Me too!!! 💗💗💗 Sorry for replying late and disappearing out of the blue, I miss you so much but tumblr became a lil too toxic with all the drama and issues going on, so I’m on a break (not sure how long) but just know I love you alotttt and hope you’re doing amazing 💕💕💕
satoru telling yuuta it’s lonely being all by yourself hurts my chest so bad every time bc like even though it seems like he’s offering some sort of comfort to yuuta or at least a reason for him to stop isolating himself those words ultimately reflect his own truth they’re not just empty words thrown to convince him
today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)
synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?
pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader
wc: 7.3k
content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency
a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3
The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband.
It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before.
You weren’t even sure he was human.
Or if you were still asleep.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.
The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes.
You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face.
Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was.
With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with.
You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming.
So he was, for better or worse, real.
“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it.
“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were.
“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too.
You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was.
“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place.
“This is home.”
You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.
“No,” you muttered. “This-”
You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion.
“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-
Wait.
How the hell did you know what his name was?
Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on?
He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either.
“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared.
You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip.
“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious.
“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.”
He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal.
And then it clicked.
It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network.
“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”
“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him.
“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.
The only stain on it.
“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes.
“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place.
But nothing stood out.
Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor?
“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”
He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.
You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page.
And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself.
If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it.
His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.
You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago.
“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone.
“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.
You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.
Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight.
Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized.
“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before.
“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you.
He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it.
You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would.
It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though.
A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face.
Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through.
It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.
Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern.
When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.
Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you.
“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you.
Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen.
You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant.
But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did.
You blinked at him.
He stared back at you.
The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first.
You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?”
“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.
You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful.
It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers
That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.
The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement.
“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once?
Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about.
You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor.
God, that really did sound fucking insane.
Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you?
There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him.
What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours?
“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though.
“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface.
“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.”
“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap.
“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them.
“Then why are you here today?”
Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife?
“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit.
“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too.
You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way.
“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole.
He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working.
“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles.
“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he?
“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold.
“Sure,” you returned his fake smile.
It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway?
“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”
Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers.
Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home.
You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road?
It was ridiculous.
He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him.
The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat.
Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer.
“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded.
“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car.
“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.
You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval.
“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown.
“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege?
That the world bent around him because he thought it should?
You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.
Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.
He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save.
Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker.
Maybe both.
When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date.
“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch.
You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face.
“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours?
“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?”
You didn't really believe anything he said.
Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.
But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going.
“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them.
Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away.
“You don’t work,” he casually replied.
“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.
“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.”
He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust.
The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it.
Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food.
“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps.
You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills.
He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.
“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.
You swallowed.
And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more.
But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed.
And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car.
The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on.
His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time.
You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.
“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.
“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world.
He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped.
People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.
As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.
Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship.
You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually.
It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him.
It was the worst in the mornings.
Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.
And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching.
His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.
Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity.
You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late.
The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it.
You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here.
He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either.
Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.
But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.
“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.
You tried to sleep it off.
But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all.
And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be.
On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him.
You used to think you could get used to anything.
But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head?
“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was.
“Fine,” you lied.
You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.
“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would.
You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.”
“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?”
Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about.
“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side.
Satoru had been listening in.
But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up.
Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.
You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted?
In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning.
Something was seriously wrong with him and you.
You were both bad at pretending to be normal.
Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap.
Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.
If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it.
“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe.
“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking.
You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock.
Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd.
Even more than the situation itself was.
Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago.
“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall.
Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs.
But you never drowned.
You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?
Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you.
Here there had to be at least two hundred.
All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared.
Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same.
And you didn’t resist.
Didn’t want to.
When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out.
It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat.
Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.
Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you.
You could've lived in it.
But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy.
The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick.
“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe.
You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many.
In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react.
And you saw it.
Not just a glimpse. Not a flash.
But a full second where there was an extra arm attached.
It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again.
“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been.
“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it.
“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling.
“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband.
He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr.
How easy would it be for him to do the same to you?
“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident.
Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love.
There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of.
Something had to snap - and it was you.
And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor.
Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk.
And you tapped your nails against your leg.
“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”
“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I know,” you nodded.
You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock.
“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom.
He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out.
Your file was left on his desk.
It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered.
Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too.
His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach.
Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them.
“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.”
“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway.
“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him.
“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”
“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted.
You felt like you were going to pass out.
“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-”
You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.
“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet.
A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.
A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could.
“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening.
“Your husband.”
You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one.
What vows had he sworn?
For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not?
“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded.
Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his.
“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect.
You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset.
“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”
Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop.
“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.”
You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one.
“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light.
“You,” he easily answered.
“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window.
“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out.
“I want to go home,” you murmured.
The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his.
And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you.
Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off.
“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted.
But being scared was exhausting.
So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom.
You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward.
“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure.
“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed.
Literally.
A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?”
pairing — yandere gamer satoru x discord kitten reader
synopsis: you thought it was a simple cash grab, playing the perfect discord kitten for a lonely, generous gamer. but his devotion is more than you bargained for, an all-consuming obsession that feels as intoxicating as it is unnerving. the lines of your con begin to blur, and you find yourself tangled in a game where you are no longer sure who is manipulating whom. as he builds a beautiful, gilded cage around you, you're forced to question what will happen when he decides the game is finally over.
or: what starts as a simple con to bleed a lonely discord mod dry becomes a terrifying game of obsession when his generosity reveals itself to be a cage.
wc — 21.7k ෆ tags -> f!reader, porn with plot, really filthy and detailed smut, toxic online relationships, no one is innocent, everybody is mentally ill, satoru is neurotic, manipulation, obsessive behavior, stalking, misogynism (from satoru), sadism (from both sides), manipulator gets manipulated, power imbalance, codependency, psychological fuckery, isolation, coercion, moral ambiguity, dubcon elements (forced orgasms), satoru has a big dick, praise kink, degradation, that satoru brand of whiplash, humiliation kink, edging, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dacryphilia, missionary, belly bulge, doggy style, hair-pulling, cervix fucking, squirting, anal fingering, exhibitionism, creampie, loss of identity, art by @/rezi.jellyfish on ig
athy says, hi everyone, thank you for your patience with this! i promise there's a plot in here somewhere, but the smut-to-plot ratio got away from me. like, by a lot. apparently satoru had other plans. enjoy the filth <3 (yes the suguru slander and y/n pun was intended)
the discord notification sound has become pavlovian at this point. your fingers pause over the mechanical keyboard—his gift, cherry mx blues because you’d mentioned once that you liked the sound—and that familiar warmth spreads through your chest. another message from your devoted little ATM, probably with another screenshot of his bank transfer.
satoru is typing...
you’ve been bleeding this discord mod dry for exactly seven days now, and the rush hasn’t dimmed. if anything, it’s gotten sharper. more intoxicating. there’s something delicious about the way he hangs on your every word, the way his messages light up with barely contained excitement whenever you deign to respond.
you’d started this as a simple cash grab—find some lonely loser, play girlfriend for a few weeks, disappear with whatever you could get—but satoru gojo is turning out to be so much more entertaining than anticipated.
satoru: good morning beautiful ♡ i hope you slept well
satoru: i got us matching keycaps for our keyboards, yours should arrive today
satoru: also transferred money for that graphics card you wanted
the messages come in rapid succession, each one making your lips curl upward in something that isn’t quite a smile. you let them sit for a few minutes—never respond immediately, that’s amateur hour—while you examine your nails and bask in the knowledge that somewhere across the city, he’s probably staring at his phone waiting for those three dots to appear.
pathetic. beautiful, profitable pathetic.
why_en: aww satoru you’re so sweet 🥺 you really don’t have to keep spending money on me
the lie tastes like honey on your tongue. you absolutely want him to keep spending money on you. the thrill isn’t even about the cash anymore—it’s about the power. the way he throws his apparently endless bank account at you like he’s trying to buy your affection, not knowing he already has it in the most twisted way possible. not love, never love, but something hungrier and more selfish.
you wonder what he looks like when he reads your messages. does he smile that dopey, grateful smile you can hear in his voice? does he screenshot them like the lovesick fool he’s proven himself to be? the mental image makes warmth pool low in your stomach, not arousal but something more intoxicating—pure, undiluted control.
satoru: i want to!! seeing you happy makes everything worth it
satoru: you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me
there it is. that desperate, clinging gratitude that makes your pulse quicken with something that definitely isn’t guilt. you screenshot his message, adding it to the collection you’ve been building—a gallery of his devotion that you scroll through when you need a reminder of your own power. each declaration of love, each promise of eternal devotion, each pathetic attempt to prove his worth to someone who sees him as nothing more than a particularly generous wallet with feelings.
the gaming setup around you is a shrine to his devotion. the monitor he bought you—curved, 4k, some ridiculous size that takes up half your desk. the headset with noise cancellation so good you feel isolated from the world. the chair that cost more than your rent, ergonomic and perfect because you’d complained once about your back hurting. he’s building you a temple to worship in, and you’re the cruel goddess who accepts his offerings without giving anything real in return.
why_en: wanna hop on the game? i miss you
another lie wrapped in enough truth to taste sweet. you don’t miss him exactly, but you miss the way he makes you feel. like you’re the center of someone’s universe. like you matter more than anything else in existence. it’s addictive in the way that power always is—once you’ve tasted being someone’s everything, settling for being anyone’s something feels like starvation.
within seconds, your discord pings with an incoming call. you let it ring twice—can’t seem too eager—before accepting.
“hey gorgeous.” his voice comes through your headset, soft and warm and tinged with that barely contained excitement that makes your pulse quicken. there’s something about his voice that doesn’t match the image you have in your head—too smooth, too rich. you’ve been picturing some stereotypical basement dweller, but he sounds like he could be reading poetry or ordering wine at expensive restaurants.
not that it matters. attractive or not, wealthy or not, he’s still just another mark. just one who’s proving to be more generous and entertaining than most.
“hi satoru,” you let your voice go soft and affectionate, the way you know drives him crazy. “how was your day?”
“better now that i’m talking to you.” the sincerity in his tone makes your chest tighten—not with emotion, but with satisfaction. he means it completely, and that level of devotion should be frightening but instead it’s intoxicating. “did your package arrive?”
you glance at the unopened box on your desk, designer keycaps that probably cost more than most people’s cars. you’ve been letting it sit there, unopened, because there’s something delicious about making him wait for your gratitude. about knowing he’s probably been checking his phone all day for a thank you message that you haven’t sent.
“you spoil me too much,” you say instead of answering directly, voice pitched to sound guilty and grateful rather than calculating.
“impossible.” there’s a smile in his voice, genuine and warm. “nothing’s too much for you.”
nothing’s too much. the words settle into your chest like warm poison, feeding something hungry and dark that’s been growing stronger every day. you’ve had men spend money on you before, but never like this. never with this level of worship, this certainty that you deserve everything he can give and more.
the game loads and you fall into your routine—comfortable banter, shared objectives, him carrying you through content while you provide commentary and attention. he’s good at this, stupidly good, and you find yourself actually enjoying the gameplay instead of just enduring it.
“you’re incredible at this,” you breathe out after he pulls off some complicated combo that saves your virtual life. the praise isn’t entirely fake—he is skilled, precise in a way that speaks to countless hours of practice. but you layer your voice with breathless admiration that you know will make him melt.
“i’ve been playing since beta,” he says, and there’s pride there but also something else. something that sounds almost vulnerable. “most people think it’s a waste of time.”
“most people are idiots.” the response comes out more vehement than you intended, protective in a way that surprises you. where did that come from? you’re not protective of him—you’re protective of the source of your entertainment, your income, your daily dose of worship. “they’re just jealous they don’t have your talent.”
silence stretches between you for a moment, and you can hear his breathing through the headset. when he speaks again, his voice is rougher around the edges.
“you always know exactly what to say.”
do you? or have you just gotten good at reading the hunger in his responses, learned to feed the need you can hear lurking beneath every word he speaks? you’ve turned manipulation into an art form, and he’s your willing canvas.
“maybe i just really believe in you,” you say softly, and listen to the sharp intake of breath on the other end. hook, line, sinker. every. single. time.
the session stretches longer than usual—three hours of shared gameplay punctuated by increasingly intimate conversation. he tells you about his day, his work (something with coding that pays obscenely well), his thoughts on everything from philosophy to his favorite foods. you file away every detail, building a psychological profile that you’ll use to maximize your impact on his wallet and his heart.
but somewhere in the third hour, something shifts. his voice goes quieter, more vulnerable, and you find yourself leaning closer to the headset despite yourself.
“can i tell you something?” he asks.
“always.”
“i’ve never... i mean, i don’t usually connect with people like this.” there’s a pause, and you can hear him adjusting what sounds like glasses. “you’re different. special.”
special. the word hits different than all his other praise, settles deeper. you are special, aren’t you? special enough to have ensnared someone who sounds like he doesn’t fall easily, someone who’s probably had plenty of options but chose to fixate on you.
“you’re special too,” you say, and for the first time in seven days, you’re not entirely sure if you’re lying.
the thought should disturb you. instead, it sends heat rushing through your veins like recognition, like coming home to something dark and familiar.
by the time you log off, it’s past midnight and your head is swimming with more than just the late hour. there’s something happening here, something beyond the simple con you’d planned. satoru gojo is getting under your skin in ways you hadn’t anticipated, and the smart thing would be to extract whatever you can and disappear before it gets complicated.
but you’ve never been particularly smart about walking away from things that make you feel powerful.
your phone buzzes.
satoru: thank you for tonight
satoru: talking to you is the best part of my day
satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful
you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, that hungry warmth in your chest growing stronger. tomorrow you’ll push a little harder, ask for a little more, see just how far his devotion extends. tomorrow you’ll test the boundaries of his worship and bask in the results.
tonight, you fall asleep to the sound of notification after notification, each one a small prayer offered at the altar of your manufactured perfection.
the second week is when you truly hit your stride.
you’ve learned his patterns now—when he wakes up (6 AM sharp), when he takes lunch (12:30, always at his desk), when he’s most vulnerable to suggestion (late evening, after he’s been working all day and craving human connection). you time your messages accordingly, each one calculated for maximum impact.
why_en: i had the weirdest dream about you last night...
sent at 6:15 AM, just late enough that he’s had time to check his phone and early enough to derail his entire morning routine.
satoru: tell me everything
the response comes within thirty seconds, and you can practically feel his desperation bleeding through the screen. you let him wait fifteen minutes before responding.
why_en: it’s kind of embarrassing...
why_en: we were together, like really together
why_en: you made me feel so safe
three messages, perfectly spaced to build anticipation and plant ideas. you’re not just selling him fantasy anymore—you’re selling him dreams, literal dreams where he’s your protector and lover and everything he wants to be.
his response is immediate and exactly what you expected.
satoru: i want to make you feel safe
satoru: i want to be everything you need
satoru: god, i wish i could hold you right now
perfect. absolutely perfect. you screenshot the conversation and add it to your collection, your gallery of psychological victories. there’s something deeply satisfying about watching someone unravel themselves for you, about knowing exactly which strings to pull to get the response you want.
why_en: maybe someday we can make that dream real
the maybe is crucial—never promise anything concrete, always leave room for interpretation. let him build the fantasy himself while you provide just enough encouragement to keep him invested.
satoru: someday soon, i hope
satoru: i’m falling for you
satoru: is that crazy?
is that crazy? you almost laugh out loud at the question. of course it’s crazy. he’s falling for someone who doesn’t exist, someone you’ve constructed specifically to exploit his weaknesses and extract his resources. but crazy is profitable, and his particular brand of crazy is more entertaining than anything you’ve experienced in years.
why_en: not crazy at all
why_en: i’m falling too
another lie that tastes suspiciously like truth. not falling in love—you’re not capable of that kind of clean emotion—but falling into something. falling into the rhythm of his worship, the daily hit of being someone’s everything, the intoxicating knowledge that you’ve become necessary to his happiness.
the week continues like this, each day bringing new messages, new gifts, new declarations of devotion. your bank account swells like a tumor, fed by his desperate need to prove his worth through material offerings. but it’s not just about the money anymore, hasn’t been for days.
it’s about the control. the way he asks permission before making plans, the way he checks in constantly to make sure you’re happy, the way his entire emotional state seems to revolve around your approval. you’ve become the sun in his solar system, and the gravitational pull of that much influence is addictive.
satoru: i’ve been thinking
satoru: we should meet
the message arrives on a wednesday afternoon, and you stare at it for a full minute before responding. you’d known this was coming—it always comes—but you’ve been living in this perfect bubble where he existed only as a voice in your headset and numbers in your bank account.
meeting means risk. means maintaining the facade in real time, with no delete button, no time to craft the perfect response. means looking into the eyes of someone whose life you’ve systematically infiltrated and pretending to care about what you see there.
but it also means seeing the devotion made flesh. means watching his face light up when he sees you, means being the physical manifestation of his digital goddess made real. the thought sends heat coursing through your veins, anticipation mixed with something darker.
why_en: meet?
play dumb. make him work for it, explain why he needs this, needs you. make him convince you even though you’ve already decided.
satoru: i know we said we’d take it slow but i can’t stop thinking about you
satoru: i need to see you
need. not want, need. the desperation in that word choice makes your pulse spike with satisfaction. you’ve done this to him, created this need, built yourself into something essential to his existence.
why_en: i want to see you too
why_en: but what if...
satoru: what if what, beautiful?
why_en: what if i’m not what you’re expecting?
why_en: what if you’re disappointed?
it’s a calculated vulnerability, designed to make him rush to reassure you, to pile on more worship and devotion. but underneath the calculation, there’s a tiny seed of something that might be genuine anxiety. not about your appearance—you know you’re attractive enough to maintain the illusion—but about everything else. about keeping up the performance, about being worthy of the pedestal he’s built for you.
satoru: impossible
satoru: you’re perfect
satoru: nothing could disappoint me about you
perfect. there’s that word again, the one that sits heavy in your chest like a promise and a threat. he’s built you up so high that the only direction left is down, and some twisted part of you is curious to see what happens when the inevitable fall comes.
satoru: tomorrow? i’ll pick you up
and because the alternative is admitting that this has all been an elaborate lie, because you’re in too deep to back out now, because some twisted part of you wants to see the devotion in his eyes when he looks at you—
why_en: okay
why_en: i can’t wait
you spend the night in a state of restless energy. trying on outfits, practicing expressions in the mirror, rehearsing conversations. you need to be the girl from the game tomorrow, the one who thinks his jokes are hilarious and his interests are fascinating. the one who’s falling just as hard as he is.
but more than that, you need to be perfect. need to live up to the impossible standard you’ve set, need to be worth every dollar he’s spent and every prayer he’s offered at the altar of your digital presence.
your phone buzzes at exactly 2 PM.
satoru: here
you check your reflection one more time—carefully applied makeup that looks effortless, outfit chosen to hit the sweet spot between approachable and untouchable, smile practiced until it looks natural—and head downstairs.
the car waiting outside is not what you expected. sleek, expensive, the kind of vehicle that whispers wealth instead of shouting it. and behind the wheel—
oh.
oh fuck.
satoru gojo is not the basement dweller of your imagination. he’s tall, unfairly tall, unfolding from the driver’s seat like he’s been poured into existence by some artist with a preference for impossible proportions. white hair that catches the sunlight and holds it, pale skin that should look sickly but instead looks ethereal, and—
glasses. wire-rimmed and slightly askew, like he’s pushed them up his nose a thousand times while concentrating on code or game mechanics or whatever it is that’s made him wealthy enough to treat you like a luxury purchase.
but it’s his eyes that stop your breath. blue like winter sky, like deep water, like something beautiful and dangerous. and the way he’s looking at you—
like you’re a miracle he’s not quite sure he deserves.
for a moment, just a moment, your carefully constructed confidence wavers. he’s beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight, beautiful enough that you understand why he has options, why he could choose anyone. and he’s chosen to fixate on you, chosen to pour his attention and resources into someone who’s been systematically deceiving him for two weeks.
the thought should make you feel guilty. instead, it makes you feel powerful.
“you’re—” his voice catches, and he pushes his glasses up with one long finger. “you’re so beautiful.”
the reverence in his tone makes your chest constrict with satisfaction. you’ve been complimented before, but never like this. never like you’re something precious and fragile and worth protecting. never by someone who looks like a fallen angel asking for permission to worship at your feet.
“hi satoru.” you duck your head, letting manufactured shyness bleed into your expression because you can see how it affects him. the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten on the car keys. he’s even more responsive in person, every micro-expression a testament to your power over him.
“hi.” he’s smiling now, soft and genuine and so different from what you’d imagined. “ready?”
the date—because that’s what this is, even though neither of you have called it that—unfolds like a fever dream. he takes you to places that exist in a different tax bracket than your usual haunts. art galleries where the price tags make your eyes water, restaurants where the waiters treat him like royalty and you like his precious companion.
and he’s... charming. actually charming, not just wealthy enough to fake it. he tells stories that make you laugh despite yourself, asks questions that suggest he actually listens to your answers, touches your hand across restaurant tables with a reverence that makes your skin burn.
but more than charming, he’s generous. not just financially—though the black card that appears every time a check arrives is certainly impressive—but emotionally. he gives you his complete attention, hangs on your every word like you’re delivering divine revelation, treats every opinion you offer like it’s the most insightful thing he’s ever heard.
it’s intoxicating. addictive in a way you hadn’t anticipated. you’ve had men try to impress you before, but this feels different. this feels like worship, and you’re discovering that being worshipped is a high unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.
“tell me about your childhood,” he says over appetizers that cost more than your weekly groceries, chin propped on his hand as he gazes at you with those impossible blue eyes.
the question should panic you—you haven’t prepared a backstory, haven’t thought about how to make your real life sound interesting enough to hold his attention. instead, you find yourself telling him the truth. or at least, a version of it.
“not much to tell,” you say, twirling expensive pasta around your fork. “grew up middle class, normal family, normal problems. nothing as interesting as your life, i’m sure.”
“everything about you is interesting to me.” the response is immediate and sincere, and you have to hide your smile behind your wine glass. he means it completely, and that level of fascination is better than any drug you’ve ever tried.
“what about you?” you turn the conversation back to him, partly because you’re genuinely curious and partly because you know he’ll love having your undivided attention. “what made you so successful so young?”
his smile turns self-deprecating, and he pushes his glasses up again. “luck, mostly. right place, right time, right skill set for what the market needed. nothing special.”
but the way he talks about his work—the passion in his voice when he describes complex problems and elegant solutions—suggests otherwise. he’s brilliant, genuinely brilliant, and probably used to being the smartest person in any room. the fact that he’s choosing to spend his time and attention on you feels like a victory worth savoring.
“i think you’re being modest,” you say, reaching across the table to touch his hand. his fingers are long and elegant, surprisingly soft for someone who spends his days typing code. “success like yours doesn’t happen by accident.”
the touch is calculated—skin contact always is, with men like him—but the warmth that spreads up your arm when he turns his hand to capture your fingers is entirely unexpected. his thumb traces across your knuckles, and you have to fight the urge to shiver.
“you give me too much credit.” but he’s looking at your joined hands like they’re something precious, something worth protecting. “honestly, work used to be everything. before you.”
before you. two words that carry the weight of complete life reorganization, of someone who’s restructured their priorities around your existence. the power of it is dizzying.
“before me?” you pitch your voice to sound curious rather than satisfied.
“before you, i worked sixteen hour days because i didn’t have anything else worth coming home to. now...” he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that makes your breath catch. “now i leave the office at five because i can’t stand being away from you any longer than necessary.”
the gesture should feel possessive, controlling. instead, it feels like devotion made flesh, like being precious enough to reorganize someone’s entire world around. you’re drunk on it, higher than you’ve ever been on any substance.
“satoru,” you whisper, and watch his pupils dilate at the sound of his name from your lips.
“i know it’s crazy,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “i know it’s too much too fast, but i can’t help it. you do something to me.”
you do something to him. the admission sends heat racing through your veins, confirms what you’ve suspected for days—that your power over him goes beyond simple attraction or even infatuation. you’ve gotten into his head, rewired his brain chemistry, made yourself essential to his happiness.
it’s the most intoxicating feeling in the world.
“you do something to me too,” you admit, and it’s not entirely a lie. he does do something to you—makes you feel powerful and desired and important in ways you’ve never experienced before. makes you want to be worthy of the pedestal he’s built, even as you’re consciously manipulating your way to the top of it.
the rest of dinner passes in a haze of intimate conversation and lingering touches. he tells you things that feel like secrets—about his loneliness before you, his fears about not being good enough, his dreams for the future that all seem to center around making you happy. you file away every confession, every vulnerability, adding them to your arsenal for future use.
but somewhere between the main course and dessert, something shifts. maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the way he keeps looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, maybe it’s the sheer overwhelming force of his attention—but you start to lose track of what’s performance and what’s real.
when he reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your breath catches without any conscious decision to make it do so. when he smiles at something you say, warmth blooms in your chest that has nothing to do with strategy. when he asks about your dreams for the future, you find yourself giving answers you hadn’t planned, hadn’t practiced.
“what do you want most in the world?” he asks over dessert that’s more art than food.
the question hangs between you like a challenge. what do you want most in the world? money? security? power? all of those things seemed like complete answers a few weeks ago, but sitting across from someone who’s offering them all freely, they feel insufficient.
“to matter,” you say finally, the words escaping before you can stop them. “to be important to someone.”
it’s more honest than you meant to be, more vulnerable than your carefully constructed persona allows. but the way his eyes soften, the way he reaches for your hand again like it’s instinctive—
“you matter to me,” he says simply. “you’re the most important thing in my world.”
and god help you, you believe him. more than that, you want it to be true. want to be his most important thing, want to be worthy of the devotion he’s offering, want to deserve the life he’s clearly planning to build around you.
the realization should terrify you. instead, it feels like coming home.
he drives you back to your apartment as the sun sets, expensive car purring through streets that look different when viewed through the lens of his attention. everything seems prettier, more significant, like you’re seeing your own life through the eyes of someone who thinks you’re worth this level of effort.
“can i see you again?” he asks as he walks you to your door, and there’s vulnerability in the question that sits strangely on someone who looks like he’s never been denied anything in his life.
“try to stop me,” you say, and watch his face light up like sunrise.
he kisses your forehead before he leaves—chaste and sweet and completely at odds with the heat in his eyes—and you spend the evening replaying every moment, every touch, every look. your phone buzzes constantly with messages from him, each one a small prayer of gratitude for your existence.
satoru: thank you for today
satoru: you’re even more incredible in person
satoru: i can’t stop thinking about you
satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful
you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, some emotion you can’t name clawing at your chest. tomorrow you’ll go back to the performance, back to being the perfect girlfriend he’s constructed in his mind. but tonight—
tonight you let yourself wonder what it would be like if this was real. if you were really the person he thinks you are, really worthy of the life he’s offering to build around you.
your reflection stares back at you from your darkened phone screen, and for a moment you don’t recognize the face looking back. there’s something soft there, something vulnerable that has no place in your carefully constructed armor.
you push the feeling down, bury it beneath layers of calculation and strategy. this is a job, a con, a means to an end. the fact that your mark happens to be beautiful and generous and completely devoted doesn’t change what this is.
but as you fall asleep to the sound of your phone buzzing with message after message, each one a small offering at the altar of your manufactured perfection, you can’t quite shake the feeling that you’re lying to yourself about more than just your feelings for him.
the second date becomes a third, then a fourth. he integrates himself into your life with the persistence of water finding cracks, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. your gaming sessions become longer, more intimate. your days start to revolve around his messages, his calls, his presence.
and the gifts keep coming. not just expensive things anymore, but thoughtful ones. a book by an author you mentioned liking, tea from a shop you walked past together, a playlist of songs that remind him of you. he’s building a detailed map of your preferences, real and performed, and using it to craft a reality where you’re the center of everything.
it should be suffocating. it should trigger every alarm bell you have about controlling men and possessive behavior. instead, it’s intoxicating in ways you never anticipated.
“you don’t have to keep buying me things,” you tell him one evening, though you make no move to return the designer bracelet he’s just fastened around your wrist. the weight of it feels like ownership, like being marked as his in the most luxurious way possible.
“i want to.” his fingers linger on your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how your heartbeat spikes at his touch. “you deserve beautiful things.”
you deserve. not you want, not you like—you deserve. like your worth is something objective and measurable, like spoiling you is a moral imperative rather than a choice.
“what if i don’t?” the question slips out before you can stop it, vulnerability bleeding through your carefully maintained facade.
he goes still, fingers pausing in their gentle exploration of your wrist. when you look up at him, his expression is soft and serious and utterly convinced.
“impossible,” he says, and there’s no doubt in his voice whatsoever. “you’re perfect.”
perfect. that word again, the one that sits in your chest like a weight and a promise and a threat all at once. you want to be perfect for him, want to deserve the faith he’s placing in you, want to be worthy of the life he’s offering to build around your happiness.
but you also know, with crystal clarity, that you’re not. that everything he loves about you is a carefully constructed lie, that the person he’s falling for exists only in the digital space between truth and deception.
the contradiction should bother you more than it does.
instead, you lean into his touch and let him believe in your perfection a little longer.
you’re three weeks deep when the first crack appears.
it happens during a gaming session—some pvp match that’s going badly despite his usual skill. you can hear his frustration through the headset, sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses that sound nothing like the patient, adoring man you’ve come to know.
“look at this pathetic excuse for a human being,” he snarls after another failed engagement, and there’s venom in his voice that makes your stomach drop like a stone. “CurseGuzzlerSG—probably some mouth-breathing basement dweller who peaked in middle school and thinks button mashing counts as skill. bet his parents are ashamed they wasted eighteen years feeding this waste of oxygen.”
the transformation is jarring, like watching a mask slip off to reveal something predatory underneath. gone is the soft-spoken man who calls you beautiful every morning, replaced by someone whose voice drips with surgical cruelty.
you can hear the mechanical keyboard—the one he bought to match with you—being punished under his fingers, each keystroke sharp and violent. then there’s a crash, the sound of something being swept off his desk, followed by his ragged breathing.
“and this fucking reject with the anime profile picture,” he continues, his voice getting more unhinged with each word. “probably jerks off to cartoon children and wonders why he’s never felt a woman’s touch. look at his gear, look at his rotation—his brain must be smoother than a marble, absolutely no higher cognitive function happening in that empty skull—”
the specific, personal nature of his attacks makes ice form in your veins. these aren’t just frustrated gamer insults. this is calculated character assassination of people he’s never met, detailed psychological profiles built from usernames and gameplay footage.
“hey,” you say softly, trying to recapture the gentle dynamic you’ve built, trying to ignore the way your fight-or-flight response is screaming at you to hang up, to run. “it’s just a game—”
“don’t.”
the word cuts through your platitude like a blade, so sharp and cold you actually flinch away from your headset. the silence that follows is suffocating—you can hear him breathing heavily, each exhale controlled but violent, like he’s physically restraining himself from something worse.
ten seconds of silence. twenty. thirty.
when he speaks again, his voice has that careful control that’s somehow more terrifying than his rage.
“don’t diminish this. you know how much time i’ve put into perfecting my builds, my rotations, my team compositions. these... people... are ruining something i care about.”
people. the way he says it makes it clear they’re barely that in his mind.
there’s another stretch of silence, punctuated only by his measured breathing. you can picture him behind his setup—probably pushing his glasses up, running his hands through his white hair, recalibrating his mask.
