voice was barely a whisper. “Gumi…”
He stared at you.
And you stared back. Chest heaving. Skirt still hitched. Mouth swollen. Something unspoken burning between you. And that’s where you stayed—hovering between whatever this was… and whatever came next.
His breath hit your lips, warm and ragged. His forehead rested against yours for a moment—then pulled back just far enough to see your face.
You were quiet.
Too quiet.
And Megumi noticed.
His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in concern. His hand, still hot from where it had been gripping your thigh, slid up slowly, brushing over your waist until it curled gently under your jaw.
“I don’t like it when you’re quiet,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse, like it scraped the edges of something unspoken.
You blinked up at him, stunned silent by the sudden shift in him—the switch from that sharp, cold, untouchable Megumi to this. This boy whose hand now held your chin with careful fingers. Whose voice trembled with the weight of something softer.
“I’m fine,” you said, trying to muster up the usual bitchy confidence, the bratty armor you always wore like second skin.
But it cracked.
Just a little.
Megumi didn’t let it slide. He tilted your chin up gently, enough to make your gaze meet his again.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”
His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, his stare unwavering. Still cold. Still composed. But that softness was there now—simmering beneath it all like a secret only you got to see.
“Tell me what’s wrong, pretty.”
Your lips parted, but the words caught. You swallowed thickly, breath catching at the name. The way he said it—pretty—wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. It wasn’t a jab or a joke or some arrogant dig.
It was… warm, and that scared you more than anything.
“It’s nothing,” you whispered, voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “It’s not a big deal.”
Megumi didn’t move. He didn’t push or pressure or pull away. He just kept his hand where it was, thumb dragging over your jaw as his eyes searched your face for the truth.
“Then why won’t you look at me the same?” he asked, quieter now. “You’ve been avoiding it. You’ve been avoiding me.”
You breathed in sharply, back pressing against the mirror again, like it might absorb you whole. You hated this. Hated how naked it made you feel.
He was supposed to be the awkward one.
You were supposed to be untouchable.
So why the fuck did it feel like he was the only one who ever looked at you like he saw you?
“I’m not avoiding you,” you muttered, half-hearted.
You said nothing.
Not right away. Not when he was still holding you like that, arms strong and steady beneath your thighs, chest pressed to yours like he hadn’t just kissed the air out of your lungs.
So he dropped you.
Not harshly—but suddenly. Like he was testing you.
Your back hit the changing room wall with a gentle thud, your heels barely catching the floor before your knees almost buckled. You looked up at him, breathless, heart a mess, mascara smudged just enough to betray what had just happened.
And still—you smiled.
Smug. Crooked. Unbothered.
The kind of smile that always got you out of trouble. The kind of smile that meant game on.
“Don’t worry,” you said, smoothing your hair with both hands, the lace of your skirt riding scandalously high on your thighs. “I’m good.”
Megumi didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, bare chest rising and falling, hair damp, lips still slightly parted.
“You sure?” he asked, voice lower now. Quieter. A little cautious.
You nodded. “A hundred percent.”
And before he could say anything else—before you had the chance to crack even further—you turned around and opened the changing room door.
Nobara was standing right outside, arms crossed, one brow arched like she’d been waiting hours instead of minutes.
She gave you one long, slow look from head to toe.
Your skirt was wrinkled. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was a war crime.
“Well damn,” she said, deadpan. “Did he fuck the physics into you or what?”
You rolled your eyes and shoved past her with a scoff. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” Nobara chirped, following you down the hall. “Your hair looks like it got into a fight with gravity. And lost.”
You reached up instinctively to fix it, still feeling Megumi’s hands on your waist, his mouth on your neck.
You didn’t say anything. But the smile on your face didn’t fade. Not even a little.
“Okay, seriously,” you said, deadpan, staring at Megumi like he just kicked a puppy. “What the fuck is on your head.”
Megumi blinked, genuinely confused. “My hair?”
“No, your tragic decision-making, obviously it’s your hair,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Why does it look like a hedgehog lost a fight with a blender?”
Nobara burst out laughing behind you, flopping onto your bed with a snort. “Oh my god—thank you. I didn’t wanna say anything at the mall, but it’s atrocious. He looks like he cut it himself during an earthquake.”
Megumi frowned, defensive now, dragging a hand through the spiky mess. “It’s just… messy.”
“Messy?” you echoed. “No. Messy is a tousled ‘I-just-got-fucked-against-a-wall’ kind of hot. This?” You circled him like a shark, squinting at the disaster on his scalp. “This is ‘I got electrocuted in the shower and didn’t notice.’”
He turned slightly to Nobara, as if for help. She just smirked and held her hands up. “Don’t look at me, Fushiguro. I’ve been trying to say this since the first day we met. You’ve got good bone structure and awful hair.”
Megumi muttered something that sounded dangerously close to “I hate both of you.”
But you weren’t having it.
“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this now,” you said, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him toward your vanity like a man being marched to execution. “You let me bring you to the mall, you let me pick your clothes, and now? You’re letting me fix the national tragedy that is your hairstyle.”
“I never agreed to this,” he said, digging in his heels halfway across your carpet. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
You whipped around, inches from his face. “You’re hot now, Fushiguro. It’s your moral responsibility to have a hairdo that doesn’t look like it was styled by a weed whacker.”
“I liked it,” he muttered under his breath.
“I liked it,” you mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Oh my god, he’s got feelings. Someone call the news.”
Nobara snorted. “Y/N, be nice.”
You rolled your eyes and shoved him into the chair in front of your vanity. “No. He deserves violence. Emotional or physical, I haven’t decided yet.”
Megumi looked at himself in the mirror, then back at you, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this point. “If you burn my scalp—”
“I will set you on fire on purpose if you keep complaining.”
“You’re terrifying,” he muttered, glaring as you sprayed water on his head.
You grinned. “I know.”
Nobara watched from your bed, sipping a boba drink she clearly found from your mini-fridge. “So what’s the plan, boss? We chopping it? Styling it? Shaving it off so he can start over?”
“Not shaving,” you said immediately, combing through his damp hair with a level of focus that would’ve shocked your teachers. “This bitch has potential. It just needs to be tamed.”
Megumi scoffed. “You make it sound like a wild animal.”
“That’s because it is, babe,” Nobara said helpfully.
You held up a strand and narrowed your eyes. “It’s giving ‘slept with my head in a microwave.’ Like, what is the texture? What is the shape? Where is the respect?”
Megumi rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”
You and Nobara turned to him in unison.
“Yes,” Nobara said solemnly. “It is.”
“It’s a violation of basic human decency,” you added.
Megumi leaned back in the chair like a condemned man. “Do whatever you want. I’m already dead inside.”
You grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
You and Nobara circled Megumi like vultures, armed with a spray bottle, two combs, a round brush, and enough styling product to open a pop-up salon. He sat rigidly in your vanity chair like he was preparing for surgery, eyes narrowed at his reflection as you pulled his hair back and forth with clinical precision.
“I swear to god, if this makes it worse—”
“Shut up,” you snapped, misting his head aggressively. “You gave up the right to complain the second you walked in here with this disaster on your scalp.”
“It’s not a disaster,” he muttered, grimacing as Nobara tugged a chunk of hair upright with a teasing comb.
“You’re right,” Nobara chimed in sweetly. “It’s a catastrophe.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “It looks like it’s been styled with a spoon and a prayer.”
Megumi groaned audibly. “Why are you both so dramatic?”
“Because we have eyes,” Nobara said.
“And standards,” you added.
It took longer than it should have—spraying, combing, trimming flyaways, arguing over center part versus side part, threatening to shave it all off entirely—but eventually, after a blur of movement and bickering and way too many close calls with Nobara’s flat iron, you took a step back.
You stared at him. Silently.
The spikes were still there—sharp, unruly, unapologetically him—but now they were tamed, softened in shape, styled with a cleaner edge that actually made sense with his face. Not too polished, not too wild. Balanced.
Dangerously so.
Because it brought out everything.
His cheekbones. The cut of his jaw. The deep-set steel blue of his eyes. It was like finally seeing a painting under the right lighting.
And you hated how hard your chest clenched.
“Oh,” Nobara said, her voice soft with shock. “Oh, you’re handsome-handsome.”
You flinched out of your trance. “Calm your fucking tits.”
Nobara ignored you, walking around to get a better view. “Y/N, we really did that. We should be charging for this.”
Megumi, still blinking at his reflection like he wasn’t sure what universe he was in, murmured, “It’s... better?”
“You look hot,” Nobara said bluntly.
“I said calm—”
“No, I’m serious. I didn’t know your face looked like that under all the porcupine static.” She turned to you. “Now—glasses.”
“Wait, what’s wrong with his glasses?” you and Megumi said at the same time, both frowning.
Nobara rolled her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong with them. But let’s just see. For science.”
“I need them to see,” Megumi deadpanned.
“Then close your eyes for two seconds and survive.”
Before either of you could protest again, she plucked the frames off his face.
Megumi blinked, disoriented. “I can’t see shit.”
And you— you couldn’t breathe.
Your fingers froze mid-adjustment. Something twisted low in your stomach.
Because this wasn’t your Megumi anymore.
This wasn’t the boy who wore soft, wrinkled hoodies and slouched with a pen in his mouth while mumbling about feudal Japan. This wasn’t the slightly awkward, perpetually annoyed tutor who scolded you for confusing Confucius with Confetti or whatever the hell his name was.
This was— Sharp. Composed. Disarmingly beautiful. And still undeniably him. But somehow… less yours. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.
You swallowed around the dryness in your throat and reached over gently to slide his glasses back on.
“Okay,” you said, voice carefully neutral. “You look fine.”
Nobara arched a brow. “Fine? That’s all you’re giving him?”
“Jesus, calm down,” you muttered, waving her off. “You sound like you’re about to mount him.”
Megumi snorted softly, but he was looking at you now. Really looking. And you didn’t know what you looked like back.
Just that something inside you was shifting, and no matter how hard you tried to bury it beneath your snark and sarcasm—
You couldn’t help but think: He doesn’t look like my Megumi anymore, and that scared you more than anything. Because you weren’t ready to admit what you already knew: You didn’t want to lose the version of him that only you ever got to see.
The buzz started before first period even began.
It was in the halls, in the cafeteria, in the fucking girl’s bathroom stalls. You could hear it behind closed lockers, whispered in corners, shouted between friend groups.
"Did you see Fushiguro?"
"Is that really him?"
"Who knew he had a jawline like that?"
You slammed your locker shut hard enough to rattle the one next to it.
Nobara, walking beside you and munching on pocky like she owned the damn world, raised a brow. “You okay?”
“No,” you hissed, adjusting the strap of your bag sharply. “I’m not fucking okay. These bitches are acting like he hatched from an egg this morning.”
Nobara snorted. “Well, to be fair, he was looking like a soggy anime protagonist before we fixed his hair.”
You shot her a look.
She shrugged. “Hey, we did this. You should be proud. Your man’s finally getting the recognition.”
You turned to her, voice low and vicious. “That’s not my fucking man.”
She smirked. “Sure.”
And still, as you walked into the main hallway, the whispers amplified like a hive of flies. You could hear a group of girls ahead giggling too loudly, standing near the bulletin board where someone had literally taped a blurry candid of Megumi — from that morning — shirt tucked in, hair clean, glasses no where to be seen.
You stared. Blinked. And felt your blood boil.
You did this. You fixed that hair. You picked those fucking jeans.
And now they were all foaming at the mouth over it.
Not because they noticed him in math class, or watched him quietly help the juniors when no one else did, or saw the way his knuckles were always bruised because he boxed like he had something to prove.
No. They noticed because you made him hot. You did that.
And they were two seconds from sexualizing him like a piece of meat in your lunch tray.
“He could get it now,” one girl said, fanning herself with a worksheet.
“I’d climb him like a tree,” another giggled. “Those arms? He could ruin my GPA, and I’d thank him.”
You clenched your jaw.
“Oh my god,” a third voice added — Aiko, of all fucking people, her tone dripping with fake wonder. “Who knew Fushiguro had potential? He used to be such a loser, and now I’m like… kind of obsessed. He just needed a little help, right?”
You stopped walking. Nobara sensed it before you spoke. “Oh no.”
Your heels clicked against the tile like a warning shot. You stepped forward, stopping right in front of their little group like a queen entering the battlefield.
Aiko turned, already smiling, like she wanted you to join in on the joke.
You didn’t smile back.
“You wanna say that again?” you asked, voice deceptively sweet.
Aiko blinked. “What?”
“The part where you called him a loser,” you said, tilting your head. “Go on. I’m sure he’d love to hear that from someone who couldn’t spell ‘potential’ if her life depended on it.”
The girls went quiet.
You took another step closer, smiling now—but it was venomous. “See, you bitches love to pop your pussy for something shiny and new. But where were you when he sat alone every fucking lunch? Or when you called him creepy for knowing the answers before the teacher asked?”
Aiko’s face started to pale.
“That boy has more class in his knuckles than you have in your whole bloodline,” you sneered. “So maybe think twice before you talk about him like he’s your little glow-up project. You wouldn’t know what to do with him even if he let you try.”
Nobara let out a low whistle behind you. “Jesus.”
You didn’t care. Your heart was thudding in your chest, rage coiling behind your ribs. Because he deserved better than that. Better than them. Better than you, too, maybe—but they sure as fuck weren’t allowed to talk about him like that.
Not when they didn’t know a thing about him.
Not like you did.
The girls scattered like flies after that, mumbling apologies or pretending not to care.
You stood tall, smoothed your skirt, and turned on your heel.
But the truth burned in your throat even as you walked away from the mess. Because the one person you weren’t brave enough to say that to… was the one person you’d started to care about way too much.
It was raining by the time you got there. Not heavy yet, but the clouds overhead promised hell was coming.
You barely knocked.
The door opened after one knock, and there he was—Megumi. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clung to his chest. His hair was a little damp, curling at the ends from either a shower or the humidity outside. The soft flicker of the TV behind him lit his silhouette.
His eyes skimmed over you. “You’re late.”
“I was being dramatic,” you said with a sniff, stepping inside like you owned the place.
You didn’t. And you felt it, too.
The quiet of the house pressed in on you. The only sound was the low murmur of the television—“storm warning issued for Tokyo Metro Area…”
Your shoes left faint water prints on the hardwood. You toed them off and dropped your bag beside the couch, pretending the silence wasn’t suffocating.
“So…” you said, voice softer now, almost teasing. “You’re a big shot now, huh?”
Megumi frowned. “What?”
You gestured vaguely toward him. “The school. People are practically frothing at the mouth over you. I think I overheard someone say you could step on them and they’d say thank you.”
He blinked. “That’s… disturbing.”
You dropped onto the couch. “That’s teenage girls. Get used to it.”
He didn’t sit. Just stood there for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with you. Like he couldn’t decide whether he should start quizzing you on politics or kick you out.
You stared at him. “You really didn’t notice?”
“No,” he muttered. “I don’t care.”
There was a pause. A little too long.
Then—
“…Do you?” he asked, quieter now.
You tilted your head. “Do I what?”
He was still standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. But something about the way he said it—
“Do you like it?” he asked. “The way I look now.”
It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t a trap. It sounded like an honest fucking question.
You felt something pinch in your chest.
You wanted to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or tell him he looked fine and move on with your night. But you couldn’t. Because the way he was looking at you—calm, quiet, guarded—was killing you.
“Do you want me to like it?” you asked back.