“satoru—”
“i would never talk to you like that.” his voice is soft now, gentle, but there’s something underneath it that makes your skin crawl. “you’re different. you’re special. you understand quality, you appreciate effort, you have standards. unlike these degenerates who probably can’t even tie their own shoes without their mothers helping them.”
the implication hangs in the air like smoke: this is how he talks about people who aren’t special to him. this is the venom he reserves for anyone who doesn’t meet his standards, who doesn’t earn his carefully rationed respect.
“you’re the only person worth my patience,” he continues, and you can hear his smile through the words. “the only person who deserves my best self.”
your hands are shaking. you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
“i could be raid leading for a world-first guild,” he continues, and you can hear him pacing now, his breathing heavy through the microphone. “i could be making guides that actually matter, teaching people who deserve to learn. instead i’m stuck carrying these worthless—”
“satoru.” you interrupt, your voice firm enough to cut through his spiral. “breathe.”
silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. when he speaks again, his voice is different—smaller, almost frightened.
“sorry. i didn’t mean to... you’re the only good thing in my life, i shouldn’t take my frustration out on—”
“it’s okay,” you say quickly, but something cold has settled in your stomach. the only good thing in his life. not one of the good things, the only thing. the weight of that responsibility sits on your chest like lead, and you’re starting to understand why he treats you like something that might disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
the session ends early, with him apologizing repeatedly—too much, too frantically—and you reassuring him that everything’s fine. but after you hang up, you sit in the darkness of your room and wonder what you’ve built here. what kind of devotion requires this level of emotional maintenance. what kind of man puts all his happiness in one person and then expects that person to carry it gracefully.
your phone buzzes immediately.
satoru: i’m sorry for earlier
satoru: you bring out the best in me and i never want to be anything less than perfect for you
satoru: let me make it up to you
satoru: please don’t be upset with me
satoru: i can’t stand the thought of disappointing you
satoru: you’re everything to me
the messages come in rapid succession, each one more desperate than the last. you can picture him on the other end, probably pacing his apartment, pushing his glasses up his nose over and over while anxiety eats him alive. the image should make you feel powerful—and part of it does—but mostly it just makes you tired.
why_en: it’s really okay satoru, we all have bad days
satoru: not around you
satoru: never around you
satoru: you deserve perfect
the next morning, there’s a package at your door. jewelry this time, delicate and expensive and exactly your taste. the note attached is written in his careful handwriting, and you can see places where he pressed too hard with the pen, where his hand probably shook: for the most perfect woman in the world. i’m sorry i’m not worthy of you yet.
not worthy yet. like his worthiness is something he can achieve through enough gifts, enough attention, enough complete subsumation of his identity into the idea of pleasing you.
you should feel guilty. you should feel something approaching shame for the way you’ve constructed this relationship on a foundation of performance and manipulation. instead, you feel hungry. greedy. more addicted than ever to the way he sees you as something precious and irreplaceable.
but the cracks keep appearing, spreading like spider webs through the perfect facade he’s built.
it happens at a coffee shop two days later. you’re waiting in line together, his hand possessive on the small of your back, when the barista—young, pretty, probably a college student—smiles at him while taking his order.
“what can i get started for you?” she asks, all customer service brightness and innocent friendliness.
you feel satoru’s hand tighten against your back. when he speaks, his voice is clipped, cold in a way you’ve never heard directed at a stranger.
“large americano. black.” no please, no thank you, just barely controlled hostility toward someone whose only crime was existing while female in his presence.
the girl’s smile falters slightly. “and for you?” she asks, turning to you with visible relief.
“i’ll have a—”
“she’ll have a vanilla latte with oat milk,” satoru interrupts, his voice still sharp. “and make sure the temperature is exactly 140 degrees. she has a sensitive palate.”
you stare at him. you’ve never mentioned having a sensitive palate. you don’t even particularly like vanilla lattes, but you’d ordered one once weeks ago and he’d apparently catalogued it as your permanent preference.
“uh, actually—” you start.
“that’s what you always get,” he says, looking at you with those too-blue eyes. there’s something desperate in his gaze, like your coffee order is a test of his devotion and getting it wrong would shatter something fundamental in his worldview.
“right,” you say weakly, watching the barista’s expression grow more uncomfortable by the second.
“anything else?” she asks, clearly wanting this interaction to end.
satoru’s eyes narrow, scanning her name tag. “no, suzuru. just make sure you get it right. my girlfriend deserves the best service.”
the way he says ‘girlfriend’ makes your skin crawl—possessive, territorial, like he’s marking territory. suzuru nods quickly and moves to start the drinks, probably counting the minutes until her shift ends.
“you didn’t have to be rude to her,” you say quietly as you move to wait for your order.
“rude?” satoru looks genuinely confused. “i was protecting your experience. did you see the way she was looking at me? completely inappropriate when i’m obviously with someone.”
you glance back at suzuru, who’s focused intently on the espresso machine and definitely not looking at anyone. “she was just doing her job, satoru.”
“was she?” his voice drops to a whisper, but there’s venom in it. “or was she trying to get my attention? women like that are always testing boundaries, seeing if they can break up happy couples.”
women like that. you want to ask what he means exactly—college students? service workers? people who dare to exist in his vicinity while female?—but something in his expression warns you off. there’s a paranoid intensity in his eyes that makes you think of conspiracy theorists and reddit manifestos.
“maybe you’re reading too much into—”
“i notice things other people miss,” he interrupts, straightening his glasses with sharp, jerky movements. “i see patterns. the way she tilted her head, the way she leaned forward when she talked to me, the way her voice got softer. classic manipulation tactics.”
your blood runs cold. classic manipulation tactics. you wonder if he’s catalogued your own behavior the same way, if he has mental files on every smile, every laugh, every carefully crafted moment of vulnerability you’ve shown him.
“large americano and vanilla latte!” suzuru calls, setting the cups on the counter with obvious relief.
satoru inspects both drinks before accepting them, checking the foam art on your latte with the intensity of a forensic investigator. “temperature?” he asks.
“140 degrees,” suzuru confirms, already turning away to help the next customer.
as you leave the coffee shop, satoru’s demeanor transforms back to the devoted boyfriend you know. he opens the door for you, asks if your drink is perfect, tells you how beautiful you look in the morning sunlight. but you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at that barista, like she was a threat to be neutralized.
“you’re quiet,” he observes as you walk to his car.
“just thinking.”
“about what?” there’s an edge of anxiety in the question, like he’s afraid you might be thinking about something—or someone—other than him.
“nothing important,” you lie, and watch his shoulders relax slightly.
but it is important. the more time you spend with him, the more you realize that his devotion comes with a price: the complete elimination of any other people from your life. friends who text you less because you’re always busy with satoru. coworkers who’ve stopped inviting you to after-work drinks because you always decline. family members who’ve started asking if you’re okay because you only talk about your boyfriend now.
the isolation happened so gradually you barely noticed it. satoru never explicitly told you to stop seeing other people—he’s too smart for that. instead, he made himself irresistible.
why go out for mediocre drinks with friends when you could stay in with someone who treats you like a goddess? why maintain friendships that require effort when you have someone who gives you everything you want without asking for anything in return?
except he is asking for something in return. he’s asking for everything. your time, your attention, your entire existence reorganized around the maintenance of his happiness.
the revelation should horrify you. instead, as you settle into the passenger seat of his expensive car and let him fuss over your seatbelt, your comfort, your everything, you find yourself wondering why it feels so much like coming home.
a week later, you’re having dinner at another expensive restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters know his name and treat you like visiting royalty. you’ve learned to navigate these spaces now, learned to let him order wine that costs more than your monthly rent, learned to smile graciously when he explains the menu items like you’re a child who needs guidance.
the conversation flows easily—it always does now, you’ve learned to navigate his interests and opinions like a native speaker—until he mentions something that makes your blood freeze.
“i’ve been thinking about taking a vacation,” he says, cutting into his steak with precise, almost surgical movements. “somewhere tropical, just the two of us. i found this perfect resort in the maldives—private villa, completely isolated from everything. just paradise.”
isolated. the word echoes in your head like a warning bell.
“that sounds amazing,” you say automatically, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.
“i already booked it,” he continues, and there’s excitement in his voice, genuine happiness that makes your stomach twist with guilt and terror in equal measure. “two weeks, starting next month. i know you’ll have to request time off work, but i figured we could say it’s a family emergency or something. i don’t want your boss asking too many questions about where we’re going.”
the casual suggestion of lying to your employer sits wrong in your chest, but it’s the other part that makes your pulse quicken with alarm.
“you booked it?” the words come out sharper than intended, and you see his expression shift slightly, like a mask slipping. “without asking me?”
for just a moment, something flickers across his face—surprise, irritation, the look of someone who’s been questioned when they expected gratitude. but it’s gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.
“i wanted to surprise you.” his tone is still gentle, but there’s something underneath it now. something watchful, calculating. “you mentioned wanting to travel, and i thought... i wanted to give you something special. something no one else has ever given you.”
he’s right, of course. you had mentioned wanting to travel, weeks ago, back when you were still thinking of him as a mark instead of... whatever he is now. but the way he’s twisted that casual comment into justification for making major decisions about your life without consulting you feels like a trap closing around your throat.
“i can’t just disappear for two weeks, satoru. i have responsibilities, commitments—”
“what commitments?” the question is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes your pulse quicken. his blue eyes are studying you with uncomfortable intensity, like he’s dissecting your objections in real time. “your job that makes you miserable? friends who barely text you anymore? family who only call when they need something?”
the accuracy of the statement hits like cold water. when was the last time you made plans that didn’t involve him? when did your world become so small that he fills every corner of it? and more importantly—when did he become so intimately familiar with the deterioration of all your other relationships?
“that’s not the point,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction and you both know it. “you can’t just... decide things for me.”
his hand reaches across the table to cover yours, warm and possessive, and you notice the way his fingers completely engulf your smaller ones. “i’m not deciding for you, beautiful. i’m trying to give you everything you deserve. when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?”
the question lodges in your throat like a stone. when was the last time? before him, certainly. before this performance became so consuming that you forgot what happiness felt like when it wasn’t reflected in his adoring gaze.
“this is making me happy,” you whisper, and it’s not entirely a lie. this—his attention, his devotion, the way he treats you like something precious—does make you happy. but it’s a hollow kind of happiness, built on a foundation that’s starting to crack under its own weight.
“then what’s the problem?” his thumb traces across your knuckles, a gesture that should be comforting but feels like a shackle. there’s something in his voice now, a careful patience that reminds you of someone talking to a frightened animal. “let me take care of you. let me give you the life you deserve.”
the life you deserve. not the life you want, not the life you choose, but the life he’s decided you deserve based on his careful observation of your preferences and weaknesses. the distinction sits heavy in your chest as you look at him across the table—beautiful, devoted, dangerous in his certainty that he knows what’s best for you.
“two weeks is a long time,” you say weakly, grasping for some kind of compromise that won’t shatter the careful dynamic you’ve built.
“exactly.” his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love that feels more like ownership with each passing day. “two weeks where you don’t have to think about anything except being happy. no work stress, no social obligations, no one else’s needs to consider. just you and me and paradise.”
just you and me. the phrase echoes in your head with the weight of inevitability. no one else to perform for, no escape routes, no witnesses to whatever he becomes when he has you completely to himself.
“okay,” you say finally, because the alternative is a confrontation you’re not ready for, because part of you wants to see what happens when you stop running from this thing you’ve created. “okay, we can go.”
his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love. “you’re incredible,” he says, lifting your hand to his lips. his kiss is soft, reverent, and completely at odds with the triumph gleaming in his eyes. “i can’t wait to have you all to myself.”
all to himself. the phrase echoes in your head as he pays the check without looking at the total, as he drives you home through streets that feel increasingly like a maze with no exit, as he kisses you goodnight with reverent tenderness that feels more like a brand than affection.
that night, alone in your apartment, you sit on your bathroom floor with your back against the locked door, trying to process what just happened.
the fear sits in your stomach like ice water, sharp and immediate. you’ve seen behind his mask now, witnessed the calculating precision with which he’s been mapping your life. every conversation you thought was casual bonding was actually reconnaissance. every detail you thought you were sharing naturally was being filed away, catalogued, weaponized.
but underneath the fear is something else, something that makes you feel sick with self-recognition. you’re impressed.
the thoroughness of it, the dedication, the sheer amount of effort he’s put into knowing every facet of your existence—it’s horrifying and flattering in equal measure. when was the last time someone paid attention to you with this level of intensity? when was the last time you felt this important to another person?
he knows your coworkers’ names, your salary, your daily frustrations. he’s been building a detailed psychological profile while you thought you were playing him. the realization that you’ve been outmaneuvered by someone you considered a mark should terrify you.
instead, it makes you feel... special.
not just the object of desire, but the subject of obsession. worthy of this level of investigation, this depth of surveillance. he doesn’t just want to possess you—he wants to understand you completely, to anticipate your needs before you voice them, to become essential to your happiness.
your phone buzzes with a text, and you don’t even need to look to know who it’s from.
satoru: thank you for saying yes to the trip
satoru: i know it’s a big decision
satoru: i promise i’ll make it perfect for you
satoru: everything i do is for you
satoru: you’re my whole world
his whole world. not part of his world, not an important piece of it, but the entire thing. the weight of being someone’s everything sits on your chest like lead, but underneath the pressure is something that feels suspiciously like pride.
you type and delete a dozen responses before settling on something that feels true enough to pass for honesty:
why_en: i trust you
and you do trust him, in a way that’s probably more dangerous than fear. you trust him to worship you, to structure his entire existence around your comfort and happiness. you trust him to protect what he sees as his with the same vicious intensity he showed that night gaming, the same paranoid vigilance he demonstrated with the coffee shop barista.
you trust him to love you the way a collector loves their most precious acquisition—completely, obsessively, possessively.
the maldives trip looms like a beautiful nightmare on the horizon. two weeks alone with him, no escape routes, no distractions, no witnesses to whatever you become when you stop pretending this isn’t exactly what you want.
tomorrow you’ll put on the mask again. tomorrow you’ll be his perfect girlfriend, grateful for his attention and excited about your romantic getaway. tomorrow you’ll feed the monster you’ve created and pretend you don’t see your own reflection in his hungry eyes.
but tonight, in the darkness of your apartment, you let yourself grieve for the person you used to be before you learned to love the feeling of being devoured.
your phone lights up again.
satoru: goodnight, beautiful
satoru: sweet dreams
satoru: i love you more than anything in this world
the words sit on your screen like a confession and a threat and a promise all at once. more than anything in this world—not anyone, anything. like you’re not a person to him but a concept, an ideal, a perfect thing to be protected and possessed and worshipped from a distance that’s growing smaller every day.
why_en: i love you too
and in the silence that follows, you finally understand that some hungers can only be satisfied by being consumed completely. the question isn’t whether you’re ready for that consumption—it’s whether you’re brave enough to admit how much you want it.
the villa is perfect, of course it is. satoru doesn’t do anything halfway, especially when it comes to you. glass walls that dissolve the boundary between inside and outside, infinity pool that bleeds into the ocean horizon, bed the size of your entire apartment back home draped in white silk that catches the tropical breeze.
the air hums with salt and jasmine, the scent clinging to your skin, curling into your senses like a lover’s breath. the teak furniture, carved with razor-sharp precision, glows under the low light, each piece a silent testament to his control, his need to make this space an extension of his will—and of you.
you’ve been here a week and you can feel yourself dissolving.
his presence is relentless: mornings with breakfast on a tray—mangoes sliced so thin they’re translucent, their juice dripping down his fingers as he presses a piece to your lips, watching your tongue dart out to taste it, coffee brewed to the exact temperature you mentioned once, its bitter warmth coating your throat as he studies your reaction with narrowed eyes and a faint smirk.
afternoons on the deck with the sun searing your skin, his fingers tracing slow circles on your thigh, each touch pulling a hitch in your breath, a flush across your chest. nights where he watches you pretend to sleep, his gaze heavy, peeling back your defenses until you’re raw, exposed, your pulse quickening under the weight of his scrutiny.
“you’re so beautiful when you think no one’s watching,” he murmurs now, and you realize your pretense has failed again. his voice comes from too close, and when you open your eyes he’s propped on his elbow beside you, studying your face with those winter-blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that have become as familiar as your own reflection.
the sun has set while you dozed, painting the water in shades of amber and rose. the villa’s lighting system has activated automatically, casting everything in a warm glow that makes his white hair look spun from gold, makes his pale skin seem to glow from within. the light catches his glasses, glinting like a predator’s eyes, and the ocean outside hums, a low murmur that fades against the pulse hammering in your ears.
“i wasn’t sleeping,” you lie, stretching like a cat under his gaze. the movement makes the silk camisole—another gift, chosen perfectly for the climate and your coloring—ride up, exposing the soft curve of your hip, and you watch his eyes darken as they track the exposed skin with predatory focus. the fabric clings to your breasts, outlining your nipples as they harden under his stare, and his jaw tightens, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate.
“i know.” his fingers ghost over your hip bone, light as butterfly wings but searing, tracing a slow arc that sends a shiver through you. “you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re really asleep. right here.” he touches the spot with his index finger, gentle but possessive, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch, your lips part in a soft gasp. “and your breathing changes. gets deeper. more trusting.”
the casual observation makes your stomach flip. he’s catalogued even your unconscious expressions, studied you with the dedication of a scientist documenting a new species. seven days of constant observation, constant attention, and he’s mapped every detail of your existence with the precision of a cartographer claiming new territory.
“you’re staring too hard,” you whisper, but there’s no real complaint in it. you’ve grown addicted to the weight of his attention, the way he looks at you like you’re art in a museum—something precious and irreplaceable that he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to possess.
“can’t help it.” his hand slides higher, palm flat against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through silk so thin it might as well not exist. the contact is deliberate, his thumb circling slowly, coaxing your nipple to peak harder, sending a jolt straight to your core. “especially in that. it’s like you were designed specifically to drive me insane.”
the camisole was waiting on the bed when you arrived, along with an entire wardrobe he’d selected with meticulous care. sundresses that tie at the shoulder with single ribbons that beg to be pulled, bikinis that somehow stay on despite being mostly string and wishful thinking, lingerie that makes you feel like something wrapped for his consumption. everything easy access, everything designed to come off at the slightest provocation.
“you have good taste,” you manage, voice catching as his thumb traces the curve of your breast, feeling your nipple harden through the silk. the sound makes him smile, sharp and satisfied, his eyes glinting with triumph, his jaw tightening as he watches your lips part.
“i have you,” he says simply, leaning down to press his lips to your collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. his tongue is warm, wet, tracing a slow path along your collarbone, and the contact burns, soft yet laced with something feral, his teeth grazing lightly. “that’s all the good taste i need.”
his breath is hot against your skin, his lips parting slightly as he lingers, savoring the salt of your sweat, the faint pulse under your skin. the kiss burns, soft and reverent but there’s something darker lurking beneath the surface. something that’s been growing stronger the longer you’re isolated together, the longer he has you completely to himself with no interruptions, no witnesses, no escape routes.
his mouth moves lower, teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you can’t suppress the small gasp that escapes. the sound flips something in him—his grip tightens on your ribs, fingers digging in just shy of painful, his nails biting into your skin, leaving faint crescents. his eyes flicker with dark satisfaction, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he feels you tremble.
“satoru,” you breathe, and his name comes out needier than intended, almost broken, your voice trembling as your core aches with want.
“what do you want, beautiful?” his lips move against your throat, voice gone rough around the edges, a low growl that vibrates against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point again. “tell me exactly what you want and maybe i’ll give it to you.”
it’s a loaded question wrapped in silk, isn’t it? what you want versus what you think you should want versus what he wants you to want. the lines have blurred beyond recognition, especially here in this paradise where the outside world feels like a half-remembered dream. the villa is a cage of glass and silk, the air thick with heat and desire, and every touch of his lips, every scrape of his teeth, pulls you deeper into his orbit.
“you,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said in weeks. not the performance version of want, not the careful calculation of what will keep him devoted, just pure need that’s been building like pressure behind glass. “i want you.”
something shifts in his expression, the careful mask of gentle devotion cracking to show the ravenous hunger underneath. his hand moves higher, cupping your breast properly now, thumb circling your nipple through silk with enough pressure to make you arch against him.
his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. his eyes darken, pupils dilating as he watches your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan, a flush spreading across your chest.
“how much of me?” his voice is lower, darker, a growl vibrating in his chest as he leans closer, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot against your skin. “because i want to give you everything, but i need to know you can handle it. need to know you won’t break.”
the question makes your pulse stutter because there’s something in his tone you’ve caught glimpses of before—in game chats when other players frustrate him, in the way his jaw tightens when men look at you too long, in the casual possessiveness that’s grown stronger each day—but never this concentrated, never this focused entirely on you.
“everything,” you whisper, because retreat isn’t an option anymore. you’ve come too far, fallen too deep, let yourself get too addicted to the way he makes you feel like the center of the universe. “i can handle everything.”
his lips curl, sharp and beautiful and completely unlike the gentle adoration you’re used to. it’s hungry, satisfied, like you’ve just given him permission for something he’s been craving.
“careful what you promise,” he murmurs, but his hands are already moving, fingers finding the silk ribbons at your shoulders. he unties them slowly, reverently, like he’s unwrapping the most precious gift he’s ever received, his fingers steady but his eyes flickering with hunger, his jaw tight as he watches the fabric fall.
the camisole falls away and you’re bare to his gaze, nipples hardening in the warm air as he looks at you like he’s seeing something that belongs entirely to him. the silk pools at your waist, and his eyes rake over your breasts, your nipples peaking harder under his stare, a flush spreading across your chest.
“perfect,” he breathes, and there’s something almost clinical in how thoroughly he studies you, his eyes narrowing slightly, cataloguing every curve, every freckle, every flush. his palms cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples with maddening lightness, just enough pressure to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy. his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. “do you know what you do to me? walking around in those little outfits i picked out, looking at me like you trust me completely?”
there’s something almost cruel in his tone, a darkness you’ve sensed but never seen fully unleashed, and it shouldn’t make you wetter but it does. the careful, worshipful lover is dissolving into something hungrier, more possessive, and your body is responding like it’s been waiting for this version of him all along, your core aching with want, slickness forming as your thighs shift.
“i do trust you,” you manage, even as his hands move lower, skimming over your ribs with deliberate slowness, fingertips trailing fire across your skin, each touch precise, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines that burn in the humid air.
“you shouldn’t.” his fingers hook in the waistband of your silk shorts, and he pauses, looking up at you with eyes that have gone dark behind his glasses, his lips curling into a faint, predatory smirk. “but god, i’m so fucking glad you do.”
the profanity sounds foreign in his mouth, rougher than his usual careful language, and it sends heat shooting straight to your core, making you clench with need. he pulls the fabric away with agonizing slowness, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed, and when you’re completely bare beneath him he just looks for a long moment.
his eyes rake over your body, lingering on the flush across your chest, the way your thighs quiver, the glistening slickness at your center, his jaw tightening, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate. the intensity of his gaze makes you want to cover yourself and spread wider at the same time, your core aching with need.
he’s cataloguing every detail—the flush spreading across your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, how your thighs press together unconsciously, only to part again as your core clenches.
“beautiful,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your legs with reverent touches that feel possessive, his fingers digging into your thighs, leaving faint marks. “so fucking beautiful it makes me crazy. makes me want to do terrible things to you.”
his thumbs brush the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips, not quite touching your center, just close enough to make you squirm, your hips lifting instinctively, seeking contact. “satoru, please—” your voice is raw, desperate, breaking on his name, your hips lifting again, your core aching with want.
“please what?” his voice has gone silky, dangerous, a purr that makes your core clench with need. his thumbs circle closer, grazing the edges of your slick folds, teasing your clit without touching it, and his eyes narrow, watching your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan. “use your words, beautiful. tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
the command in his tone makes you clench around nothing, and you see him notice it, see the satisfied smile that curves his lips as he watches your body betray your need. “touch me,” you breathe, hips lifting unconsciously, seeking contact he’s deliberately withholding. “please, i need you to touch me.”
“where?” he asks, and there’s something almost sadistic in how he’s drawing this out, like he’s savoring your desperation, his lips curling into a faint smirk, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “here?” his fingers ghost over your hipbones, barely making contact, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines. “or here?”
“you know where,” you gasp, frustration making your voice crack, your core aching with need, your thighs trembling. your eyes flutter, tears pricking at the corners, and your lips tremble, a soft whimper escaping as his fingers hover so close but refuse to touch.
“but i want to hear you say it.” he leans down, lips brushing your ear, and his voice drops to something dark and possessive, his breath hot against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “want to hear you beg for it like the needy little thing you really are. bet you’ve begged other men like this too, haven’t you?”
the question hits like a slap, unexpected and cruel, and you feel heat flood your cheeks. “satoru—” your voice trembles, raw with a mix of shame and arousal, your eyes wide with desperation, tears pricking at the corners.
“have you?” his fingers stop moving entirely, hovering just above your center, so close you can feel the warmth of them but not the relief you’re dying for, your clit throbbing with need. “answer me. how many others have seen you like this? how many others have you spread your legs for?”
“that’s—that’s not fair,” you whisper, voice breaking on the words, tears spilling over as your core clenches with need, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with desperation.
“not fair?” he laughs, and the sound is sharp and mean, a blade slicing through the humid air, his eyes glinting with dark amusement, his jaw tightening as he watches your face contort. “what’s not fair is how you probably let them touch you, let them think they meant something. but they didn’t, did they? they were just practice for me.”
his thumb finally brushes over your clit, just once, and the contact makes you cry out—a broken, desperate sound that echoes off the glass walls, your hips jerking upward, chasing more. he pulls back, watching you squirm with a smile that’s all teeth, his eyes glinting with satisfaction, his jaw tight as he savors your desperation.
“my clit,” you sob, beyond caring about dignity, tears spilling freely, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with need. “please touch my clit, please, i’ll tell you whatever you want—” your voice is raw, trembling, and your core clenches with need.
“good girl,” he purrs, but there’s something twisted in the praise, his eyes narrowing, a faint smirk curling his lips as he watches your face contort. “see how easy it is when you’re honest? when you stop pretending to be something you’re not?”
finally, finally his thumb presses against your clit properly, and the sensation makes you keen—a high, desperate sound that you don’t recognize as coming from your own throat. he starts with slow, deliberate circles, his thumb grinding against your swollen clit with cruel precision, dragging across the sensitive nerves, each motion sending jagged bolts of pleasure through your core.
his fingers tease your dripping pussy, sliding through your slick folds with a taunting drag, collecting your arousal as your hips jerk, desperate for more of his merciless touch.
“oh god,” you gasp, hips bucking against his hand involuntarily. the sound of your wetness is obscene in the quiet villa, slick and desperate, echoing off the glass walls. your cunt clenches, aching for him to fill it, as his thumb shifts to sharp, rapid taps, then slow, punishing drags that make your thighs quiver, your clit pulsing under his cruel attention.
“louder,” he commands, pressing harder on your clit, his thumb scraping across it with a vicious flick, sending a white-hot jolt through your body that makes you whimper, your breath catching in your throat. “want to hear every sound you make. want to memorize exactly how you break apart for me.”
but the touch is gone almost immediately, leaving you gasping and clenching around nothing. he’s back to those maddening almost-touches, fingertips trailing through your soaked folds with clinical fascination, teasing your entrance with featherlight strokes that make your cunt ache for more, his movements slow and deliberately cruel.
“so wet already,” he observes, his voice a low, clinical murmur. “soaking my fingers and we’ve barely started. your body just gives you away, doesn’t it? doesn’t even wait for you to be awake to do what it’s made for. it knows who it belongs to, even when you don’t.”
before you can answer, he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with an obscene thoroughness that makes you whimper. his eyes never leave yours as his tongue laps at your slickness, swirling over each digit, savoring the taste of your pussy, and the sight is so filthy and intimate that your cunt clenches, a fresh wave of slickness dripping down your thighs.
“sweet,” he says after he’s licked them clean. “everything about you tastes perfect.”
his hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding through your drenched folds with devastating precision, parting your pussy lips with slow, deliberate drags. the wet sound fills the air, obscene and desperate. he finds your clit and circles it slowly, then switches to quick, vicious taps, building a rhythm that has you writhing beneath him, spine arching off the silk sheets as broken whimpers spill from your lips, your thighs trembling with the intensity of it.
your vision blurs at the edges, the room spinning as pleasure builds like pressure in your skull. you hear yourself making sounds you don’t recognize—breathless gasps, broken moans, words that might be his name or pleas. but every time you get close to the edge he backs off, switching to lighter, teasing strokes, his fingers grazing your cunt with cruel restraint, leaving you suspended in a limbo of need that feels like drowning.
“please,” you sob after the third time he brings you to the brink only to pull back, and your voice cracks on the word, raw and desperate. tears stream down your cheeks—when did you start crying? “please, satoru, i can’t take this, i can’t—”
“you can,” he says firmly, and there’s steel in his voice now, authority that brooks no argument. “you can take whatever i give you, can’t you? my perfect, patient girl.”
he slides one finger inside your aching cunt as he says it, and the intrusion makes you arch with a sharp gasp that echoes off the walls. your body clenches around him involuntarily, desperate for more, as he twists his finger with a vicious grind, dragging against your sensitive inner walls with a cruel, deliberate stroke that sends fire through your core.
the sensation is overwhelming—his finger twisting inside your pussy, grinding against that sensitive spot, while his thumb torments your clit with sharp flicks and slow, scraping drags, the dual stimulation shattering your thoughts. you can feel yourself dissolving, the careful walls you’ve built around who you’re supposed to be crumbling with each merciless movement of his hand.
“look at you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, stretching your cunt with a slow, forceful thrust, then pulling back to stroke shallowly at your entrance before plunging deeper, making you keen—a sound you’ve never made before, high and broken and completely involuntary. “falling apart so beautifully. is this what you wanted when you started your little game? to end up spread out for me, begging?”
the question cuts through the haze of pleasure like a blade. your little game. he knows. of course he knows. but instead of stopping, instead of feeling shame, you just clench tighter around his fingers, chasing the sensation that’s making everything else fade to static.
“that’s what I thought,” he says, and there’s dark satisfaction in his voice as he works you methodically, building toward something that feels bigger than pleasure, something that feels like complete dissolution. “my perfect little schemer, so good at manipulating everyone else. but you can’t manipulate this, can you? can’t control how your body responds to me. so loud for me. what would people think if they heard my perfect little schemer now?”
the thought should mortify you—the villa is isolated but not soundproof—but instead it makes you moan louder, the idea of being heard, of being claimed so thoroughly that even strangers would know you belong to him.
“you like that idea,” he observes, and there’s dark satisfaction in his voice. “like the thought of people knowing you’re mine.”
he adds a third finger and you keen, back arching off the bed as he stretches your pussy wider than you’ve ever been, the sensation teetering between pleasure and pain, your body trembling as it struggles to take him.
he slides his fingers in deep, then pulls back to stroke shallowly, teasing your entrance with quick, brutal thrusts before plunging back in, grinding against your inner walls with a cruel twist.
“god, you’re so tight,” he says, a note of sharp amusement in his voice. “all those other cocks, and you still feel brand new. did they even count?” the wet sounds are obscene as he works his fingers deeper. “don’t worry. i’ll open you up properly. i’ll make sure you can take all of me, because you’ll have to. this is what you really are when you stop all that clever scheming, isn't it? just a perfect, greedy cunt made for me.”
tears stream down your cheeks freely now, but you can’t tell if they’re from the physical intensity or from something deeper—the way he’s seeing right through you, stripping away every pretense until there’s nothing left but raw need and the terrifying realization that you want this, you want him to see you like this.
your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve crackling with electricity, the silk beneath you damp with sweat, your skin flushed and burning despite the ocean breeze. when you try to close your legs instinctively he forces them apart with his free hand, grip firm and possessive, his nails biting into your thigh.
“ah, ah, ah,” he chides softly, cruel amusement in his tone. “don’t you dare hide from me. look at you—clenching around my fingers like you’re starving, and you think i’d let you shut those pretty thighs and keep your slutty cunt all to yourself?”
he presses you wider, spreading you obscenely open, his gaze devouring the sight of your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his hand. “be a good girl and let me see it. every twitch, every little spasm. i want to watch you disgrace yourself.”
the shame floods your chest hot and heavy, but the words only make your walls flutter tighter around him. his breath catches, a low, hungry laugh breaking from his throat. he’s still fully clothed while you’re splayed naked beneath him, and the imbalance feels deliberate—like a scientist dissecting his favorite specimen, like a god pulling apart something that belongs only to him.
“eyes on me,” he commands when your eyes start to flutter closed, overwhelmed by sensation. “don’t hide it. i want to see every filthy little expression you make.”
you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he works you closer to the edge with surgical precision. his glasses have slipped down his nose, eyes dark with hunger behind the lenses, and there’s something almost clinical in how he watches you—like he’s cataloguing every micro-expression, every broken sound that spills from your lips.
your thoughts feel scattered, fragmented. the careful persona you’ve built crumbles with each vicious twist and stroke of his fingers, each brutal tap and drag of his thumb. you can feel yourself breaking apart, but instead of fear there’s only relief—relief at finally being seen, at having someone strip away all your defenses and want what they find underneath.
"are you about to come?" he asks, his voice losing its heat and taking on a cooler, almost clinical curiosity. his head tilts slightly, glasses slipping just a fraction down his nose as he studies your face like a fascinating experiment.
you can only nod frantically, a pathetic gesture because words have abandoned you entirely. your body is wound so tight you feel like you might shatter, pleasure building like a storm in your core that threatens to sweep away everything you thought you were.
but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he stops completely. he doesn't just pull his fingers out—he draws them back with agonizing slowness, leaving your cunt empty and desperately clenching around nothing as a sob tears from your throat. he holds his slick fingers up in the low light, examining them, and you, for a long moment, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
“no,” you cry, reaching for him with shaking hands. “please, don’t stop, i was so close—”
“i know,” he says, and the smirk widens into a smile that’s all sharp, beautiful teeth. there is no mercy in his eyes, only a bright, terrible amusement. “but you don’t get to come until i say you can. until i want to watch it happen. understand?”
you nod frantically, tears blurring his triumphant face, desperate to be good for him, to prove you can follow his rules. when his fingers return, they don’t plunge back in. they slide through your soaked pussy, tracing lazy, shallow circles at your entrance, a cruel tease that makes you bite your lip so hard you taste copper, trying to hold back the whimper that threatens to escape.
“good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise is a cold, condescending thing. he begins working you slowly again, building that familiar pressure, his thumb pressing lightly on your clit just to feel it pulse. “see how pretty you are when you listen?”
but his fingers are so skilled, grinding against that perfect spot inside your cunt with a vicious, practiced twist, and your body betrays you despite your best efforts. you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, muscles tensing, breathing growing ragged as he works you with relentless precision, his own breathing staying perfectly even. he’s not even close to losing control.
“not yet,” he warns, the words a low murmur, but his fingers don’t stop their devastating rhythm. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “hold it. i want to see you try.”
you try—god, you try so hard to be perfect for him, clenching your jaw and fists, your whole body a taut wire of resistance against the rising tide of sensation. but he feels you failing. he knows your body better than you do. he shifts his angle just slightly, grinding his fingers with a cruel, knowing precision against that spot that makes you see stars, and your control shatters completely.
the orgasm crashes over you without permission, a violent, tearing wave that rips a raw scream from your throat. you feel yourself gush around his fingers, a hot, shameful flood of wetness soaking his hand, the silk sheets, your thighs, as your body convulses with a pleasure so intense it feels like a punishment. your cunt pulses wildly, desperately, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
for a moment you can’t even think, only ride it out, mouth falling open on a strangled, broken cry as your body betrays you completely. your vision whites out, your thighs tremble and knock together, every nerve lit with an unbearable, agonizing release.
then, when it finally ebbs, the horror rushes in—icy, sharp, slicing through the haze. you see the mess, a dark stain on the pristine sheets, feel the way his fingers are still buried inside you, unmoving, and the shame is so thick it clogs your throat.
“oh,” you gasp, voice raw, trembling with a pathetic, panicked energy. “oh no, i—i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—”
when you finally force yourself to look up at his face, the expression there makes your blood freeze. there’s no anger. it’s worse. it’s a mask of cold, theatrical disappointment, but underneath it, his eyes are glittering with a bright, terrible satisfaction. a tiny muscle is twitching in his jaw, not with rage, but with the effort of holding back a triumphant smile. he is enjoying this. he is feeding on it.
“what did i just tell you?” his voice is quiet, a deadly calm that feels louder than a shout. he doesn't move his fingers, just lets them rest inside you, a heavy, damning presence. “i gave you one, simple rule. what was it?”
“i tried,” you whisper, fresh tears of humiliation spilling over, hot against your skin. “i tried so hard, i promise—”
“clearly not hard enough.” he pulls his fingers out abruptly, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. he leaves your cunt clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined silk. the sudden emptiness, the cold air on your wet skin, rips a whine from your throat before you can stop it, high and needy, shameful in its desperation.
he clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and deliberately condescending. “listen to you,” he drawls, his gaze dropping to the mess between your legs, then back to your face. “whining like a desperate slut the moment i stop touching you. you’ve gotten too comfortable, haven’t you? too used to me giving you everything you want, following your every whim like some pathetic puppy.”
the words cut deep because there’s truth in them—you have gotten used to his devotion, his willingness to spoil you, to treat you like something precious.
“that’s not—” you start, but he cuts you off with a look so cold it silences you.
“no?” his hand comes up to cup your face, his grip a little too tight, his thumb brushing away your tears with a mock tenderness that makes your skin crawl. “then why did you just disobey me? why did you take what i told you to wait for? you took it from me.”
you can’t answer because he’s right—you did take it, couldn’t stop yourself from falling over the edge he told you to avoid. your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve raw and exposed, the shame of your failure burning almost as hot as the lingering pleasure.
“spoiled little thing,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soft, almost gentle whisper that’s somehow more terrifying. he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “always so used to getting your way. but that’s my fault, isn’t it? i’ve been too lenient with you.”
his other hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding slowly, deliberately through the slickness you’ve made, spreading it over your throbbing flesh. you gasp at the sensitivity, your thighs trembling, trying to close them, but his grip on your jaw tightens. everything feels too much, too intense, but when you try to pull away his body just pins you more firmly.
“shh, no running,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively gentle, as if calming a frightened animal. “your body is just confused. it wants this, remember? you cried when i took it away from you.” he presses a soft kiss to your temple, a gesture completely at odds with the cruelty of his intentions. “you made a mess by losing control. the consequence is that i have to be in control for you now. just let me.”
he slides two fingers back inside your cunt and you cry out—a sharp, wounded sound. it’s too much too soon after your orgasm, pleasure bordering on a raw, abraded pain as he works you with a cold, clinical precision, grinding against your sensitive inner walls with cruel, deliberate strokes.
but even as you whimper and squirm, he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that isn’t gentle at all. it’s a bruising, possessive claiming of your mouth, his teeth scraping your lip as he forces your head back into the pillows, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with yours. he is kissing you to silence you, to own you from both ends at once.
“shh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his fingers twisting inside you with a particularly vicious grind. he feels you flinch. “i know it’s intense, baby. i know it hurts. but you need to learn.”
the contrast is dizzying—his fingers punishing and relentless, twisting inside your pussy until you see spots, while his mouth moves with a soft, sweet thoroughness against yours, tasting your tears and your panic. it’s cruel and loving and completely confusing, making your already fractured thoughts scatter further.
“please,” you sob against his lips, the word muffled and broken, not even sure what you’re begging for anymore.
“please what?” he asks, pulling his mouth away just enough to watch your face as he adds a third finger, stretching your cunt so painfully you keen, your back arching off the bed. his eyes are dark, hungry, fascinated by the tears welling up again. “please stop? please more? you need to be clearer, sweetheart.”
but you can’t be clearer because you don’t know what you want except for this feeling to never end, for him to keep kissing you while he takes you apart, for the terrible sweet contradiction of pain and pleasure and love all tangled together.
“you want to come?” he growls, his voice gone completely dark, the mask of disappointment replaced with raw, unveiled hunger. “then fucking take it. show me how completely you can lose yourself for me. let’s see you break.”
the orgasm slams into you like lightning, so intense that you actually scream, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. your body convulses around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you, your cunt pulsing wildly, soaking his hand again and again. you’re dimly aware of sobbing, not quietly, but in huge, ugly, gulping breaths, tears streaming down your cheeks from the sheer intensity of it all.
but he doesn’t stop. his fingers keep moving, grinding that spot inside your pussy while your body tries to recover, the overstimulation so intense it borders on a sharp, burning pain, each new spasm a fresh agony of pleasure.
“too much,” you gasp, pushing at his wrist. he answers by bringing your own hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles even as his fingers inside you twist with a cruel, deliberate pressure.
“oh, but there is,” he whispers against your skin, his smile predatory and pleased. “there’s so much more to give you. i love it when you sound like this. you’re so pretty when you cry for me.”
and that one word—pretty—is the final, beautiful nail in the coffin. it takes the shame of your tears, the humiliation of your broken sobs, and transforms it into an offering.
it’s not a sign of your failure to control yourself—it’s a sign of your success at finally pleasing him in the purest way possible. the realization lands not with a crash, but with a quiet, devastating click of acceptance. and the worst part, the most damning truth of it all, is how much you like it. how right it feels to not just be seen in this state of utter ruin, but to be praised for it. to be completely, utterly undone, and to finally be called beautiful for it.
“one more for me,” he tells you, his voice a soft, instructional murmur as his hand shifts, adding a fourth finger that stretches your cunt so wide you can barely breathe, a sharp, burning tear of sensation that makes you gasp. “let’s see if we can get you past thinking. that’s where you’ll be prettiest, i know it. when it’s just pure feeling, and all of it is for me.”
the stretch is intense, almost painful, but your body adapts with a shocking, humiliating ease, your pussy gripping him tightly, slick and needy. like you really were made for this, made to take whatever he wants to give you.
“that’s it,” he praises, but the sound is less a compliment and more a satisfied confirmation as you adjust to the intrusion. he starts moving his fingers again, a slow, deep rhythm. “see how easy it is when you stop fighting your nature? you just needed someone to show you what you were really for. to be taken like this. to be mine.”
his thumb, slick with your wetness, finds your clit again and you’re already spiraling toward another orgasm, body wound so tight you can barely stand it, the sensation spreading through you like molten gold, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged.
“please,” you sob, the word a constant, broken refrain, not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. release, more pressure, for him to stop, for him to never stop—everything blurs together in a haze of sensation.
“please what?” he asks, his voice gone soft again, but it's a terrifying softness, a gentle tone despite the relentless, punishing grind of his fingers. he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “what do you need, beautiful?”
“you,” you gasp, the admission ripped from the deepest part of you. “need you inside me, need all of you, please—”
his groan is a physical thing, a crack in the careful facade he wears, and the sound vibrates right through you, a low, guttural note of surrender that feels like your victory. he pulls his fingers from your cunt and the loss is immediate, a sudden, shocking hollowness that makes you whimper, a small, pathetic sound in the quiet opulence of the villa.
your body, slick and oversensitive, clenches on nothing, a desperate, silent plea that feels humiliating in its intensity. your hips twitch, an involuntary motion, chasing the memory of his touch, of the pressure that was grounding you.
he sheds his clothes with a brutal efficiency that’s almost frightening, each movement precise and devoid of any wasted energy. it’s not seductive—it’s a preparation. he doesn’t look at you as he unbuttons his shirt, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, as if unwrapping a tool for a specific, delicate job. you can only watch, transfixed, as he reveals himself.
his body is an exercise in contradictions—beautiful and terrible, all hard, lean lines and the kind of latent power that hums under the surface. and his cock… it’s a heavy, arrogant thing, jutting from his body with a slight upward curve, thicker than you’d let yourself imagine, the veins a stark roadmap across its length, a single, clear bead of precum glistening at the tip.
the sight of it, the sheer, solid fact of it, steals the air from your lungs and makes the ache between your legs sharpen into a painful throb.
he is finally, completely naked, and he turns his full attention to you. he looks at you, and it’s not with affection, not with the soft glow of romance.
it’s with the hungry, consuming patience of a collector who has finally acquired a priceless, one-of-a-kind piece and is now deciding exactly how to display it for maximum impact. your stomach twists, a nauseating, thrilling knot of want and a deep, primal fear. this is the point of no return.
“scared?” he asks, settling between your thighs. the mattress dips significantly under his weight, caging you, the movement slow and deliberate. his cock nudges against your slick folds, a heavy, promising pressure that makes a fresh wave of wetness leak from you, shamefully visible on the dark silk of the sheets.
“no,” you lie, but the word is a breathy, broken thing, lost in the space between you.
“liar,” he says, and the fondness in his voice is sharp, almost cruel, the indulgent tone one might use for a favorite, slightly stupid pet that has just performed a predictable trick. he positions himself, just the thick, crowned head of his cock, pressing into your entrance.
it’s a torturous hint of pressure, a question and a threat all at once, and you find yourself arching into him, a silent, desperate plea your body makes without your permission. “it’s okay to be scared,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that seems to travel from his chest to yours. “it’s okay to want it anyway.”
he pushes in. not with a thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure, a deliberate invasion. it’s an agonizingly slow claiming of territory. the initial stretch is a searing, electric burn that makes you gasp, your nails digging into the silk sheets beside you, twisting the expensive fabric in your fists.
he pauses, letting you feel it, letting your body adjust to the first shocking inch of him, his eyes locked on yours, watching the flicker of pain and pleasure in your expression. then he moves again, another slow, grinding inch, stretching you wider. you can feel your inner walls resisting, then yielding, a slow, hot melting around his impossible width.
it’s a process, a complete remaking of your insides to accommodate him, and by the time he sinks himself to the hilt, your breath is coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
the feeling of him fully inside you is dizzying. a deep, stretching fullness that has finally settled past pain into a profound, grounding pleasure. he’s buried so deep you can feel the solid weight of him against your cervix, a constant, blunt pressure that seems to root you to the bed.
he shifts his hips, a small, grinding motion, and watches, fascinated, as his length creates a slight mound on your lower belly, a visible testament to his possession. his palm comes down to press on it, not hard, but with a firm, proprietary pressure that makes you keen, a high, broken sound. the feeling isn't just fullness anymore—it’s him, a tangible brand on your body, inside and out.
“fuck,” he breathes, the word a rough vibration against your skin as he lowers his weight onto you. “so tight. like you were designed just for me.” his hands find your hips, his grip bruisingly tight, pinning you to the mattress, anchoring you under him.
you can’t answer, can’t think. he starts to move, and the rhythm is a slow, grinding punishment—and with every deliberate, dragging thrust, his other hand grinds against that little mound on your belly.
the sensation is dizzying. you can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse, amplified by that relentless, focused pressure from the outside. he’s fucking you from both sides at once, and it’s too much. he’s not just in your cunt—
he’s in your head, making you hyper-aware of your own body, of how he fills it, of how he is physically altering its shape.
“weren’t you?” he demands, his voice a low growl that seems to echo inside your bones. his thrusts get a fraction deeper, a fraction harder, his cockhead bumping insistently against your cervix.
“yes,” you gasp, the word torn from you on a sob that is equal parts pleasure and surrender. “made for you.”
that’s all it takes. something in him snaps. the slow, controlled rhythm is gone, replaced by a frantic, punishing pace that steals your breath and rattles your teeth. he fucks you like he’s trying to erase everything that isn’t him, his hand a constant, grounding pressure on your belly, a focal point in the beautiful, chaotic storm he’s creating.
a hot wire of sensation is pulled taut in your gut, and you feel yourself unraveling. his free hand slides down between your slick, colliding bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. he doesn't caress it—he grinds his thumb into it with the same brutal rhythm as his thrusts, and the world dissolves into white static.
you come with a scream that feels ripped from your soul, your body convulsing around him, a hot gush of release soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you. he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow, just fucks you through the aftershocks with a relentless, punishing rhythm before finally pulling out.
your cunt is dripping, leaving you aching and empty, a ruin of sensation. but he gives you no time to recover. he grabs your arm, flipping you over with an efficient brutality that leaves your head spinning.
“there you go, beautiful. up on your hands and knees for me,” he coos, his voice soft and hypnotic. “you fell apart so perfectly just now… i think i need to watch it happen from behind. show me how good you can be for me.”
you scramble to obey, your body clumsy and boneless, limbs trembling. you push yourself up, ass high in the air, cunt leaking a mixture of your slickness and his seed onto the pristine silk sheets. the position is inherently degrading, a silent admission of submission.
he doesn't make you wait. he slams back into you from behind, and the angle is so much deeper, so much more raw. it feels like he’s trying to split you in two. your head hits the mattress with a soft thud, a cry of shock and pleasure torn from your throat. one hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back and to the side, forcing you to look at nothing, to feel everything.
his other hand slides down the curve of your spine, over your ass, and then his thumb presses deliberately against the tight, untouched pucker of your anus.
you flinch, your whole body going rigid. the touch is so alien, so invasive, it’s a jolt of pure shock to your system. it’s not sexual, not at first. it’s clinical. an assessment.
he leans in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a low, filthy caress. “oh?” he murmurs, his tone laced with a dark, mocking amusement that makes your skin crawl as he notices the untouched pucker of your anus. “what’s this?”
his other hand, still slick with your cunt's juices from moments ago, slides from your hip and deliberately smears that wetness over your ass, making it easy for his thumb to glide over the sensitive skin. “a little bit of unexplored territory?”
the feeling of your own juices being used to lubricate a place you've never associated with pleasure is a deeply humiliating, confusing thrill. “don't worry," he whispers, his thumb pressing lightly, insistently, against the tight ring of muscle, making you flinch. "at least you saved this little ass-pussy for me. we'll get to it later. i like knowing there's still a part of you i get to be the first to ruin."
the shame is a hot flush that floods your entire body, from your scalp to your toes. but it’s twisted with a sick, thrilling arousal that makes your cunt clench violently around his cock. he feels it, and his laugh becomes a low, cruel rumble against your back as he starts to fuck you in earnest.
his thumb doesn’t try to enter, just circles the sensitive opening, a constant, humiliating reminder of a boundary he could cross at any moment, of a part of you he has now seen and catalogued and commented on. it makes every thrust feel dirtier, more illicit. the sheer wrongness of the sensation, the slick glide of his thumb over a place you’ve never associated with pleasure, sends a confusing, short-circuiting signal to your brain.
your eyes well up with tears of humiliation and overstimulation. a single, hot tear escapes and traces a path down your temple into your hairline. he sees it. you feel the rhythm of his fucking change, becoming harder, faster, more desperate.
“oh, look at that,” he breathes, his voice thick with a strange, new excitement. his hand leaves your hair and comes around to cup your jaw, his thumb roughly wiping at the wet track on your skin. “a different kind of tear. this one’s from shame, isn’t it? it’s even prettier than the others. does it upset you, being treated like this? does it make you feel like the little slut you are? show me how much.”
he fucks you harder with each question, a brutal, punishing rhythm that drives the air from your lungs. the head of his cock slams into your cervix again and again, making you see spots, a dizzying, painful pleasure that’s already pushing you toward an edge you don’t want.
and all the while, his thumb continues its own separate, maddening torment at your rear. it’s no longer just circling—it presses, nudges, a deliberate, insistent question against the tight, untouched pucker of your asshole that sends confusing sparks of sensation through your overstimulated body.
a choked sob breaks from your lips, a sound of pure protest, your body trying to recoil from the sheer sensory overload. “satoru, please—”
“shh, i know,” he murmurs, his voice going deceptively soft, even as his hips continue their punishing rhythm. “it’s new, isn’t it? you’re not protesting the feeling, beautiful, you’re just scared of how much you’re going to like it. is that it? are you scared of the slut i’m about to make you?”
the raw angle, the punishing depth, and that strange, insistent pressure is too much. you come again, and it’s not a release; it’s a rupture. a messy, sobbing orgasm that feels dirtier, more debased than the last. your face is pressed into the silk sheets, the sound muffled to a pathetic, wet keening as your body convulses around his relentless invasion.
you feel him shudder behind you, a deep, guttural groan vibrating through his body into yours, his own pleasure clearly peaking in direct, parasitic response to your distress. he feeds on this.
he doesn’t stop. he doesn't even try to acknowledge your climax. he just keeps going, his pace never slowing, fucking you through the lingering, hypersensitive spasms and beyond. he’s pushing you past pleasure now, into something else, something raw and overstimulated where every nerve ending is screaming in a language you don’t understand. he refuses you any reprieve.
he pulls back just enough for his thumb to slide down, deliberately gathering the slickness that has gushed from you. you feel the wet, humiliating glide as he smears it over your ass, and your breath hitches on a fresh wave of shame. he's using your own arousal to prepare you for a new violation.
“so wet for me,” he murmurs, his thumb now circling the slick, sensitive ring of your asshole. “let’s put it to good use.”
he teases you, the tip of his thumb pressing against the tight entrance, then retreating, again and again. you squirm, a broken whimper escaping your lips. “no, please, don’t—”
“don’t what?” he whispers, his voice dropping into a silky, dangerous purr. “don’t make you feel good? don’t show you what you really want?”
he ignores your pleas. his thumb presses forward, insistent and slow. the shock of it is a white-hot flash behind your eyes. the tight, resisting muscle gives way to his invasion, a slick, intrusive pressure that feels utterly alien. he’s inside you in two places at once, stretching you, filling you, claiming you in a way that feels absolute and irreversible. a strangled gasp tears from your throat, your nails digging into the sheets.
he doesn’t just leave it there. he begins to move it, a slow, grinding rotation inside you that mirrors the relentless pumping of his cock. it’s a dual assault that makes your mind white out. you are nothing but a collection of violated holes, filled and used and stretched for his pleasure.
“god, you’re so perfect like this,” he whispers, his voice a raw, desperate plea against your ear, his breath hot against your tear-soaked skin. “so open for me, so completely broken. don’t you dare hold anything back now. let me have every last beautiful, shattered piece of you.”
and that’s when he pulls your head back again by a fistful of your hair, yanking you up from the sheets and forcing you to look at him over your shoulder.
his face is flushed a dark, mottled red, his pupils blown so wide and black behind his glasses that there’s no blue left at all. it’s an expression of ravenous, almost painful need, his jaw tight, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a faint snarl. he looks like he’s starving, and your tears, your pain, your complete and utter violation—this is the only thing that can feed him.
the sight is terrifying and deeply, addictively flattering. he wants your pain. he wants your surrender. he wants to ruin you.
and seeing that, seeing the raw, desperate hunger on his face that you, and only you, have caused… it flips a switch deep inside you. the fear doesn’t vanish—it alchemizes into a dark, roaring wave of excitement. this is power. making him look like this. a hot, coiling pressure builds low in your belly, sharp and urgent, a pleasure so intense it’s almost unbearable. you can feel a different kind of climax building, something deeper and more catastrophic.
your sob changes, the note of protest gone, replaced by a raw, hungry need that matches his. “satoru…”
he sees it in your eyes. he sees the shift. a slow, triumphant, predatory smile spreads across his face. “that’s it,” he growls, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. “beg for it.”
he watches your eyes as he grinds his thumb deeper inside you, twisting it with a vicious skill that makes you cry out, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. he fucks into you with a new ferocity, chasing the feeling, chasing your breakdown. and as he hits you just right, your eyes locked with his triumphant, hungry gaze, your body unravels completely.
your orgasm is a deluge—a hot, uncontrollable gush of fluid bursts from you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his cock, the sound of it a shocking, obscene splash in the quiet room. your body convulses violently, a pure, physical capitulation that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with surrender.
he finally pulls out, and before you can fully collapse onto the bed, he’s hauling you up by your arms. you’re pliant, boneless in his grip, a doll for him to position. he drags you, stumbling, toward the wall of glass that overlooks the dark, endless ocean.
“turn around,” he orders, his voice flat, devoid of the passion of a moment ago. it’s a command.
you obey, your legs shaking so hard you can barely stand. you press your hands and forehead against the cool, smooth glass. the immediate chill is a shock against your overheated skin. the room behind you is warmly lit, turning the glass into a near-perfect, one-way mirror reflecting the debauched scene, while also offering a terrifyingly clear view into the vast, empty darkness outside.
it feels like being on a stage, lit for an audience that may or may not be there.
he enters you again from behind, one smooth, brutal thrust that has you crying out, your voice muffled against the glass, your palms slapping against the cool surface. he grabs your hips, pulling you back hard against him, and begins to fuck you against the wall. your breath fogs the surface in front of your face, obscuring your own reflection for a moment before it clears.
he leans in close, his voice a low growl by your ear, his words designed to dismantle you further. “anyone could be out there. a boat. someone on the beach of the next island. they’d see this perfect little picture. they’d see the lights of this pretty glass box, and they’d see you, bent over, taking my cock like a good girl.”
your face twists in the reflection, shame and heat colliding—eyes wet, brows drawn tight, your lips trembling around a broken moan you can’t hold back. your thighs clench, betraying the way your body seizes on his words, the humiliating pulse of pleasure sparking even harder at the thought of being seen.
behind you, his form is a powerful shadow, his expression unreadable, his movements relentless and efficient. he’s railing you, the motion hard, almost impersonal, using your body against the wall, the rhythmic, wet thud of your flesh a crude counterpoint to the gentle, indifferent sound of the waves outside. the sound is obscene, a wet, slapping noise that echoes slightly in the cavernous room.
“you love it,” he states, not a question. his hands leave your hips and slide up your stomach, his fingers spreading out possessively over your skin, a brief, almost tender touch before one hand moves down, his fingers dipping into the slickness between your legs. “love being my filthy little slut on display for the whole world.”
he’s not wrong. the thought of being seen, the sheer, terrifying exposure of it, is the most potent aphrodisiac yet. his fingers find your clit, and the touch is no longer teasing. it’s a harsh, demanding friction, a punishment and a reward all at once, perfectly synced to his ruthless thrusts.
“tell me,” he commands, his voice rough in your ear as he fucks you harder, faster, your reflection a chaotic blur of motion. “tell me what you are.”
“yours,” you sob, the word ripped from a place deep inside you, a place that has finally given up fighting. “i’m yours, i’m your slut, i love it, i love—”
you can’t finish. your final climax is upon you, a tidal wave that promises to drag you under for good. your entire world narrows to the feeling of his cock filling you, his fingers on your clit, your own debased reflection in the glass, and the vast, indifferent darkness beyond.
your orgasm feels like a dissolution, a complete coming apart at the seams. you scream into the glass as you come, a long, ragged sound of pure surrender that fogs the glass one last time.
you feel him follow you over the edge, his own guttural roar lost against your back as he floods you with his release, his body shuddering violently against yours, his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping you pinned against the glass.
you collapse against the wall, boneless and shaking, held up only by his arms still wrapped around you, his cock still buried deep inside. for a long time, there’s only the sound of your ragged breaths, the distant wash of the ocean, and the slick, cooling feel of sweat and glass against your skin.
you try to remember who you were before this night, before him, but that person is a ghost, a stranger you barely recognize. the woman in the reflection, marked and claimed and utterly, irrevocably debauched, is the only real thing left.
“beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice soft now, almost reverent, as if observing a piece of art he has just finished creating. “utterly fucking perfect. look at you. finally looking like what you are. mine.”
he carries you back to the bed, settling you against the silk sheets with gentle hands that are completely at odds with how thoroughly he just took you apart. when he disappears into the bathroom you expect relief, a moment to collect yourself.
instead you feel hollow, incomplete without him inside you, filling you, claiming you. the emptiness where he used to be throbs like phantom pain, your body already mourning the loss of his possession.
he returns with a warm cloth, and the sight of him makes something desperate and pathetic unfurl in your chest. beautiful and terrible in the dim light, moving with the confident grace of someone who knows he owns everything he surveys—including you. his touch is reverent now as he cleans you, worshipful, but there’s ownership in every stroke of the cloth against your oversensitive skin.
“how do you feel?” he asks, settling beside you with that careful precision that never looks calculated but always is. his fingers find your pulse point, and you wonder if he’s measuring your heartbeat like he measures everything else about you—cataloguing, analyzing, filing away for future use.
“broken,” you whisper, and the word tastes like bitter recognition. broken because you built this trap yourself, baited it with lies and manipulation, then walked right into it. you created the monster that’s now devouring you, fed it exactly what it needed to grow strong enough to consume you completely.
the girl who started this con three weeks ago feels like a stranger now—someone so arrogant she thought she could control a man like satoru gojo and walk away unchanged. someone who deserved exactly what she got.
the tears start without warning, hot and shameful as they track down your cheeks. you’re crying for the person you used to be, the one who thought she was clever enough to play this game and win. crying for every choice that brought you here, every moment you chose the drug of his devotion over your own freedom. crying because you know, with crystal clarity, that given the chance to do it over, you’d make the same choices again.
“good broken or bad broken?” his fingers trace patterns on your skin, soothing and possessive, each touch a reminder that he’s mapped every inch of you now. claimed it all. there’s genuine curiosity in his voice, but underneath it something hungrier—the need to know he’s succeeded in rewriting you completely.
“i don’t know yet,” you admit through the tears, voice barely audible. and you don’t, because the person who would have known the difference—the person who started this con—feels like someone you murdered with your own greed.
his expression shifts as he watches you cry, and there’s something almost fond in the way he observes your breakdown. like a parent watching their child finally learn a difficult lesson.
“oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb catching your tears with genuine tenderness that somehow makes it worse. “shh, it’s okay. let it all out.” his voice is pure comfort, warm honey that soothes even as it suffocates. “my beautiful girl, crying because you finally see how perfect this all is.”
the loving condescension makes you sob harder, ugly broken sounds that he seems to find endearing. he coos softly, gathering you closer against his chest like you’re something precious and fragile.
“there we go,” he whispers, pressing gentle kisses to your hairline. “just feel it, baby. feel how good it is to finally stop fighting what you were always meant to be.” his fingers stroke through your hair with infinite patience, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to break completely.