He didn’t blink. “I asked first.”
You stared at him. Tried to read his expression. But he was unreadable, as always—except his shoulders were a little tense, and his eyes kept flicking between you and the storm outside the window. So you told the truth.
“I liked how you looked before,” you said, crossing your arms again. “I like how you look now. You’re hot. Congrats.”
That made him frown, just a little.
You rolled your eyes. “Is that not what you wanted to hear?”
“No,” he said. “I just… didn’t think you noticed me.”
The words were soft. Like they cost something.
You blinked. “What?”
He finally sat down beside you, slow and heavy, elbows on his knees. “You were with guys like Kamo. Loud, rich. The whole school knew when you were dating someone.”
“So?”
“So I thought you just… tolerated me,” he said.
You stared at him. “I showed up to your house in the rain. For tutoring. I literally begged you to tutor me again.”
His eyes flicked toward yours. “That’s not the same.”
Silence again. You bit your lip, then sighed. “I just didn’t want to be the only one who saw you.”
Megumi’s brows pulled slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You swallowed, folding your arms tighter. “People didn’t really look at you. Not really. They saw the grades, the silence, the hair. But they didn’t look. I did.”
You paused.
“And I didn’t want to keep it to myself.”
Megumi was quiet for a while. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle. You looked down at your nails, chewing your lip. “That’s all. I just thought… people should know.”
“Why?”
You blinked again. “Why what?”
“Why did it matter that people saw me?”
The question was too honest. It made your stomach twist.
“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Because maybe if they did… I wouldn’t feel so fucking insane for noticing you in the first place.”
Megumi’s throat bobbed. The rain outside was louder now. You could hear the drops hitting the glass like static. You were sitting so close on the couch now, knees almost brushing. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t touch you.
But his voice dropped a little. “I noticed you first.”
You turned your head.
Megumi wasn’t looking at you. But you could see the pink climbing up his neck.
“I didn’t say anything because I thought you’d destroy me,” he muttered, almost like he was annoyed with himself. “You still might.”
You smirked, but it was softer than usual. “You’re not so easy to destroy, Fushiguro.”
He finally turned toward you again. And for a second—just a second—you weren’t the girl who wrecked reputations for fun. You weren’t the mean girl, the manipulator, the bitch with a crown on her head. You were just a girl. Wanting a boy who never thought someone like you would.
“…We’re here to study,” you said quickly, breaking the eye contact and grabbing your bag. “Don’t get weird about it.”
But your hands were trembling just a little when you opened your notebook. And neither of you pointed it out. Megumi didn’t move. You felt it before you saw it—that shift in the air. His gaze heavy on you, weighing every breath you tried to take like it meant something.
And maybe it did. Because then came the first real blow. “You’re quiet.”
Your pen stilled. “I’m literally speaking right now,” you muttered, not looking up.
“That’s not what I mean.”
You clenched your jaw, flipping open your notes like they weren’t trembling in your hand. “Well, maybe I just didn’t feel like biting your head off today. Shouldn’t that be a win for you?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “You’ve been off ever since the mall.”
“And you’ve been dressing like you’re starring in a Calvin Klein ad,” you shot back. “Maybe I’m just adjusting.”
His brow twitched. “So you are upset.”
“No.” You looked up at him, heat crawling up your neck. “I just think it’s funny.”
Megumi’s stare didn’t budge. “What’s funny?”
“That now everyone sees you,” you said, biting the words out, “suddenly you’re worth talking to. And I have to watch girls lose their shit over a guy I—”
You caught yourself. Hard. Megumi stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.
“And what?” he said, voice low.
Your throat was dry. “And nothing.”
He tilted his head, sea-glass eyes narrowing. “That’s not nothing.”
You shot to your feet. “Can you not? Can you just, for once, not try to read my mind like I’m some fucking essay prompt?”
“I wouldn’t have to guess,” he said, voice tighter now, “if you’d just tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m fine, Megumi,” you snapped.
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh my god, shut up—why do you even care?”
That stopped him. Just a second. But you saw the way it landed. Saw the shift in his shoulders, the pinch in his brows—like you’d yanked a thread that unraveled something you weren’t supposed to touch. You hated how your chest twisted.
“I didn’t mean that,” you said quickly, voice smaller. “I just—this was easier when you were just…”
“What?” Megumi asked quietly.
Just Megumi. Your Megumi. But you didn’t say it. You didn’t get the chance.
Because the thunder cracked so violently it made the windows rattle—followed by a sudden, sharp click as the power cut out completely. Lights. TV. Everything.
Gone. Darkness swallowed the room, save for the occasional flash of lightning. You could barely see him. But you felt him. Both of you stood there in the thick silence, the storm pressing against the glass like a weight.
And then— “I’m still me,” Megumi said quietly. “Even if I look different.” You exhaled. Slow. Unsteady.
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like I’m not?”
You hesitated. Then, barely above a whisper— “Because you look less like someone I can keep.”
The words hung there between you. Electric. Unforgivable. You weren’t even sure he heard them—until he stepped closer. Close enough that the scent of him, the heat of his skin, wrapped around you like gravity.
“You think I’m going somewhere?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Everyone else wants you now.”
“I don’t care about everyone else.”
The silence between you was louder than the storm now. You opened your mouth—then shut it again. Because you could still taste the fear in your throat. Not of losing him. But of how much you already had. You swallowed around the ache in your throat, trying not to blink too hard. The silence stretched. Too raw. Too exposed. So, like always, you threw up a wall.
“Well,” you said, stepping back and folding your arms, “isn’t this romantic. Power’s out, storm’s raging, and I’m stuck with Tokyo’s favorite new thirst trap.”
Megumi blinked, the sharpness in his expression dimming just enough to look mildly offended. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re sweaty and shirtless and we’re in the dark.” You gestured around. “I’m just saying, if this was a movie, I’d already be dead or pregnant.”
That earned a very faint snort, like he didn’t want to laugh but couldn’t help it. He exhaled, raking a hand through his damp hair. “My dad keeps candles somewhere.”
“Wow. Sexy and prepared,” you muttered, watching him disappear into the hallway. “No wonder the girls are eating it up.”
“Shut up,” he called back. A cabinet door creaked open, followed by the sound of matches scraping. “If you’re cold, there’s a blanket on the couch.”
You ignored that. Pulled out your phone instead—only to see one bar and a signal so weak it might as well be decorative. You sighed and dialed anyway. It rang once, twice. Then a familiar voice crackled through the speaker. “Sweetheart?”
“Daddy,” you breathed, the relief hitting hard. “The power’s out. It’s storming like crazy. Are you home?”
“I’m out of town, baby. Business trip. Flight got delayed.” His voice softened. “Where are you?”
You glanced at the flickering light starting to glow down the hall. “Megumi’s.”
A pause. “You safe?”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… stuck.”
“Alright. Call me if anything changes. I’ll check the weather. Love you.”
“Love you more,” you said softly and hung up.
Megumi returned, two candles flickering in hand. One for the living room, one for the table. He lit them both in quick, practiced motions. He didn’t look at you.
“I’ll walk you home when the wind dies down,” he said, flatly.
You narrowed your eyes. “I didn’t say I was leaving.”
“You were about to,” he muttered. “You always are.”
The jab caught you off guard.
“…Jesus, dramatic much?” you mumbled, shifting on the couch as the room glowed orange and gold. “You act like I’m trying to abandon you.”
He gave you a look. “You were literally about to walk out during a thunderstorm.”
“Yeah, well, I like living on the edge.”
“I swear to god, you’re going to get electrocuted one day and somehow blame me for it.”
“Obviously.” His lips twitched. Almost a smile.
The tension was still there—but softened now, under the candlelight. Like it had been dulled by the rain and everything neither of you could say outright. You pulled your knees up to your chest, watching the lightning flash against the windows.
“…You didn’t have to light all those, you know,” you said quietly, eyes flicking toward the candles.
“I know.”
You hesitated. “…But thank you.” Another small silence.
Then he sat down next to you again. A little closer this time. The storm howled outside, but in here—there was only the flicker of light between you and the quiet push-and-pull that had always felt like home.
“You really think I’m Tokyo’s favorite thirst trap?” he said suddenly, deadpan.
You groaned. “You remembered that?”
“You literally just said it.”
“Well, I’m not wrong.”
“Whatever.” You glanced at him.
His arms were folded again. His face still unreadable. But something in his expression had eased. Not softer, necessarily—but less guarded. And you… you could breathe again.
You didn’t mean to say it.
It just slipped out.
“Miwa’s taking an interest in you.”
Megumi glanced up from where he was lighting a candle on the table, his face cast in flickering shadows. “What?”
You picked at the frayed hem of your skirt like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Nobara heard her talking in the bathroom. She was saying you’re different now. That you look… good.”
A beat of silence.
Then, like an idiot, he asked, “She is?”
You wanted to throw the fucking candle at his head.
Instead, you smiled. That sweet, mean smile you wore like armor. “What, hoping she asks you out? You want someone to touch your freshly styled hair and whisper about your jawline now?”
He didn’t bite. Just walked to the kitchen with that maddening calm of his. Megumi’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He picked it up, barely glancing at the screen before answering.
“Yeah?”
You didn’t look at him. You were too busy pretending to scroll through your phone, too busy ignoring the sting from earlier—She is?—like it hadn’t lodged itself right in your chest. But then his tone changed.
“…You’re stuck?” You peeked up, subtly.
Megumi’s voice dropped, quiet and curt. “Flooding?”
Pause. A sigh. “No, it’s fine. Yeah—I’m not alone.”
Another pause. “Yeah, it’s her.” You tensed, grip tightening around your phone.
“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “I’ll take care of it. Just… stay safe.”
He hung up. Silence. You didn’t say anything, waiting.
He turned around, arms folded, voice neutral. “That was my dad.”
“Obviously.”
“There’s flooding near the station. He’s stuck for the night.”
You raised a brow. “And?”
“And you can’t leave.”
You stared at him. “What do you mean I can’t?”
“There’s a blackout. The storm’s not letting up. Roads are a mess.” He gestured to the window where the rain slapped against the glass in heavy sheets. “Power lines are down. Toji said even the convenience store by the corner shut down. He’s not coming home.”
You blinked. “And what, you’re just holding me hostage now?”
Megumi’s expression didn’t change. “You came here.”
“I didn’t come here to spend the night!”
He crossed his arms tighter. “Well, congratulations. Looks like you’re going to.”
You huffed. Loudly. Dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
“I know.” And then he moved past you, candle in hand, heading toward the hallway like this was all perfectly reasonable. You glared at the flame, at the storm, at your phone with zero service, and then finally threw yourself back against the couch with a groan.
“…Fine,” you muttered under your breath. “But I’m not taking the fucking bed.”
From down the hall, Megumi’s voice drifted back—completely unbothered.
“You’re not.”
It was quiet for a while. Too quiet. The storm outside had dulled into a low, steady rhythm—rain kissing the windows in soft percussion, wind rattling somewhere beyond the walls like a ghost trying to get in. The power was still out, the flicker of candlelight the only thing cutting through the shadows curling around the room.
You sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, pretending your phone wasn't dead and you weren’t mildly terrified of the dark. Then you heard footsteps. Not heavy. Not rushed. Just Megumi. He emerged from the hallway carrying a stack of pillows and a neatly folded blanket. He didn’t say anything as he knelt beside the couch, laying everything out with a quiet focus you refused to react to. But your throat tightened anyway. Because it was too much.
He’d brought the softest blanket. The only one that didn’t smell like detergent. He even slid a second pillow behind your back, like you couldn’t possibly sleep without it.
You didn’t comment. Just watched with a neutral expression, biting your cheek to stop from saying something snarky. You could've made a joke. Could’ve called him a housewife. Could’ve pushed, flirted, snapped.
But you didn’t. Because even you couldn’t deny what this was. He cared. And that scared the shit out of you.
When he finally sat down beside you—on the floor, back resting against the couch—you raised a brow.
“What, not going to bed?” you said, voice low.
He shrugged, eyes on the candlelight. “Didn’t feel like it.”
You blinked, letting your head rest against the cushion. “What are you, my emotional support boxer?”
That made him huff—barely a laugh, but still something. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
You smirked. “Please. You’re the one bringing luxury sleepware like I’m a fucking princess.”
“No,” he deadpanned. “You’re a brat. Princesses don’t throw paper at their tutors.”
You rolled your eyes. “That was one time.”
“It was two.”
You both went quiet after that, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… still. You watched the flicker of flames bounce shadows off the ceiling, your heart slower now, your body less tense.
“…So why boxing?” you asked, surprising even yourself.
He looked over his shoulder. “What?”
You tilted your head. “You don’t really seem like the type. You hate attention. And yet here you are, shirtless and sweaty, punching people in a ring.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, after a beat— “It helps,” he said quietly. “Gets the noise out of my head.”
You frowned. “You get noise?”
He didn’t look at you. “Everyone does.”
The answer made your chest ache a little.
You didn’t press. Just let the silence fill in the blanks. Then— “...You’re good at it,” you said.
His brow ticked. “You saw five minutes.”
“Still.” Another beat.
“You looked hot,” you added, nonchalant, watching the side of his face carefully.
This time, he did look at you. “You’re deflecting.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have to.”
You blinked. He didn’t elaborate. Just turned back to the candlelight, fingers fidgeting slightly against his knee.
The kind of fidgeting you did when you wanted to say something but didn’t know how. You swallowed.
“I never had something like that,” you said, quieter now. “Something that made the noise go away.”
Megumi didn’t speak, but you could feel him listening.
Really listening.
You rested your chin on your knees. “I tried to find it in people. Parties. Power. All that shit. But it never works.”
A pause.
Then Megumi asked, “And now?”
You looked at him. At the boy who used to flinch when you walked by. At the boy who looked at you like you were everything and nothing at the same time.
“…Now?” you repeated. He met your eyes. And for once—you didn’t look away.
“I don’t know yet,” you said. “But I think I’m closer than I used to be.”
You didn’t say it. But you were pretty sure he knew.
The silence had stretched into something calmer now—less tense, less biting. You were both still on the couch, the storm a dull whisper outside, the candlelight making the room feel smaller, warmer, like some strange little world that didn’t exist anywhere but here.
You shifted a little, resting your chin on your arms, curled up in the blanket he brought you like a sullen cat. Megumi sat beside you, back against the couch again, his legs stretched out, elbows on his knees.
Neither of you had spoken in a while.
You didn’t know why the words came out.
Maybe it was the dark.
Or the quiet.
Or the way Megumi was just... there. Not asking for anything. Not prying. Just existing beside you with that stillness that made people underestimate him.
“My dad’s out of town,” you murmured.
Megumi didn’t look at you, but his head tilted slightly—listening.
“Business trip,” you added, trying not to sound defensive. “He does that a lot. I used to hate it when I was younger.”
A pause.
Then: “But you’re close.”
You gave a small smile. “Yeah. I’m a daddy’s girl. You can’t tell?”
Megumi snorted softly. “Oh, I can tell.”
You chuckled under your breath, but the laughter faded quickly, something deeper tugging at your chest.
“I don’t talk about him much at school,” you said. “People already have their little opinions about me, I didn’t want to... whatever. Make it worse.”
Megumi stayed quiet.
You pulled the blanket tighter around your legs.
“When I was eight, my mom and dad split,” you said suddenly. “It got messy. She didn’t want custody. Not really. But her new husband did. I think he just wanted to win something.”
Megumi turned his head a little, watching you now.