“you’re so pretty when you cry for me,” he continues, voice thick with adoration that makes your chest ache. “so honest. this is the real you, isn’t it? not the calculating little actress, just my sweet girl who needs to be taken care of.”
his words are a lullaby designed to lull you into surrender, each one wrapped in such genuine affection that you can’t help but lean into the comfort he’s offering.
he pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping around you like he’s trying to hold you together, and for a moment you just exist in the warm aftermath of your own destruction. but your mind feels scattered, thoughts fragmenting every time you try to focus on anything other than the feeling of being held, claimed, owned so completely by someone who saw through you from day one.
“you know,” he says after a while, voice casual but with an undertone that makes your pulse quicken, “we don’t have to go back.”
the words take a moment to penetrate the haze clouding your thoughts, your brain still drunk on the lingering echoes of pleasure and shame. when they do register, they hit like ice water, shocking you into something resembling alertness.
“what?” your voice comes out smaller than intended, already shrinking from the possibility of disappointing him with the wrong response.
“to the real world,” he clarifies, fingers still tracing those hypnotic patterns that make it so hard to think clearly. “we could stay here. in paradise. just you and me, no distractions, no responsibilities. wouldn’t that be perfect?”
there it is again—that word that’s become both promise and threat. perfect. the standard you’re expected to maintain, the role you’re required to perform for someone who’s been directing this entire play from the beginning.
the idea should terrify you—giving up everything, everyone, your entire life—but instead it sounds like relief. like finally stopping the exhausting performance of being a whole person when all you want is to be his perfect thing.
“stay here?” you repeat, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. as if speaking them makes them real, makes the possibility concrete rather than just another move in his elaborate chess game.
“forever,” he confirms, and there’s something dark and satisfied in his voice that makes your stomach clench with equal parts fear and arousal. “let me take care of you completely. let me give you everything you deserve. you’d never have to think about anything else again.”
never have to think. the offer is tempting in ways that terrify you, because thinking has become so difficult lately. every thought has to be weighed against his preferences, measured against his expectations, filtered through the lens of what will make him happy. it would be so much easier to just... stop.
“i...” you start, then stop, struggling to form coherent thoughts when his fingers are doing that thing again, tracing patterns that short-circuit your ability to focus on anything but him. “but i can’t just disappear. people will worry, my job—”
something flickers across his face, fast as lightning but unmistakable. the warmth drains from his expression like someone switching off a light, leaving his features cold and sharp. his hand stills against your skin completely, the loss of that gentle touch feeling like abandonment.
“people will worry?” he repeats, voice flat and emotionless in a way that makes your blood freeze. he’s not looking at you with love anymore—he’s looking at you like you’re a problem that needs solving. “what people? name one person who’s called you in the past two weeks. one person who’s actually noticed you’ve been busy.”
the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, because you both know you can’t. the realization hits like a physical blow—you are completely alone, completely dependent on him, and he knows it.
“that’s what i thought,” he says, and there’s something cruel in his smile now. not the loving indulgence you’ve grown addicted to, but something sharp and dismissive. “you’re worried about a job that underpays you? an apartment that’s falling apart? a life so meaningless you had to create elaborate fantasies just to feel important?”
each word is designed to cut, delivered without the gentle cushioning of affection you’ve come to expect. you’re just another disappointment now, another person who’s failed to appreciate what he’s offering. the shift is so sudden, so complete, that you feel like you’re drowning.
“no,” you whisper, the word escaping before you can stop it. there’s still some tiny spark of defiance left, some piece of who you used to be that refuses to be completely erased. “no, i... i had a life. i had things that mattered—”
his laugh is soft and utterly without warmth. “did you? because from where i’m sitting, you spent your whole pathetic existence desperate for someone to notice you. to make you feel special. and the moment someone finally did, you clung to it like a drowning person clings to driftwood.”
the words hit like physical blows because they’re true, every devastating syllable. but that small flame of resistance flickers stubbornly in your chest, making you lift your chin even as tears stream down your face.
“maybe that’s true,” you manage, voice shaking but determined. “but it was still mine. my choice, my life, my—”
“yours?” he interrupts, and now there’s genuine amusement in his voice, the kind reserved for children saying foolish things. “sweetheart, nothing about you has been yours for weeks. your thoughts, your preferences, your daily routine—i’ve been shaping all of it. you just didn’t notice because i made you feel good about it.”
the casual dismissal, the complete absence of the devotion you’ve grown dependent on, sends panic racing through your system. this is what happens when you disappoint him—you stop being special, stop being precious, become just another annoyance to be managed.
“please,” the word falls from your lips like a prayer, desperate and broken. “i didn’t mean—i just—”
and just like that, the warmth returns to his eyes like sunrise after the longest night. his hand finds your cheek again, thumb brushing away tears with infinite gentleness, and the relief is so overwhelming you nearly sob with it.
“oh, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with love and understanding. “i know you’re scared. change is frightening, even when it’s good for you.” his touch is reverent now, worshipful, everything you’ve been craving. “but fighting me only makes it harder. you know that, don’t you?”
“i mean,” you nod quickly, voice getting smaller, more desperate to fix whatever you’ve broken, “maybe... maybe you’re right. maybe there’s nothing really worth going back to.”
“that’s my perfect girl,” he murmurs, his voice overflowing with genuine pride and adoration that makes warmth bloom in your chest despite everything. he’s looking at you like you’ve just given him the most precious gift in the world. “see? a beautiful thing isn’t meant to struggle so hard. you were made to be cherished, to be taken care of. it’s so much easier this way, isn’t it?”
“it is easy,” you whisper, the words feeling both foreign and terribly true at the same time. you lean into his touch, a silent plea for more of that warmth. “it’s so much easier than fighting.”
his breath hitches, and he gathers you closer, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your temple. “of course it is, beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “i’ll always make it easy for you. that’s my only job now.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. “we could extend our stay,” he continues, the idea sounding less like a question and more like a foregone conclusion. “just a few more weeks at first. see how it feels. and if it’s everything i know it will be…” he trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke.
a small, panicked thought about your job, your apartment, your entire life, flickers and dies in your mind. it doesn't matter. nothing matters as much as keeping that coldness out of his eyes.
“if it would make you happy,” you hear yourself say, the words a perfect echo of the person he wants you to be. “then i want to stay.”
the effect is immediate and overwhelming. his entire expression softens into one of pure, unadulterated adoration. he looks completely undone by you. “oh, baby,” he breathes, his fingers tangling in your hair with a devotion that feels like worship. “you have no idea. hearing you say that… it’s all i’ve ever wanted.” he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “my sweet, perfect girl. you always know exactly what i need to hear.”
he pulls back, his fingers now carding through your hair with such tender devotion that you feel yourself melting into his touch, your body going pliant against his. “no more worrying about anything except being happy with me. doesn’t that sound wonderful, sweetheart?”
he’s asking for the final nail. the last little bit of surrender. he wants to hear you say that this gilded cage he’s offering is a paradise.
“yes,” you breathe, turning your face to press a kiss into the palm of his hand, a gesture of pure, instinctual submission. “it sounds wonderful.”
he closes his hand gently, as if capturing the kiss, and brings your knuckles to his lips. his smile is radiant, beautiful, and completely, utterly triumphant. “and i’ll make it perfect for you,” he promises, his voice a low, final vow against your skin. “always. i’ll take care of everything—canceling your flight, extending the villa, handling anything back home that needs handling. you don’t have to worry about any of it.”
handling anything back home. the phrase sends a chill down your spine even as relief floods through you. what exactly will he be handling? how much of your old life will still exist when you finally decide to return to it? but the questions feel distant, unimportant when weighed against the overwhelming comfort of not having to think, not having to make decisions, not having to be responsible for anything except existing in his orbit.
“just rest now,” he says, pulling the silk sheets up around you both with practiced ease. his movements are sure, confident, like he’s done this before—guided someone through the transition from person to possession with the patience of someone who genuinely loves the process. “tomorrow we’ll start planning our forever.”
forever. the word should sound romantic, should make your heart flutter with excitement. instead, it sounds like a life sentence, beautiful and inescapable. but even that thought feels distant, muffled by the warmth of his arms and the lingering understanding that you brought this on yourself.
as you drift toward sleep in his embrace, you can’t escape the recognition of what’s happening—that you’re disappearing, dissolving into his want until there’s nothing left of who you used to be. the girl who thought she could manipulate satoru gojo is gone, replaced by something smaller and more manageable, something that exists purely for his pleasure and entertainment.
you’re becoming his perfect thing, his ideal woman, his masterpiece. and the most terrifying part isn’t that it’s happening—it’s that you want it to. that the slow erasure of your identity feels like coming home rather than dying, like finally accepting what you were always meant to become.
outside, the ocean whispers its endless song, and you let it carry you deeper into paradise, deeper into the beautiful cage he’s built around your heart with such loving patience. somewhere in the distance, you can hear the sound of doors closing, bridges burning, escape routes disappearing one by one.
but you’re too tired to care, too drunk on his devotion to fight against the current pulling you under. tomorrow you’ll wake up a little less yourself and a little more his, and the day after that even more so, until there’s nothing left but the shape he’s carved out for you to fill.
you’re exactly where you belong, and the thought no longer terrifies you. it feels like accepting a truth you’ve been running from your entire life—that you were always meant to be owned, cherished, completely possessed by someone strong enough to see through your games and patient enough to let you destroy yourself.
you close your eyes and let yourself sink into his embrace, no longer pretending you don’t notice how the tide keeps pulling you further from shore. you built this prison yourself, brick by brick, lie by lie, and now you get to live in it forever.
tomorrow he’ll want you again, and you’ll give yourself over just as completely. the day after that too, and the day after that, until there’s nothing left of who you used to be except the vague memory of someone who thought she could play games with a god and win.
but tonight, in the darkness of paradise, you let yourself admit the truth you’ve been avoiding: you don’t want to escape.
you want to drown in the beautiful inevitability of what you’ve become.
the girl who started this con is dead, and you killed her yourself. what’s left is not a grifter or a goddess but a bird who forgot the sky. a creature born to fly, wings sharp and restless, who chose instead to fold herself neatly into the cage she built herself. because the cage is warm. because the cage is soft. because in spite of your nature, you will stay here forever, perfect and broken, as long as he keeps it comfortable enough.
athy says, and that’s a wrap! if you made it this far, congratulations, you’re just as sick as i am and i love you for it. this story is basically my love letter to the works of OrangeButt73, and it was kept alive by the absolutely feral asks from dove anon. (i’m too much of a ball of anxiety and confusion to gift this properly, so if you two see this, just know you’re the fuel for this entire dumpster fire and i adore you both) feel free to absolutely lose your minds and scream in the comments, i will be reading every single one with a glass of wine and a sick, satisfied smile. this fic was a complete and utter passion project, if you know what i mean ;) thank you for reading!! <3
mrs. gojo’s terrible, horrible, no good, very good night
pairing — satoru gojo x female reader
synopsis: you’re hiding in the hotel bathroom on your wedding night, having what might be the world’s most elaborate anxiety-induced spa routine while your new husband satoru waits patiently (or not so patiently) in bed. when you finally emerge after two and a half hours of over-conditioning your hair and stress-scrubbing with vanilla body wash, you discover he’s been very much awake and has some opinions about your extended absence. turns out being mrs. gojo comes with certain husband-related benefits that make all that nervous energy very much worth it.
wc — 13.7k ෆ tags -> modern au, fluff, smut, humor, established relationship wedding night, first time, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, body worship, dirty talk, mild dacryphilia, multiple rounds, missionary, cowgirl, aftercare, scrumptious art by @/_3aem
a/n: i actually spent this whole weekend writing this beast, so pls clap 😋 very proud of myself for the sheer detail and immersion (and for once, no squirting—personal growth!!). hope you enjoy being wrecked by satoru as much as i enjoyed wrecking my digital keyboard 🫶🏻
you’re going to die in this bathroom.
not from anything dramatic, mind you. not from slipping on the marble floor or drowning in the stupidly deep hotel bathtub. no, you’re going to die from pure, unadulterated cowardice, and they’re going to find your pruney corpse clutching a bottle of complimentary vanilla body wash like it’s a lifeline.
the bathroom has become your fortress of solitude, complete with overpriced hotel toiletries that you’ve been methodically working through for the past—what, hour? two hours? the little clock on the marble counter stopped making sense around the time you started your third full-body scrub routine.
husband. the word sits heavy in your chest, all warm and terrifying and impossible. you keep catching glimpses of the ring on your finger in your peripheral vision and your heart does this stupid stuttering thing every single time.
you’ve washed your hair twice, conditioned it three times, exfoliated until your skin could probably reflect sunlight, and you’re currently working on what might be your fourth round of the complimentary body wash that smells like vanilla and false confidence. the mirror keeps fogging up from your unnecessarily long shower, which is perfect because you don’t particularly want to look yourself in the eye right now and confront whatever expression you’re probably making.
“just making sure i smell good,” you mutter to the pristine tiles, your voice echoing slightly in the marble sanctuary, fingers trembling as they work the lather across your shoulders for what has to be the dozenth time. as if they asked. as if anyone asked. as if satoru isn’t out there probably wondering if you’ve dissolved into the drain or escaped through the bathroom window like some kind of anxious rapunzel.
which, honestly, you’ve considered. you’ve even eyed the window measurements.
the thing is, you love him. love him so much it makes your teeth ache and your hands shake and your brain short-circuit at the worst possible moments—like now, when you’re supposed to be out there being a proper wife instead of hiding behind a locked door like you’re sixteen and scared of your first everything.
because that’s what this is. your first everything that matters.
god, you’re so pathetic it’s not even funny.
another thirty minutes pass in a haze of unnecessary beauty routines. you’ve moved on to deep conditioning your hair (for the second time), applying a face mask you found in the complimentary spa kit, and having a philosophical debate with your reflection about whether it’s possible to die from embarrassment. the water’s been running cold for the last ten minutes, which feels like the universe’s way of telling you to get your act together, but you’re nothing if not committed to your terrible coping mechanisms.
“he’s probably asleep anyway,” you whisper to your pruney fingers, working some expensive hair oil through the ends of your definitely over-conditioned strands. your voice sounds small in the echoing space, almost lost against the gentle patter of water droplets. “it’s late. he had a long day. all that dancing and smiling at your weird relatives and pretending your dad’s jokes were funny. he’s definitely asleep by now.”
you cling to this possibility like it’s the last life raft on a sinking ship.
finally, finally, you run out of bathroom-related tasks to perform without actually dissolving into the marble floor. the robe is fluffy enough to hide in, you smell like a vanilla cupcake, and your skin is soft enough to probably qualify as a health hazard. you take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing for your shot nerves, your hand hesitating on the door handle as your pulse hammers against your throat, and slowly crack open the door like you’re checking for monsters.
the room is dark. quiet. peaceful.
your heart does this stupid little leap of relief mixed with something that might be disappointment but you’re absolutely not examining that feeling right now because that way lies madness.
satoru’s lying on his side of the bed—his side, like you’re actually married now, like this is real life and not some elaborate stress dream—his moon-pale hair catching the faint city light like spilled starlight, each strand gleaming with an almost ethereal luminescence that makes your chest tight. his breathing appears even, peaceful. one long arm stretched across the space where you should be, fingers slightly curled as if reaching for something just out of grasp, like he fell asleep waiting.
the guilt hits you like cold water.
“oh thank god,” you breathe, practically melting with relief as you pad across the stupidly expensive carpet, your bare feet sinking into the plush fibers with each careful step. the hotel room is all warm lighting and soft edges, designed for romance, which makes your neuroses feel even more ridiculous. “i’m so sorry, ’toru,” you whisper to his sleeping form, your voice barely audible as you settle carefully on the very edge of the bed like you’re afraid it might collapse under your anxiety. “i know i took forever. i was just... scared, i guess. which is stupid because it’s you, and i love you more than anything, and i trust you completely, but my brain is just completely broken apparently and i—”
his arm shoots out like a striking snake.
you yelp as you’re suddenly yanked down against his chest, tumbling in an ungraceful heap on top of him, your damp hair cascading around both of you like a curtain. your hands shoot out to catch yourself and suddenly you’re braced against his bare chest, faces inches apart, close enough to see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light. his other arm comes around to trap you against the warm solid length of him, and oh—oh, you can feel everything. the hard planes of his chest, the way his breathing has gone shallow, the heat of him seeping through the thin robe.
his eyes are bright and very much awake in the darkness, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you with the most devastatingly shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. those impossible blues gleam like summer lightning, electric and dangerous and completely focused on you. there’s something almost predatory in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s a cat who’s finally caught the canary after a very long, very entertaining chase.
“scared?” he purrs, voice rough with what you now realize was completely fake sleep. his thumb traces along your lower lip with deliberate slowness, and you can feel your breath hitch, feel the way your pulse jumps under his touch. “of little old me?”
you’re suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that you’re straddling him. that his hands are spanning your waist with possessive certainty. that there’s nothing but a loosely tied robe between you and—
“you—” you start, face immediately burning hot enough to power the entire hotel, your voice catching as his fingers flex against your ribs. your voice comes out breathier than you intended, barely more than a whisper. “you were awake this whole time?”
“baby,” he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re pressed against him, and you can feel the vibration of it everywhere your bodies touch, sending tiny sparks along your nerve endings. his eyes never leave yours, drinking in every micro-expression like he’s been starving for the sight of you, like he’s been counting every second you were apart. “sweetheart. light of my life. did you really think i’d fall asleep on our wedding night? while my wife—” he says the word like he’s savoring something exquisite, his grip on your waist tightening possessively “—was having what sounded like a full spa day in there?”
wife. every time he says it, something flutters dangerously in your chest, made worse by the way his eyes darken every time the word leaves his lips, like it affects him just as much as it affects you.
“i wasn’t having a spa day,” you protest weakly, very much caught and definitely guilty as charged. you try to push yourself up, to put some distance between you and the intensity of his gaze, but his hands keep you exactly where you are with gentle but immovable strength.
“mm-hmm.” one hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your definitely-too-soft cheekbone while his eyes track the movement with laser focus, like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. “just really, really committed to personal hygiene. for two and a half hours.” his other hand slides up your spine with agonizing slowness, fingers tangling in the damp ends of your hair, the touch sending shivers cascading down your back. “while i was out here going slowly insane, listening to every sound, imagining you in there all wet and—”
“it wasn’t two and a half hours,” you mumble, but you’re pretty sure it actually was, and the way his chest shakes with barely contained laughter beneath you confirms your suspicions.
“i’ve been lying here listening to the water run and trying not to go insane,” he murmurs, and there’s something raw and hungry in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch in your throat and your skin prickle with awareness. his fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding you in place so you can’t look away from the intensity burning in those crystalline depths. “do you know what that does to a man? knowing his wife is naked and wet just twenty feet away? hearing every little sound and imagining—”
you make some kind of strangled noise that might have been an attempt at words, your hands fisting in the sheets on either side of his head as heat pools low in your belly.
“and now you’re here,” he continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, eyes roaming over your face like he’s memorizing every detail—the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lips part slightly, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat. “and you smell—” he shifts beneath you, pulling you down so he can bury his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. you feel his lips brush against your pulse point and your entire body goes liquid, melting against him like honey. “—like you bathed in sugar and sin and everything i’ve ever wanted.”
his teeth graze your throat and you gasp, your back arching involuntarily, pressing you closer against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh through the terry cloth.
“how am i supposed to be normal about this?” he murmurs against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, each touch of his lips leaving trails of fire. “how am i supposed to be patient when you’re shaking on top of me and making those little sounds?”
your brain has officially left the building. “i was nervous,” you admit in a voice smaller than a whisper, and you can feel him smile against your throat, soft and fond and devastatingly tender.
his expression gentles immediately, but his hands don’t stop their slow, torturous exploration of your waist, fingers tracing patterns that make you shiver and arch into his touch. he shifts beneath you with careful precision, rolling you both over so you’re lying side by side, and suddenly you can breathe again—or maybe breathing becomes even harder when he’s propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with those impossibly expressive eyes full of something soft and hungry and completely devoted.
“hey,” he murmurs, free hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw with reverent touches, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like it’s something precious. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can just sleep. or talk. or i can go back to pretending to sleep if that was working better for your anxiety.”
the sincerity in his voice, combined with the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars specifically for him, makes your chest tight with affection so intense it almost hurts.
you huff a laugh despite yourself, some of the overwhelming tension melting into something warmer, more manageable. “you’re impossible.”
“impossibly patient,” he corrects with that crooked smile that makes your heart skip, then grins, and there’s that wicked gleam in his eyes again, playful and dangerous and entirely focused on you. “impossibly understanding. impossibly good-looking.”
“impossibly annoying.”
“mm,” he hums, leaning down to brush his nose against yours in the most devastating display of casual intimacy, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your lips, “you married me anyway.” his smile goes soft, private, the kind of expression that’s just for you—vulnerable and wondering and so full of love it makes your chest ache. “so what does that say about your judgment?”
“that it’s terrible,” you whisper, but you’re smiling now too, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
“the absolute worst,” he agrees solemnly, then leans in to brush his lips against yours. soft, questioning, sweet, like he’s asking permission for something you’ve done a thousand times before. but somehow this feels different. more weighted, more significant, like you’re crossing some invisible threshold together.
“better?” he asks against your lips, and you can feel his smile, can taste the hint of champagne still lingering from the reception.
you melt a little, like you always do when he kisses you like you’re something precious. “getting there.”
he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand threading through your damp hair to cradle the back of your head with infinite care. you sigh against his mouth and he takes it as permission, his tongue tracing your bottom lip until you open for him with a soft sound of surrender. the kiss turns heated, desperate, all the restraint he’s been showing finally starting to crack around the edges like ice beginning to thaw.
his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you, until you can feel every hard line of his body against yours. you make a soft sound into his mouth and he groans in response, the noise vibrating through both of you like a tuning fork.
“you taste like toothpaste,” he murmurs when you break apart, both of you breathing hard. his pupils are blown wide and his hair is mussed from your fingers, those silver-white strands catching the low light like captured moonbeams.
“i brushed my teeth like six times,” you admit, embarrassed, but he just laughs—warm and fond and completely gone for you, the sound rich and delighted.
“i noticed,” he says, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch against him. “very thorough. very minty. very you.”
“shut up,” you breathe, but you’re kissing him back now, properly, desperately, the way you couldn’t quite manage to imagine doing an hour ago when you were having your breakdown in the bathroom.
his hands find the belt of your robe, fingers playing with the knot but not undoing it, just threatening to, his knuckles brushing against your stomach in a way that makes your breath hitch and your skin burn. he pulls back to look at you, eyes searching your face in the dim light with an intensity that makes you feel completely seen.
“this okay?” he asks, voice gone lower, rougher, and you can feel the restraint in the careful way he’s touching you, like he’s holding himself back from just devouring you whole.
you nod against his neck, then realize he probably can’t see you properly in the dark. “yeah,” you whisper, then, quieter, more vulnerable: “i don’t really know what i’m doing though.”
something shifts in his expression—hunger mixing with tenderness in a way that makes your chest tight and your core clench with want. “good thing i do,” he says, voice like honey and sin, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he finally, finally tugs the knot loose with careful, deliberate movements.
the robe falls open and satoru goes very, very still above you.
“jesus christ,” he breathes, and his voice cracks slightly on the words, breaking with the weight of his want. his hands hover just above your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you, like you’re something holy that he doesn’t deserve to worship. his eyes roam over you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, taking in every curve, every shadow, every inch of exposed skin like he’s trying to memorize you.
you want to cover yourself, want to hide from the overwhelming way he’s looking at you—like you’re a miracle he never expected to witness—but his expression stops you cold. he’s staring at you like you hung the moon and stars specifically for him, like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered in the dark.
“you’re so—” he starts, then stops, swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles for words, tries again. “god, look at you. you’re perfect. you’re so fucking perfect i can’t—”
his hands finally settle on your waist, warm and sure and slightly trembling, thumbs tracing reverent patterns on your skin like he’s painting prayers across your flesh. you’re both breathing hard now, the air between you electric and charged and ready to snap.
“can i—?” he starts, hands still hovering, asking permission for everything, and the careful restraint in his voice makes something molten pool in your stomach.
“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely audible but it’s enough, more than enough.
his control finally snaps.
his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and desperate and full of months of wanting, and his hands are suddenly everywhere—tracing the line of your spine, mapping the curve of your ribs, learning the shape of you with a patience that makes your chest tight and your head spin. every touch is careful but urgent, like he’s trying to memorize you and claim you and worship you all at once.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs against your lips, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, anywhere he can reach.
“nervous,” you admit, because there’s no point in lying now when you’re spread out beneath him like an offering, your skin flushed and sensitive under his reverent attention.
his mouth pauses against your skin. “want me to stop?”
“no.” the word comes out more desperate than you intended, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging at those soft strands until he groans against your throat. “no, don’t stop. i just—i don’t know what to do with my hands.”
he laughs, warm and fond and completely wrecked, the sound vibrating against your skin. “you don’t have to do anything,” he says, lips trailing down to that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “just let me take care of you, yeah? let me make you feel good.”
his mouth finds that spot that makes your back arch and you gasp, pressing involuntarily against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, feel him smile against your skin when you make a soft, needy sound.
“there we go,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel, rough with want. “just like that. you sound so pretty when you—”
his teeth graze your throat and you’re gone, completely gone, arching beneath him like you’re trying to get closer, always closer. his hands are mapping every inch of exposed skin with reverent touches, and when he looks up at you through his lashes—those ridiculous white lashes that frame eyes like captured lightning—eyes dark with want and something deeper, you think you might actually die from how much you love him.
“’toru,” you manage, and his name comes out shakier than you intended, like a prayer torn from your very soul.
“right here,” he murmurs against your skin, placing another open-mouthed kiss just below your ear that makes you shiver and arch into his touch. “not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me now, wife.”
and god help you, but when he settles more firmly between your legs with that hungry, adoring look in his eyes—like he’s about to spend the rest of the night showing you exactly what you’ve been missing during your bathroom crisis—you think you might actually be looking forward to finding out exactly what being his wife is going to mean.
he shifts lower with agonizing deliberation, his hands—strong, warm, capable of wielding infinite power but now gentle as they handle you like spun glass—spreading your thighs wider with slow, purposeful pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. the cool air of the room kisses your heated skin, each molecule a sharp contrast that sends a shiver rippling through you, goosebumps blooming like tiny constellations across your flesh.
his gaze, those piercing eyes like arctic ice lit from within, pins you in place, making your heart race with a heady mix of vulnerability and desire that leaves you breathless. but then he tilts his head, looking up at you through those infuriatingly long lashes that should be illegal, his eyes absolutely wicked with mischief and unrestrained want, and that familiar, devastating grin spreads across his lips, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your surrender.
“you know,” he says, his voice low and conversational, dripping with that teasing cadence that makes your toes curl, as his thumbs trace maddeningly slow, lazy patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each brush igniting sparks of electricity that pulse straight to your core, making your muscles quiver with anticipation. “i’ve been thinking about this for months. lying awake at night, restless, imagining what you’d taste like, what sounds you’d make when i—” his words trail off, deliberately unfinished, letting your mind spiral with the possibilities as his thumbs press just a fraction harder, sending a wave of heat through you that makes your hips shift restlessly.
“satoru,” you breathe, his name a broken whisper as your face flushes with warmth that spreads from your cheeks down your neck like wildfire, and he laughs—low, rich, and utterly unrepentant, the sound vibrating in his chest like a predator’s purr, sending a thrill through you that settles hot and heavy between your thighs.
“what? we’re married now. i’m allowed to tell my wife all the filthy things i’ve been dreaming about her.” his mouth presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips warm and slightly damp, the contact searing as it lingers, branding your skin with heat. then another kiss, higher, closer to where you’re already aching for him, each touch leaving a trail of tingling embers that make you squirm against the sheets. “and trust me, baby, i’ve been dreaming about everything.”
your breath hitches, a sharp gasp that echoes in the quiet room, when his mouth reaches the delicate crease where your thigh meets your hip, his tongue darting out with a slow, deliberate swipe, the wet heat of it making your toes curl and your fingers clutch desperately at the expensive sheets. he hums appreciatively, the sound low and resonant, vibrating through your flesh like a current, as if you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever tasted. his lips linger, brushing softly, teasingly, before he pulls back just enough to let his breath ghost over the damp patch he’s left, cool against your overheated skin.
“gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sinks into your bones like a sacred vow. his hands slide under your thighs with deliberate care, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he lifts them, draping them over his broad shoulders with a slow, reverent motion. the position opens you completely, baring you to his gaze, every inch of you exposed in a way that feels thrillingly intimate, your core pulsing with anticipation that borders on desperation. “gonna make you fall apart so many times you forget your own name. think you can handle that, wife?”
you open your mouth to answer, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as his tongue drags a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, the sensation overwhelming—wet, warm, and impossibly perfect, sending shockwaves through your entire body that make your vision blur at the edges. pleasure radiates outward like ripples in still water, making your fingers clench the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, your hips lifting instinctively toward his wicked mouth. he groans in response, a deep, primal sound that vibrates against you, and your hands fly to tangle in his hair, tugging at those soft, impossible strands as you surrender completely to the sensations he’s creating.
“fuck, you taste even better than i imagined,” he breathes against your slick skin, his voice rough with desire, the cool exhale making you shudder and whimper his name like a broken prayer. then he dives back in with an enthusiasm that makes your head spin, his tongue working you with methodical precision, like he’s studied every sensitive spot and planned exactly how to unravel you.
he’s thorough—alternating between broad, flat strokes that make your entire body tense with electric pleasure, and focused attention on your clit, his tongue flicking and circling with devastating accuracy until you’re writhing beneath him, hips bucking greedily against his mouth. occasionally, he dips lower, his tongue plunging into you with obscene, wet sounds that make your cheeks burn and your core clench around the intrusion, every nerve alight with pleasure that builds in relentless waves.
when you’re teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head like leaves in a storm, your voice a broken chant of his name echoing off the hotel room walls, he pulls back just enough to fix you with those predatory eyes—twin flames in the darkness that seem to see straight through to your soul. his chin glistens with your arousal, a wicked grin curling his lips as he drinks in your desperate whimper, the loss of his mouth agonizing, your clit throbbing and swollen with need. “not yet,” he says, his voice smug and teasing, relishing your need like fine wine. “told you i was gonna take my time.”
he does it again. and again. each time, he builds you up with that sinful mouth, pushing you to the very brink until you’re sobbing with need, tears of pure want streaming down your cheeks, your body so wound up it feels like you might shatter into a thousand pieces. the denial sharpens every sensation—each touch of his lips, each flick of his tongue feels electric, amplified by the sweet torment of being held at the edge. your breaths come in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the overwhelming desire consuming you from the inside out.
“please,” you gasp, your hands fisted in his hair hard enough that it has to hurt, tugging until he moans against you, the sound low and filthy, as if the pain only drives him wilder. your voice breaks, raw and desperate, a plea torn from the very depths of your need. “satoru, please—”
“please what?” he asks, his tone wickedly innocent as he presses a soft, teasing kiss to your clit, the brief contact sending a jolt through your oversensitive flesh that makes you cry out. the slight suction of his lips is nowhere near enough to satisfy the ache building inside you. “use your words, sweetheart.”