You stared ahead at the dim outline of his coffee table, your voice soft. “But my dad fought for me. Hard. Like—like it was war. Lawyers, courts, all that shit. I remember him carrying me out of the hearing room when the judge gave him custody. I was crying. He didn’t. Not once.”
Megumi didn’t interrupt.
“I used to think he was made of steel or something,” you whispered. “Like, nothing could break him. And he never—he never made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Not even once.”
You blinked. Fast.
“He worked so hard. All those long hours. Just to give me this life. The clothes. The car. The schools. People see me and think I’m just spoiled. Rich bitch. But they don’t know how hard he worked for all of it. How hard he worked for me.”
Megumi’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “Sounds like he really loves you.”
You nodded slowly. “He does. And I love him, too. More than anyone.”
There was a pause. The quiet kind that settled in your bones.
You bit your lip. “My mom—she lives in Fukuoka now. Married to that same guy. I see her sometimes. She’s always smiling in her new house, with her new kids, like she didn’t leave me behind. But he never did.”
Megumi shifted then, just slightly.
You felt it before you saw it—the way his hand brushed gently against your ankle under the blanket, not a grab, not a hold, just... there.
Steady. Present.
“I’m glad you have him,” Megumi said. And he meant it. You could hear it.
You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Me too.”
And for a while, that was all. No teasing. No bickering. Just a storm outside, and a boy beside you, and the quiet reminder that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.
The silence wrapped around the both of you again, more comfortable now. The storm outside had settled into a steady rhythm, wind pressing against the windows like a tired breath. The candle on the coffee table flickered lazily, casting long shadows up the wall.
You’d fallen quiet again, the weight of your last words still hanging in the air.
Megumi hadn’t said anything in a while. You glanced at him from under your lashes. His brows were drawn, expression unreadable—but his hands were tense in his lap, fingers rubbing at his knuckles absently. Like he was thinking too hard about something.
You nudged him gently with your knee under the blanket.
His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing.”
You raised an eyebrow. “The broody, ‘I’m-staring-into-the-void-like-a-tragic-protagonist’ thing.”
A breath of a laugh escaped him. Barely.
Then his gaze dropped, his voice quieter. “I’ve been thinking about Tsumiki.”
Your teasing died instantly.
“Oh.”
He nodded slowly. “She’s… not doing great.”
The weight of those four words hit you like a punch to the chest. You sat up a little straighter, eyes scanning his face. There was something different in it now—tired, but deeper than that. Like something he’d been holding for too long.
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words. “Her condition’s… it’s getting worse. The doctors said there’s not much more they can do here.”
You stayed quiet, letting him speak.
“I might have to fly out next week. Fukuoka or even Sapporo—depends where they transfer her. She’s not waking up. And if something—if anything happens and I’m not there, I’ll never—” He cut himself off, jaw locking.
You didn’t say anything. You just reached out, resting your hand over his knuckles.
He didn’t pull away.
“She raised me more than anyone,” he said, voice gravelly. “After everything with my mom and dad… she was the one who kept me steady. Who made me believe I could be anything other than angry.”
You swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Megumi looked at you then. And for once, his eyes weren’t guarded. They were raw. Open. So full of guilt and helplessness that it made your chest ache.
“She’s so kind,” he murmured. “Always has been. She never hurt anybody. I don’t know why people like her—why she ends up paying for things.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I don’t want to lose her.”
His voice cracked at the end. Just slightly. Enough to make you want to pull him close and never let go.
You didn’t say you understood. Because you didn’t. Not really.
But you let your hand stay in his. And when his thumb brushed over your knuckles, soft and trembling, you didn’t call him out for it.
You just sat there.
Two kids. Bruised hearts. A flickering candle. And the quiet grief that filled the room like smoke.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, barely touching.
“I’ll be here,” you said softly.
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away either. And maybe, for now, that was enough.
The thunder had quieted into a low grumble, distant now, like the sky was done screaming and only murmured in exhaustion.
You weren’t sure when the silence shifted—when the conversation turned from real, heavy things to just… breath. Just the warmth of being there beside him. You had your knees pulled up, a blanket across your lap, your arm pressed against his on the couch. The faint scent of citrusy soap clung to his skin. The candlelight flickered over his profile.
And when he looked at you… really looked at you—
Everything else faded.
No more school. No more rumors. No more fights, or essays, or storms. Just the steady sound of his breath, and the way he was staring like you were a question he never thought he’d get to ask, let alone answer.
“…What?” you whispered, pulse skipping.
Megumi just shook his head a little. “Nothing.”
But his eyes didn’t leave you. Didn’t drop, didn’t flinch. They were so blue in the dark, like sea glass catching fire.
You blinked, suddenly shy. “Why are you—”
He leaned in.
You felt it before you saw it—his hand ghosting over your cheek, gentle, almost hesitant. Like he was giving you one last chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
When his mouth met yours, it was soft. Barely there. A breath shared between two people who’d never thought this would happen. His lips moved over yours like he was learning how—like he’d only ever imagined it before, and now, he was finding out what it meant to want, really want, and be allowed to.
You tilted your face up, deepened it slowly.
He followed you, a little clumsy, a little shy—but eager. Your fingers slipped into his hair, still tousled from the storm, from your work earlier, and a quiet groan hummed in his throat.
When he pulled back, his breath was shaky.
“Are you…” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Are you sure?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then his hand touched your jaw again, thumb dragging over your cheek like he was memorizing the shape of you.
“I want to,” he said. His voice was steady, but his pulse was racing—you could feel it where your hand had pressed against his chest. “I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”
You swallowed, heart in your throat. “You’ve never…?”
He shook his head once.
Oh. You were quiet. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said again. And then softer, with something almost aching: “You’re the only one I’d ever want it with.”
Your chest ached.
And for once, you didn’t tease him. Didn’t put up your usual wall.Instead, you kissed him again.
You ended up in his lap before you even realized it.
One second you were kissing him—soft, slow, like the world might shatter if you rushed it—and the next, your knees were straddling his thighs, blanket slipping off your lap, hands curled in the collar of his shirt as you breathed into each other.
The living room was drenched in warm shadows, candlelight flickering golden over the curve of his jaw, the sharp edge of his cheekbone. You could still hear the rain faintly outside, a low murmur against the windows—but in here, everything was still. Sacred.
Megumi’s hands rested uncertainly on your hips, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. Like he didn’t trust himself.
“You can touch me,” you murmured, lips brushing against his. “You’re allowed.”
His fingers tightened slightly, eyes darting up to yours. That bashful, quiet intensity—it made your chest ache.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispered. “I don’t… I’ve never…”
“I know,” you said gently, and leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the corner of his. “That’s why I’m here.”
You kissed him deeper that time. Tongue teasing his lower lip, your body pressing closer. His hands slid up your sides hesitantly, under your shirt, skin to skin—and you felt the exact moment his breath hitched.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered.
“I know.” His voice was rougher now, quiet. “I just… I can’t believe this is real.”
You smiled against his lips. “It’s real.”
You tugged your shirt over your head, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric fall to the floor behind you. His gaze followed every movement, and when your chest was bare in front of him, he froze.
Not out of fear. Not discomfort. Just awe.
“…Fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide, voice barely audible. “You’re—”
“Don’t say perfect,” you said quickly, your voice light, teasing, trying to play it off. But your heart was fluttering in your chest like it was trying to fly away. “That’s such a cop-out.”
Megumi blinked like he hadn’t even thought of that word. “I wasn’t going to.”
You arched a brow. “No?”
He shook his head slowly, eyes still glued to your bare chest, your soft skin, the curve of you in his lap. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like you were something out of a dream.
“I was gonna say… unfair,” he said, swallowing hard. “Because I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive this. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You froze.
Not hot. Not sexy. Not fuckable, or a ten, or any of the things guys had always tossed at you like they meant something.
Beautiful.
It hit different. Like a bruise blooming in your chest—but soft. Warm. Gentle. You didn’t even realize you’d gone quiet until his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.
“Hey,” Megumi murmured. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you whispered, blinking quickly.
But the words were still echoing in your mind, messing with something deep inside you. Beautiful. Like art. Like something fragile and worth holding carefully.
No one had ever said that to you before. Not like this. Not with their hands trembling just from touching you. Not with eyes that looked like they were seeing straight through the act, the image, the attitude.
You looked down at him again—messy hair, bitten lip, flushed skin—and swallowed thickly.
“You mean that?” you asked, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “That I’m… beautiful?”
His brows furrowed, confused by the question, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course I do. How could I not?”
And just like that, the ache in your chest cracked open into something warm, something terrifyingly tender.
So you kissed him—slowly, deeply, like it was the only way to say thank you without falling apart.
He kissed you lower, lips skimming the slope of your breast, and when you arched gently into him, he let out a quiet groan.
“Can I…?” he whispered.
You took his hand and guided it up, letting him cup you fully. His fingers twitched at first, then softened, kneading tenderly as his thumb brushed over your nipple. You exhaled, body melting into his, your hands cradling his jaw as you kissed him again—deeper now. Lazier. The kind of kiss that made time dissolve.
You tugged his shirt off next, fingers brushing over the hard lines of his chest and the pale bandages still wrapped around his knuckles. He tried to hide the way his breath hitched, but you felt it—felt all of him.
His chest was rising fast. He was hard beneath you already, straining against his sweats, and your hips shifted instinctively.
“Shit,” he whispered, fingers digging into your thighs as you rocked against him. “You feel…”
“I know, baby,” you breathed into his neck. “You feel good too.”
You rolled your hips again, slower this time, and his head tipped back against the couch. He looked wrecked already—eyes blown wide, lips parted, jaw slack.
“Can I…?” you asked quietly, your hand drifting down between your bodies. “Can I see you?”
He nodded, a little frantic.
You slid his sweats down carefully, watched as his cock sprang free—long, thick, flushed a dark pink at the tip, resting heavy against his stomach.
You paused. Blinked.
“…You’ve been hiding this?” you said, scandalized.
His cheeks flushed red, eyes darting away. “I didn’t think it’d—look good. Or be… enough.”
Your mouth fell open. “Enough? Baby, it’s a fucking blessing.”
He let out a broken laugh, but it turned into a groan when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly. He was already leaking, the head glistening, and when you kissed his jaw again, his hips bucked helplessly under you.
You guided him to your entrance, your body already aching for him, but still—still—you paused.
“Are you sure?” you asked, voice steady. “This matters, Gumi."
His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
You sank down on him slowly.
The stretch burned a little, but he was so careful—hands trembling, voice breaking every time he whispered, “Wait, let me—are you okay? Is this too much?” And you kept kissing him through it, calming him, guiding him, grounding him.
When he was fully inside you, you paused, gasping against his mouth. He filled you so deep it was dizzying. You could feel every pulse, every twitch of his cock inside you, and he just stared—completely overwhelmed.
You rocked your hips steadily at first, letting him adjust, letting you adjust—but God, the way he filled you. Thick and hot and deep, every inch stretching you open, your breath hitching every time your hips met his. His hands had gone from trembling to clinging, fingers digging into your waist like he didn’t trust his own self-control.
“Fuck,” he whispered again, breath ragged against your collarbone. “You’re so warm. So tight. I can’t—”
“Don’t stop,” you breathed, grinding your hips down into him. “You feel so fucking good, Gumi.”
The nickname made his hips jerk up. Hard.
Your moan cracked in your throat.
He groaned—deep, guttural, wrecked—and buried his face in your chest. “Say it again.”
“Gumi,” you whispered, rolling your hips slow, teasing. “My Gumi.”
Something snapped.
Suddenly, his hands slid up your back, grabbing fistfuls of your hair as he sat up straighter beneath you. His mouth captured yours in a messier, wetter kiss—more tongue than technique—and the next thrust he gave you was sharper. Rougher. Deep enough to make your thighs tremble where they straddled him.
You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders. “F-fuck—what happened to being gentle?”
“I’m trying,” he growled, thrusting up again. “But you’re—shit—you’re making it hard.”
You felt his cock twitch inside you. You clenched around him just to hear the sound he made—half groan, half curse.
“Pretty girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His eyes were glassy. Unfocused. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty—”
Your whole body shivered at the name.
“Say it again,” you whispered, breathless.
He kissed you. Nipped at your bottom lip. Then, rougher: “You’re so fucking pretty, baby. You’re unreal.”
That did it—you pushed at his chest, forcing him back into the couch cushions, and began to ride him again. Faster. Deeper. His hands gripped your ass, your thighs, your waist—wherever he could hold you steady—and he let you take control for a moment, let you ruin him.
“Gumi,” you moaned, voice pitchy now. “You’re so deep—I can feel you everywhere—”
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He grabbed your hips and flipped you before you could blink, laying you out flat across the couch cushions. Your legs parted instinctively and he slid back in with a broken groan, arms caging you in, head bowed over your shoulder as he thrust deep—really thrust now. Controlled at first, but strong. Heavy. The slap of skin meeting skin filling the dark room as you took all of him, over and over again.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, head tilting back, body arching. “Gumi—fuck—you’re—”
“I know,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple as he buried himself to the hilt. “I know, baby.”
His mouth trailed across your jaw, your neck, sucking marks into the skin before pulling back to look down at you—your makeup a little smudged, lips parted, chest heaving.
“You’re unreal,” he said again, voice deeper now, like gravel laced with awe. “My pretty fucking girl.”
His thrusts picked up again—harder, faster, the kind of rhythm that had your legs shaking and your back arching into him. Your moans grew louder, ragged, and when his fingers dropped down between your legs again, circling your clit with messy, desperate pressure, you gasped so loud it echoed off the walls.
“F-fuck, Gumi—don’t stop—”
“I want you to cum first,” he murmured, his voice tight, almost pained. “Please. I need to feel you cum.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”
“You can do it,” he said, his hand never slowing. “Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”
You clenched around him, legs locking around his waist as the pleasure crested—hot and deep and overwhelming. You came with a sharp cry, shaking beneath him, your nails dragging down his back as your orgasm shattered through you like a wave.
“Megumi—!”
He followed right after, gasping as he slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the base. You could feel him pulsing inside you, warmth spreading deep as his whole body tensed, then collapsed over yours in a breathless heap.
“Fuck…” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “Fuck.”
You wrapped your arms around his back, still trembling, your body soaked with sweat, your pulse a wild thrum in your chest.
For a long, long moment, you just lay there, tangled in each other, still connected, still catching your breath.
Eventually, he kissed your temple.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded slowly. “Better than okay.”
You turned your head and looked up at him, all flushed and wrecked, his lips pink, eyes heavy-lidded and soft.
“…You know you’re stuck with me now, right?” you said, voice low, a little smug.
He blinked down at you, dazed and smiling. “Good,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. “Because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
You smirked up at him, eyes gleaming. “Guess what, Gumi?”
He raised a brow, still breathless. “What?”
You grinned. “You’re not a virgin anymore.”
He blinked. Then rolled his eyes with the most offended expression. “Wow. So romantic.”
You laughed, nudging his chest. “I’m just saying—it’s official now.”
“Yeah, and you’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
He tried to scowl, but the soft curve tugging at his lips betrayed him. “…Shut up.”
You leaned up, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Never.”
He groaned dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “God help me.”
But he was smiling. So were you. Megumi walked slow, hoodie unzipped, the morning breeze cutting through the damp weight of his thoughts. He hadn’t slept much.
Not because you kept him up—though, god, the memory of your body under his hands, the way you said his name, how your lips had tasted like fire and sugar and something he knew would ruin him forever—that didn’t exactly help.
No. It was more than that. It was you. It was the softness.
The way you looked at him when you thought he didn’t notice. The way your voice lost its bite when you touched his face. The way you called him baby, like he meant something.
Like he was yours. He’d never had something like that before. Not with Miwa. Not with anyone. So now, walking across campus with the sky still gray from last night’s storm, he was thinking. Planning. Something stupid. Something soft.
A picnic. Flowers. Maybe a question about the dance—nothing cheesy, just… something real. Honest. You deserved honesty. And maybe, maybe you’d say yes.
He spotted Nobara by the vending machine, squatting like she was about to fight it.
“Yo,” he called, hands in his hoodie pocket.
She turned, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what.”
“Like you just got laid and then went to therapy.”
Megumi coughed, looking away. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god.” Nobara straightened, grinning. “You did.”
He didn’t answer.
She laughed. “Finally. Thought I was gonna have to break the tension with a crowbar.”
He ignored her, kicking at a stone. “Hey.”
“What.”
“…Do you know if she’s going to the dance?”
Nobara blinked. “Who?”
He gave her a look. She raised a brow. “Oh. Right. Her.”
Megumi waited. Quiet. Hope tucked under his sleeve like a heartbeat.
Nobara sighed. Looked away. “She’s not planning on it.”
His chest sank. “Oh.”
Silence. Then her voice came, a little softer. “You like her?”
He nodded once. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
Nobara saw it—how he looked like someone waiting for a building to fall. How he was still standing there, trying to hold up hope with both hands even though it was slipping.
“She told me she didn’t like you like that,” she said, careful. Not cruel. Not cutting.
Just honest.
Megumi blinked. “…When?”
“A while ago.” Nobara’s voice was low. “Before you started tutoring her again. Before all of this.”
He looked at the ground. His hands tightened into fists inside his pockets.
You said that. You said you didn’t like him. And now?
Now he was standing here, remembering the way you kissed him, the way you called him beautiful, the way you came around him like you wanted no one else—and it all started to feel like a dream.
Like he’d misread everything. Like he’d built something out of nothing.
“Maybe she changed her mind,” Nobara offered, but her voice wasn’t convincing. “You know how she is.”
Yeah. He did.
You were a hurricane. Reckless. Sharp. Terrified of feeling too much, and even more terrified of being seen.
And maybe… maybe he let himself believe you saw him too.
But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you didn’t want to. Megumi exhaled, his chest tight.
“Thanks,” he said, voice flat.
Nobara opened her mouth, but he was already walking away. And the wind picked up again—colder this time. Like the storm wasn’t really over.
"Going to see my sister. Things got worse. I’ll be gone for a while."
Three days.
That’s how long it had been since you’d seen Megumi.
Not that you were counting. Obviously.
It’s not like you checked your phone like an insane person the second you woke up. Or reread his last text five times before class started.
It had landed like a rock in your chest. Not the message itself—just the simple way he said it. Like it didn’t kill him to write it. Like it wasn’t tearing him apart.
And he didn’t even say when he’d be back.
So you’d done what you were best at: pretending none of it mattered.
You went to school. You wore the shortest skirt in your closet. You handed in a pop quiz without crying over it. You even laughed at something Nobara said in chemistry without faking it.
Maybe that was the worst part. You were doing fine. Too fine.
You were perched on one of the picnic tables outside the school building, your platform heels kicked up on the bench, iced coffee in hand. The sun was warm, the sky blue, and your hair was freshly styled in waves that would make a shampoo ad weep.
You looked every inch the untouchable bitch.
But your chest ached in that quiet, hollow way.
“I swear to god,” Nobara groaned beside you, flopping down on the table with a dramatic sigh. “If one more boy breathes near me with Axe body spray on, I’m pressing charges.”
You snorted, sipping your drink. “Just bring a lighter. One flick and the entire boy's hallway will go up like a Christmas tree.”
Nobara pointed at you. “That’s why I love you.”
You smirked, then turned your head slightly, scanning the crowd near the school entrance. Your heart did that dumb thing again. Hopeful. Stupid.
But he wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t.
Still. You asked, too casual. “Did you hear anything about Megumi?”
Nobara glanced at you, eyes narrowing just a little. “Nope. He texted Gojo, said he’s still out of town. Visiting his sister.”
“Oh.” You blinked down at your cup. “Right.”
Nobara let the silence hang for a beat, then elbowed you. “Anyway. Who cares about that—guess who I saw making out behind the gym?”
You leaned in, grateful for the distraction. “Tell me it was that weird art kid with the septum ring.”
“Worse. Fucking Haruna and that guy from the volleyball team.”
Your jaw dropped. “The one who eats chalk?”
“Yes, bitch!”
“Ew—what in the powder kinks is going on?!”
You both burst into laughter, the kind that made you feel weightless, for a second. The kind that made you forget there was an empty desk in third period with Megumi’s name on it.
And then Nobara leaned back on her palms, hair shining under the sun. “Are you okay, though? Like, actually?”
You raised a brow, defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She gave you a look. “Because your little emo virgin isn’t here, and you’ve been acting like that’s normal.”
You scoffed. “He’s not mine, Nobara.”
“Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “Tell your heart that.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re annoying.”
She smiled. “You’re lonely.”
You hated how that landed.
You hated how the air felt heavier again. Like the second you stopped pretending, the silence filled back in.
Because the truth was—yes, you’d been doing fine. You’d been acing quizzes. You hadn’t picked a fight with anyone all week. You hadn’t cried, or screamed, or done something unhinged to distract yourself.
But you missed him.
The silence wasn’t the same without his sarcasm. The walks through campus felt longer without him beside you. You’d even caught yourself reaching for your phone during study hall, ready to text something snarky before remembering—
He wasn’t here.
And you didn’t know when he’d be back.
You sighed, collapsing back on the table beside Nobara and covering your face with your hands.
“I hate this.”
“What, feelings?”
“Yes. Emotions. Vulnerability. All of it.”
She cackled. “You’re such a brat.”
You peeked between your fingers. “Do you think he’s okay?”
Nobara grew quiet, more serious this time. “I think he’s strong. And I think he’ll come back.”
You nodded.
“I just…” you trailed off. “I hope he doesn’t come back different.”
Nobara tilted her head. “You mean like you did?” You didn’t answer. Because she was right. You had changed. And the worst part? It was because of him. And he wasn’t even here to see it.
You were walking down the hall like you owned it.
Because you did. Your skirt was short, your blouse perfectly pressed, and your gloss was fresh—mirror-checked and lethal. The heels clacked with just enough bite to announce your presence before anyone had the nerve to look up. Students scattered instinctively as you passed, like you were the final boss of the east wing. You liked it that way. But your phone had no new texts. No new messages. Still no him.
You’d waited all morning. Pretended not to glance at the school gates. Pretended you didn’t notice the empty space where he usually stood during break. Pretended you didn’t hesitate outside the chem lab he always passed on his way to third period.
You hated that he wasn’t there. You hated that you cared. But today, at least, you looked perfect while doing it.
You smirked to yourself as you walked, swaying your hips on purpose. If he was back and trying to avoid you, fine. Let him suffer. Let him see what he’s missing.
Your locker door slammed shut behind you with a sharp clack, and you turned down the hall like nothing was wrong, like you weren’t still aching a little behind the eyes.
You were halfway to class, halfway through adjusting your sleeve— And then it happened.
You didn’t scream when the hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside.
You didn’t need to.
You knew it was him.
The closet door slammed shut behind you, a jolt of darkness swallowing the soft light from the hallway. You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the wall, and then—
“Megumi—?” He didn’t answer.
His mouth was already on your neck, warm and hungry, breath rough as he kissed down the side of your throat like he couldn’t get enough. Like he’d been starved.
Your bag slipped from your shoulder and hit the ground. Your hand flew up to clutch at his shirt. “You’re—fuck—”
He pressed into you harder, body flush with yours, teeth scraping gently at your pulse point. His hands gripped your hips, fingers tight, dragging you forward like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.
You gasped as his thigh slotted between yours.
“You’re back,” you whispered, breath hitching. “You didn’t even say—”
“I know.” His voice was low, hoarse. “Didn’t want to talk.”
You opened your mouth, but then he kissed you—kissed you—like he couldn’t breathe unless your lips were on his. Tongue sliding hot and deep into your mouth, lips messy, desperate. Your knees went weak.
You’d missed him.
More than you realized.
You grabbed the collar of his uniform and yanked him closer, kissing him back with just as much fire. You could feel it in his body—the way he trembled against you, how hard he already was beneath his pants. You ground into him shamelessly.
“I missed you,” you said between kisses, your voice breathless. “Fuck—I was so mad—where were you—?”
“Thinking about you,” he muttered, dragging your shirt up, his mouth trailing lower again. “Every fucking day.”
You gasped as his hand slid down the front of your skirt, fingers quick and practiced despite the trembling. You grabbed at his hair, fisting it hard enough to make him groan.
“You couldn’t text?” you snapped, even as your legs parted for him. “You just show up and pull me into a closet like—”
“I’ve been losing my mind,” he growled, dragging your panties to the side. “You have no idea what it did to me—leaving you.”
Your head hit the wall. His fingers slipped between your folds, slow and teasing, and your breath left you in a moan.
“Gumi—”
“I kept thinking about you,” he muttered against your collarbone. “That mouth. That attitude. That fucking pussy.”
“Shut up,” you gasped, bucking into his hand.
“You want me to?” He curled two fingers inside you. “Or do you want me to bend you over right here and fuck you until you forget how to speak?”
You let out a broken whimper, hips rocking against him. “You can’t say that—”
“I will say that,” he said, voice sharp now, cocky in a way that made your stomach drop. “You think I haven’t been thinking about bending you over every surface in this school since the last time?” You moaned as his thumb rubbed circles against your clit. Your hands clawed at his back. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah?” he grinned, finally tugging your panties down your thighs. “Still soaked for me.” Your skirt was bunched around your waist. He turned you before you could blink, one hand pressing hard between your shoulder blades to bend you over the low shelving behind you.
“Gumi—wait—” you started, but your voice broke as you felt his cock slide along your slit, thick and hot and already slick from your arousal.
“I’ve wanted this,” he said, grinding against you, not pushing in yet. “Wanted to take you from behind like this—just rip your attitude out of your throat. Hear what you sound like when you’re begging.”
“God, you’re such a little shit when you’re horny,” you gasped.
“And you love it,” he bit back. “Don’t lie.”
Then he pushed in—slow at first, then hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. You choked out a cry, gripping the shelf so hard your knuckles went white.
“Fuck—Megumi—”
He groaned low in his throat. “This pussy,” he hissed. “God, I missed this.”
He didn’t give you time to adjust. His thrusts started fast, deliberate—hips snapping against yours as the slap of skin echoed in the tiny closet. His hand gripped your waist, the other in your hair, pulling your head back so he could whisper filth into your ear.
“You feel even better than I remembered,” he growled. “So wet for me. So fucking tight. You let anyone else fuck you while I was gone?”
Your brain short-circuited. “What?”
“Answer me,” he said, thrusting harder. “Anyone else touch you?”
“No,” you gasped. “Of course not.”
“Good,” he grunted. “Because this pussy’s mine.”
You whimpered. “Say it again.”
He slammed into you deeper, and you could feel him hit that perfect spot—over and over. “You’re mine,” he said, panting. “My girl. My pretty little brat. Say it.” You were already falling apart.
“Yours,” you moaned. “Fuck—Gumi—I’m yours—”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours,” you cried, voice shaking. “All fucking yours—!”
His hand slid down, rubbing your clit again with messy, brutal circles, and you were already so close—hips stuttering, moans turning into high, broken whines. “I want you to cum for me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Make a mess all over my cock. I’ve been dreaming about this—about fucking you stupid.”
You nodded frantically, your whole body twitching as you chased it, falling over the edge like it had been waiting for you all week. You came hard, clenching around him, crying out his name as your knees gave out. He caught you with one arm and kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release.
“Fuck—you’re so perfect—so mine—”
You felt his cock twitch, and then he buried himself deep, groaning loud as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking behind you, his breath hot on your neck. For a few long moments, the only sound was your panting, the heavy beat of your hearts in sync. He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed there, hands on your hips, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his chest rising against your back.
Finally, you muttered, voice still wrecked: “You’re the worst welcome committee ever.”
Megumi laughed—soft, breathless, a little smug. “You missed me.”
You rolled your eyes, still panting. “Shut up.”
But your smile said otherwise. And his hand didn’t stop holding you. Not even when you turned around, leaned into him, and kissed him slow, like nothing else mattered. Because for once—it didn’t. The world had gone still.
You leaned weakly against the shelf, your skirt wrinkled, your knees barely steady, your heart still thudding somewhere near your throat. The air in the storage closet was thick with heat and the fading scent of sex.
And Megumi… Megumi was kneeling in front of you. Quiet. Focused.
His fingers were careful as he smoothed your underwear back into place, tugging the fabric up your thighs without meeting your eyes at first. You flinched instinctively—out of habit more than discomfort—but he didn’t stop. He didn’t tease. He just… looked up and adjusted the hem of your skirt with both hands, like it was normal. Like you were delicate.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
“Are you always like this after?” you asked, trying to sound smug but your voice cracked a little—too soft, too curious.
He stood, brushing hair from your face. “Like what?”
“Nice.”
He blinked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You shrugged. “Just… not used to it.”
Megumi looked at you for a second, eyes calm, unreadable. Then he reached up again, fingers ghosting through your hair, gently combing it back into place. You stared at him, thrown off by how domestic it felt. How natural.
“I missed a strand,” he muttered absently, flicking a tangle aside.
“You’re such a dork,” you whispered, but your voice was soft. Like you didn’t want him to stop. He finally stepped back, hands falling to his sides, and for a moment the silence stretched between you—thick with something unsaid.
“When did you get back?” you asked, quieter now. Like if you spoke too loud, the moment might break.
“This morning,” he said simply. “Didn’t want to go home. So I came to school.”
You nodded. Tried to think of something clever, something flippant, but nothing came. Instead, you just leaned back against the wall again and exhaled.
And then, after a long, aching beat— “…I missed you.”
His gaze softened instantly. “I missed you too.”
You looked at each other, not smiling, not joking. Just seeing one another. But then—
“I asked Miwa to the dance.”
parts, chapter 05
notes, I need to know what ya'll think so make sure to comment, ik i don't reply but i am reading ALL of them and im filled with love for each and one of you.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝ synopsis: you loved him once. then he ghosted you. now, years later, he's standing on your porch like he never broke your heart. but you still feel everything.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝ content: 12.5k, romance, heartbreak, mentions of burnout, past love, college sweethearts, angst, hurt, comfort
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝ author's note: this is my little surprise for reaching 100 followers on tumblr! it's sad, fluffy and emotional - enjoy <3
let me know if you guys liked it and i'll publish part two!
The front steps creak beneath your weight as you drop your bag down, the leather thunking against the old wood like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn’t mean to write.
You pause there, one hand still gripping the rusted railing, as that familiar coastal wind sweeps up the porch—sharp with sea salt, softened by the sweet tang of sunscreen and the heavy perfume of overgrown hydrangeas that bloom like gossip around the gate.
It’s a scent that doesn’t just hang in the air, it wraps around your skin and memory like a silk scarf left behind in someone else’s car. The kind of scent that belongs to a very specific kind of summer.