“let me come,” you beg, too consumed by need to feel any shame, your hips bucking up desperately, chasing his mouth with single-minded desperation. your slickness makes everything wet and messy, dripping down your thighs in a way that would embarrass you if you had any coherent thoughts left. “please, i need—i can’t—”
“there’s my good girl,” he purrs, the praise dripping with satisfaction that makes your core clench with want, and finally, finally, he gives you what you crave. his mouth seals over your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, sucking in a rhythm that’s both perfect and utterly devastating, sending you screaming his name as the first orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. it’s blinding, your vision whiting out as pleasure explodes through every nerve, your body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as wave after wave of ecstasy tears through you, leaving you trembling and gasping.
but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow. his tongue continues its relentless assault, working you through the aftershocks with a ferocity that sends you spiraling into overstimulation, your body so sensitive it’s almost too much to bear. you’re pliant, completely at his mercy, your hips lifting to meet every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, your moans turning into soft, broken whimpers as you surrender to the intensity. “satoru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe and desperation, your hands tugging at his hair, urging him closer, deeper, wanting more despite the overwhelming sensation.
“fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes against you, the words vibrating through your swollen clit and making you cry out as the sensation sends fresh sparks through your overloaded nervous system. “love how you just take it, how you let me do whatever i want to this sweet cunt.” his enthusiasm is infectious, making you arch into him, your body greedy for every touch, every stroke, as he dives back in with renewed fervor.
the second orgasm builds faster, your body already primed and hypersensitive, every nerve singing with electric pleasure. when it hits, you’re crying openly, tears streaming down your face from the sheer intensity, the pleasure so overwhelming it feels like it’s rewriting your very dna. you’re pliant, melting into him, your body arching off the bed in a perfect bow as the climax rips through you, your walls fluttering with desperate need even as you shake and sob, completely undone.
“look at you,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to admire his handiwork, his voice thick with awe and barely restrained lust. you catch your reflection in his blown-out pupils—wrecked and radiant, your face flushed with pleasure, lips parted as you struggle to breathe, eyes glassy with tears of bliss. his chin glistens with your arousal, his lips swollen and wet, and the sight is so obscene it makes your core clench with renewed want. “crying from how good i make you feel. you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
he slides two fingers inside you with slow, deliberate ease, your body so eager and wet that they slip in effortlessly, your walls welcoming the intrusion with a flutter of pleasure. his fingers feel impossibly long, thicker than your own, reaching deeper and brushing against spots that make you gasp sharply and see stars behind your closed eyelids. he starts a slow, torturous rhythm, curling them just right to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed, each movement sending electricity shooting through your veins. his thumb circles your oversensitive clit with feather-light touches, the barest pressure enough to make you jolt and whimper.
“one more,” he says, his voice low and commanding as he adds a third finger, the stretch a sweet, burning ache that makes you keen, your body eagerly accommodating him. you can hear the obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you, your slickness coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, making everything messy and perfect. “give me one more and then i’ll give you my cock. you want that, don’t you? want me to fill you up?”
you nod frantically, words beyond you, your mind too scrambled by pleasure to form anything coherent beyond broken moans and gasps of his name.
he grins, absolutely feral with satisfaction at reducing you to this trembling, needy mess. “can’t hear you, baby,” he teases, his voice a low growl that makes your core clench around his fingers.
“yes,” you sob, your voice hoarse and broken from all the sounds he’s pulled from you, “yes, want it, want you—need you inside me—”
“good girl,” he purrs, and his fingers pick up speed, each thrust hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision while his mouth returns to your clit, the dual assault pushing you toward the edge with terrifying speed. the third orgasm rips through you like lightning, your body convulsing, walls clenching around his fingers as you gush, the wetness soaking his hand, your thighs, the expensive sheets beneath you. you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe, the intensity leaving you trembling and shattered, but you’re still pliant, still aching for more, your body singing for him.
“perfect,” he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers, the loss making you whimper softly. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep, appreciative groan that makes your core clench around nothing, the visual so filthy it’s almost enough to push you over again. “absolutely perfect. taste so fucking good.”
he crawls back up your body with slow, predatory grace, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your hip bone, the dip of your waist, the soft valley between your breasts. your skin is hypersensitive, still thrumming from your orgasms, and each brush of his lips sends aftershocks rippling through you. when he reaches your mouth, he kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself—sweet and musky and intimate in a way that makes you moan into his mouth.
“still with me?” he asks softly, his voice carrying a thread of genuine concern even as his cock throbs against your thigh, hard and leaking, the heat of it searing against your sensitive skin. those ethereal strands of hair fall across his forehead like scattered moonlight, and his wedding ring catches the dim light as he cups your face, the cool metal a stark contrast against your flushed cheek.
“yeah,” you whisper, your voice wrecked, raw from moaning and crying out his name. “want you. need you inside me.”
his pupils dilate further, his breathing shallow, a faint tremor running through his powerful frame. “fuck, when you say things like that—” he breaks off, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “you sure you’re ready? you’ve come so hard already, don’t want to overwhelm you.”
your heart swells at his care, but your body is desperate, aching for him with a need that borders on painful. “please, ’toru. want to feel you. need you.”
he reaches between your bodies, wrapping his hand around himself, and you catch a glimpse of him—long, thick, intimidatingly perfect, the tip flushed a deep pink and glistening with pre-cum that beads and drips in the low light. when he positions himself at your entrance, you feel the heat of him, the weight, the promise of what’s to come, and your breath catches, your body already anticipating the stretch and burn of taking him inside you. “gonna go slow,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any flicker of hesitation, but all he finds is your eager need reflected back at him.
he pushes inside with excruciating slowness, just the head at first, and the stretch is immediate, a burning fullness that makes you gasp, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusts. his cock is hot, pulsing, the thick tip parting you with a deliberate pressure that feels both overwhelming and perfect, your slickness easing the way but not diminishing the intensity. your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks as you cling to him, your breath hitching as he sinks deeper, inch by torturous inch. the sensation is exquisite—every ridge, every vein dragging against your sensitive walls, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl, your hips lifting to meet him instinctively.
his face is a study in restraint, his jaw clenched tight, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he fights to keep his movements slow, controlled. those pale strands of his hair—silvered moonlight caught in silk—fall across his forehead in disheveled waves, darkened with perspiration and trembling with each labored breath. his eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he sinks another inch, the stretch making you whimper, your walls clenching around him greedily. when he opens them again, those impossibly cerulean depths have gone molten, like arctic ice melting under flame.
“fuck, you’re so tight,” he breathes, voice rough, almost broken, fingers trembling against your cheek before his lips brush your skin—your cheeks, your eyelids—soft and grounding, his free hand finding yours, fingers intertwining, your wedding rings clicking together in a sound that makes your chest ache.
“more,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need, chest rising and falling rapidly against his, the burn fading into a warm, full sensation that has you desperate for him to move. your silk chemise, the one you’d chosen specially for tonight, bunches around your waist, the delicate lace trim pressed between your bodies.
he pushes deeper, each inch a slow, sensual invasion, his cock stretching you wider, filling you completely, the sensation so intense it’s almost too much, yet exactly what you crave. you feel every detail—the way his shaft pulses inside you, the slight curve that presses against your walls just right, the slick glide of him as your arousal coats him, making every movement smooth but deliberate. his breathing becomes more ragged, those arctic depths of his eyes never leaving your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes.
when he’s halfway seated, you’re panting, your body trembling with the effort of accommodating him, your manicured nails—still perfect from this morning’s appointment—digging crescents into his shoulders, but you’re pliant, eager, your hips tilting up to take more of him.
“breathe, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained, rough with the effort of holding back, those moonlight strands sticking to his forehead as he trembles above you. his lips press against your temple, lingering, and you can feel the tension in his body, his muscles trembling as he fights to keep from thrusting too fast. when you look up at him, his expression is devastating—eyebrows drawn together in concentration, that perfect mouth slightly parted, eyes blazing with something between worship and desperation. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well.”
he sinks deeper, and you moan, long and low, as he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours, his cock seated so deep you can feel him pressing against your cervix, a sweet, aching pressure that makes your eyes water with pleasure. you’ve never felt so full, so claimed, every nerve alight with the sensation of him inside you, his heartbeat pulsing through his cock, syncing with yours. he goes still, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, those ethereal eyes half-lidded but burning with intensity as he watches your every reaction, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“you feel incredible,” he breathes against your ear, his voice raw, trembling with need, and you can feel his smile against your skin. “so tight, so perfect. made for me.”
he starts to move, pulling out with agonizing slowness, those pale lashes fluttering as his eyes nearly roll back, the drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks of pleasure through you, every inch igniting new nerve endings. then he thrusts back in, deliberate and deep, each movement hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, your silk-clad back arching against the expensive sheets. his expression is feral now, pupils blown wide until only thin rings of that impossible color remain, lips parted as he pants, but there’s a tenderness in the way he watches you, cataloging every moan, every shudder, as if he’s memorizing how you look when you’re lost in him.
“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over your face—your flushed cheeks, parted lips, glassy eyes—before drifting down to where your chemise has ridden up, revealing the delicate gold chain around your waist, a wedding gift from this morning. his fingers trace it reverently, the cool metal a stark contrast to your heated skin. “all flushed and perfect, taking my cock so well. my wife.” the word sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls clenching around him, making him curse under his breath, a low, filthy sound that makes you shiver, your pearl earrings catching the lamplight as your head falls back against the pillows.
his thrusts grow deeper, more urgent, his control fraying as he feels you respond, your body pliant and eager, meeting every movement with a roll of your hips. the wet sounds of your bodies moving together are obscene, perfect, filling the room with the slick rhythm of your connection. those moonbeam strands of his hair fall into his eyes, and when he tosses his head to clear them, the movement is so unconsciously graceful it makes your heart stutter. you’re so sensitive, so primed, that every thrust sends sparks through you, building another orgasm faster than you thought possible, your wedding bracelet sliding up your wrist as you reach for him.
“’toru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe, hands clinging to his shoulders as another climax builds, unstoppable, your painted nails leaving marks on his perfect skin. “i’m—”
“i know, baby,” he groans, voice rough, desperate, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess he’s been blessed to touch. “i can feel you getting tight around me. gonna come on my cock? gonna show me how good i make you feel?” his words push you over, and the fourth orgasm crashes through you with devastating intensity, your walls clamping down on him like a vice, a broken moan spilling from your lips as your body convulses, pleasure tearing through you while your silk chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin. he follows with a deep, guttural groan, spilling inside you with hot, pulsing spurts that fill you completely, the warmth seeping into you as you shudder around him, those celestial eyes never leaving your face.
you’re still trembling, your body pliant and boneless, when he lifts his head, those arctic depths now glinting with unrestrained hunger, his hair a beautiful disaster of silver threads. “told you we were just getting started,” he growls, voice rough with satisfaction as he starts moving again without pulling out, your oversensitive walls fluttering around his still-hard length. you moan, your body so responsive that the overstimulation feels like a delicious torment, every thrust sending fresh waves of pleasure through you, your delicate gold jewelry catching the light with each movement.
you’re completely pliant now, your body melting into his, your hips lifting to meet each of his thrusts, eager for more despite the intensity, your chemise twisted and bunched between you. “satoru,” you whimper, voice soft and needy, urging him on as he sets a deeper, more demanding rhythm, each thrust hitting so deep it steals your breath, your wedding ring glinting as you grip the sheets.
“love how you take it,” he growls, his grin wicked as he watches you, those ethereal strands falling across his forehead as he moves, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding your movements. “my perfect wife, letting me fuck you like this.” his pace is relentless now, his cock driving into you with devastating precision, the new angle making him feel impossibly deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves through your trembling body while your silk chemise rides up further, exposing more of your heated skin.
“look at me,” he commands, voice rough with authority, and when your eyes meet his, he grins at your fucked-out expression—your lips trembling, eyes glassy with pleasure, your carefully styled hair now a beautiful mess against the pillows. “there’s my pretty wife. taking my cock so well, falling apart for me.”
his thrusts are rougher now, more primal, his body slamming into yours with a force that makes your breasts bounce beneath the silk, your breath hitching with every impact, the delicate fabric clinging to your overheated skin. you’re lost in him, your body pliant, every nerve singing with overstimulation as he drives you toward another peak, your manicured fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders. “can’t get enough of you,” you moan, voice breaking with need, your walls clenching around him as another orgasm builds, unstoppable.
“that’s it,” he growls, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing merciless circles, the pressure sending sparks through you while those impossible eyes—like winter sky split by lightning—burn into yours. “come for me again, baby. show me how much you love this.” the fifth orgasm rips through you with a raw, broken scream, your body convulsing so hard you nearly black out, pleasure tearing through you like a storm while your silk chemise clings to every curve. he fucks you through it, relentless, his cock driving into you as your walls spasm around him, drawing a deep groan from his throat as he watches you shatter, those moonlight strands dark with sweat.
“beautiful,” he breathes, leaning down to lick the tears from your cheeks, the action so filthy and intimate it makes you clench around him again, pulling another low moan from him as his pale lashes flutter. “absolutely fucking beautiful.”
he comes again with a deep, primal groan, filling you even more, and you think you might get a reprieve, but he’s still hard, still moving, those arctic depths burning with insatiable hunger. his grin is pure sin as he flips you both over with a smooth, practiced motion, settling you on top of him, his cock sinking even deeper as you straddle him, your chemise falling around you like liquid silk. the movement makes you cry out, the new angle overwhelming.
your thighs shake as you try to lift yourself, muscles like jelly from the thorough fucking you’ve received, your wedding jewelry catching the light as you tremble. “satoru,” you whimper, voice trembling with need, but you’re eager, your hips rolling instinctively as you take him deeper, the silk of your chemise brushing against his chest.
“that’s my girl,” he says, hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into your soft flesh with possessive strength, his pale hair spread across the dark pillows like spilled starlight. “just let me move you.” he bounces you on his cock with ease, using you like his personal toy, and you’re so pliant, so responsive, that you gush around him, your slickness coating him as he moves you. you brace your hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your palms, your delicate jewelry sliding with each movement, and let him manhandle you, your body singing with pleasure.
“love how you feel,” he groans, those ethereal eyes drinking in every expression—your parted lips, your glassy eyes, the tears still streaming down your cheeks, the way your silk chemise clings to your curves. “my perfect little wife, letting me use this sweet cunt however i want.” his hands move to your breasts, squeezing and kneading through the silk with a roughness that makes you gasp, his fingers finding your sensitive nipples and pinching, rolling them until you arch and moan, the sensation amplifying the pleasure of his cock inside you.
“so fucking responsive,” he growls, pinching harder just to hear your whimper, the sound making his cock twitch inside you while those pale strands stick to his temples. “these pretty tits were made for my hands.” the dual sensation of him filling you completely while he tortures your sensitive peaks through the delicate fabric has you coming again, your walls spasming around his thick length as you sob his name, the sound raw and desperate, your jewelry catching the light as you convulse.
“that’s five,” he says with smug satisfaction, but his hands never stop, one still tormenting your breast while the other slides down to rub your clit with relentless precision, those impossible eyes—like arctic fire—blazing up at you. “one more, baby. know you’ve got it in you.” you’re too far gone to protest, your body eager, pliant, building toward another peak despite the overwhelming sensation. when it hits, you scream, the sound raw and broken as your body convulses uncontrollably, your walls clamping down on him as pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and spent while your chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin.
he comes with a deep groan, pulling you down flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around you possessively as he fills you again, his cock pulsing inside you. you’re both slick with sweat, breathing hard, and you can feel his cum leaking out around his softening cock, the sensation messy and intimate. those moonlight strands are completely destroyed now, sticking up at impossible angles, and there’s something endearingly human about the way he looks—flushed and breathing hard, no longer the untouchable deity he sometimes seems.
“six,” he says with smug satisfaction, pressing a kiss to your hair, his voice gone soft and wondering. “my perfect wife gave me six orgasms on our wedding night.”
you can barely form words, completely wrung out and shaking in his arms, your silk chemise twisted around you. your voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from all the sounds he pulled from you. “you’re insane.”
“insane for you,” he agrees easily, voice gone all breathy and soft in a way that makes your stomach flutter even now, his fingers already starting to card through your hair with infinite gentleness. his hands have completely transformed—no longer possessive and demanding, but gentle, reverent almost, stroking your back in soothing circles. his touch is feather-light now, careful of your oversensitive skin, and when you peek up at him through your lashes, those ethereal features have softened into something so tender it makes your chest tight. “but i think you’ve had enough for tonight. let’s get you cleaned up.”
his eyebrows—pale as winter frost—knit together in concern when you make a small sound of protest, your body feeling like overcooked pasta as he tries to lift you. there’s something almost comically serious about the way he studies your face, those impossible depths searching for any sign of discomfort, like he’s trying to decode whether you’re actually uncomfortable or just being dramatic.
“i’ve got you, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple that’s so gentle it makes you want to cry, his lips warm against your skin. “just let me take care of you, yeah?”
when he stands, carrying you bridal style toward the bathroom with exaggerated care—like you’re made of spun glass and might shatter if he moves too quickly—you can’t help but notice he’s finally showing signs of exertion. those silver strands are completely destroyed, sticking up at impossible angles from your hands, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light, making his skin look luminous. his chest rises and falls just a little too quickly, cheeks flushed pink in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish, those celestial eyes soft with satisfaction and something deeper.
“good thing you’ve got stamina,” you mumble against his shoulder, words slightly slurred from exhaustion, and you feel more than hear his laugh—a warm rumble that vibrates through his chest.
he sets you down carefully on the marble counter, hands steady on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against your hip bones through the twisted silk of your chemise. there’s something almost smug about his grin as he reaches for the faucet, but it’s tempered by the soft way those arctic depths keep darting to your face to check that you’re okay, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
“baby, that wasn’t even close to my limit,” he says, and there’s that familiar cocky tilt to his chin even as his cheeks flush darker, those moonlight strands falling across his forehead. “but it’s both our first time, so i was being nice.” his voice drops to something softer, more vulnerable, those impossible eyes suddenly uncertain. “didn’t want to break you on our wedding night.”
the thought of him holding back makes you shiver despite the warm air, your mind immediately conjuring images of what ‘not holding back’ might look like. he notices the shiver immediately, those ridiculous eyes going wide with concern as his hands fly up to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle.
“cold?” he asks, eyebrows doing that thing where they scrunch together—pale and expressive—like you’re the most important problem he’s ever had to solve.
you shake your head, but he’s already reaching for one of the plush hotel robes, expression so seriously focused on the task of wrapping it around your shoulders that you have to bite back a smile, those silver strands falling into his eyes as he works. “just thinking about you not being nice,” you admit quietly.
his hands still on the robe ties, and when you look up, his pupils have dilated again, those ethereal depths darkening with familiar hunger before he visibly shakes himself, his pale lashes fluttering. “dangerous thoughts, mrs. gojo,” he murmurs, voice rough, but then he’s back to fussing with the robe, making sure it covers you properly. the whiplash between his desire and his care makes your heart skip.
he runs the bath with the intensity of a man performing surgery, testing the temperature obsessively—first with his fingers, then his wrist, then his elbow, brow furrowed in concentration, those moonlight strands falling across his face. you watch him, mesmerized by how someone so chaotic and playful can become so methodical when it comes to taking care of you, those impossible eyes focused with laser precision.
“’toru,” you say softly, and he glances over his shoulder with a questioning hum, those arctic depths immediately softening. “it’s just a bath.”
his expression turns mock-offended, like you’ve just insulted his honor, one eyebrow arching dramatically. “just a bath?” he repeats, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest, those pale fingers splayed across his heart. “this is my wife’s first post-wedding-night bath. there are standards to maintain.”
the word ‘wife’ still makes something flutter dangerously in your chest, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he can’t quite believe it himself, those ethereal features glowing with happiness. he turns back to the faucet, adding what seems like an entire bottle of expensive bath oils to the water, his movements precise and careful.
“perfect temperature,” he announces proudly, like he’s just solved world hunger, then spins around with the brightest grin, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “ready, beautiful?”
the water is absolute heaven against your overheated, oversensitive skin. you can’t help the little sigh of relief that escapes as you sink into the warmth, muscles you didn’t even realize were tense finally beginning to relax. satoru slides in behind you a moment later, long legs bracketing yours as he pulls you back against his chest, his skin still warm and perfect against yours.
“better?” his voice is barely above a whisper, lips brushing your temple, and you can only nod, melting back against him.
his hands are impossibly gentle as he reaches for the expensive shampoo, and there’s something almost reverent about the way he works it into your hair. his fingers massage your scalp in slow, methodical circles, and you can see his reflection in the mirror across from the tub—tongue poking out slightly in concentration, those pale eyebrows drawn together like washing your hair is the most important task he’s ever been assigned, his silver strands damp and curling slightly from the steam.
“such pretty hair,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and wondering, like he’s sharing a secret with the universe, his fingers working through the strands with infinite care. “so soft. been wanting to do this for ages.” when you let out a small, content sound and let your head fall back against his shoulder, his entire expression lights up like christmas morning, those ethereal depths sparkling with joy. “yeah? feels good?”
you nod sleepily, eyes fluttering closed, and he practically preens with satisfaction. every movement is deliberate, careful, his usual manic energy replaced by something tender and focused that makes your heart squeeze. when he tips your head back to rinse the shampoo out, his other hand automatically comes up to cup your forehead, protecting your eyes from the water, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.
“there we go,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to your wet temple with a smile so soft it makes you want to cry, his lips warm and reverent. “perfect. you’re so perfect.”
the conditioner gets the same treatment—gentle fingers working through the strands, detangling carefully, never pulling or tugging. then he’s reaching for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and beginning to clean you with touches so soft they’re barely there, those impossible eyes focused and tender.
“arms up, sweetheart,” he whispers, and when you comply, he washes under your arms, along your ribs, between your fingers with the kind of thorough attention that makes your heart squeeze. every touch is reverent, worshipful, like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin under his hands, those arctic depths soft with wonder.
when the cloth moves lower, ghosting over your breasts with clinical precision, you tense slightly—still so sensitive from his earlier attention. his movements immediately still, and when you glance up, his face has gone all soft and concerned, those pale eyebrows knitting together in worry.
“you okay?” he asks immediately, free hand coming up to stroke your cheek with infinite gentleness. “too much? i can stop—”
“no,” you whisper, relaxing back against him with a small smile that makes his shoulders drop with relief, those ethereal features melting with tenderness. “just... still sensitive.”
his expression melts into something apologetic and tender, those impossible eyes going soft with understanding. “sorry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips feather-light against your skin. “i’ll be more careful. promise.”
and he is. when he washes between your thighs, his touch becomes impossibly gentle, clinical in the best way—just taking care of you, cleaning away the evidence of your activities with the kind of careful attention that’s somehow more intimate than anything that came before. there’s something about the way he focuses on the task, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, those silver strands falling across his face, that makes your chest tight with affection.
“lean forward for me?” he asks softly, and when you do, he washes your back with the same careful attention, working out knots in your shoulders you didn’t realize were there, his fingers strong and sure against your skin.
by the time he’s finished, you’re completely boneless, practically purring under his gentle ministrations. the water has cooled slightly, but his body heat keeps you warm, arms wrapped loosely around your waist, those impossible eyes soft and content.
“think you’re ready to get out?” he asks after a few more minutes of comfortable silence, lips moving against your hair.
you nod sleepily, and he helps you stand on legs that feel like jelly, hands immediately shooting to your elbows to steady you. there’s something almost comically protective about the way he hovers, like he’s expecting you to topple over at any second, those ethereal features creased with concern. the towel he wraps around you is impossibly warm—and when you give him a questioning look, he grins sheepishly, those pale cheeks flushing pink.
“may have stuck it in the towel warmer while you were soaking,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, those silver strands sticking up at odd angles. “wanted everything to be perfect.”
the casual thoughtfulness of it makes your heart skip, and when you smile at him—soft and grateful and so full of love—his cheeks flush pink again, those impossible eyes going wide with wonder. “you’re ridiculous,” you tell him fondly.
“ridiculously thoughtful,” he corrects with a grin that’s equal parts smug and bashful, those arctic depths sparkling with mischief. “ridiculously devoted. ridiculously—”
“ridiculously annoying,” you interrupt, but you’re laughing as he gasps in mock offense, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.
“my wife thinks i’m annoying,” he announces to the bathroom mirror, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead, though his eyes are sparkling with laughter. “how will i ever recover?”
“by drying my hair before i catch pneumonia,” you suggest, still giggling, and his expression immediately shifts back to serious concern, those pale eyebrows drawing together.
“right, yes, hair,” he says, reaching for another towel with renewed focus, his movements suddenly purposeful. “can’t have my wife getting sick on our honeymoon.”
he takes another towel and begins patting your hair dry with the same careful attention he showed in the bath, his touch gentle and methodical. “don’t want to tangle it,” he explains quietly when he catches you watching him, and something about the casual intimacy of it—this powerful, overwhelming man being so careful with your hair—makes your eyes prick with unexpected tears.
he notices immediately, free hand coming up to cup your cheek, those ethereal depths immediately filling with concern. “hey, what’s wrong?”
“nothing,” you whisper, leaning into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “just... you’re being so sweet.”
his expression goes soft, thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite gentleness. “you’re my wife now,” he says simply, like that explains everything, those impossible eyes soft with wonder. “of course i’m going to take care of you.”
wife. the word makes your heart stutter like it always does, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he still can’t quite believe he gets to call you that, those arctic depths glowing with happiness.
when you’re dry, he disappears briefly into the main room with a quick “be right back!” thrown over his shoulder, and you can hear him rummaging around, muttering to himself. he returns moments later with one of his t-shirts and a pair of your favorite sleep shorts, looking ridiculously pleased with himself, those silver strands still mussed from sleep and steam.
“lifted them from your apartment last week,” he admits with a grin that’s equal parts sheepish and unrepentant when he catches your questioning look, his cheeks flushing that pretty pink again. “wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable tonight. may have also grabbed your favorite pillow, that body wash you always use, and those weird face masks you love.”
your mouth falls open. “you planned this? the aftercare supplies?”
his cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck with a bashful smile, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “maybe researched a little. wanted to do it right.” then, with a return of his usual cockiness: “first time for everything, but i’m nothing if not thorough.”
the shirt is huge on you, hanging almost to your knees, and it smells like him—clean and warm and safe and home. the shorts are your favorites, the ones that are almost too soft from years of washing, and the fact that he noticed, that he thought to bring them, makes something warm bloom in your chest.
“you’re completely ridiculous,” you mumble, but your smile is so wide it hurts your cheeks, and when he sees it, his whole face lights up like he’s just won the lottery, those ethereal features practically glowing.
“ridiculously prepared,” he corrects, scooping you up again with exaggerated care, those impossible eyes soft with affection. “ridiculously considerate. ridiculously—”
“if you say ‘ridiculously handsome’ i’m filing for divorce,” you threaten, but you’re giggling against his neck as he carries you back to the bedroom.
“was gonna say ‘ridiculously in love with my wife,’” he says quietly, and the sudden sincerity in his voice makes your breath catch, those arctic depths going soft and vulnerable. “but handsome works too.”
the bed has been completely transformed—fresh sheets that smell like lavender and luxury, pillows fluffed and arranged like something out of a magazine. there’s a glass of water on your nightstand, along with what looks like the entire contents of the welcome basket, and you’re pretty sure those are your favorite chocolates from the little shop near your apartment.
“when did you—?” you start, but he just grins, settling you carefully against the mountain of pillows like you’re something precious, those silver strands falling across his forehead.
“called housekeeping while you were turning into a prune,” he says proudly, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “told them my wife needed the full romance package. emergency priority.”
“an emergency,” you repeat, fighting back a laugh at his completely serious expression, those pale eyebrows drawn together earnestly. “my need for clean sheets was an emergency.”
“the most important emergency,” he confirms solemnly, then breaks character to flash you that ridiculously charming grin, his whole face transforming with joy. “my wife’s comfort is a matter of national security.”
there’s that word again. wife. you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of the way it sounds in his voice, especially not when his eyes go soft and wondering like he still can’t believe you said yes, those ethereal depths glowing with happiness.
he disappears into the bathroom again, and you hear the sound of running water, then he’s padding back with another warm washcloth and an expression so sweetly uncertain it makes your heart squeeze. “just in case you want to, um...” he waves the cloth vaguely, cheeks flushing pink, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “you know. if you need to freshen up more or anything. no pressure.”
the thoughtfulness of it—giving you the option, not assuming you’re okay with how thorough he was—makes you fall a little more in love with him. “come here,” you say softly, reaching for him, and his face immediately transforms into the brightest smile, those arctic depths lighting up.
“don’t need it?” he asks, tossing the cloth aside and practically bouncing onto the bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“just need you,” you tell him, and watch his expression go all soft and devastated, those ethereal features melting with tender emotion. “stay?”
“not going anywhere,” he promises immediately, settling beside you and opening his arms in invitation. when you curl up against his side like you belong there—head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his, hand splayed across his chest—his entire body relaxes like this is what he’s been waiting for all night, those impossible eyes going soft and content.
his skin is still warm and slightly damp from the bath, and he smells clean and familiar and absolutely perfect. one hand finds your hair immediately, fingers combing through the damp strands with gentle, repetitive motions that make your eyes flutter closed, those pale fingers infinitely careful.
“better?” he asks softly, and when you nod against his shoulder, you feel more than see his smile, his chest rising and falling peacefully beneath your cheek. “good. my wife should be comfortable.”
the possessive way he says ‘my wife’—like he’s still testing the words, still amazed he gets to claim you—makes warmth bloom low in your chest. you’re both quiet for a moment, just breathing together, his heartbeat steady under your ear while those gentle fingers continue their soothing motion through your hair.
“water,” he says quietly after a moment, voice soft but brooking no argument as he reaches for the glass on your nightstand. “need you to drink some for me, okay?”
you make a small sound of protest—a petulant whine that makes him smile, those impossible eyes crinkling at the corners—not wanting to move from your perfect position against his chest. “don’t wanna move.”
“don’t have to,” he assures you, adjusting his hold so he can bring the glass to your lips himself, his movements careful and practiced. “just drink. let me take care of you.”
the water is cool and perfect, soothing your raw throat, and you drink until he seems satisfied, those ethereal eyes watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort. when he sets the glass aside, his free hand comes up to stroke your cheek with reverent touches, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.
“good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and the praise makes something warm and content settle in your bones even now, when you’re too exhausted for it to mean anything beyond pure affection.
“chocolate?” he offers next, already reaching for one of the fancy truffles with an eager expression that makes you think he’s been looking forward to this part, those impossible eyes bright with anticipation. “got your favorites from that little place you love.”
“too tired,” you mumble against his shoulder, but you’re smiling at his thoughtfulness, feeling the way his chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.
“mm, that’s fair,” he says, carefully placing the chocolate back with exaggerated precision, those long fingers delicate with the wrapper. “we’ll save them for breakfast then. gonna feed you chocolate in bed tomorrow morning like a proper honeymoon.”
the casual way he talks about tomorrow, about all the tomorrows stretching ahead of you, makes your chest tight with happiness. you’re quiet for a while after that, just breathing together, his hand never stopping its gentle motion in your hair, those pale fingers working through the strands with infinite tenderness. gradually, all the overwhelming sensations from earlier fade into a warm, sated glow, your body finally relaxing completely against his.