The house, well, your mother’s infamous beach house, though she always referred to it as “the place”, sits quiet and stubborn as ever, perched at the edge of the dunes like it’s been waiting for you.
It’s aged, but not tired, the way old debutantes age: white shiplap faded gently into a sea-washed gray, powder-blue shutters blinking sleepily in the afternoon light, their paint peeling just enough to feel nostalgic instead of negligent. The porch swing still hangs by its bleached ropes, sagging a little more now, cushion flattened into memory foam by teenage limbs and late-night phone calls you pretended weren’t about boys.
This place smells like sun-warmed wood and old pages and something faintly medicinal that always clung to your mother’s linen drawers. It smells like every version of you that’s ever existed.
Inside, almost nothing’s changed.
The same woven rug sprawls inside the door, too rough against bare feet, too familiar to replace. The same ceramic turtle crouches beside it with his dopey painted smile, chipped on the shell where you dropped him during a tantrum in eighth grade—something about a missed sleepover and your mom saying no in that infuriatingly calm voice that meant it wasn’t up for negotiation.
On the narrow table in the entryway, tucked beside a bowl of half-melted seashell candles, is the same frame. Whitewashed driftwood, corners worn soft, still holding that photo of you from the summer you were ten.
In it, your arms are wrapped around a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, your eyes squinting against the sun, your hair stuck to your forehead. You’d named him Charlie. Begged for him all June. Got your wish in July. Sent him back to the breeder in August when your mother said she “wasn’t made for full-time pets.”
You cried for a week. You still think about him every time you see a dog like that.
But the difference now?
You’re here alone.
Well, alone-ish.
The invitation—or rather, the politely guised suggestion—came from your mother in one of her characteristically breezy, emotionally evasive phone calls.
“Take the house for a bit,” she’d said, her voice full of the crisp detachment of someone who believes that problems can be solved with ocean air and pressed juice.
“To rest,” she’d added, as if rest was a thing you could uncap and pour over your shoulders like after-sun lotion. “You’ve been working too hard. Burning the candle at both ends.”
She’d said it like burnout was an aesthetic choice.
Like peace could be found at the bottom of a wine glass and not in the absence of an email inbox that never sleeps.
You'd said yes because saying no would have involved explaining why you didn’t want to go back. Not just to the house. But to that version of you.
Now you’re here, and the silence inside the house, apart from the slow tick of the wall clock and the distant wheeze of an old ceiling fan, is so complete that your heartbeat feels like an interruption. You drop your keys into the chipped ceramic bowl shaped like a hibiscus flower, its glaze spiderwebbed with age, and toe off your sandals. The floorboards are cool beneath your feet, familiar in their uneven rhythm.
A salty breeze slips through the open screen door and rustles the linen curtains like applause from some distant room you can’t quite access anymore.
And, for one traitorous moment, you let yourself think: Maybe this will be okay.
But then you hear it.
Laughter.
Not the abstract kind that wafts from strangers in the distance. This is close. Immediate. Warm and low, carried on the breeze with too much familiarity to be anonymous.
Your spine stiffens before your brain catches up.
Male. Carefree. Just this side of cocky.
Too familiar.
Your stomach drops like a stone tossed into the tide.
“Oh, no,” you mutter, already moving toward the porch again.
The sun stings your eyes as you step outside, hand lifted to shield your gaze as you squint across the narrow stretch of windblown dune grass and faded wood fencing that separates your property from the one next door. The grass is taller than you remember. The fence shorter. And just past it, right where the wild reeds part near the path to the beach, he’s there.
Of course he is.
Satoru Gojo.
Tall, barefoot, irritatingly relaxed in that way he’s always had, like someone who lives in the sweet spot between the world bending for him and him never needing to ask.
He’s wearing linen pants that hang loose and lived-in on his hips, and a white button-down that looks like it costs more than your rent, open just enough at the collar to hint at sun-kissed skin beneath. His sleeves are rolled up. His hair is windswept, gleaming silver and salt under the late-afternoon sun, and his sunglasses are pushed up into his hair like a crown.
He’s tossing a red squeaky lobster toy in easy arcs for—of course—a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, whose glossy copper coat shines like she’s just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. The dog yips, catches the toy midair, bounds around him like she’s in love with gravity itself.
And then he turns.
Spots you.
Grins like the goddamn sun.
“Hey,” he calls, too casually, as if this were inevitable. “You again.”
You blink. “Me again?”
He jogs the toy once in his hand and lets the spaniel snatch it back with a satisfied squeak. “You’re the one invading my peace.”
“Your peace?” you echo, arms crossing before your chest as your voice lifts into polite disbelief. “Pretty sure this is my family’s house.”
“Pretty sure you didn’t warn me you’d be this cute in sunlight,” he fires back without missing a beat, as if charm were currency and he’d never known debt.
The words hit you in the chest and cheeks at the same time, hot, unwelcome, but not unfamiliar.
Because, of course, you know Gojo.
You’ve known him for years, in the way people who orbit the same social circles do. Family friends of family friends. Weddings. Charity events. He was always the one at the end of the hall with a glass of something expensive and a comment that walked the knife’s edge between outrageous and annoyingly accurate.
You’d known him in sharp glimpses and long summers, too good-looking for his own good, too clever for yours.
The last time you saw him, you’d both been at some rooftop bar in Tokyo, and he’d leaned in close, grinning that maddening grin, and said something like, “If we were ever in the same place for more than five minutes, you’d fall for me.”
You’d rolled your eyes.
And then maybe thought about it later.
Now here he is again. On your porch. In your quiet. With that damn grin.
The dog barks once, its tail a metronome of approval.
You try not to smile.
Fail. A little.
He strolls toward you now, the dog at his heels, both of them moving like this lawn has always belonged to them.
“You’re house-sitting for your mom?” he asks, stopping at the porch steps, one hand braced lazily on the railing like it’s all part of a script he wrote.
You shrug, adjusting your stance like it might steady your pulse. “Something like that. She said the neighborhood was quiet.”
His smirk softens into something almost tender. “Only till I moved in.”
You glance down at his bare feet. His tan. That slouchy, ruinous charm that always feels like a dare.
He looks like the kind of man you only meet once and spend years inventing better versions of.
He looks like he belongs here.
And that’s the problem.
Because Satoru Gojo, the man in question, barefoot in expensive linen and looking like the human embodiment of a smug Instagram filter, is not supposed to belong here.
Not on your mom’s sleepy little cul-de-sac, not this close to your peace and quiet, and definitely not this tanned.
So you fold your arms and tilt your head in that way that usually scares off investment bros and Tinder dates with too much jawline confidence. “Okay, but seriously. What the hell are you doing here?”
His smile twitches. “What, not even a ‘nice to see you’?”
“Not until you explain why you’ve apparated into my beach exile like a preppy cryptid,” you deadpan. “Last I checked, you were the newly crowned corporate overlord of Gojo Holdings, terrorizing boardrooms and interns across Tokyo.”
He snorts. “Overlord?”
“I mean, CEO. But tomato, to-mah-to.”
That earns you a low whistle and a slow, impressed grin. “Oof. That sounded rehearsed.”
“Maybe it was,” you challenge him, arching a brow. “Maybe I practice in the mirror for moments just like this.”
He slips his sunglasses back down over his eyes, probably to shield himself from the nuclear-grade sarcasm. Or from the fact that you’re right.
“Well,” he grins, toeing at the edge of the bottom step. “Contrary to popular belief —and your excellent burn— I do know how to take a break. I took a sabbatical. Temporary, of course.”
You narrow your eyes.
“You don’t take sabbaticals,” you shoot back. “You take conference calls at 2 a.m. and fire people over sushi.”
“Wow,” he says, mock-offended. “Have you been stalking my calendar?”
“Please. If I wanted to stalk someone, I’d pick someone with less ego and more plausible deniability.”
His laughter is low, easy. Annoyingly charming. The kind of laugh you can feel in your stomach even when you reallydon’t want to.
But you keep going, like a freight train of petty. “So, let me get this straight. You, walking headline, just happened to show up next door to my mom’s beach house for a little R&R?”
He stretches his arms behind his head, shamelessly. “Not everything’s a conspiracy theory. Sometimes I just like the sound of the ocean.”
You squint at him. “Bullshit.”
His smile flickers, like you’ve hit a nerve. And that’s when he says it, more casual than it should be.
“The board and I had a... let’s say, difference of opinion.”
You raise both eyebrows. “Did this difference involve yelling, threats of legal action, and you dramatically walking out with your sunglasses already on?”
“Maybe,” he grins, smug.
You roll your eyes. “God, you’re exhausting.”
“And yet here you are, talking to me on your porch instead of slamming the door.”
“Tempting,” you mutter.
He grins. “Three-month leave. Unpaid. Voluntary, technically.”
“Voluntary like a hostage situation?”
He shrugs again, but this time it’s looser, weightier. Like something in the space between his shoulder blades has finally cracked under pressure.
“They wanted a figurehead,” he tells you, softer now. “I wanted to rip the mold apart and build something that didn’t suck the soul out of everyone it touched.”
You pause.
Because beneath all the arrogance, there’s the same restless heat you remember. The same streak of recklessness that always ran just under his skin, like lightning waiting for somewhere to strike.
And maybe that’s the part that gets you.
Because if anyone knows what it means to walk away from something that looks perfect on paper, it’s you.
“So,” you continue slowly, arms still folded. “Let me get this straight. You got bored of being Tokyo’s favorite capitalist nightmare and decided to tan in linen pants while throwing lobster squeak toys with a dog that looks like she owns a line of organic shampoos?”
He glances down at the spaniel sitting obediently beside him, tongue lolling.
“Her name’s Miso.”
You blink. “You named your dog after soup.”
“It’s cute and comforting. Like me.”
You stare at him. “You’re not cute.”
He smiles, teeth and trouble. “You used to think I was.”
You try not to react.
You really do.
But the flush crawling up your neck is the kind of betrayal your sarcasm can’t cover.
So instead, you gesture vaguely toward the house. “Right. Well. I came here to be alone, so if you and your soup dog could maybe tone down the charm offensive—”
“Offensive?” he interrupts, mock-wounded. “Is that what we’re calling chemistry now?”
You fix him with your best unimpressed glare. “Pretty sure what we had was called a mistake.”
His gaze lingers on you a beat too long.
And then: “Yeah,” he says quietly. “But it was a good one.”
You don’t answer.
You just turn on your heel and disappear back inside before the porch starts feeling like quicksand.
But even as you shut the door, you swear you can still hear it:
The faint sound of Miso’s squeaky toy.
And the way Gojo Satoru says your name like it’s something that still matters.
By sunset, the house feels too quiet.
You try to make peace with it, pour yourself a glass of whatever your mom left behind (a buttery Chardonnay, of course), pad barefoot across the creaky floorboards, and plant yourself on the porch swing like it doesn’t still have your name carved into the underside in messy, hormonal eighth-grade script.
You swing gently, wine glass resting on your thigh, eyes fixed on the horizon as if the ocean might offer some cosmic answer.
Or at least distract you from the fact that Gojo Satoru is next door, barefoot, tanned, possibly shirtless by now, and allegedly on sabbatical from being the cockiest CEO Tokyo has ever reluctantly admired.
The sky melts into shades of apricot and mauve, the kind of palette you’d kill to capture in oil paint if you still did that. If you still had that version of yourself.
Instead, you sip wine and pretend you don’t notice the shadow moving across the edge of your vision.
You don’t look.
You absolutely don’t look.
You definitely don’t—
“I brought an offering,” says Gojo’s voice, somewhere to your right.
You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Like the ghost of a Victorian woman mourning the loss of silence.
“I thought the dog was the offering,” you mutter, still not looking at him.
“Miso is offended. She wants you to know she’s far too good for bartering.”
“I’m honored,” you deadpan, finally turning your head.
He’s holding two beers. One of them is sweating in the golden light, already opened, clearly meant for you.
You eye it suspiciously. “What if I don’t drink beer?”
He lifts a brow. “You drank half a bottle of wine and told the porch swing it ‘wasn’t emotionally available enough.’ I think you’re past pretending to be picky.”
You narrow your eyes. “You were eavesdropping?”
He shrugs. “You were monologuing.”
“… Touché.”
You accept the beer with a grunt, scooting a few inches over on the swing. Not enough to invite him, exactly. Just… making room for the tension to sit somewhere that isn’t in your chest.
But he takes it as an invitation anyway and drops down beside you with a sigh that’s irritatingly content.
You sit like that for a while.
Sipping.
Swinging.
Saying nothing.
The breeze picks up. Somewhere down, a wind chime sings its glassy song. The first stars begin to surface, faint and far away.
And still, he says nothing.
Which, honestly, is worse.
“Gojo,” you start finally, unable to take the silence. “Are you gonna give me the full story, or are you just here to haunt my summer like a shirtless corporate poltergeist?”
He laughs. Quiet, this time.
Then, after a pause: “I was supposed to propose.”
You turn your head so fast it nearly snaps. “To who?”
He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Relax. No one you’ve met. And it didn’t happen.”
“…What stopped you?”
His smile fades a little. Not completely, just enough to remind you there’s a person under all that charm.
“I got to the dinner,” he says. “Sat down. Ordered the wine. Reached into my jacket pocket for the ring.” A pause. “And realized I couldn’t do it.”
You blink. “You forgot the ring?”
“No.” He looks down at his beer, rolling the bottle between his palms. “I looked across the table and realized I didn’t want to give it to her.”
You stare at him.
Not because he’s being dramatic, but because he’s not.
And suddenly the tan, the linen, the sabbatical? All of it makes sense.
You sigh. “So you torched your engagement and your job in the same week.”
He tips the beer toward you in a mock-toast. “Efficiency.”
You clink bottles. “You’re an idiot.”
“You always said that,” he murmurs, and your stomach gives a little kick.
“Yeah, well.” You look out toward the water again. “Some people grow out of being disasters. Some people double down.”
“And which am I?”
You exhale. “Ask me when the beer’s gone.”
He smiles again, but this time there’s a softness to it. Something quieter. Realer.
The swing creaks as it sways gently beneath you, and Gojo leans back, one arm thrown across the backrest, not touching you, but close enough that your skin buzzes like it’s reading too much into things.
You hate how comfortable it feels. How familiar.
Because the truth is, you’ve always known Gojo Satoru.
Long before he became “the CEO of Gojo Holdings,” before the headlines, before the dog with the ribbon and the tan and the goddamn linen pants.
Back when you were nineteen, and he sat behind you in that painfully boring ethics seminar.
When he made up imaginary text messages to get you both out of class. When he kissed you one night at the vending machine outside your dorm and said, “This is probably a bad idea,” right before doing it again.
When he ghosted you for a year.
When he came back and said, “I wasn’t ready. I might never be.”
When you promised yourself you’d never make that mistake again.
And now here he is.
Not in a bar or a boardroom or some reunion you could easily leave.
But next door.
At sunset.
With beer and that damn dog and a smile you used to believe in.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs.
You roll your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“Probably,” he hums. “But I’m also right.”
You look down at your bottle. The label’s peeling.
“So,” you drag the word. “What happens now?”
He leans back, stretching his legs, gaze lifted to the deepening stars. “I was kind of hoping you’d fall asleep on my shoulder again.”
You choke on your beer.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what happened last time,” he says, casually. “Back in college. Under that awful cherry blossom tree. You fell asleep. I didn’t move for two hours.”
You scowl. “You told me you left because you had a shift.”
“I lied.”
You blink.
He turns to you, his cerulean eyes suddenly bright in the dark, no sunglasses, no smirk.
“Didn’t want to wake you.”
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
And then: “You’re still an idiot.”
But you don’t move away.
You stay exactly where you are.
Letting the swing sway.
Letting the ocean breathe.
Letting the past become something more complicated than regret.
And when your head eventually tips sideways, resting—accidentally, definitely not on purpose—against his shoulder, he just exhales.
Soft.
Careful.
And says, “Told you.”
Later, after the swing stops creaking and your beer’s gone warm beside your bare ankle, you say the five words you’ll probably regret until next morning.
“Wanna walk down the beach?”
You say it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t feel like a pulse between your ribs. Like it’s not 10:47 PM and your heart isn’t behaving like it’s 19 again.
Gojo doesn’t answer with words. Just tilts his head like you’ve said something obvious and rises, barefoot and quiet, offering a hand that you do not take. You walk past him instead, stepping down from the porch with that practiced nonchalance you’ve weaponized since high school.
The sand is cool, still warm in patches where the sun baked it for hours. The moonlight is silver and clean, the air thick with salt and the faint scent of plumeria from someone’s overwatered garden.
You walk in silence for a while, just the two of you and Miso—the absurdly fluffy Cavalier—who bounds ahead like she’s scoring a Nancy Meyers soundtrack in real time.
Gojo, to his credit, keeps pace a few steps beside you. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him. Far enough not to press.
“Does she always have that much main character energy?” you finally ask, nodding toward the dog, who’s currently flopping belly-up in a dramatic sprawl of sand and moonlight.
“She’s a Sagittarius.”
You snort. “You did not just say that like it explains everything.”
“It does,” he argues, dead serious. “Loud, dramatic, emotionally reckless with a deep need to be adored?”
You arch a brow. “Sounds familiar.”
He grins. “She and I have the same birthday.”
You blink. “You’re joking.”
“I would never lie about astrology.”
You glance sideways at him, trying not to notice how moonlight makes his jaw look like it belongs in a perfume ad. “You used to lie about everything. Especially anything sentimental.”
“I’ve changed.”
“You say that like I’m supposed to just believe you.”
He’s quiet a beat too long.
And then: “I didn’t come here to make you believe anything.”
You slow a little.
Miso darts into the waves, barking like she’s confronting a personal betrayal. You stop just at the tide line, arms folding reflexively as the ocean brushes near your feet.
Gojo stops beside you.
The breeze lifts his hair. He doesn’t speak again until the waves hush low enough for you to hear the real quiet between you.
“I came because I didn’t know where else to go,” he adds softly.
You don’t look at him. But you hear it. That flicker of real. The chink in the Gojo armor.
“I didn’t want Tokyo,” he continues. “Didn’t want the board. Didn’t want the goddamn apartment that looks like an Apple Store. Didn’t want the calendar reminders for when to sleep.”
You laugh, dry and quiet. “So naturally, you picked the one place I couldn’t avoid you.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, seriously.” His voice shifts, lighter, but earnest. “Your mom told me the place would be empty. I ran into her at some ridiculous charity function. She was wearing a scarf made entirely of orchids and told me to ‘come breathe for a while.’ I think she thought I was having a nervous breakdown.”
“…Were you?”
He hesitates. “Not officially.”
You finally glance at him.
He’s not smiling anymore.
You both stand there, ankles damp, the horizon curling into shadow like a secret neither of you wants to name.
And in the moonlight, he’s not the CEO.
He’s not the boy who ghosted you. Not even the idiot who brought a beer as an apology for breaking your heart with silence.
He’s just Satoru.
Hands in his pockets.
Hair blowing in the wind like it’s been waiting to fall apart.
And, god help you, you feel your chest crack open like a badly patched window.
“You could’ve called,” you say, and it’s quieter than you meant it to be.
He nods. “I wanted to. So many times.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He takes a breath. Then another.
“I didn’t think I’d know how to talk to you without wanting more.”
That hangs between you. Ugly. Beautiful. Honest.
You swallow.
The ocean presses against your feet, then pulls away again, like it, too, doesn’t know how to stay.
Miso flops dramatically into the sand beside you both, exhausted from her own emotional subplots. You reach down and scratch behind her ears, giving yourself something—anything—to do that isn’t fall apart under his eyes.
“So what now?” you murmur.
Gojo steps closer. Just slightly.
“I don’t know.”
You turn to face him fully now. The distance is measured in inches. Heartbeats.
He looks down at you like he wants to memorize something. Not your face, exactly. Something under it.
“I don’t expect anything,” he tells you. “I just— I wanted to be near the version of me who used to be okay. And he only ever showed up around you.”
It hits harder than you want it to. Because you remember that version of him.
You remember the jokes, the pranks, the late nights, the shared earbuds, the way he looked at you like you were something he’d found and couldn’t believe he was allowed to keep.
You remember wanting to believe it.
You remember what it felt like when he left.
“I’m not your sanctuary, Satoru.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not here to fix you.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Good.” You exhale, stepping away from him just enough to steady yourself. “Because I don’t trust you.”
He nods, accepting it. No flinch. No charm.
But then: “Do you miss me?”
You laugh. Bitter, brittle. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” he says again.
And then, softer: “But I missed you. And I’m not leaving yet.”
You watch him.
The breeze shifts again. Your arms are cold.
He shrugs out of his linen button-down, wordless, and drapes it around your shoulders like it’s nothing. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.
He hasn’t.
You don’t give it back.
And you don’t say thank you.
You just start walking again.
And this time, he walks beside you, silent, respectful, annoyingly golden in the moonlight.
Like maybe he understands that some forgiveness isn’t verbal.
It’s just staying. Quietly.
Even when you have every reason to leave.
It's way past your usual sleep time, but you’re back in bed. The heat won’t let you sleep. Even with all the windows thrown open wide, even with the ceiling fan slicing the thick, sticky air into lazy ribbons that barely move, even with one leg kicked out from under the sheet like some sacrificial limb, it’s still too damn hot.
Your skin feels like it’s remembering a sun you never even laid under today, the dampness at your roots clinging to your scalp, and your tank top—useless, threadbare—is doing nothing to keep you cool.
And of course, Satoru Gojo is next door. Not helping. Not even a little. Because it’s not just the weather’s heat making you restless.
It’s the heat of his laugh, that impossible smile, the way his sun-stupid white hair catches the moonlight just right, and that voice—yeah, that same voice that used to make your spine go weak in lecture halls and back stairwells and on that one couch in the library basement you were definitely not supposed to be making out on.
You roll over. The pillow’s no cooler on this side, and the room smells like old salt and clean linen. Your brain, though? Total bitch. It drags you back to that one certain night.
College, sophomore year, late October, when the campus was painted in yellow leaves and the cold bit into your lungs with every breath. You’d just bombed a midterm you were sure you aced—or at least almost aced—and there you were, crying quietly in the hallway outside the economics building. Not the kind of sobs that draw attention, but the kind that shrinks you down so small you feel like you might disappear.
You couldn’t even explain it to your friends without sounding like a total drama queen, so you kept it to yourself.
Then, like a storm you never saw coming, Gojo showed up. White hair slicked back messily with a headband, black hoodie half-zipped, iced coffee in hand as if the cold outside didn’t matter one bit.
And that smile, the one that made girls trip over their own boots.
“You look like you’re about to commit tax fraud,” he greeted you, cocking his head like he was part devil and part angel. “Need an alibi?”
You hadn’t even looked at him. “I need you to go away.”
“Rude,” he huffed, sitting down beside you on the cold stone steps like he owned your emotional meltdown. Your knee brushed his, and suddenly that little physical connection felt like a lifeline.
“You failed something, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t fail it,” you snapped. “I just didn’t ace it, which apparently means I’m now a disappointment to my entire bloodline.”
He handed you his iced coffee without a word, and you took it, trying not to scowl as you sipped the weird lavender oat milk concoction that tasted like dirt and perfume.
“Disgusting,” you muttered.
He grinned. “Right? I get it every week just to remember what regret tastes like.”
You wanted to stay mad, really you did, but he started talking, about his own test, about filling in Scantron bubbles in a pattern that spelled “BOOBS” just to make the TA laugh, about how grades didn’t mean much when you were already the heir to Gojo Holdings and everyone expected you to be brilliant even if you flunked out, about how he hated the pressure to be exceptional.
Maybe it was the softness in his voice.
Maybe it was that he didn’t touch you or try to fix you, didn’t offer some magic solution—he just sat there, warm and solid and obnoxiously kind.
And somehow, you leaned your head onto his shoulder. Just for a minute. Just until your hands stopped shaking.
He shifted slightly so you could rest more comfortably. His hoodie smelled like citrus and laundry detergent, like safety. Like almost.
And then he said it. Quiet. Almost too quiet to register.
“I think I like you too much.”
Your heart stuttered. Because that was the first time he’d said anything real—not a joke, not a flirt, not some outrageous one-liner designed to get a rise. Just honest.
You lifted your head, looked at him, and his eyes were bluer than they had any right to be in that kind of dusk. For one reckless second, you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d kiss him. Maybe you’d let yourself believe in whatever this was between you, even if it came without a label and came with all the complications in the world.
But you didn’t kiss him. You stood up. Told him you had to go. And when you looked back—just once, from across the quad—he was still sitting there, holding your coffee, looking like he’d just lost something he didn’t even know he was trying to keep.
The house creaks softly around you, familiar and steady, and the waves keep folding over themselves outside, slow and patient.
Somewhere next door, Gojo is probably sleeping soundly, that ridiculous dog curled at his feet. You turn over again. This time, the pillow’s cooler—but your heart isn’t.
And that memory pulls you somewhere else.
You remember another afternoon, sticky and overwhelming, the kind of early spring day when the campus feels like a sauna and your brain is too fried to care.
You’d slipped away from back-to-back lectures you barely survived, ducking behind the student union to the vending machine nobody ever used, desperate for a cold, sweet Diet Coke, the one small act of rebellion against the stress and noise.
You stood there fumbling with your wallet, savoring the brief quiet, when Satoru appeared again, like some magnetic force you could never escape. He was leaning casually against the wall, his silver hair catching the light like a challenge. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you with that maddening grin, like he knew a secret you hadn’t figured out yet. You tried to keep your cool, telling yourself he was just being irritating as usual, but before you could move, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers warm and steady.
“I don’t do casual,” he said, voice low and serious, flipping your stomach like a rollercoaster. “Not with you.”
And then, without waiting for a reply, he leaned in and kissed you, soft, urgent, like he was trying to make up for lost time or prove something neither of you had the words for. It wasn’t rushed or careless. It was the kind of kiss that pulled the ground out from under you, left you dizzy and breathless in the quiet space behind that vending machine, surrounded by the hum of campus chatter and the faded smell of old books from the nearby library. His hand tightened on your wrist just enough to hold you there, grounded in a moment that felt impossibly fragile and fiercely real.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes locked on yours with a seriousness that made your chest ache, and all you could do was stand there, heart racing, wondering if you’d crossed some invisible line. Or if maybe this was the beginning of something you never dared hope for.
Still lying in the quiet dark of your mother’s beach house bedroom, the faint hum of cicadas outside mixing with the restless rhythm of the waves, the memory curls inside you like a bittersweet ache.
It wasn’t just the kiss itself, but everything it meant and everything you weren’t ready to admit: the way he saw you, like you mattered more than you’d ever allowed yourself to believe, and the way it shook the careful walls you’d built around your heart.
And maybe you thought that would be it. A moment, a lapse, a crack in the surface of whatever strange thing had always simmered between you. But it wasn’t.
Because it kept happening.
You didn’t mean to let it. Or maybe you did, and you just told yourself you didn’t, because wanting something too badly had always felt like weakness.
But after that kiss behind the vending machine, something shifted. Not loud, not obvious, just a subtle reorientation of gravity.
Suddenly, he was always near.
Always looking at you like he knew your next breath before you did. He’d brush your hand when you passed each other in the library stacks. He’d find you in crowded hallways and murmur something stupid and sharp against your ear, and your whole body would hum like you were standing too close to an open flame. He’d catch your gaze across lecture halls like the two of you were sharing a joke no one else could hear, and you’d roll your eyes, but your cheeks would burn and you’d know he saw it.
And then, more kisses. Behind closed doors, in shadowed corners, in places no one should ever have seen but never did—like the universe was conspiring to keep your secret safe.
Once, in the quiet hallway behind the fine arts building, you kissed him with your back pressed to the peeling paint of an old classroom door, his hands cupping your jaw like he thought you might disappear if he let go.
Another time, it was on the rooftop of the science wing, right before a thunderstorm, with the sky crackling above you and the wind tangling your hair and his laugh caught in your throat when he pulled you in by the belt loops of your jeans and said, “This is probably a bad idea,” right before doing it anyway. You kissed until it started to rain, warm and sharp, and you didn’t care if anyone saw.
But no one ever did. Because that was the rule. Unspoken but ironclad.
It was always behind something. Beneath something. Never in daylight. Never in public. Never where it could mean anything more than stolen time and bruised lips and breathless laughter shared between ghosts of who you were supposed to be.
And you told yourself it was fine. That you were fine. That it didn’t hurt to keep him like this—half-kept, half-hidden, like a flame cupped in your hands just to keep it from going out.
But something in him had already begun to fray.
You saw it in the way his jokes came slower. In the way his silences stretched longer. In the way he looked at you, sometimes, like he was trying to memorize you... or forget you. You couldn’t tell which.
And then one day, he just… wasn’t there.
You’d texted him. Nothing. Called. No answer. You even went to that vending machine spot—waited there, like a fool, like a hopeful, desperate idiot with a Diet Coke sweating in her palm and a thousand things unsaid crammed between her ribs.
He didn’t show. Not that day. Not the next. Not any day after.
He was gone. Clean and total, like a knife had been taken to your memory of him and carved out the present tense.
Gojo disappeared like he’d never been real at all.
A year passed.
Twelve long months where every piece of him you’d carried, his voice, his grin, the way he said your name when no one else could hear, turned into something sour and unfinished inside you. You told yourself you were over it. That people leave. That people grow up. That whatever you had wasn’t real. Couldn’t have been. Because real things don’t vanish. Real people don’t ghost you like that.
But on nights like this, when the air clings to your skin like memory, and the ceiling fan’s doing nothing but reminding you how still everything is, and the sea keeps sighing outside like it knows exactly what you lost… you think of him. Not like a wound. Not even like a wish.
More like a fact. A truth. A secret still burning beneath everything you never said.
You shift again, eyes shut tight. You can’t tell if it’s the heat or your own heartbeat keeping you awake, but your chest feels tight with something that wants to rise. Not tears. Not even anger. Just the ache of a door that was never closed properly.
And outside, he is somewhere next door. Probably asleep.
Like nothing ever happened.
The morning arrives like it’s apologizing for the night.
Soft sunlight spills over the faded deck wood, pooling at your bare feet. It’s cooler than it was a few hours ago—still warm, still summer, but not the oppressive, feverish heat of midnight. The breeze off the ocean is lazy and salt-sweet, threading through your hair as you sit cross-legged in one of the old wicker chairs your mom refuses to throw out. The cushion underneath you is lumpy and a little sun-bleached, but you’ve staked it as your territory for the upcoming weeks. Yours. Sanctuary.