“you okay?” he asks quietly, his voice carrying that thread of uncertainty that makes your chest tighten. the question hangs between you like something fragile—like he needs reassurance that he did everything right. his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, movements hesitant despite their tenderness. “wasn’t too rough? too much? i know we were both figuring it out as we went...” the last words tumble out in a rush, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.
you lift your head to look at him properly, your palm flat against his chest where you can feel his heart still racing. there’s a worried crease carved between his brows, and those impossible eyes of his—like winter sky caught in crystal—search your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. his hair is completely wrecked, strands falling across his forehead in disheveled waves that catch the lamplight like spun moonbeams. there’s something endearingly uncertain about his expression, the way his teeth worry at his bottom lip like he’s suddenly second-guessing everything despite the fact that he just thoroughly rocked your world.
“it was perfect,” you tell him honestly, your voice still slightly hoarse as you reach up to smooth away the worry lines etched into his forehead. your thumb traces the furrow there with gentle pressure. “overwhelming and incredible and perfect. you were perfect.” the words come out breathier than intended, but you mean every syllable.
his expression transforms immediately—tension bleeding from his shoulders as relief floods his features. but then heat creeps up his neck in that pretty pink flush that makes your stomach flip, and he grins with that devastating combination of relief and smugness that’s so uniquely him. “yeah?” he asks, and there’s something almost shy in the way he ducks his head slightly, chin tucking down.
“yeah,” you confirm, pressing a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse jumps under your lips. “though maybe next time warn me when you’re planning to completely destroy me. i might need to do some mental preparation.” your fingers play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as you speak.
he throws his head back and laughs—loud and delighted and completely unrepentant, the sound vibrating through his chest where you’re still pressed against him. his adam’s apple bobs with the force of it, and when he looks back down at you, there’s mischief dancing in those crystalline depths. “where’s the fun in that? i live for catching you off guard.” his expression turns predatory for just a moment, pupils dilating as his gaze drops to your mouth. “you make the prettiest faces when you’re surprised. and the prettiest sounds when you’re—”
“terrible,” you interrupt before he can finish that thought, but you’re giggling against his skin, the sound muffled and warm as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. your wedding ring catches the light as you gesture dismissively. “absolutely terrible husband.”
“terrible husband?” he gasps, his free hand flying to his chest in a gesture so dramatic you half expect spotlights to appear. his eyes go wide with mock horror, mouth dropping open in an exaggerated ‘o’ of shock. “on our wedding night? the betrayal! the scandal!” he clutches at his heart like you’ve delivered a mortal wound, and the theatrics are so ridiculous you snort.
“the worst husband,” you clarify solemnly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking character as you lift your chin with mock disdain. “definitely filing for divorce in the morning.” you even cross your arms for emphasis, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that you’re still sprawled across his chest wearing nothing but his t-shirt.
his grin turns absolutely wicked—all sharp edges and dangerous promises—and suddenly he’s rolling you both over in one fluid motion that steals your breath. the sheets tangle around your legs as he pins you beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head so his hair falls like a curtain around your face. this close, you can see the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes, can count the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose. “guess i’ll have to convince you to keep me then,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that register that makes your toes curl as he leans down to brush his nose against yours in an eskimo kiss. “think i’m up for the challenge.”
your breath catches at the gentle intimacy of the gesture, so at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “i think i can live with that,” you whisper, your hands coming up to frame his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones.
“good,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head that’s soft enough to make your heart ache. his lips linger there, warm and reverent. “’cause i’m never letting you go.” the words are muffled against your hair, but they carry the weight of a vow.
his hand moves from your hair to trace patterns on your back over his t-shirt—lazy circles and spirals that raise goosebumps in their wake. every touch is gentle, soothing, designed to relax rather than arouse. his fingers map your spine like he’s memorizing each vertebra, touch reverent and unhurried.
“can’t believe you’re my wife,” he murmurs after a while, voice soft with wonder as he shifts to pull you more securely against his side. his chest rises and falls in a rhythm you’re already learning by heart. “keep thinking i’m going to wake up and this will all be a dream.” there’s something almost fragile in the admission, like he’s afraid speaking it aloud might make it true.
you press closer to him, if that’s even possible, your leg slotting between his as you nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. “not a dream. i’m really here. really yours.” your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it might as well be a shout.
“really mine,” he repeats, like he’s testing the words, rolling them around on his tongue to savor their taste. his arms tighten around you possessively. “and i’m really yours.” the wonder in his voice makes your chest constrict with emotion.
“really yours,” you echo, and it feels like a promise, like a vow more sacred than the ones you spoke in front of all those people earlier today. your wedding dress hangs forgotten in the closet, but this moment feels more binding than any ceremony.
you’re drifting on the edge of sleep when he speaks again, voice barely audible in the darkness. “love you so much it scares me sometimes.” the confession is soft, vulnerable, like he’s not sure he meant to say it aloud.
your heart clenches, and you tilt your head up to meet his eyes through the shadows. even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty flickering there, the way his throat works as he swallows hard. “why scared?” you ask gently, your fingers finding his jaw to trace the sharp line of it.
he’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light touches that make you shiver. when he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “never loved anyone like this before,” he admits quietly, those winter-sky eyes refusing to meet yours. “never had anyone who was mine completely. sometimes i can’t believe you chose me.” the last words come out barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he says them too loudly.
the vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tight with emotion. this is satoru without his masks, without his cocky grins and endless confidence—just a man who loves you so much he can’t quite believe it’s real. his hair is still mussed from your fingers, falling across his forehead in silver threads that catch what little light filters through the curtains.
“hey,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, your thumbs stroking along those sharp cheekbones. “i choose you every day. chose you before the ring, before the wedding, before any of it. just you. always you.” your voice is fierce with conviction, and you watch his pupils dilate as your words sink in.
he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. his lashes flutter against his cheeks—so pale they’re almost translucent—and you can feel the way his breathing stutters. “promise?” the word comes out cracked, desperate.
“promise.” you stretch up to kiss him, soft and gentle and full of every ounce of love in your chest. his lips are warm and slightly chapped, and he kisses you back like you’re oxygen and he’s been drowning. when you pull back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears that make them look like fractured ice, and his smile is soft and real and just for you. “you’re stuck with me, remember?”
“best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as one of those tears finally spills over. you catch it with your thumb before it can fall, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm.
“the feeling’s mutual,” you whisper back, then settle against his chest again, ear pressed to his heart where you can feel the steady rhythm that’s already becoming your favorite sound. the beat is strong and sure beneath your cheek, grounding you in the reality of this moment.
you’re almost asleep when you feel him shift, his arm reaching across you for something. when you crack your eyes open, he’s fumbling with some fancy remote, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he dims the lights. the room is bathed in soft, warm darkness that makes everything feel intimate and cocoon-like.
“sleep,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you protectively as he settles back against the pillows. his voice is already thick with approaching sleep, but there’s something fiercely protective in the way he holds you. “i’ve got you.” the words rumble through his chest where your ear is pressed.
and you do sleep, safe and warm and thoroughly loved, dreaming of white dresses and gentle hands and the promise of forever with the man whose heartbeat has become your favorite lullaby.
when you wake up hours later, it’s to the feeling of soft lips pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. sunlight is filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and satoru is propped up on his elbow beside you. his hair is even more disheveled than before, sticking up at impossible angles that make him look endearingly rumpled. those crystalline eyes are soft with sleep and something deeper as he watches you wake up, looking completely besotted.
“morning, beautiful,” he says softly, voice rough with sleep and deeper than usual. there’s a pillow crease on his cheek and his eyes are still slightly puffy, but he’s never looked more gorgeous. “how are you feeling?” his free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, touch gentle and reverent.
you take inventory—pleasantly sore, thoroughly satisfied, and so completely in love you can barely stand it. your body aches in the most delicious way, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the slight rasp in your voice when you speak. “perfect,” you tell him honestly, stretching like a cat in the morning sun. “absolutely perfect.”
his smile could power the entire city—bright and unguarded and so full of joy it makes your heart skip. “good. because i was thinking...” he reaches over to the nightstand, movements still languid with sleep as he grabs one of those chocolate truffles from last night. when he turns back to you, there’s mischief dancing in his eyes again. “breakfast in bed?”
you laugh, the sound bright and happy in the morning light as it bubbles up from your chest. your wedding ring glints as you gesture, and you’re struck again by the surreal reality of it all. “you know what? that sounds absolutely perfect.”
and as he feeds you chocolate—his fingers lingering against your lips with each bite—and coffee appears via room service and he pulls you into his lap to steal kisses between bites, you think that maybe, just maybe, being mrs. gojo is going to be the adventure of a lifetime.
synopsis : satoru gojo’s life is a meticulously curated empire of protein shakes, gym selfies, and the unwavering adoration of six million followers. he’s got it all down to a science, a perfect balance of macros and influence that’s starting to feel just a little empty. but when a late-night scroll leads him to your quiet corner of the internet, everything changes. it’s not about your face—he’s never seen it. it’s about your hands, steady and dusted with flour, and your voice, a warm, patient hum that makes him forget all about his post-workout cardio. suddenly, the man who prides himself on control finds himself completely obsessed with a baker who offers something sweeter and far more dangerous than any cheat meal: a little bit of peace.
or: he could break the internet with a single photo, but he’s about to risk it all for a girl who accidentally liked his post one time.
wc ࣪— 39k ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, plot with porn, influencer au, modern setting, fluff, humor, banter, slow burn, food as a love language, mutual pining, eventual smut, sexual tension, making out, food play, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise kink, marking, satoru goes feral, unsafe sex, rough sex, size kink, it won’t fit trope, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, marriage proposal, wedding fluff, happy ending
athy says, hi my lovies, i'm looking at my follower count and i genuinely can't believe we've hit 9k before this little blog of mine is even six months old. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic has been simmering away in my drafts for what feels like an eternity, and i wanted to dedicate it to all of you as a thank you. it's super soft, a little cheesy, and hopefully the perfect thing to curl up with. i hope you all enjoy it!! ♡(ӦｖӦ｡)
satoru gojo has never needed hashtags to break the internet.
he knows this the same way he knows his post-workout selfies could fund a small country’s economy, the same way he knows that the gym mirror loves him more than his own mother ever did.
so when he drops his phone against his sweat-dampened chest and angles it just right—shadows cutting across the landscape of muscle he’s carved with religious devotion, that mess of hair catching the fluorescent light like spun moonlight, eyes the color of winter storms narrowed in that signature smirk—he doesn’t bother with captions longer than “cardio day.”
six million followers don’t need context. they need salvation, and apparently, he’s their god.
the likes pour in before he’s even toweled off. comments that would make his grandmother clutch her pearls, fire emojis that could melt antarctica, marriage proposals in seven languages. satoru scrolls through them with the bored satisfaction of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’s attractive, clocking the trending status of his latest flex, watching the numbers climb.
after a few minutes of basking in the chaos he just unleashed—thousands of girls twisting in their sheets, thirsting themselves half to death—he flicks over to reels. it’s a casual, almost lazy motion, like a king turning away from the adoration of his court once he’s had his fill.
his reels are the usual rotation: endless loops of protein shake hacks, questionable “science-backed” mobility drills, and gym bros flexing in worse lighting than his bathroom mirror. sometimes a cooking video sneaks in—grilled chicken recipes that look like punishment meals, pre-workout snacks no sane person would enjoy, the occasional steak sizzling on cast iron just enough to hold his attention. mindless fuel, background noise for someone who already knows he looks better than half the influencers trying to sell him their macros.
but then, the algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, does that thing where it thinks it knows him better than he knows himself, and suddenly his screen fills with something entirely different. no thirst, no desperation, no familiar symphony of validation.
just hands.
soft, capable hands dusted with flour, moving with the kind of precision that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar. the voice accompanying them flows like honey over warm bread, explaining the mysteries of chocolate tempering with the patience of someone who actually gives a damn about their craft.
“temperature control is everything,” you’re saying, and satoru finds himself leaning closer to his phone screen like an idiot. your hands work magic he doesn’t understand—folding, smoothing, creating something beautiful from nothing. there’s flour scattered across your black apron like stars, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. “too hot and you’ll seize the chocolate. too cold and it won’t temper properly. you want that perfect balance.”
perfect balance. right. satoru gojo, who can bench twice his body weight and has never met a macronutrient he couldn’t calculate in his sleep, suddenly feels like he doesn’t understand balance at all.
he’s three videos deep before his brain catches up to his thumbs. your username—why.en_bakes—sits at the top of each video like a riddle he wants to solve. faceless content creator, obviously skilled, voice that could talk him through a panic attack or into one, depending on the circumstances.
his trainer would have an aneurysm if he knew satoru was mentally calculating the caloric content of buttercream roses at eleven pm.
his trainer doesn’t have to know.
meanwhile, you’re having your own crisis three hundred miles away, curled up in bed with your phone balanced precariously on your chest. you’ve been mindlessly scrolling through instagram, the kind of late-night brain rot that makes you question your life choices and wonder why you’re not asleep like a normal person.
the dm notification pops up from @squatoru—and there’s that little blue checkmark that makes your stomach drop because verified accounts usually mean one of two things: actual celebrities or influencers hunting for free stuff.
squatoru: hey, your hands are so steady, i’m pretty sure you could perform surgery. on my heart, maybe? kidding. mostly. anyway, the real question: do you take custom orders, or am i doomed to just drool over your perfect pastries through ig reels tutorials forever? my cardio needs a reward ;)
you frown, tapping on his profile with the kind of skepticism reserved for men who slide into dms and politicians. probably another influencer looking for free pastries in exchange for exposure. you’ve seen this song and dance before, and your content is specifically designed to avoid this—just your hands, your voice, and your pastries. no face, no personal details, no invitation for this kind of attention.
except his profile loads, and the image that fills your screen is so utterly, aggressively stunning that your breath hitches. your eyes go wide, wider than any pastry plate you’ve ever presented, and you feel a ridiculous, old-fashioned flush creep up your neck. like a victorian gentleman accidentally stumbling upon an exposed ankle, but instead of an ankle, it’s an eight-pack, a smirk, and eyes that could unravel your very soul.
you swallow, hard, your mind temporarily short-circuiting at the sheer, unapologetic perfection. the phone, balanced precariously on your chest, finally loses its grip as your hands instinctively clench in shock, and it falls. with a sickening thud, it smacks directly into your face, the impact rattling your teeth and, far worse, triggering an accidental double-tap right on his latest thirst trap. specifically, right on his absurdly defined abs.
because @squatoru isn’t just any influencer.
he’s all sharp angles and casual arrogance, the kind of beautiful that makes you question whether humans are supposed to look like that or if someone’s been editing reality behind your back. his hair defies every law of physics and good sense, standing up in ways that should look ridiculous but instead look like he’s been personally blessed by some very attractive gods. and his eyes—they’re not just blue, they’re the kind of blue that makes you forget other colors exist, like someone liquefied lightning and poured it into his irises just to see what would happen.
the worst part? he knows exactly what he looks like.
every photo is a carefully constructed masterpiece of casual perfection. gym selfies that belong in museums, mirror shots that probably crash servers, candid photos that are about as candid as a hollywood red carpet. he’s the kind of beautiful that makes normal people feel like potatoes, and he’s just casually sliding into your dms like it’s tuesday.
the little heart icon fills with red, mocking you. you immediately know you’ve made a mistake of astronomical proportions, a digital crime scene of embarrassment. you don’t even look at this kind of content. your algorithm is carefully curated chaos of baking tutorials, cat videos, and the occasional pottery reel.
you wouldn’t know a thirst trap if it personally introduced itself and asked for your number. but apparently, it just did, and you just liked it.
your phone buzzes almost instantly.
squatoru: oh, saw that 😉 figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. it’s okay, my content’s usually pretty captivating. consider yourself caught admiring the view.
you scramble upright, nearly launching your phone across the room in your panic. your heart is doing something between a tango and a cardiac episode, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to die of embarrassment in your own bed, which seems like a particularly pathetic way to go. you wince, rubbing your nose where the phone left a red mark.
why.en_bakes: it was an accident. my phone slipped. literally. it just smacked me.
the response comes back quicker than you’d like, quicker than gives you time to construct proper emotional barriers or remember how to breathe like a normal person.
squatoru: suuuure it did. 😉 a very convenient slip. but hey, thanks for the unintentional validation. speaking of irresistible things... i’ve actually been genuinely obsessed with your videos. that chocolate work? absolutely insane. like, i’m genuinely curious about trying your stuff in person. my cheat day budget just went up.
he’s been watching your videos. this man, human equivalent of a renaissance sculpture, is obsessed with your chocolate work? you, who usually only gets comments from sweet grandmas and fellow bakers, are suddenly being eyed by the thirst trap god himself. you stare at the message until the words blur together, trying to process this information like a computer that’s been asked to run software from the future.
why.en_bakes: well, the cafe info is on my profile if you’re actually serious. we’re open from 8-6 tuesday to saturday. no freebies.
because you’re not about to make this easy for him. you’ve built a whole business on not making things easy, on the radical concept that good pastries require effort and patience and maybe a little suffering. if this man wants to waltz into your world with his perfect face and his ridiculous hair, he can follow the same rules as everyone else.
squatoru: oh, trust me, cupcake. i’m serious about good desserts. and good conversation. and maybe a few other things. consider me booked. see you soon.
cupcake.
he called you cupcake, and something in your stomach does a little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the leftover anxiety from accidentally liking his photo and everything to do with the way that familiar, sweet word, usually piped with buttercream and sold by the dozen, suddenly tasted personal, a secret, delicious indulgence meant just for you.
satoru, meanwhile, is having his own moment of amused contemplation in his ridiculously expensive apartment, a smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his phone. because here’s the thing that’s currently piquing his interest in a way almost nothing else does: you don’t know who he is.
not in the way everyone else does, anyway. you’re not sliding into his dms with marriage proposals or asking him to promote your skincare routine. you’re not breathless with excitement or falling over yourself to impress him. you claimed you liked his photo by accident—a blatant, adorable fib, if your mortified response was anything to go by. you immediately tried to take it back like it was a mistake, but satoru knew better. people didn’t accidentally double-tap his abs. they just got shy when they were caught.
when was the last time someone feigned indifference to his attention?
he can’t remember, and that bothers him more than it should. he’s so used to being wanted, expected, demanded, that your casual dismissal, even if it was just an act of shyness, feels like a puzzle he needs to solve. you’re talented and professional and seemingly unimpressed by the fact that he exists, and something about that makes him want to try harder than he’s tried at anything that didn’t involve weights or protein shakes.
plus, there’s your voice. that soft, warm tone that guided him through chocolate tempering like you were sharing secrets, like you actually cared whether he understood the difference between seeding and tabling methods.
that night, he replayed your videos more times than he’d admit to anyone, and each time he notices something new—the careful way you handle delicate pastry, the little satisfied hum when something turns out perfectly, the genuine enthusiasm when you explain why certain techniques matter.
which is how satoru gojo, influencer extraordinaire and professional beautiful person, finds himself googling the address of a bakery at midnight like some kind of carb-obsessed stalker.
your cafe isn’t far from his gym. isn’t that convenient.
he screenshots the address and adds it to his calendar with the kind of focus usually reserved for competition prep, already planning his route and calculating what time he’ll need to leave to avoid the morning rush but still catch you during business hours.
because apparently, satoru gojo has stumbled upon a new obsession—someone who makes croissants for a living and couldn’t care less about his follower count, pretending she didn't just like his gym selfie.
his trainer is definitely going to have that aneurysm.
he timed it perfectly—after the morning rush had thinned and the café’s cheerful hum had settled into something softer. strategic timing, really. fewer distractions meant more of your attention, and satoru gojo had never been one to settle for scraps when he could have the whole meal.
the bell above the door chimed, small and unassuming, almost absurdly inadequate for the entrance that followed. satoru filled the doorway like gravity had personally rearranged itself around him, a quality white tee draping effortlessly over shoulders that looked like they’d been carved by someone with a personal vendetta against moderation, hinting at the landscape of muscle beneath. well-cut dark cargo pants, practical yet stylish, hung casually on powerful legs that could probably crush watermelons, and his hair—that impossible mess of silver-white strands—caught the morning light like it was showing off.
he walked in with the kind of confidence that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. calculated but effortless, the way predators moved when they weren’t particularly hungry but enjoyed the hunt anyway.
you recognized him instantly, and the mortifying memory of that accidental double-tap crashed through your mind like a wrecking ball made of pure embarrassment. heat threatened to crawl up your neck, but you shoved it down with the kind of ruthless efficiency that came from years of dealing with difficult customers and even more difficult ovens.
“welcome to flour & sugar,” you said, voice carefully steady as you finished wiping down the espresso machine. your movements were precise, controlled, the kind of calm that came from having your hands busy while your brain short-circuited. he caught the swift dart of your eyes, the way they met his for a fraction of a second before skittering away, and a slow, knowing amusement bloomed in his chest. oh, you were definitely lying. “what can i get for you today?”
but satoru wasn’t listening to your carefully rehearsed greeting. he was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with your display case.
“jesus christ,” he breathed, and those storm-glass eyes went wide as they tracked across the pastries like he was cataloging treasures. his hands pressed against the cool glass, long fingers splaying as he leaned in closer. “is that—are those pain au chocolat actually laminated properly or are you just trying to make me cry?”
the croissants sat in perfect golden rows, their surfaces glossy and flaked to mathematical precision. next to them, danish pastries spiraled with fruit preserves that caught the light like stained glass windows. chocolate éclairs lined up like soldiers, their choux pastry shells piped so perfectly they looked machine-made, topped with ganache so mirror-smooth it reflected the café’s warm lighting.
“showing off, obviously,” you replied, corners of your mouth threatening to betray you with something dangerously close to a smile. your fingers found the edge of your flour-dusted black apron, smoothing it down in a gesture that was becoming embarrassingly predictable. “we just brush regular croissants with chocolate syrup and hope no one notices.”
that earned you a bark of laughter, bright and genuine and so unexpected it made something flutter in your chest like a bird trying to escape. his whole face transformed when he laughed—the careful perfection cracking open to reveal something warmer underneath.
“oh, you’re trouble,” he said, grinning as he straightened up from the display case. ran one hand through that gravity-defying hair, messing it up in a way that somehow made it look better. the motion caused the soft fabric of the white tee to subtly shift and stretch over his chest and shoulder, a brief, undeniable testament to the power beneath, and he noticed you noticed. his grin widened almost imperceptibly. yeah, you definitely hadn’t liked his photo by ‘accident’. “i can tell already. so what’s your best ‘i’m definitely going to regret this later but it’ll be worth every minute’ option today?”
“the chocolate tart is popular,” you said, gesturing toward where it sat in solitary splendor—a perfect circle of temptation with ganache so dark it looked like liquid sin. “our kouign-amann sells out by noon.” you pointed to the golden, layered pastries that looked like edible architecture. “and if you’re feeling particularly self-destructive, the salted caramel éclair has a cult following.”
“dangerous recommendations,” he mused, those impossible eyes still cataloging every curve and swirl of your handiwork. his gaze lingered on the fruit tarts, their pastry cream bases topped with berries arranged like tiny works of art, then moved to the cinnamon rolls that spiraled with mathematical precision, their surfaces glazed to perfection.
he was quiet for a moment, just looking, and something in his expression shifted. softer somehow, like he was seeing more than just pastries behind the glass.
“what about you?” he asked finally, those winter-storm eyes finding yours. “what would you eat if calories didn’t exist and your trainer wasn’t going to lecture you about macros tomorrow?”
the question caught you completely off guard. most customers just wanted their order taken, not actual conversation, not genuine curiosity about your preferences. your hands stilled on the apron, suddenly aware of how he was looking at you—really looking, like your answer mattered.
“oh, definitely the chocolate tart,” you said, and a sudden, unexpected spark lit up in your eyes. you leaned forward just a fraction, your voice gaining a soft, enthusiastic edge. “it’s not just chocolate, you know? we use a blend of valrhona guanaja for that deep, almost bitter cocoa base, but then there’s a hint of madagascar vanilla bean in the custard, just enough to bring out the sweetness without making it cloying. and the crust—it’s a sable breton, a really buttery, shortbread-like texture that just crumbles perfectly. it’s about the balance, the way the intensity of the chocolate plays with the richness of the butter and the delicate snap of the shell. it’s… everything.”
you finished with a quiet, almost breathless sigh, a small flush on your cheeks from the sheer passion of your explanation. you hadn’t even realized you were practically lecturing him until you saw the look on his face.
something flickered across his face then, a slow dawning of satisfaction mixed with a captivating curiosity. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, were softened, fixed entirely on you. he hadn’t understood half the technical terms, but he’d understood the passion, the genuine love that radiated from you when you talked about your craft. that, he realized, was even more intoxicating than the thought of the tart itself.
“sold,” he declared, his voice a low, pleased rumble. “one chocolate tart for me. and—” he paused, head tilting as he studied the menu board behind you. “matcha latte. extra sweet, if you don’t mind. gotta balance out all that virtue somehow.”
the way he said it, low and curious, made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “mr. gojo—”
“just satoru,” he interrupted, and that easy smile turned softer somehow, more genuine. leaned against the counter on his forearms, bringing himself closer to your eye level. the sleeve of his white tee shifted, briefly revealing the impressive curve of his powerful biceps, practically begging for your gaze, and you felt that familiar, involuntary tightening in your throat again. he was far too aware of the space between you, of the way the air thrummed with unspoken things. “i’d prefer it if you called me satoru. ‘mr. gojo’ makes me sound like my father, and trust me, that’s not the vibe we’re going for here.”
heat crept up your neck despite every attempt at professional composure. he was close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that probably cost more than your monthly ingredient budget—mixed with the faintest hint of lingering workout endorphins.
“satoru, then,” you managed, fingers finding the register keys with muscle memory while your brain tried to process the way he smiled when you said his name. “find a seat anywhere you’d like. i’ll call you when it’s ready.”
he pushed back from the counter with fluid grace, all loose-limbed confidence and predatory satisfaction. chose the corner table by the window—of course he did—prime real estate for people-watching and and, more importantly, you-watching. settled into the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire building, phone out but screen dark, attention fixed entirely on your workspace.
you tried to ignore the weight of his stare as you moved through your routine, but it was like trying to ignore sunlight streaming through windows. persistent, warm, impossible to escape. steamed milk for his matcha latte, the bright green powder swirling into pale foam like liquid jade, sweetened just enough to match his request for extra sugar.
selected his tart from the display case with the reverence it deserved, the chocolate ganache mirror-smooth and perfect, reflecting the café’s warm lighting like dark water.
“order for satoru,” you called, and watched him unfold from the chair with that fluid grace that made ordinary movements look choreographed.
“that was fast,” he said, accepting the small plate and cup. his fingers brushed yours for just a moment—warm, callused from whatever weights he threw around when he wasn’t terrorizing bakeries. “efficient.”
“i try not to keep people waiting.” the words came out steadier than you felt, professional smile firmly in place even as your skin tingled where he’d touched it.
“and here i was hoping you’d take your time,” he replied, that insufferable smirk back in full force. tilted his head just enough to catch your eye, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should’ve looked accidental but absolutely wasn’t. “guess i’ll just have to savor this extra slowly to make up for it.”
back at his table, satoru lifted the fork like he was about to perform delicate surgery. cut into the tart with surgical precision, watched the ganache yield to reveal the perfect custard beneath, dark chocolate giving way to pale cream in a contrast that made his mouth water before he’d even tasted it.
the first bite rewired something fundamental in his brain.
it wasn’t just the flavor—though that was devastating enough, rich and balanced and absolutely perfect. it was the memory that came with it, sudden and overwhelming. his grandmother’s kitchen on sunday mornings, flour handprints on her faded apron, the smell of butter and vanilla thick in the air like incense in a church dedicated to sugar and love.
he’d been a chubby kid back then, all round cheeks and soft edges before growth spurts and gym obsessions carved him into something else entirely. back when sweetness meant safety, when dessert wasn’t the enemy but the reward for scraped knees and hard days and just existing in a world that sometimes felt too big and too scary.
this tart tasted like coming home to a place he’d forgotten existed.
he tried to eat it slowly, really tried. wanted to analyze the flavor profile, identify the techniques, make it last. but his body had other plans entirely. each bite melted on his tongue like a prayer answered, and before he knew it the plate was empty and he was staring at the evidence of his complete lack of self-control.
worth every single burpee he’d have to do tomorrow. worth twice that many.
he pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the crumb-scattered plate in afternoon light. typed out “found heaven” with thumbs that were steadier than they had any right to be, tagged the location, posted it to his story without a second thought.
let his trainer try to explain that one.
when he looked up, you were watching him from behind the counter, expression carefully neutral but eyes curious. caught in the act of caring whether he’d enjoyed it, whether your work had lived up to whatever expectations he’d built in his head.
“verdict?” you called across the space between you, voice carrying just the tiniest hint of genuine interest beneath the professional politeness.
“devastating,” he called back, not bothering to hide his grin or the way he gestured to the empty plate like it was evidence in a criminal trial. “absolutely devastating. i’m going to have to come back tomorrow just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”
“tomorrow’s monday. we’re closed.” the correction came automatically, but there was something softer in your voice now, the professional mask slipping just enough to let real personality peek through.
“then tuesday,” he said without missing a beat, standing up with that fluid grace and reaching for his wallet. “and probably wednesday. thursday’s looking pretty likely too.”
you ducked your head, but not before he caught the small smile you were trying to hide. watched you wipe your hands on that flour-dusted apron in the nervous gesture he was already learning to catalog alongside all your other tells.
“same time tuesday, then,” you said, like you were discussing the weather instead of planning his return to the scene of his carbohydrate crime.
“wouldn’t miss it, cupcake,” he replied, dropping a twenty on the counter for a twelve-dollar order and heading for the door before you could argue about the change.
he walked out into afternoon sunshine already calculating how many extra miles he’d need to run to justify coming back in two days.
spoiler alert: he was coming back regardless, and you both knew it.
the cafe, which once felt like a carefully controlled universe of flour and sugar, now had a new gravitational pull. satoru gojo had become a regular. not just a customer, but a fixture, like the espresso machine or the perpetually overflowing tips jar.
except this fixture came with perfectly tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half the city.
tuesday morning, 10:47 am. the bell chimed and there he was, silver hair catching the morning light like he’d been personally blessed by some very aesthetic gods. today’s ensemble: a loose knit sweater that somehow managed to look both cozy and criminally expensive, draped across shoulders that belonged in a renaissance sculpture exhibit.
he approached the counter with that easy confidence, long fingers already drumming against the glass as those winter-storm eyes conducted some kind of pastry reconnaissance mission.
“just making sure the integrity of your laminated dough hasn’t... suffered since yesterday, cupcake,” he said, leaning against the counter like he’d been doing it his whole life. the casual way he invaded your space should have been annoying. instead, it made something flutter stupidly in your chest.
you barely suppressed an eye roll, busying yourself with restocking napkins because your hands needed something to do that wasn’t embarrassing. “my laminated dough is doing just fine, satoru.”
“is it though?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in a way that was definitely not accidental, studying a pain au chocolat like it held state secrets. “because that one right there looks criminally perfect. almost offensive, really. i might have to do something about it.”
the way he said it, all mock seriousness with those ridiculous blue eyes sparkling with mischief, made your lips twitch despite your best efforts. “such a hardship for you.”
“devastating,” he agreed, pressing a hand to his chest like he was physically wounded. then that grin broke through, the one that made him look less like a fitness god and more like a kid who’d found the cookie jar. “i’ll take two. and one of those.” he pointed to a lemon meringue tart, its peak of toasted meringue golden and proud. “for balance.”
you reached for the pastries, trying to ignore how he watched your every movement like he was memorizing the choreography. “balance?”
“very important nutritional concept. sweet, then tart, then back to sweet. it’s basically science.”
“that’s not how nutrition works.”
“says who? my trainer?” he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid and careless. “he thinks protein powder counts as a food group. clearly not a reliable source.”
wednesday brought a different satoru—button-down with sleeves rolled just so, revealing forearms that should probably be illegal in most countries. he ordered three chocolate éclairs this time, each one a perfect torpedo of choux pastry and dark ganache.
“consistency test?” you repeated, watching him pull out that expensive wallet like he was performing surgery.
“scientific method, cupcake. very important.” he peeled off crisp hundreds with the casual air of someone who’d never met a price tag he couldn’t ignore. the bills looked fresh from the bank, and you briefly wondered if he requested new ones specifically for pastry purchases. “can’t make proper recommendations without thorough research.”
your fingers found the edge of your apron, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. “recommendations to who?”
“my trainer, obviously. gotta give him fair warning about what’s destroying his careful work.” that laugh again, bright and completely unrepentant, the sound warming something deep in your chest. “speaking of which, what’s the caloric damage on these beauties?”
“you don’t want to know.”
“try me.” he leaned forward slightly, chin tilting in challenge, and you caught yourself staring at the way his collar bone disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt.
“about three hundred each.”
he paused, éclair halfway to his mouth, and you watched something flicker across his face. not regret exactly, but the quick mental calculation of someone who’d spent years thinking in macros and meal plans. then he shrugged, a movement that somehow made his shoulders look even broader, and took a bite that was pure bliss.
his eyes actually fluttered closed for a second, and the small sound he made was borderline indecent. you busied yourself with the register before your brain could process the implications.
“worth every burpee,” he declared, and the conviction in his voice made something warm unfurl in your stomach. this wasn’t just politeness or customer service charm. he meant it.
thursday he showed up in a perfectly fitted black tee that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your professionalism took a brief vacation. the fabric clung to every angle and curve like it had been painted on, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending to organize the already-organized pastry display.
he ordered what could only be described as half your case. two kouign-amann, a slice of blood orange tart, three of your dark chocolate cookies, and a danish that had been sitting there looking particularly photogenic.
“research again?” you asked, voice carefully light while your eyes decidedly did not linger on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for his wallet.
“training day,” he said, and there was that subtle flex again, the movement so casual it might have been accidental if not for the way his lips quirked slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing. “need the fuel.”
you handed him his order, fingers brushing his for just a moment. warm, slightly callused from whatever torture routine he put himself through daily. “for what, exactly?”
“deadlifts. squats. the usual punishment for having a sweet tooth the size of tokyo.” he examined the danish like he was conducting a forensic investigation, head tilted just so. “my trainer keeps threatening to fire me, but joke’s on him—i’d just find someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”
the mental image of satoru gojo interviewing personal trainers based on their pastry tolerance made you duck your head to hide a smile. “how much extra cardio are we talking here?”
“for this haul? probably an extra hour. maybe two.” he bit into the danish with the kind of focus usually reserved for important life decisions, and you watched his expression melt into something approaching reverence. “but look at this thing. the way you’ve layered that fruit, how the glaze catches the light... that’s art, cupcake. you can’t put a price on art.”
heat crept up your neck at the genuine appreciation in his voice. “apparently you can. it’s twelve dollars.”
“cheap for a masterpiece.”
the compliment hit different when it came wrapped in that soft tone, without any of his usual performative charm. just honest appreciation, and it made your chest feel tight in ways you didn’t want to examine.
by friday, you’d started doing something incredibly stupid. anticipating his visits with the kind of precision usually reserved for oven timers and proofing schedules. you knew his patterns now—tart first, then creamy, then something with crunch. complex flavors that demanded attention, just like everything else about him.
so when he walked in wearing a cream-colored sweater that made his hair look like spun moonlight, you’d already committed the crime of setting aside a perfect almond croissant and a slice of your new cardamom pear tart. just sitting there on a small plate behind the counter, waiting like evidence of your growing soft spot.
he stopped short when he saw them, and something shifted in his expression. softer somehow, like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “you read my mind, cupcake.”
“just good service,” you mumbled, but your hands betrayed you, finding your apron and smoothing the flour-dusted fabric with nervous fingers.
“is it though?” he leaned forward, elbows finding the counter, bringing himself into your space in a way that made your pulse skip. up close, you could see the faint freckle near his left temple, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. “because this feels suspiciously like you’ve been paying attention to my very sophisticated palate.”
the teasing lilt in his voice made your stomach do something acrobatic. “your very expensive palate, you mean.”
“that too.” those eyes were studying you now with the same intensity he usually reserved for pastries, curious and warm and entirely too perceptive. “so what made you choose these? professional instinct or...”
“or what?”
“or maybe you’re starting to like having me around.”
the question hung between you like sugar dust in afternoon light, sweet and impossible to ignore. your cheeks felt warm, but you kept your voice steady through sheer stubborn will. “you’re a good customer.”
“just good?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in that way that made your fingers itch to brush it back.
“you tip well.”
“ah.” he straightened up with fluid grace, grinning like he’d just solved a particularly entertaining puzzle. “so it is about the money.”
the lie sat bitter on your tongue, but you’d rather eat raw flour than admit the truth. that you looked forward to his visits. that you’d started timing your baking schedule around his usual arrival. that the ridiculous tips were just an excuse to let yourself enjoy his company without feeling guilty about it.
“everything’s about money, satoru.”
“everything?” that voice dropped lower, softer, and you felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with business. “what about the art? the passion? the pure, unadulterated joy of creation?”
your breath caught slightly at the way he said ‘passion,’ like the word meant something more than flour and butter and sugar. “rent doesn’t pay itself with passion.”
“fair point.” he took a bite of the almond croissant, and you watched his entire face transform. the careful composure melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine and absolutely devastating. “jesus. okay, this is... this is stupid good.”
pride bloomed warm in your chest, the kind that came from watching someone truly appreciate your work. “just stupid good?”
“life-changing. earth-shattering. the kind of good that makes me question every life choice that led to me discovering it this late.” he took another bite, slower this time, actually savoring it like it deserved. watching him eat something you’d made with such obvious pleasure did dangerous things to your equilibrium. “where did you learn to do this?”
the question caught you off guard. not his usual surface-level compliments, but genuine curiosity about you, about your story. you found yourself answering before you could think better of it.
“culinary school. then a few years working under other people before i saved enough to open this place.” you gestured around the café, at the warm lighting and carefully chosen décor that had taken months of planning and every penny you’d managed to scrape together.
“other people?”
“a french pastry chef who made gordon ramsay look like a teddy bear. learned more in six months with him than i did in two years of school.” the memory still made you wince slightly, even wrapped in gratitude for everything it had taught you.
satoru’s eyebrows rose, and something shifted in his expression. less playful, more attentive. “sounds intense.”
“he once made me remake the same batch of croissants seventeen times because the lamination wasn’t perfect.” the words came easier now, maybe because he was listening with such focused attention. “i cried in the walk-in cooler.”
“and the eighteenth time?”
“eighteenth time was perfect.” you surprised yourself with how much warmth crept into your voice. “finally understood what he meant about respecting the process. about not cutting corners just because you think you know better.”
“and now?”
“now i can make them in my sleep.” you gestured toward the display case where your croissants sat in golden, flaky perfection, evidence of countless hours and stubborn determination. “muscle memory and spite, mostly.”
that drew a laugh from him, rich and genuine. “deadly combination.”
he was looking at you differently now, those impossible eyes softer somehow. like he was seeing past the professional politeness to something more real. it should have been unsettling. instead, it made you want to keep talking, keep sharing pieces of yourself you usually kept locked away.
“so this chocolate work you do—the tempering, the ganache—that all came from drill sergeant pastry chef too?”
you found yourself actually wanting to explain it, to share the thing you loved most about your craft. “some of it. but chocolate is... different. more temperamental. you can’t bully it into submission like dough. you have to coax it, understand what it needs.”
he leaned closer, genuinely interested, and you caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness from the pastries. clean and expensive and entirely too distracting. “what does it need?”
“patience. the right temperature. respect for the process.” you pulled out your phone almost without thinking, scrolling to a video you’d posted last week. “see this? the way the chocolate looks when it’s properly tempered versus when it’s not?”
he moved around the counter—when had you said he could do that?—to look at your screen. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. “show me the difference.”
your fingers were definitely not steady as you pointed to the glossy, perfectly smooth chocolate in the video. “this one. snappy, shiny, stable. versus this.” another clip, chocolate that looked dull and streaky. “seized because someone got impatient and tried to rush the cooling process.”
“someone like me, you mean.”
the self-awareness in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were much too close to those winter-storm eyes. “someone exactly like you.”
“ouch.” but he was smiling, that soft genuine smile that made your pulse forget its rhythm. “so you’re saying i need to learn patience.”
“i’m saying chocolate will teach you patience whether you want to learn or not.”
“and if i wanted to learn? hypothetically speaking.”
the question settled between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away. your heart did something complicated against your ribs. “hypothetically?”
“completely hypothetical. just curious about the... educational process.”
you studied his face, looking for the usual playful smirk, but found something more sincere instead. something that made your chest feel tight and warm and terrified. “it’s not easy. takes time. messy. lots of failures before you get it right.”
“i’m not afraid of messy.” his voice was softer now, and you realized you were still standing much too close, could see the faint gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.
“no,” you said quietly, taking in his perfectly styled hair, his carefully chosen outfit, the way he carried himself like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved. “i don’t think you are.”
he stayed longer that day, nursing his matcha latte and working through the cardamom pear tart with the kind of focus usually reserved for meditation or very important life decisions. every so often he’d look up and catch you watching him, and instead of that cocky smirk you’d grown dangerously fond of, he’d give you something softer. more real.
when he finally left, he paused at the door, hand on the frame, looking back like he wanted to say something else.
“same time monday?”
“we’re closed mondays.”
“tuesday, then.” that smile again, the one that made your knees forget their primary function.
“tuesday works.”
he pushed through the door into afternoon sunshine, and you watched him pull out his phone to photograph the empty plate he’d left behind. the story that went up an hour later was just the image with no caption, but your café’s location tagged like a promise.
your phone buzzed, not with an explosion, but with another steady pulse in what had become a low, constant hum of new activity over the past few days. each time he’d posted and tagged you, a new wave of curious followers would wash over your small page—a few hundred more likes, a dozen more comments asking who you were. this post felt different, though. more potent.
it felt less like a ripple and more like the tide starting to turn. you stared at your phone screen, watching the new notifications roll in, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach. you realized you were in trouble. the kind of trouble that was only partly about the looming threat of viral fame, and everything to do with the way your heart had started keeping time to the rhythm of a certain someone’s visits.
the cafe visits had become routine, but so had something else entirely. late-night video binges. satoru, tucked into the ridiculously expensive italian leather couch in his penthouse, would scroll through your youtube channel like it was late-night cable, airpods in, the city lights a distant hum.
your voice, a warm honey he’d once only associated with chocolate tempering, now filled his ears, a constant, comforting presence. it was oddly intimate, an exclusive soundtrack to his solitary evenings. he’d watch you explain the subtle art of a perfectly proofed brioche, the meticulous fold of a puff pastry. and as he watched, as your gentle explanations filled the quiet of his apartment, he started associating sweetness with more than just taste.
it was in the warmth of your voice, the patient way you corrected a common baking mistake in a tutorial, the quiet dedication in your hands as they measured flour. sweetness became patience. sweetness became quiet strength. sweetness became you.
he’d drift off to sleep with the soft cadence of your voice in his ears, and that’s when the dreams started. not about gym glory or brand deals, but about pastries that didn’t exist yet. wild, impossible creations: a lavender-infused crème brûlée that shimmered like moonlight, a pistachio and rosewater financier that smelled like spring, a miso-caramel tart with a delicate sesame crust. he’d wake up, confused and disoriented, craving flavors you hadn’t invented yet, a strange, persistent ache in his chest.
and then, the texting began.
it started innocently enough, a playful jab after a particularly indulgent visit.
squatoru: seriously, that pain au chocolat today? should come with a warning label. my trainer cried.
why.en-bakes: glad to be of service 😃
but then, the messages started appearing at odd hours. 1 am, 2 am. sometimes a simple, nonsensical emoji. sometimes a flurry of half-baked ideas.
squatoru: what about a churro croissant? is that legal? asking for a friend. (the friend is my sweet tooth).
you’d wake up to the ping, groggy and annoyed, but then you’d read his absurd suggestions, and a small smile would tug at your lips. sometimes, inexplicably, they were good ideas. too good.
your fingers would hover over your phone, considering the absurdity, then find themselves scrolling through your pantry. a few days later, a churro croissant would appear as tomorrow’s special, flaky and cinnamon-sugared, a tangible reply to his late-night musings.
he’d walk in the next day, a triumphant grin on his face. “i knew it,” he’d say, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling. “you’re secretly taking commissions from my dreams, aren’t you, cupcake?”
you’d just shrug, a faint flush on your cheeks. “just a good baker with good ideas, satoru.”
he began to wonder if this was what inspiration felt like, this constant buzz in his brain, these unexpected surges of creativity that always, always, revolved around you and your world. it was foreign, intoxicating.
the teasing messages started to shift, to soften. the playful jabs giving way to something more sincere, more vulnerable.
squatoru: that apple crumble changed my life, no joke. thought i peaked, then tasted that. turns out i can still be surprised.
a message like that would arrive late at night, catching you off guard. you’d be scrolling through a supplier catalog, exhausted, and then his words would bloom on the screen, a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.
squatoru: didn’t know honey could taste like that. your honey cake. it’s something else.
you’d stare at your phone screen, a strange mixture of fluster and genuine pleasure unfurling inside you. these weren't compliments about his abs or his follower count—they were about your work, your taste, your ability to create something beautiful. when you thought no one was looking, usually tucked under your covers or in the quiet pre-dawn hours of the cafe, you’d screenshot them. little digital keepsakes of his quiet adoration.
squatoru: you made winter feel kind today. the lemon tart. tasted like sunshine.
you didn't know what to do with messages like that. they weren't flirting, not exactly. they were… observations. gentle, heartfelt observations that chipped away at your professional armor, one sweet, unassuming word at a time.
back in the gleaming, sterile environment of his gym, satoru’s performance was, to put it mildly, suffering. his focus, once laser-sharp, now drifted like dandelion fluff on the wind.
he dropped weights mid-set, the heavy clatter echoing through the gym, startling the other lifters. he’d be thinking about the impossibly smooth texture of your lemon curd, the delicate balance of your custard. the way it melted on the tongue. the exact shade of the toasted meringue.
his trainer, a no-nonsense man named masaru who believed in pain and protein above all else, crossed his arms, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple. “satoru. you’ve dropped that sixty-kilo bell three times this week. you sleeping enough?”
satoru grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his mind still halfway back in your cafe. “yeah, fine. just… distracted.”
“distracted by what? another brand deal?” masaru eyed him skeptically. “you’re hitting your protein, right? macros are still on point?”
“yeah, yeah. all fine.” satoru lied, easily, smoothly. he hadn’t logged his macros properly in days. he hadn’t done his usual post-workout cardio in favor of replaying your new almond croissant tutorial. he wasn’t fine. not in the way masaru meant.
he was falling. falling faster and harder than any deadlift he’d ever attempted. and the landing, he suspected, was going to be deliciously, terrifyingly sweet.
satoru’s multiple story posts tagging humble your café’s location, each one a testament to your baking prowess and his insatiable sweet tooth, had brought chaos. glorious, sugary chaos.
by the next morning, tuesday, there was a line winding around the block of flour & sugar—a serpent of eager customers stretching down the street, smartphones out, food bloggers scribbling furiously into notebooks, and a worrying number of local influencers trying (and failing) to recreate satoru’s “found heaven” aesthetic shots outside your unassuming facade.
you opened the doors at seven, expecting your usual tuesday hum. instead, you were hit with a tidal wave. your tiny cafe, usually a haven of quiet contemplation for pastry lovers, became a buzzing hive of anticipation.
by 9 am, the display case was utterly, tragically barren. empty shelves stared back at you, pristine and devoid of life. you were sold out, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unprecedented influx of customers, all asking for “whatever satoru gojo ordered.”
you’d spent the last hour politely explaining that satoru gojo had a different order every day and, no, you couldn’t just whip up a fresh batch of everything right now. the exhaustion was real, but so was the faint, bewildered pride.
when he showed up at his usual, leisurely time, strolling in at 10:47 like he owned the sunshine outside, he stopped short. the bell above the door gave its usual chime, but for once, satoru’s fluid confidence faltered. his storm-glass eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened, then slowly swept across the utterly desolate display case.
the devastation on his face was almost comical—like someone had just told him christmas was cancelled, forever, and replaced it with a mandatory kale cleanse. his impossible silver hair seemed to droop slightly, mirroring the sudden collapse of his shoulders.
you, wiping down the already spotless counter, saw his expression crumble, the playful mischief in his eyes replaced by a profound, almost childlike grief. a genuine wave of apology washed over you.
“i’m so sorry,” you started, stepping closer to the counter, your voice softer than intended. his gaze flickered to you, briefly losing focus on the tragedy before him. “we… we sold out early today. there were just… a lot of new customers.” you gestured vaguely towards the lingering stragglers outside, still hopeful.
he ignored them. his eyes were fixed on the barren shelves, staring at the empty spaces where his beloved pain au chocolat and lemon meringue tarts usually sat in gleaming rows, like they had personally betrayed him. his perfect posture, usually so effortlessly arrogant, sagged just a fraction. “all of it?”
you nodded, a small, sympathetic frown creasing your brow. “all of it. the pain au chocolat, the kouign-amann, even the cinnamon rolls. everything.” you watched him process this profound tragedy, the quick flicker of shock, then disbelief, then a truly dramatic despair. a strange, soft tug pulled at your chest. it was ridiculous, of course, but also… kind of sweet.
you couldn’t help it. his absolute, unadulterated heartbreak over a lack of pastries was surprisingly endearing. “but… i could make you something?” you offered, the words tumbling out before you could fully censor them. “fresh? if you don’t mind waiting.”
his head snapped up, those storm-glass eyes widening again, now alight with a sudden, improbable hope. it was like you’d just offered him the moon, gift-wrapped and topped with ganache. “you’d do that?”
“well,” you said, trying to ignore how his entire face lit up, a blinding sunrise of relief and joy. you felt a blush creeping up your neck. “can’t have you wasting away to nothing, satoru. i imagine your trainer would send me a very strongly worded email.” you added, a small, wry smile touching your lips.
what you didn’t say: that you’d already set aside ingredients for his usual favorites—an almond croissant, a chocolate tart, a couple of those irresistible dark chocolate cookies—before the morning rush hit, carefully hidden in the back like a secret stash, just in case. just in case he showed up, heartbroken, and needed a little private magic.
he seemed to take this as a cue, a permission granted. a wide, relieved grin spread across his face, lighting up the entire cafe. “you’re a lifesaver, cupcake. a literal, delicious lifesaver.” he pushed off the counter, moving with renewed purpose towards his usual corner table, settling in with the patience of a cat waiting for milk. “anything you make will be perfect. take your time. i’m in no rush.”
you ducked your head, a smile finally escaping, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. the cafe was empty of customers, but suddenly, it felt very, very full.
you disappeared into the back, the familiar rhythm of your kitchen a welcome balm after the morning’s chaos. pulling out the pre-portioned ingredients, you began to work, your hands moving with skilled precision. you rolled the pastry for his almond croissant, its buttery layers promising flaky perfection, then assembled a miniature chocolate tart, ensuring the ganache was extra smooth, the sable crust extra crisp. the aroma of warm butter and dark chocolate began to waft through the now quiet cafe, a comforting, familiar scent that promised indulgence.
satoru, at his table, watched the kitchen door, an expectant, almost puppy-like eagerness in his posture. when you finally emerged, a small plate held carefully in your hands, he practically vibrated with anticipation.
“almond croissant and a chocolate tart, fresh out of the oven,” you announced, placing the plate gently before him. the croissant gleamed, its toasted almonds a fragrant crown, and the chocolate tart was a miniature masterpiece, its surface still faintly warm. “and a fresh matcha latte, extra sweet, just like you like it.”
he stared at the plate, then up at you, his impossible eyes wide with genuine awe. “you… you made this? just for me?”
you felt a blush spread across your cheeks. “it’s part of the job, satoru. making people happy with pastries.”
“you’re doing a very good job,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than strictly necessary. he reached for the croissant first, breaking off a piece with careful precision. the warm, buttery scent filled the air around him. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, appreciative hum escaping him as he chewed slowly, savoring every flaky, almond-laced bite.
this wasn't just a pastry. this was a personalized act of kindness from the one person who seemed utterly immune to his usual charms. and it tasted like pure, unadulterated happiness.
he devoured the croissant, then moved to the chocolate tart, taking a huge, satisfying bite. the warmth of the chocolate, the sweetness of the ganache, the unexpected crunch of the crust—it was pure bliss. he ate it with the focus of a man who’d been starving for days, yet somehow also with a deliberate slowness, trying to make the moment last.
when he finished, the plates were impeccably clean, as if licked. he pulled out his wallet again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i’m going to need the damage report, cupcake. and i have a feeling this kind of bespoke service warrants… extra compensation.” he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter, pushing them towards you. “for the trouble. and for the extra miles i’ll have to run tomorrow.”
you stared at the money, then at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “satoru, this is ridiculous. it’s twelve dollars. the ingredients were already here.”
“nonsense. that was a private showing of artisanal genius. worth every penny. consider it a down payment for future emergencies.” he grinned, then stood, stretching with a languid grace that drew your eyes to the way his t-shirt draped over his chest. “so. tuesday, then? same time?”
you watched him, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the oven. “tuesday. we’ll try to save some for you.”
“no need,” he said, a playful wink accompanying his words as he headed for the door. “i have a feeling you’ll make something special just for me.”
and as the bell chimed, marking his departure, you couldn’t help but smile, already thinking about what new creation you could conjure up for his next visit. he was right. you probably would.
the cafe had always run on rhythm. espresso machine hissing, ceramic clatter, quiet conversation hum. but lately, that rhythm had acquired a distinct satoru-shaped beat that threw off your entire carefully orchestrated world.
he’d been coming in daily now, not just tuesday through saturday, but every moment the doors were open. his excuses were increasingly transparent, delivered with charming smirks that you almost bought—would have bought, if you weren’t becoming dangerously familiar with the way his mouth curved when he was particularly pleased with himself.
“needed caffeine,” he’d declare one morning, striding through the bell’s familiar jingle with the kind of confidence that made gravity seem negotiable. never mind that his penthouse probably housed equipment worth more than your monthly rent. he’d stretch deliberately, quality fabric pulling across shoulders that belonged in renaissance sculptures, while storm-glass eyes swept the display case like he was conducting some kind of sacred inventory.
another day brought, “had a meeting nearby.” vague gesturing down the street with long fingers that moved like they were conducting invisible symphonies, as if his presence wasn’t the actual purpose. he’d unwrap an éclair before fully paying, chocolate scent momentarily masking cologne that probably cost more than your weekly flour budget.
then came the most audacious: “thought i smelled something burning.”
perfectly straight face, not even a twitch in those ridiculous cheekbones. dramatic air-sniffing that somehow made him look like a very expensive bloodhound. you’d given him your flattest look, the one usually reserved for customers who asked if your croissants were “really” made fresh daily.
there was, of course, no burning anything. just your patience, slowly crumbling like overbaked cookies.
today was thursday. he walked in wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt that committed actual crimes against your ability to concentrate and cargo pants that somehow looked effortlessly expensive on legs that went on for geological ages. ordered his usual—chocolate tart, almond croissant, extra-sweet matcha latte that matched his ridiculous sweet tooth—but bypassed his customary corner table.
instead, he chose a small two-person spot against the wall. direct, unobstructed view of your main workspace. the audacity was breathtaking, really.
you felt his attention immediately, warm weight settling between your shoulder blades like a cat claiming ownership. moved to the prep station where vanilla cupcakes waited for rosettes, your hands usually surgeon-steady despite the early morning rush. but under his unwavering focus, fingers felt clumsy, disconnected from your brain. delicate buttercream swirls wobbled slightly, and you bit back the urge to hum—your usual working soundtrack felt too intimate with him watching.
annoyance mixed with growing heat that had nothing to do with the ovens. furious blush threatened to betray every professional instinct you’d cultivated.
during a lull, you glanced up, and immediately regretted it. his table sat maybe six feet away but felt impossibly close, like he’d somehow bent space around himself. no pretense today—phone abandoned beside his matcha, screen dark as those winter-storm eyes. just watching. chin propped on palm, elbow on table, head tilted with languid grace that suggested he had all the time in the world to study your every movement.
his expression was soft, unguarded. usual playful glint replaced by something direct, seeing. it made your chest tighten strangely, breath catching like you’d forgotten how to process oxygen properly. awareness jolted through you like touching a live wire.
“you’re staring,” you called across the space, voice steadier than your pulse deserved. the words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against the way he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in his very curated world.
he smiled slowly, easy stretch reaching those impossible eyes. blue depths softened, losing glacial edge for warmth that made something flutter stupidly behind your ribs. lifted his matcha with deliberate grace, sipped without breaking eye contact. the movement was calculated casualness, performative in its confidence.
“just appreciating the artistry, cupcake.” his voice carried new weight today, rougher around the edges. more honest than his usual smooth control, like he’d forgotten to put on his public persona along with that perfectly fitted shirt.
“the artistry of cupcakes?” you countered, fingers tightening around the piping bag until plastic creaked in protest. forced attention back to swirling white frosting, but your mind kept circling back to how his gaze felt like warm spotlight, illuminating corners of yourself you usually kept professionally dim.
he chuckled, low and private, the sound meant for your ears alone despite the public space. head tilted again, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked messy but instead made him look like some expensive magazine’s idea of casual perfection. storm-glass eyes held yours, reflective depth replacing sharp teasing.
“the artistry of you making them.” the words fell between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away.
this compliment rewired something fundamental in your chest. bypassed professional pride entirely, sailed straight past the fluster you’d been fighting, and landed somewhere dangerous. settled like comfortable weight against your ribs, warm and persistent. wasn’t about pastries anymore, or technical skill. about you.
the quiet passion, focused dedication you poured into everything you made. like he’d reached past counter, past flour-dusted apron, past practiced customer service smile, and seen something essential you rarely let anyone witness.
heat crept up your neck in a slow burn, spread across cheeks like spilled cinnamon. you ducked your head, suddenly exposed in ways that made your skin feel too tight. terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously, like standing at the edge of something vast and unnamed.
foolish joy blossomed behind your ribs anyway. he really sees it. sees you.
“well, thank you, satoru,” you managed, voice softer than intended, betraying the carefully constructed composure you wore like armor. squeezed the piping bag, and a perfect rosette bloomed—slightly lopsided but charming in its imperfection. “it takes a lot of practice. years, actually.”
your fingers trembled slightly as you set the cupcake aside, reached for another. started humming under your breath without thinking, a soft melody that always accompanied your work. caught yourself, stopped abruptly.
he made a thoughtful sound, those long fingers drumming against ceramic in a rhythm that somehow matched the song you’d been humming. like he’d been listening, filing away even your unconscious habits. “years, huh? that’s...” he paused, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. “dedication.”
something almost wistful colored his tone, like he was trying to imagine that kind of sustained commitment to anything that wasn’t maintaining his ridiculous physical perfection. his thumb traced the rim of his cup, absent gesture that drew your attention to hands that were probably softer than yours despite all his gym time.
“some people think it’s obsessive,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty. smoothed your apron with nervous fingers, flour transferring to already-dusty fabric. you’d heard it before—friends who didn’t understand the 4am starts, the burned fingers, the endless pursuit of perfect crumb structure.
“obsessive?” he repeated, eyebrows rising toward that impossible hairline. familiar smirk tugged at lips that were unfairly well-defined, but gentler somehow. less performative. “coming from someone who’s memorized your operating schedule and has been conducting what could generously be called ‘pastry surveillance’ for months?”
the self-awareness in his voice, paired with that slight flush across sharp cheekbones, made something warm bubble up in your chest. despite yourself, you snorted. actual snorted. like an undignified, very unprofessional sound that would have mortified you with any other customer.
his grin widened into something brilliant, transforming his entire face. less magazine-perfect, more genuinely beautiful. the kind of smile that made you forget he was probably genetically engineered for maximum visual impact.
“touché,” you murmured, ducking your head to hide your answering smile. started humming again, softer this time, the melody weaving between words. “though i’d hardly call buying excessive amounts of baked goods ‘surveillance.’”
“excessive?” he pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, the gesture making his shirt pull across torso that defied reasonable proportions. leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, all long lines and casual power. “i prefer ‘thorough research methodology.’”
“is that what we’re calling it?” the question came out teasing despite your best efforts, fingers moving in familiar patterns as buttercream spiraled into perfect peaks.
“absolutely. very scientific.” he took another sip of matcha, eyes sparkling with mischief that made him look younger, less untouchable. “can’t make proper assessments without comprehensive data collection.”
you paused in your piping, tilted your head in challenge. “and what exactly are you assessing?”
something shifted in his expression then, playful mask slipping slightly. “everything,” he said simply, voice dropping to something more intimate. “the way you move when you think no one’s watching. how you hum when you’re concentrating. the fact that you always check the oven timer twice, even though you could probably bake blindfolded by now.”
the observation sent warmth spiraling through your chest. he had been watching, really watching. not just appreciating the view but memorizing details, cataloging habits you thought were invisible.
“speaking of which,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding the table. closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. “how does one even begin to learn something like this? hypothetically speaking.”
the question caught you off guard, made you pause with piping bag hovering over another cupcake. something in his tone had shifted—less flirtatious banter, more genuine curiosity. like he was actually interested in your answer rather than just enjoying the conversation.
“hypothetically?” you echoed carefully, studying his face for signs of his usual performative charm. found something more sincere instead, vulnerability creeping around the edges of his confidence.
“completely hypothetical,” he assured, but that flush across his cheekbones deepened slightly. fingers stilled against his cup, waiting for your response with the kind of focus he usually reserved for gym routines or camera angles.
you considered this, set down the piping bag to give him your full attention. “well, hypothetically... most people start with basics. measuring, following recipes exactly. learning to fail gracefully.”
“fail gracefully?” curiosity brightened those storm-glass eyes, head tilting like he was genuinely trying to understand a foreign concept.
“burned cookies, collapsed cakes, chocolate that seizes because you got impatient.” you shrugged, began humming again as you arranged finished cupcakes on a tiered stand. the melody helped organize your thoughts, made the explanation flow easier. “it’s part of the process. you mess up, figure out why, try again.”
he was quiet for a moment, processing this with the kind of intense focus that probably made his personal trainer weep with joy. thumb traced patterns against ceramic, unconscious gesture that somehow made him seem more human.