You take a slow bite of your avocado toast, which you’ve baked in the oven like a fancy little gremlin because no one told you not to be dramatic with breakfast. It’s got lemon zest, chili flakes, and a smattering of crumbled feta because apparently the ocean air has turned you into someone who garnishes things before noon. You even dusted a little paprika on top. Paprika. Like you’re on a cooking show. Like the past isn’t still hanging around your collar like a too-heavy necklace.
Your book is cracked open on your lap, a battered paperback you’ve already read twice but picked up again anyway, because it’s safe. Predictable. It doesn’t kiss you behind vending machines or vanish for a year. It doesn’t have blue eyes or a laugh that can gut you with a single syllable. It’s just paper. And ink. And peace.
You manage to read the same paragraph four times without absorbing any of it.
Because he’s still next door.
You haven’t seen him yet, but you know he’s there. The silence is suspicious. Too quiet for someone like Satoru Gojo, who’s made an entire personality out of being un-ignorable. He’s probably still asleep. Or maybe he’s gone for a run, like he used to do in college when his brain wouldn’t shut up.
You remember him showing up to your 8 a.m. stats class in running shorts and sunglasses, still sweating, bragging about beating his own time and then promptly falling asleep during a lecture on chi-squared distributions.
You hated how much you noticed him back then.
You hate that you still do.
You shake it off—mentally swat at the thought like it’s a mosquito—and turn your face toward the sun instead, letting it paint you in warmth. The sound of the waves is steady and hypnotic, that slow, hush-hush rhythm you grew up with. It’s supposed to calm you down. Ground you. Remind you that the ocean doesn’t care about boys who leave or memories that won’t stay quiet.
You tell yourself you’re going to swim soon. Really swim. Maybe float. Maybe dunk your whole head under until you come up clean. Like a baptism, but angrier.
You’ve already got your swimsuit on under your sleep shirt. The good one, the black one with the high waist and dramatic scoop back that makes you feel like you’re starring in a moody indie film called Girl, Unraveling. You plan on walking down the beach barefoot with your sunglasses on and not looking at the house next door even once.
You're fine. You are so fine it’s practically suspicious.
And maybe if you keep saying that, you’ll start to believe it.
Your phone buzzes next to your plate, lighting up once. Just a calendar reminder. You ignore it. There’s nowhere you have to be. No one expecting you to perform productivity or pretend you’re thriving. This whole week is supposed to be about rest. Real rest. Deep rest. Nervous system reset kind of rest.
But rest is hard when ghosts keep knocking on your ribs.
You close the book, give up on pretending you’re reading. Pull your knees to your chest and let the breeze kiss the backs of your legs.
The day is quiet.
The toast is perfect.
The waves keep whispering things you don’t want to name.
And somewhere, inevitably, Gojo is going to step out onto his porch.
And you’re going to have to figure out how to look him in the face without showing every single thing he used to make you feel.
The towel is scratchy. The kind you only find in a beach house linen closet that hasn’t been updated since the early 2000s—sun-bleached, vaguely sand-scented, and questionably clean. But you sling it over your shoulder anyway, because you’re already committed. You’ve made the internal announcement: I am going swimming now. And even if the water is freezing or the tide’s moody or Gojo decides to do something annoying like exist within visual range again, you’re going.
The house is quiet as you walk back through it barefoot. You pause in the kitchen long enough to rinse your coffee glass and leave it in the sink, pretending that a clean counter will give your brain the illusion of control. Then you push through the back screen door, towel in hand, sunglasses perched on your head.
The beach path is narrow, overgrown in that charmingly neglected way that makes every step feel like you’re entering a liminal zone between your overthinking and whatever the sea might offer instead. Sea oats sway on either side. The sand is already warm. And with each crunching footfall, the cottage and the porch and the phantom of Gojo drift a little further behind you.
The water is visible now—gray-blue and glinting, restless under the morning sun. A breeze kicks up, salt-sticky and wild, threading through your hair like it remembers you from years ago.
You step onto the sand proper, skin already prickling with heat, and drop your towel into the dune grass. The beach is empty. Perfectly, graciously empty. No joggers, no couples with floppy hats and matching towels, no loud teens blaring a Bluetooth speaker. Just you, the sound of the surf, and the soft hiss of the wind dragging across the shore.
You breathe.
You strip off your shorts and shirt. You walk straight into the water.
It’s cold. Shocking. Glorious.
You gasp when it hits your thighs, and again when it crests your hips, and by the time you dive under—clean, deep, all in—it’s like the heat has finally been silenced. Like your body has been reset, chilled into awareness.
You float for a while. Let the salt cradle you. Let the sun turn you into nothing more than a shape among the waves. For one blessed minute, there’s no memory, no heartbreak, no Gojo. Just ocean.
But of course, it doesn’t last.
You’re swimming back to shore, hair slicked, breath even, when you see movement. A tall figure, walking down the same beach path you just came from. Shirtless again. Of course. Towel slung around his neck. A pair of goddamn aviators catching the sun like a personal spotlight.
Gojo.
You nearly laugh. Of course he’d follow. Not intentionally, probably. But it’s like he has some cosmic radar for where you don’t want him to be.
You haul yourself out of the water and try not to look like a woman who’s just been ambushed by a memory in real time. You walk slowly, deliberately. Grab your towel and shake the sand off with practiced aggression. Pretend like this is all just a casual, regular morning, nothing strange to see here, no ghosts from college strolling barefoot into your peace.
But he sees you.
And waves again.
Closer this time.
“Water good?” he calls out, voice lazy and cheerful like he isn’t detonating your nervous system with every word.
You squint at him from behind your sunglasses. “Cold enough to shut my brain up. You should try it sometime.”
He grins. “Tempting.”
And just like that, he’s standing a few feet away, his eyes scanning the waves like he’s debating whether to join you. Or maybe like he already has, in some other memory you’re trying very hard not to revisit while mostly naked and dripping saltwater.
You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who needs someone else to go in first.”
“Nah,” he says, dropping his towel on the sand beside yours. “I’m more of a reckless dive kind of guy.”
And then he walks straight into the water.
You blink. Stand there, dumbfounded, while he dives in without a single flinch, resurfacing with a laugh and a shake of his head that sends water flying in every direction.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, wrapping your towel around your waist. “Of course he’s graceful when wet.”
You sit down in the sand, heart doing that annoying thing again. Watching him out there in the surf, hair slicked back, sun bouncing off his shoulders like a cinematic filter—it's hard not to feel the old ache. The old longing.
You wish you could pretend none of it mattered. That he’s just a neighbor. Just another idiot man with too much confidence and not enough sunscreen. But the truth is, he’s not. He’s Satoru. He’s your ghost. And now he’s right here, shaking the water from his eyes like he didn’t once disappear from your life for a year and ruined everything you two had with nothing but silence and shadows in his place.
He shakes the water from his hair like a dog—messy, gleaming, careless—and drops into the sand next to you with all the elegance of a man who has never once worried about being wanted. There’s salt crusting his lashes. Sunlight glinting off the long, lean length of him like a challenge.
And he’s too close.
Not touching you, but close enough that the hairs on your arm lift. Close enough that you can smell the ocean on his skin, bright and clean and sharp, like the memory of that night in the stairwell when everything changed and nothing was said outright.
You pull your towel tighter around your waist, like it’ll guard you from things that are already inside you. You don’t look at him. Not really.
“So?” he says, tilting his head, voice low and too amused. “You gonna just sit there wrapped like a little beach burrito, or are you coming back in?”
You shoot him a sideways glance. “Wow, compelling pitch. Truly irresistible.”
He grins. The full thing. Teeth and dimples and that damn light in his eyes like he already knows your answer.
“I’m serious,” he laughs. “Come back in.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t stay long enough,” he says, his voice softening, just slightly. “You always do that. Dip your toes in and run the minute it feels good.”
Your stomach flips.
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
His grin falters for a second. You watch it—how quickly the confidence cracks, then reassembles. How fast he recovers, like a reflex honed by years of not getting hurt unless he decides it’s time.
He stands, brushing sand from his palms, and offers you a hand.
“I’m not trying to win anything,” he says. “I just want you to come back in the water. It’s better with you there.”
You look at his hand.
You think about what it means, to take it. To step back into something you barely survived the first time. To pretend, even for a minute, that the past can be rewritten just by swimming next to someone you once loved more than your own good sense.
You swallow. The breeze picks up. The waves crash and pull like they know your name.
“Last time I followed you,” you add slowly, eyes on the horizon, “you vanished.”
He’s quiet for a beat too long.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m not asking you to forget that.”
Another pause.
“Just… come back in. You don’t have to stay. You don’t have to talk. Just—come float next to me like old times. Let the water shut everything up for a while.”
You’re not sure if it’s a request or an apology. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s nothing.
But his hand stays out.
Open.
Waiting.
And God help you, you miss the weightlessness.
So you take it.
The second your fingers brush his, there’s that jolt again—like static, like déjà vu, like every bad decision you’ve ever made wrapped in sea salt and nostalgia. His hand is warm, steady, too steady, and the way he curls his fingers around yours feels almost reverent, like he knows exactly how badly he’s fucked up but is still hoping you might let him try again anyway.
You let him pull you up.
Your towel drops to the sand. The sun’s higher now, hotter. Your swimsuit clings to your skin in places you don’t want to think too hard about. But he doesn’t ogle or smirk or make some cheeky comment that would let you brush this off like it’s nothing.
No, Satoru just walks beside you—silent, barefoot, careful—as you both head toward the water.
The shoreline glitters ahead, all shimmer and motion. Your feet sink into the warm, soft sand. The waves are small this morning, gentle. The tide is coming in slow and steady, like it’s trying to lull you into some false sense of security.
And maybe it’s working.
When the water reaches your ankles, you hesitate.
He doesn’t.
He walks a few steps farther in, glances back at you with that same maddening softness he always wore like armor whenever he let his guard down. “You okay?”
“No,” you say flatly. “I’m just trying to decide if this is an elaborate setup to drown me.”
He laughs. It’s short, real, and laced with something that almost sounds like regret.
“You’d see it coming,” he hums. “You always did.”
Still, he waits.
You take another step forward. The water slides up to your calves, cool and bracing. You inhale. Exhale. Tell yourself it’s just the ocean, just a swim, just a familiar body in a familiar place, nothing more. But the ache in your chest suggests otherwise.
You wade in until you’re waist-deep. He’s already further out, floating, arms stretched behind him like he has all the time in the world. Like this isn’t weird. Like you didn’t just spend half the night reliving how he disappeared on you and ruined the only thing you weren’t brave enough to name when it mattered.
You float too.
You don’t say anything.
For a long time, the only sounds are the rise and fall of the waves, the distant call of a gull overhead, and the occasional splash as one of you shifts just enough to stay buoyant.
You don’t look at him, but you feel him.
He’s always been like this. Loud in crowds, quiet in water. And somehow, it still makes you want to scream.
You drift closer without meaning to. The current does what it wants, and maybe you’re just tired of resisting it.
“Why are you really here?” you ask, finally, voice low and calm, like you’re not about to start something you might not be able to finish.
He hums.
“Because I’m tired,” he says after a while. “And Tokyo’s loud. And I couldn’t stop thinking about this place.”
“This place,” you echo.
He turns, just enough for his eyes to find yours. That blue is still dangerous. Still ridiculous. Still yours, somehow, in ways you don’t understand.
“And you,” he adds softly. “I kept thinking about you.”
You go still in the water.
The waves rock you both like the universe’s worst lullaby.
“You don’t get to just come back and say that.”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
And there it is.
No excuses. No charm. Just the raw nerve of it. Like a cut that never healed right.
You look away. Let the sun blur your vision. Let the salt sting your throat.
And you float. Right there beside him. Not answering. Not leaving. Not ready to forgive, but too tired to fight the tide anymore.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Probably that fluffy little gremlin of his.
The water laps against your collarbones.
His presence hums next to you like an old radio station just barely out of tune.
And you think, maybe. Maybe there’s still something worth salvaging.
But not today.
Today, you just float.
It’s been a few days since the swim.
Gojo’s been hovering ever since. Like some glorified ghost with a tan and a terrible sense of timing. Not pushing exactly, just… lingering.
Appearing near your porch when you bring your coffee out. Asking if you want anything from the grocery store. Holding open the screen door when you’re bringing in the laundry like he’s the world’s most persistent Labrador retriever.
You ignore him, mostly.
Except for the times you don’t.
Because for all your muttering and biting sarcasm and arms-crossed body language, your walls are thinner than they used to be. Or maybe it’s the summer heat melting them down, drip by reluctant drip.
Maybe it’s the way he’s been quiet lately, gentler than you remember. No slick one-liners, no dramatic flourishes. Just him, trying. Like he’s got something to prove this time and he knows he doesn’t get another shot.
So when he ambles up the steps one morning, barefoot in cutoffs and a faded t-shirt that says I Heart Accounting (a lie if you’ve ever seen one), holding an iced tea in one hand and a flyer in the other, you already know you’re going to say yes before he even opens his mouth.
“There’s a festival down at the docks,” he smiles at you, brandishing the flyer like it’s an ancient scroll. “You love dumb seasonal crap. There’s a Ferris wheel.”
You narrow your eyes over the rim of your mug. “I don’t love dumb seasonal crap. I tolerate it.”
He tilts his head. “You tolerated that haunted hayride in college so hard you screamed directly into my ear.”
“That was a man with a chainsaw, Satoru.”
“It was a weed whacker.”
“It was still loud.”
He grins. But not in that way he used to, the look-at-me, heartbreaker grin. This one’s quieter. Tentative. Hopeful, maybe. Like he knows he doesn’t deserve this and is still asking anyway.
“Sooooo?” he asks. “One afternoon. We don’t have to stay long. You can mock everything. I’ll buy you cotton candy.”
You sigh.
The porch creaks beneath your bare feet. The heat’s already climbing. You can hear cicadas starting up in the trees like they’re daring you to stay inside all day.
And maybe you’re tired of being angry. Or maybe you’re just bored.
“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m not sitting through a puppet show or anything weirdly nostalgic.”
He lights up like you’ve handed him a small sun. “Noted. No puppets. Just vibes.”
And before you can change your mind, he’s already skipping down the steps like a kid who just got asked to prom.
The docks are warm and bustling by late afternoon, the air thick with the smell of sea salt, fried dough, and sunscreen. Everything’s sticky and bright and full of motion. Colorful paper lanterns swaying in the breeze, little kids with dripping popsicles, old couples holding hands like they invented the concept.
And Gojo, next to you in sunglasses and flip-flops, is trying very hard not to look like a golden retriever who’s just been let off leash.
“You want one?” he asks, already halfway to a stand selling some kind of sparkling lemonade in pastel plastic cups.
You shrug. “Sure. Why not. I’m already sweating through my bra, might as well hydrate.”
He hands you a drink a few minutes later, plus a bag of sugar-dusted mochi for no reason other than the fact he remembered you used to like it. Then he gets himself a spiral-cut fried potato drenched in something horrifyingly orange and starts humming like this is the best day of his life.
You side-eye him. “You gonna eat every weird thing you see?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you used to be lactose intolerant?”
“Still am.”
You stare.
He pops a cheesy slice into his mouth anyway. “Worth it.”
It’s absurd. It’s nostalgic. And it shouldn’t be this easy, falling into old rhythms, letting the breeze mess up your hair while he wipes powdered sugar off your cheek like it’s normal. But it is. And that’s the dangerous part.
Because the more he makes you laugh, the more he buys you sweets without thinking, the more he smiles like that—genuine, unguarded, like the boy you met before all the bullshit—the harder it is to keep the distance.
You try anyway. You shove your hands in your pockets and keep your comments sharp and your tone neutral. But you know he sees through it. You always knew.
When the sun starts its slow descent behind the water, he nudges you gently.
“Ferris wheel?”
You glance toward the towering old thing at the edge of the dock, half-lit and creaking in the wind like it’s got secrets to tell.
“I’m not sharing a car with you if you’re gonna start monologuing about life and fate and missed opportunities,” you threaten him half-jockingly..
“I would never,” he claims, looking scandalized. “I’ll be chill. I’ll be a man of few words.”
You give him a long, skeptical look.
“Fine,” he amends. “Fewer words.”
You sigh and start walking toward it anyway, because he’s already bought the tickets and you’re a sucker for a skyline view, and maybe, just maybe, you’re tired of pretending you’re still mad just to protect yourself.
You climb into the seat next to him.
The wheel lurches.
The wind picks up.
And as you rise above the docks—sugar-sticky, sun-flushed, and one stupid heartbeat away from forgiving him a little—you pretend you don’t notice the way his pinky bumps yours on the worn bench between you.
Just like you pretend not to want it to happen again.
The Ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both higher, the metal groaning in that charming, slightly-threatening way old carnival rides always do.
Below you, the festival shrinks: kids screaming gleefully near the ring toss, some teenager failing miserably at whack-a-mole, the cotton candy stand glowing pink like a beacon for sugar addicts.
Beside you, Gojo is suspiciously quiet.
Which… is not a good sign.
You side-eye him. He’s leaning back with his arms draped casually along the back of the seat, sunglasses perched on top of his hair, eyes fixed on the view like he’s contemplating the meaning of life. Or how to bring up something stupid in the most dramatic way possible.
“I swear to god,” you mutter, “if you pull out a metaphor about life being a Ferris wheel—”
“I wasn’t going to,” he says, mock-affronted. “But now that you mention it…”
You elbow him.
He laughs. The kind that starts soft and warm, from somewhere behind his ribs. It echoes in the space between you like a familiar melody, one you forgot you knew the words to.
The ride halts briefly at the top, and for a second, the world goes still. The sea stretches endlessly before you, sun bleeding gold into the waves, the air heavy with that warm, end-of-summer hush. Below, the lights of the festival blink into life one by one, as if the night itself is remembering how to glow.
Gojo exhales. “I used to dream about this, you know.”
You don’t answer. You just stare ahead, hands gripping the edge of the seat.
He shifts slightly, turning to face you more fully. “Not this ride, exactly. But this— us. Talking again. You letting me be near you. I thought about it a lot.”
Your stomach twists.
It’s not fair, how easily he can throw your heart back into the past with a single sentence. How part of you still aches with the silence he left behind. The year of unanswered messages. Of trying to forget the feeling of his lips on yours, the weight of his laugh in your bones.
“You shouldn’t have disappeared,” you whisper quietly.
His face falls. Not dramatically. Just a slight softening, a flicker of real guilt that makes him look more like the boy you used to love than the man who ghosted you.
“I know,” he starts. “I was— messed up. Scared, honestly. I thought I was doing the right thing. That staying away would… help you. Let you move on.”
You turn to him, eyes hard. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I know,” he says again, softer. “I know. I thought I was being noble or whatever, but really I was just being a coward. I didn’t know how to face everything I ruined. I’m sorry.”
The Ferris wheel lurches downward again. You don’t speak, don’t move. Just sit there with your jaw clenched and your heart thudding like it doesn’t know what to believe.
“I think about you all the time,” he admits. “Not in a romantic movie kind of way—okay, sometimes in a romantic movie kind of way—but mostly just… everything reminds me of you. Still. After all this time.”
You look at him.
And there he is.
Not the memory of him. Not the ghost. Just Gojo—sun-kissed and flawed and trying.
And maybe you should say something scathing. Maybe you should tell him he doesn’t get to waltz back into your life with fried potatoes and Ferris wheels and expect forgiveness.
But instead, you say nothing.
Because the ride is almost at the bottom now. Because your heart is still processing. Because some part of you, however bruised and sarcastic and self-protective, never really stopped missing him.
The gondola bumps to a halt. The gate swings open.
He climbs out first, then turns and holds his hand out to you.
You hesitate.
Then—reluctantly—you take it.
His fingers wrap around yours like he never forgot the shape of your hand.
And for the rest of the evening, he doesn’t let go.
But it makes you remember the last time you saw him.
Not counting yesterday. Not counting the awkward, sea-slick moments at the beach or the way he stood a little too close by the goldfish scooping booth like he didn’t want to risk drifting away again.
No. really saw him.
It was two years ago, on that rooftop in Shinjuku, above the noise and neon, the kind of warm November night that tricked you into forgetting winter was coming.
Shoko had turned twenty-five and hosted the kind of party that felt curated for people who had their shit together, artfully messy hair, thrifted blazers, rolled cigarettes and half-finished PhDs. You hadn’t wanted to go, but she’d texted you six times, guilt-tripped you once, and eventually sent an Uber to your apartment with a bottle of wine in the backseat and a sticky note that said “Don’t make me regret inviting you.”
And you’d thought—fine. One drink. Smile politely. Leave before midnight.
But then he was there.
In a stupid linen shirt, half unbuttoned like he lived on some cursed Riviera, drink in one hand and that too-white hair falling into his eyes. Like he hadn’t disappeared. Like he hadn’t blown a hole through you and called it mercy.
You remember standing near the edge of the roof with a glass of flat champagne, talking to some guy who kept saying “conceptually” like it was punctuation, when you felt the shift in the air behind you. Like heat. Or gravity.
And you knew. Before you turned around, you knew.
He leaned against the railing next to you, too casual, like this wasn’t the first time you’d seen each other since everything had gone sideways.
“Hey, stranger,” he said.
You didn’t smile. Didn’t give him anything.
Just a flat, “You’re late.”
He grinned. “Traffic.”
You could smell the citrusy cologne he still wore, the same one from college. Could see the faint scar on his knuckle from that dumb night he’d tried to open a wine bottle with a screwdriver. Everything in you screamed to walk away. To spit venom. To not let him see he still lived in your bloodstream like a bad tattoo.
But instead, you drank your champagne.
He watched you for a long time. Then, without warning, he remarked, “If we were ever in the same place for more than five minutes, you’d fall for me.”
And you’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it wasn’t. Because of all the things he could’ve said—sorry, I fucked up, you didn’t deserve that—he chose a line that sounded like it came out of a half-written screenplay.
You hissed, “You don’t get to joke about that.”
And he said, too softly, “It wasn’t a joke.”
And that was worse.
Because there was no fight. No closure. No grand monologue. Just those quiet words, and the dull roar of traffic below, and the terrible weight of knowing he still thought he had a place in your life. That maybe part of you—traitorous, exhausted, aching—wasn’t sure he didn’t.
You left before midnight. Didn’t say goodbye.
And you hadn’t seen him again. Not until this summer.
Not until this stupid beach town, this stupid house, this stupid festival.
Now, as you walk beside him through the fairground crowd, his hand brushing yours every so often like it’s an accident, that memory keeps tugging at you.
Because maybe he was right.
Maybe five minutes was all it would ever take.
And maybe that’s what scares you most.
The night air is heavy with salt and the faint scent of fried festival sweets, the laughter from the dock still echoing somewhere behind you as you and Satoru walk the short path back toward the house. The moon is low, casting long shadows across the sand, and everything feels a little too quiet now. Like the world is holding its breath.
You stop at the front steps, key in hand, a polite smile tightening your mouth. “Thanks for tonight,” you say softly, eyes flicking toward the porch light, trying not to think about the hundred things fluttering under your skin. “It was… good.”
“Hey,” he calls, just as you’re about to climb the stairs. His hand finds yours—not forcefully, not even tightly, just enough to stop you. His palm is warm, grounding. “What’s wrong?”
You turn slowly, mouth already half-open with some deflection, some easy line to brush it off—but then you see his face.
And you freeze.
His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, stripped of their usual brilliance, of the arrogant shine they wore like armor. There’s nothing clever in his expression. No mask. Just quiet concern and a kind of quiet ache you don’t trust, because you’ve seen him turn it off before. But now it’s looking at you like it wants the truth. Like it could handle it.
Something buckles in your chest.
You try to swallow it, to tuck it all back down, but it’s too late. It’s already happening.
The words burst out like a dam breaking.
“I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “You can’t just show up like this. You can’t take me to a stupid festival and buy me strawberry mochi and laugh like we didn’t—like nothing ever—”
Your hands shake. Your throat tightens. “You broke me, Satoru.”
He flinches.
You keep going, unable to stop now, unable to breathe around the weight that’s been sitting on your chest for years.
“You kissed me like I meant something. Over and over again. In stairwells, behind the vending machine, outside my dorm—like it was a secret we were both protecting. You said things. I said things. And then you just—left. No goodbye. No message. Nothing. You disappeared like none of it mattered.”
Tears are sliding down your cheeks now, hot and humiliating. You swipe at them angrily, but they just keep coming.
“I waited for you. I checked my phone for months. I told myself you’d call, that something must’ve happened, that maybe I just misunderstood what we were. But you didn’t. You just left.”
His eyes are wide, glassy. His breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t know,” he says hoarsely. “I didn’t know you—”
“Loved you?” you snap. “No, of course not. Because I didn’t even know it myself. Not until after. Not until it was too late.”
He reaches for you, eyes shining with something raw and unsteady, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers, voice trembling. “I tried to. God, I tried to. My parents—they wanted me to propose to someone else. Someone safe. Someone good for business. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t even put the ring on her hand because I knew—” He swallows hard, like the words are knives. “—because it should’ve been you.”
The porch light casts a soft glow over both of you now, and for a moment, all you can hear is your own breathing, your own grief trembling through every inch of you.
“It’s always been you,” he says.
And that’s what does it.
You break.
Your sobs come hard and fast, and you cover your face, but he’s already stepping forward, arms pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. You press your face into his chest, and he holds you—really holds you—for the first time in what feels like forever. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, while the other wraps around your waist, anchoring you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over, into your hair, into your skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
You shake your head, not ready to forgive, not ready to forget, but his arms are warm, and his voice is steady, and something inside you is melting, softening, despite the ache. Despite the history.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face, his hand trembling at your cheek. His thumb brushes away a tear, and you look at him through your lashes, eyes red and rimmed, mouth parted.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not showy or sharp like you remember. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s asking permission with every movement, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he pushes too far.
And for a second you let yourself kiss him back.
Your mouth finds his, familiar and foreign all at once, and the kiss deepens, his hand tightening at your waist as yours tangle in the collar of his shirt. You melt into him, breath catching, knees weak, heart aching.
It’s everything you remember and everything you forgot.
It’s almost enough to believe in again.
Almost.
His lips move against yours with a tenderness that both soothes and ignites every nerve ending. The world around you, the porch, the night, the distant hum of the festival, fades into nothing but the rhythm of his breath mingling with yours.
You cling to him, desperate to hold onto this fragile moment, even as the walls you built around your heart tremble beneath his touch. His hands trace the curve of your back, pulling you closer, as if to erase the years lost, the silence, the pain.
When he finally parts from your lips, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.
“I’ve missed you,” he admits softly, voice rough with emotion.
You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I’ve missed you too,” you whisper.
But even as you say it, a part of you fears what comes next. The questions left unasked, the promises broken, the scars neither of you have fully healed.
Gojo’s gaze searches yours, vulnerability flickering there like a flame.
“Let me make it right,” he pleads. “Not with words, but with time. With everything I have.”
Your heart wavers, torn between hope and caution.
Finally, you nod, a shaky but real start. “Okay.”
He smiles—bright, genuine, full of relief—and pulls you into another kiss, softer this time, full of unspoken apologies and tentative beginnings.
Tonight, beneath the stars and with the sea breeze wrapping around you both, there is a chance. A chance to rewrite the story that was left hanging for so long.
And maybe, just maybe, that chance will be enough.
goddd, i wrote this in one go after i watched a tiktok that reminded me so much of gojo :') it's bittersweet
✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.
✧ synopsis: you and gojo were never meant to last. he said he changed. he didn't. you believed him anyway. you always did. he was all parties and half-kept promises—frat house loud, missing calls, showing up late, if at all. you were soft edges and quiet expectations. and when it ended, it hurt. not in the dramatic, screaming kind of way. but in the slow, aching silence that creeps in when someone you love just stops showing up. you never expected to see him again. not like this. not at another party. not looking at you like he still remembers. not asking for one more chance like it's still his to take.
✧ tags/warnings MDNI: fem! reader, alternate universe-university, modern setting, toxic relationship, exes to lovers, second chances, angst, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed reader, gojo satoru is a mess, alcohol use/party culture, fratboy gojo, heartbreak, mutual pining, suggestive themes, eventual smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), creampie, pet names (baby or angel), slight choking, fingering, overstim.
✧ word count: expect around 10k or more...
✧ authors note: hi! so i've been on a six-year hiatus (yikes), but im finally back—sorta. this is just a little teaser of something i've been working on. i know it's crumbs, but trust.. the rest is coming, and yes, it will hurt. i just wanted to drop this and see how it lands, im also going to be uploading the full draft onto AO3! if you like it, let me know (PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE). if you dont, thats okay!
i'm trying very hard not to disappear again >:)) <333
monday mornings had their own rhythm. you liked them quiet, still air, soft clothes, the comfort of a routine that made you feel just a little more in control. you took your coffee black now, not because you liked it that way, but because sweetness reminded you too much of him. you sat in the back of your lecture hall, half-listening to the professor drone on about things that didn't matter while your mind drifted to things that did.
everyone says you're doing better. and in a lot of ways, you were. your grades are solid. you wake up on time, most of the time. you've started doing your skincare routine again. you show up, laugh when you need to, and you've learned to exist without waiting for his name to light up on your phone. you're doing the damn thing. but sometimes when the day slows down and you're alone in your dorm—when the noise stops—there's a heaviness that settles in your chest. quiet, familiar.
you never used to believe in first love. you thought the idea was romantic nonsense. but then he showed up with that crooked smile and chaotic charm, and ruined that certainty. you didn't mean to fall for him. but there was something about the way he looked at you - like you were the only real thing in the world—that made it impossible not to.
he wasn't perfect. far from it. there were nights he didn't call, parties he didn't leave early for, promises he made with all the right words but none of the follow-through. he hurt you. over and over. and still, when he texted you after five months of silence last september, you answered. you shouldn't have but you did.
you gave him another chance, even though something deep down told you not to. he swore he changed. told you this time would be different. that he was ready. and maybe he meant it—part of him did—but it didn't stop him from vanishing again. from proving that nothing had really changed. you still remember the date. november 14th. the last time you heard from him.
and now? now you exist in the after. you tell yourself you've moved on, and maybe you have. but there are nights you still check his. page, still scroll through old texts, still wonder what it might've been if he'd just shown up like he promised. you wanted to hate him. god, you should. but you dont. because he was your first love. and no matter how much he messed it up, some pieces of him still live inside you.
what he doesn't know, what he never let himself say out loud, is that he loved you. he really did. but he was scared. of what? you never got the answer. maybe of being known. maybe finally having something real. or maybe... of you.
the thought slips down your spine like cold water, dragging you out of the haze you didn't even realize you'd sunk into.