“sounds like it requires patience.” something rueful colored his voice, like he was recognizing his own shortcomings.
“tons of it. and thick skin. and the ability to get up at ungodly hours because bread waits for no one.” you glanced up, caught something almost vulnerable in his expression. like he was actually considering this impossible scenario, measuring himself against requirements he’d never had to meet.
“ungodly hours,” he repeated thoughtfully, hair falling across his forehead as he leaned closer. “like how ungodly are we talking?”
“four am, sometimes earlier during busy seasons.” you watched him wince dramatically, all sharp angles and exaggerated horror. the reaction was so genuine it made you laugh, soft sound that seemed to catch his attention like a hook. “different kind of brutal than your workout schedule.”
“definitely different,” he agreed, then found yourself adding, voice softer, “but worth it. when everything comes together perfectly, when you create something that makes people happy...” you trailed off, humming resuming as you lost yourself in the thought. “there’s nothing quite like it.”
the way you said it, gentle and genuine and completely unguarded, made something shift in his expression. that performative confidence melted away entirely, replaced by raw curiosity and something that looked dangerously like longing.
“you really love it,” he observed quietly. not a question, more like a realization. like he was seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time.
“yeah,” you admitted, suddenly shy under his intense focus. smoothed your apron again, nervous gesture that left more flour streaks across the fabric. “i really do.”
silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. charged instead, humming with possibilities and the weight of his attention. you could feel something shifting in the space between counter and table, subtle but significant. like tectonic plates moving, rearranging the landscape of whatever this was becoming.
and maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him too. past the perfect exterior and calculated charm, to something more genuine underneath. something worth the risk of letting your guard down.
“well,” he said finally, voice softer than usual, that vulnerability still threading through his tone. straightened in his chair but somehow seemed less distant. “hypothetically speaking, that sounds like something worth learning about.”
you met his gaze, heart doing complicated acrobatics against your ribs. started humming again, melody filling the space between words. “hypothetically.”
“of course.” that slow smile returned, different now. less performative, more real. like sunlight breaking through carefully constructed clouds. “purely theoretical interest.”
“naturally,” you agreed, trying to ignore how your pulse had shifted into overtime.
but as you watched him settle back in his chair, something had definitely changed. the air between you felt thicker, more charged with possibility. and for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t entirely sure who was in control of this particular game anymore.
not that you minded being a little lost, especially when the alternative was finding your way back to the safety of professional distance. some risks were worth taking, even if they came wrapped in designer clothing and impossible blue eyes.
two months in, satoru gojo’s meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugar’s operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for “research.”
his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about “dietary consistency” taped to his gym locker. one simply read: “carbs are not your friend, satoru.” satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.
his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.
“dude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?” his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. “ones that don’t require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?”
satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. “the lighting’s better at this one.”
but they didn’t understand. couldn’t understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.
wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual time—10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.
he’d timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.
you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got him—a barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. he’d started cataloging these details without meaning to.
“morning, cupcake,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasn’t sure when that had happened. it just… fit.
“morning, satoru.” your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apron—the same gesture he’d seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. “the usual?”
the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because you’d noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.
“you know me so well,” he said, and the words held more weight than he’d intended.
something flickered across your face—pleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where you’d obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.
these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.
“here we go,” you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. “perfect timing, too—that tart just came out of the case.”
“perfect timing,” he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.
he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. he’d finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.
you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymore—it felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.
“those look almost too pretty to eat,” he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.
you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. “almost,” you agreed. “that’s the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work.”
he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. “a full second? that’s ambitious. for me, it’s more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation.” he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.
the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.
but you didn’t want him to.
your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. “so,” you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. “i was, uh, working on something new this morning.”
his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. “oh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?”
the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. “something like that,” you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.
it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.
you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.
satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, what—or rather, who—he was looking at. “cupcake,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. “what is this?”
“i’m not sure what to call it yet,” you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. “it’s a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor.” your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.
he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. “what feeling?”
you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. “i don’t know… quiet. calm.” you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. “like… the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace.” your lie was thin as spun sugar.
he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them you’d never seen before. “can i…?”
“i was hoping you would,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “i need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher.”
that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “my services are at your disposal.”
he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your space—he was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork you’d provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.
he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.
when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. “cupcake,” he said again, his voice rough with emotion. “that’s… that’s not a pastry. that’s a poem.” he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?
pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. “so… it’s okay?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. “okay? it’s… perfect.” he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. “it tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like… peace.” he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. “like finding something you didn't even know you were looking for.”
“i try,” you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.
he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. “the only problem,” he said, looking at the empty plate, “is that it’s over.”
his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.
he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.
and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty… so were you.
thursday passed like a held breath.
you found yourself checking the clock obsessively—10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, you’d reorganized the display case twice. by noon, you’d deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didn’t even have his number.
the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational part—the part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way he’d said “perfect” like a prayer—whispered crueler possibilities.
maybe he’d finally realized how far he’d drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterday’s cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.
maybe he’d finally gotten tired of your little bakery.
the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual table—table three by the window—every few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.
instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.
masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. “you seem off today,” she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. “waiting for someone?”
“no,” you lied, your voice a little too bright. “just tired.”
she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldn’t quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.
by 6 pm, you’d accepted the truth. he wasn’t coming.
you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.
you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard it—the soft tap of knuckles against glass.
your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastating—the way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.
you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. “satoru,” you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than you’d intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. “i thought—”
“i know,” he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture you’d never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. “i’m sorry. i had… things to take care of.” a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. “i was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly.”
“do what properly?” you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.
instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: you’re adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.
satoru’s cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. “i spent three hours at five different flower shops,” he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. “the florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently i’m hopeless at this.” his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. “but these… these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect.”
you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transfer—a contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. “satoru,” you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. “they’re beautiful.”
relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram posts—it transformed his entire face. “i was hoping you’d say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case.”
you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.
“would you…” he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. you’d never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. “god, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?” he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.
the sound seemed to center him. “satoru,” you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. “just ask.”
he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. “would you like to have dinner with me? tonight? there’s this place…” his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “it’s small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen is…” he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. “i’m selling this terribly. what i’m trying to say is, it’s my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you.”
the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. “i’d love to,” you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.
“yeah?” he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.
“yeah,” you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. “just let me grab my things.”
you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.
“ready?” he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.
“ready,” you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.
the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.
“nervous?” he asked as you walked, and you realized you’d been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.
“a little,” you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “good nervous, though.”
“me too,” he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. “i haven’t done this in a while. the whole… proper date thing.”
“what do you usually do?” you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. “sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“no, it’s okay,” he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. “honestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isn’t exactly romantic dinner material.” his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.
you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. “well, you’re setting the bar pretty low for yourself.”
“exactly,” he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. “smart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying.”
the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: “momiji.” no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.
inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoru’s mouth quirk with amusement.
“gojo-kun!” called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.
“evening, chiyo-san,” satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. “i brought someone special tonight.”
the woman’s eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoru’s hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “ah, i see. the usual table?”
“please,” he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.
as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, you’d had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.
“so,” you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, “how did you find this place?”
his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. “my first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke.” his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit you’d never noticed before. “but i’d just started posting gym content online—mostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things.” his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. “went from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible.”
you nearly choked on your own spit. “you were chubby?” the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from you—all sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.
his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. “hard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chan’s pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too.” his expression grew more serious for a moment. “kids can be brutal about that stuff.”
“i can’t even imagine,” you said, still staring at him like he’d just revealed he used to be a completely different person. “you’re so…” you gestured vaguely at all of him, “you know.”
“devastatingly handsome?” he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “i was going to say fit, but your ego doesn’t need any more help.”
“my ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much,” he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. “six million followers can’t be wrong.”
“six million?” you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. you’d known he was popular—the blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafe—but that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when you’d first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the… scenery.
a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “wait a minute,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “you’re telling me you stalked my entire profile, ‘accidentally’ liked my abs, and you didn’t even clock the follower count?” his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “cupcake, were you that mesmerized?”
heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. “it was an accident!” you insisted, your voice a little too high. “my phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!”
he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. “sure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap.” he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “it’s okay to admit it. my content is very… engaging.”
“it was an accident,” you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. “i barely even noticed.”
“you noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day,” he countered, his grin widening. “don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.
you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.
he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. “anyway… that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-san’s karaage and… followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things.”
“like what?” you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.
“protein powder, apparently,” he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “she’s been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice.” his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. “funny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry.”
something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. “your grandmother?”
“baa-chan,” he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. “she lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastries—mont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers.” his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. “i was… well, let’s just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking.”
the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. “i probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrified—kept talking about discipline and proper nutrition—but baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch.”
“what happened?” you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.
“she died when i was twelve,” he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. “that’s actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone.” his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. “worked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen.” he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like he’d made peace with that disappointment long ago. “funny thing though—turns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was… pretty addictive.”
the parallel wasn’t lost on you—him finding your bakery, the way he’d gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. “she sounds wonderful,” you managed, your voice softer than intended.
“she would have loved you,” he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. “would have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend she’d invented them herself.”
a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “i think i would have liked her too,” you said, your voice a little shaky. “even with the threat of culinary espionage.”
as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. “the usual for you, gojo-kun?”
“the usual sounds perfect,” he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. “i hope you don’t mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what i’m having.”
“i trust you,” you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.
chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness you’d expected on a first date was nowhere to be found—instead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.
“so,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, “tell me something i don’t know about you.”
you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. “i didn’t always want to run a bakery,” you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. “i went to university for literature. thought i’d be a translator, maybe work in publishing.”
“what changed your mind?” his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave you—like you were the only person in the world worth listening to.
“my grandmother,” you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. “she taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary.”
you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of food—golden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didn’t recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.
“this looks incredible,” you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.
“chiyo-san’s love language is overfeeding people,” satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this countless times. “but finish your story. about your grandmother.”
you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “oh my god, this is amazing.”
“right?” his smile was proud, like he’d made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. “best in the city. now keep talking.”
“well,” you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, “when she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible.”
your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. “she died two weeks before i was supposed to start my master’s program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think she’d be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams.”
satoru’s chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. “you didn’t give up,” he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. “you just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcome—that’s narrative too. connection. meaning.”
the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. “you think so?”
“i know so,” he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. “because i’ve been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space.”
you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. “satoru,” you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, “can i ask you something?”
“anything,” he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.
“your routine,” you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, “your content schedule, your training… am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workouts…”
he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.
“yes,” he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “you’ve completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement.”
“satoru—” you started, distress clear in your voice.
“let me finish,” he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. “you’ve ruined all of that. and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.
“for three years, since swimming didn’t work out, i’ve been pretty happy with what i built,” he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. “good content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills.” his smile was easy, confident. “and honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up.”
he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. “but then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasn’t about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just… nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when you’re concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask.”
his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. “masaru thinks i’ve gotten distracted, and he’s probably right. but honestly? i’m not complaining. life’s been pretty good to me, but this…” he gestured vaguely between you both, “this is something different. something better.”
the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.
“so no,” he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’re making everything more interesting.”
you felt warmth bloom in your chest—relief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. “that’s either the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, “or you’re really good at making excuses for carb addiction.”
he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.
“probably both,” he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. “masaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterday’s just said ‘vegetables exist, satoru.’”
“he’s not wrong,” you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. “this is not exactly influencer food.”
“which is why,” he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, “we’re going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow i’ll do an extra workout. balance.”
you spent the next hour working through chiyo-san’s generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.
the conversation flowed like you’d known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaru’s passive-aggressive campaign to restore his “macro discipline.”
“he’s started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag,” satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. “like a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills.”
“maybe you should introduce him to my neighbor,” you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. “she leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyone’s door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects.”
“god, can you imagine?” he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. “they’d have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo.”
by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. you’d somehow made it through most of the food—a feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrived—and you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.
“i should probably get you home,” satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested he’d rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. “it’s getting late, and you have to open tomorrow.”
“unfortunately,” you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.
he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. “this was my idea,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. “besides, you make me breakfast five days a week. it’s the least i can do.”
“that’s different,” you protested, your cheeks warming. “that’s business.”
“is it?” he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. “because it hasn’t felt like business for a while now.”
heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. “no,” you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. “it hasn’t.”
he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza “for tomorrow’s lunch” and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoru’s choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.
“which direction?” satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.
you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.
“thank you,” you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. “for tonight. for the flowers. for… all of it.”
“thank you,” he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, “for saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me.”
you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. “was it that obvious?”
“the white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway,” he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. “but even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. it’s one of the things i…” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
“one of the things you what?” you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.
just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaru’s name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.
the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze again—this time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though he’d chosen a safer honesty.
he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. “
i had a really good time tonight,” he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “like, really good. better than good.”
the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.
“me too,” you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.
he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.
he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. “we should… get you home.”
the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.
“this is me,” you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.
he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. “well… goodnight, cupcake.” there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.
“goodnight, satoru.”
he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didn’t do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldn’t do.
before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.
it wasn’t his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.
“bye,” you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fled—turning and rushing up the steps to your building’s entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.
satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.
inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?
a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.
squatoru: you missed 😉 but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.
you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of “tomorrow”—it was perfect. it was everything.
your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.
after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories weren’t the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.
the weeks following your first date settled into a new, delicious rhythm. satoru’s visits were no longer just a feature of your mornings—they were the anchor around which the day pivoted. his excuses grew bolder, more ridiculous, delivered with a playful glint in his eyes that dared you to call his bluff. “my coffee machine is staging a protest,” he’d declared one monday, looking deeply offended. “it refuses to respect my caffeine requirements.” another time, he’d claimed he was performing a “long-term atmospheric study” of the cafe.
the tentative space between you had warmed, filled with inside jokes murmured over the counter and a steady stream of late-night texts that ranged from his profound thoughts on protein-to-carb ratios to blurry photos of his cat sleeping on his face. yet, for all the new intimacy, an invisible line remained, drawn somewhere between a shared laugh and the memory of a soft, hesitant kiss on a quiet street corner. the air between you hummed with a constant, unspoken question.
which brought you to this thursday.
the afternoon had bled into soft golden-hour evening, the last loyal customers drifting out into cooling air, leaving behind lingering coffee scent and quiet refrigerator hum.
you were twenty minutes from closing, moving through your end-of-day routine with practiced, meditative rhythm. wiping down the gleaming stainless steel counters, the sharp sanitizer scent cutting through the day’s symphony of sugar and butter. humming a soft, unidentifiable tune that filled the empty space like invisible thread weaving through silence.
he was still there. satoru. at his usual table, fortress of one, half-empty matcha latte sweating onto a coaster. he was pretending to work on his sleek, expensive laptop that seemed alien in the cozy analog warmth of your café. but the screen had been dark for ten minutes, its black surface reflecting the warm, buttery pendant light glow.
he was just watching you. watching you move through your closing routine with the kind of quiet, unwavering attention usually reserved for things you never want to forget. his focus was a tangible weight between your shoulder blades.
“you know,” he says suddenly, his voice a low, unexpected rumble that cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you from your rhythmic wiping. those long fingers drummed a restless, silent rhythm against the closed laptop—a nervous tell you’d never seen from satoru gojo before. the man who moved through the world like he owned it was nervous. the realization sent a warm, unfamiliar jolt through you.
you paused, cloth in hand, leaning a hip against the counter. the setting sun slanted through the large front window, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them to spun gold. “what’s that? wondering if i’m ever going to kick you out so i can finally go home?”
he smiled, a slow, easy stretch that didn’t quite reach his storm-glass eyes. there was something different there today, a depth you hadn’t seen before. “something like that,” he admitted, his voice softer. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, the sound definitive, final. “how long does it actually take to learn? to do what you do?”
this wasn’t his casual, playful curiosity from before. not banter about his “research methodology.” this was deeper. vulnerable. it made your breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with flour dust.
“depends what you want to learn,” you said carefully, your voice quiet in the empty café, sensing the delicate shift in the air between you. you placed the cleaning cloth on the counter, giving him your full attention.
“everything.” the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. he stood, unfolding from his chair with fluid grace that was at odds with the tension in his shoulders. all that easy, performative confidence had been stripped away, replaced by something raw and honest. “i want to understand it all. the whole process. from scratch.”
you turned to look at him properly, taking in the way he watched you with those impossible eyes, the slight tension in his jaw like he was bracing for rejection. “from scratch?” you echoed, a faint disbelieving hum in your throat. “satoru, that’s... that would take a while. it’s not just following recipes. it’s feel. touch. intuition you build over years.”
“i know,” he said, his gaze unwavering. he took a step closer, then another, until he was leaning against the counter opposite you, the broad stainless steel expanse the only separation. the space felt charged, intimate. “i’ve been watching you. it’s different. the way you work. there’s patience to it. respect for the ingredients.” his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “i want to understand what it feels like to create something like you do. not just consume it.”
the confession, earnest and stripped of his usual charm, rewired something fundamental in your chest. he wasn’t just talking about baking. he was talking about meaning, purpose—things you never would have associated with the man who posted thirst traps for a living.
“that would take months, maybe longer,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.
“i’ve got time,” he said immediately, the words a quiet, fervent promise. he pushed off the counter, moving around it until he was standing in your workspace, in your world. he was close enough that you could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, the subtle matcha sweetness on his breath. “we could start tonight. if you want. something simple.”
your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in your chest. you realized what he was really asking for. not just lessons. not just a hobby. your time, your space, a piece of your world. he was asking for you.
“it’s almost closing time, satoru,” you managed, the words a weak protest against the overwhelming tide of his sincerity.
“i know.” another step closer. his storm-glass eyes were dark, intense, searching yours. “perfect timing, actually. no interruptions.”
you hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how empty the café felt, how the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the windows made everything feel dreamlike and charged. you could hear the soft refrigerator hum, the quiet clock ticking, the frantic thumping of your own heart. he saw your pause, the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, and something shifted in his expression—doubt maybe, disappointment that made your chest ache.
“unless you’re too tired,” he started, his voice suddenly losing its confident edge, “or you have plans, or this is a stupid idea, or—”
“no!” the word came out too enthusiastic, cutting him off. you felt a mortifying blush creep up your neck. you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “i mean, yes. we could do that. tonight.”
the smile that spread across his face was different from any you’d seen before. not his usual cocky smirk, nor the playful teasing grin. this one was softer, more genuine, tinged with profound relief and something that looked dangerously like joy. it transformed his entire face, made him look younger, more vulnerable. utterly beautiful.
“yeah?” he breathed, the single word full of hopeful, boyish charm that completely undid you.
“yeah,” you confirmed, a real, unguarded smile finally breaking through your professional facade. “but you’re on dish duty.”
he laughed, a bright, relieved sound that echoed in the quiet café, and in that moment something fragile and beautiful and terrifying was born between you.
you settled on chocolate soufflé. it felt appropriate—impressive enough to justify the extended after-hours lesson, but delicate enough to require real technique and timing. a challenge worthy of his newfound sincerity.
you flipped the sign to ‘closed’, the soft lock click echoing in the silence. you dimmed the front lights, leaving just the warm, focused glow of the kitchen workspace, creating an intimate golden bubble just for the two of you.
“soufflé?” he raised an eyebrow as you pulled out ramekins, his voice a low, amused rumble. he was leaning against the prep counter, watching with an intensity that made your skin prickle. he’d shed his expensive long-sleeved shirt, revealing a plain black t-shirt that clung to every powerful line of his torso. no designer labels, no carefully tousled hair. he looked simpler. more real. and almost nervous, a faint tension in his broad shoulders that you found ridiculously endearing. “isn’t that supposed to be impossible? the final boss of desserts?”
“only if you don’t understand the science,” you said, gathering your hair with practiced efficiency, tying it back. you felt his eyes on the nape of your neck, a warm focused heat. you started humming under your breath, a soft melody that always accompanied your more delicate work. “it’s all about incorporating air properly, then not letting it collapse. it’s very... temperamental.”
the word hung suspended in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with obvious double meaning. his storm-glass eyes darkened slightly, a slow knowing smile touching his lips.
“first, we make the base,” you explained, your voice slightly breathy as you turned to face him. you showed him how to melt dark chocolate with butter in a double boiler, the rich intoxicating scent starting to fill the air. “low and slow. you can’t rush it, or everything seizes up. gets bitter.”
he stood beside you, closer than necessary, watching intently as you stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, the chocolate melting into a glossy dark pool. when you handed the spoon over, his fingers brushed yours, a brief electric touch that sent a jolt up your arm.
“like this?” his voice was a low murmur as he mimicked your gentle circular motions. his focus was absolute, his usual playful energy replaced by quiet, earnest concentration that made something warm bloom in your chest.
“perfect. keep that rhythm.” when he started stirring just a little too fast, a little too aggressively, he moved behind you to adjust the motion. his broad chest pressed against your back as he covered your hand with his much larger one, and you went completely still. the solid wall of muscle behind you made thinking suddenly impossible. you could feel every shift of his torso, the way his breathing had gotten slightly unsteady, the heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. “feel how it’s getting smoother? the proteins are relaxing. you have to be gentle,” you managed, voice breathless and unsteady.
“sorry, cupcake,” he murmured against the top of your head, voice soft and slightly shaky. “i’m... not usually this nervous about stirring things.” there was wonder in his tone, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, doing this with you.
his voice was a low, rough growl when he answered. “kind of hard to focus with you pressed against me like this, cupcake.”
but the real intimacy, the real danger, came with the egg whites. you separated them with practiced grace, the yolks and whites parting cleanly. when you handed him the large copper bowl and the whisk, he looked genuinely intimidated, like you’d just handed him a live grenade.
“this is the make-or-break moment,” you told him, your voice soft but firm. you showed him the copper bowl, the clear viscous whites shimmering within. “the whites need to be perfect—not under-whisked, not over-whisked. just right. perfect stiff peaks.”
he started whisking, and it was all wrong. too aggressive, too fast, his powerful shoulders putting way too much force into it. the whites started foaming unevenly, large sloppy bubbles forming instead of the fine consistent foam you needed.
“no, no,” you said, looking up at his technique with barely contained laughter. “gentle at first, then build up. like this. it’s not about strength—it’s about rhythm.”
he stepped behind you with obvious reluctance, like he wasn’t quite sure this was a good idea either. “show me,” he said, voice slightly strained. his much larger hands covered yours on the whisk handle, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned over your shoulder to watch the bowl. the solid wall of muscle behind you made your pulse stutter, and you could tell from his uneven breathing that he was just as affected. “this is... harder than it looks,” he murmured, clearly talking about more than whisking.
“slow circles first,” you managed, acutely aware of how he was bracketing you, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with lingering chocolate. you started the motion, and he followed your rhythm with careful precision, his hands slightly unsteady over yours. you felt him lean down, his breath warm against your ear, and you had to bite back a nervous giggle at how ridiculous this all was. “feel the resistance change? now we can go faster.”
“this is torture,” he said softly, but there was fondness in his voice, like he was amazed by his own predicament. when you sped up the whisking motion, his body moved with yours, and he let out a soft, almost helpless sound that made you want to turn around and kiss the dazed expression you knew was on his face.
“they’re getting stiff,” he said, his voice rough, strained.
“perfect stiff peaks,” you agreed, your own voice shaky, though you were definitely talking about more than egg whites now. the air was thick with unspoken things, with the scent of chocolate and the clean masculine smell of him. “now comes the tricky part.”
“but first,” you said, reaching for the small container of flour from a nearby shelf, “let me just...” you dipped your fingers into the white powder, then without warning, dabbed it across his cheek, leaving a pale streak across his sharp cheekbone.
he went completely still, his storm-glass eyes widening in surprise. “did you just—”
“oops,” you said innocently, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “occupational hazard. flour gets everywhere in real kitchens.”
a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “is that so?” he reached for the flour container, dipped his own fingers. before you could react, he’d brushed powder across your nose, a gentle touch that made your breath catch. “seems like you’re right. very hazardous.”
what followed was gentle chaos. a playful flour fight that had you both laughing breathlessly, white powder dusting your hair and clothes and every surface within reach. he was careful not to be too aggressive, but his competitive streak showed when he managed to get a handful down the back of your apron.
“satoru!” you squeaked, arching away from the cold powder, which only pressed you closer against his chest. he was grinning down at you, flour in his silver hair making him look younger, more carefree than you’d ever seen him.
“what? you started it, cupcake.” his voice was warm with laughter, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. “just evening the playing field.”
“we’re supposed to be baking,” you protested weakly, but you were smiling too hard to sound stern. you hummed a soft laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“we are baking,” he said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “this is... technique development. very important for proper soufflé preparation.”
“technique development,” you repeated skeptically.
“absolutely. building trust between chef and... sous chef.” his fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “can’t make good food without trust, right?”
something in his voice made you look up at him properly. you were both flour-streaked and disheveled, hair messed and clothes dusty, but his expression was soft, genuine. like he was asking about more than just cooking.
“right,” you agreed quietly. “trust is... essential.”
the moment stretched between you, charged with possibility, until the timer on your phone chimed a reminder about the chocolate base.
“folding is an art,” you told him after you’d both brushed off the worst of the flour, your voice a low murmur as you spooned a third of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate base. you started humming again, a soft tune that helped organize your movements. “too rough, and you’ll knock out all the air we just built up. too gentle, and it won’t incorporate properly.”
you demonstrated the motion—a gentle lift up from the bottom, a turn of the spoon, a clean cut down through the mixture. it was graceful, practiced, almost hypnotic. a quiet ballet of the hands.
“your turn,” you said, handing him the spoon, your eyes locking with his over the bowl. his were dark, almost black, pupils blown wide.
his first attempts were clumsy, awkward. he was trying to stir, not fold, and you could see the frustration building in the tense set of his shoulders.
“here,” you murmured, gesturing for him to step behind you again. “it’s easier if you can see the motion properly.” this time when he moved to stand behind you, his positioning was more natural but no less distracting—his height allowing him to look over your shoulder easily, though he seemed to be having trouble concentrating on anything but the way you fit against his chest.
you demonstrated the folding motion with him watching intently, his breath tickling your ear. “lift... turn... cut down,” you guided softly, trying to ignore how his hands trembled slightly when they covered yours. “it’s all about the wrist action. gentle but firm.”
the double entendre hung in the air, and you felt him go completely still behind you, then let out a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. “you’re killing me here, cupcake,” he said, voice strained but fond. “i’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“like that?” he asked when you guided him through the motion, voice breathless and wondering, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here doing this with you.
“exactly like that,” you whispered back, your own voice soft with affection and barely contained laughter at how completely gone you both were. “you’re a natural.”
the confession, so simple and true, settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to take back. you didn’t step away this time. you couldn’t. instead, your hands tightened over his on the spoon, a silent mutual acknowledgment that this had stopped being about baking.
“satoru,” you whispered, his name a soft questioning sound against his skin.
he turned in your arms, the movement slow, deliberate, until you were pressed between his warm solid chest and the cool unyielding edge of the counter. the spoon was forgotten, clattering onto the prep surface as his hands, large and warm and sure, found your waist.
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel cherished and utterly safe.
“we should... put the soufflés in the oven,” you breathed against his mouth, your mind vaguely aware of the prepared ramekins sitting nearby, waiting.
“in a minute,” he murmured back, his hands spanning your waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin under your ribs, sending shivers through you. “i like you messy, cupcake. flour suits you.”
his mouth trailed down your throat, a hot open-mouthed path that made you arch into him, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. he groaned softly at the contact, the sound a deep guttural vibration against your collarbone that made your entire body hum with want.
“they’ll collapse if we wait too long,” you tried again, halfheartedly, your fingers tangling in the soft silver strands of his hair.
“then we’ll make new ones,” he said against your skin, his voice a low possessive growl. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it stole the air from your lungs. “but i’ve been thinking about this for weeks, cupcake. thinking about you. about what it would feel like to have you in my arms, in my kitchen.”
his mouth found yours again, a deep, possessive kiss that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing, restraint finally shattering. it felt like surrender, a point of no return—until your eyes fluttered open and caught on the copper bowl behind him. the glossy egg whites, the soul of the soufflé, were already softening. the baker in you screamed in silent protest.
your palms pressed to his chest, firm but trembling. “satoru, wait,” you breathed, lips brushing his. “the soufflé—the egg whites will collapse.”
he groaned, burying his face in your neck for one tortured beat before pulling back. the panic in your eyes softened his frustration into something fonder, and a wicked smile tugged at his lips.
“can’t have that,” he murmured. “a collapsed soufflé on my first lesson? my record would be ruined.” he stole one last hard kiss. “okay, chef. lead the way.”
the shift back to the task was electric. the air was thick with what almost happened, and what was definitely going to happen later. with trembling legs, you slid off the counter, your body buzzing with unspent energy.
somehow, between shaking hands and the distraction of his solid presence behind you, you managed to get the soufflé mixture into the ramekins and slide them into the preheated oven. your movements were less precise than usual, some ramekins fuller than others, your usual perfectionist tendencies completely derailed by the heat radiating from his body every time he leaned close.
“and now we wait,” you said, stepping back from the oven and immediately missing the warmth of him behind you.
“twelve minutes,” he repeated, voice rough around the edges. he ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual. “what do we do for twelve minutes?”
“try not to think about them,” you managed, wiping your flour-dusted hands on your apron with nervous energy. “soufflés can sense anxiety.”
“well, that explains a lot,” he said, that crooked smile making your pulse skip. “i’m the human embodiment of anxiety right now.”
the twelve minutes crawled by with painful slowness. you cleaned up together, hyperaware of every accidental brush of fingers, every time he had to reach around you for something. the domesticity of it was strange and intoxicating—him washing dishes while you wiped surfaces, both stealing glances at each other and the oven door.
when the timer finally shrieked, you both jumped like guilty teenagers.
you opened the oven door with trembling hands, and a cloud of warm, chocolate-scented air enveloped you. your heart did a little flip. they’d risen, yes, but unevenly—some tall and proud, others slightly lopsided, one that had clearly gotten too much mixture and was threatening to spill over its ramekin in a delicious, molten wave. they were messy. they were imperfect. they were theirs.
“oh,” satoru said softly from beside you, and you could hear the genuine disappointment creeping into his voice as he took in the imperfect results. his broad shoulders slumped just a fraction, a quiet admission of his high expectations meeting a messy reality.
you turned to face him, a gentle, reassuring smile on your lips as you caught the slight downturn of his mouth. it was an expression you’d never seen on him before—not arrogance, not charm, but a boyish, sulky pout that was ridiculously endearing.
“hey,” you said softly, nudging his arm with your shoulder. “it’s your first time making one of the most notoriously difficult pastries in the world. and,” you added, your voice dropping to a warmer, more intimate tone, “they’re made with love. that’s what really matters, right?”
he looked down at you with those storm-glass eyes, something soft and vulnerable flickering there. “but yours are always perfect,” he retorted, his voice a low, almost mournful grumble. “everything you make is always perfect and made with love. it’s not fair.”
heat crept up your neck at the raw sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at you like you’d hung the moon and personally arranged the stars. the compliment, born from his own momentary failure, felt more potent than any of his previous praise. “satoru…”
“what? it’s true.” a hint of his usual confidence returned as he grabbed two spoons from the drawer, his movements decisive. he handed you one, but his expression was still earnest. “you need to taste it. for science. to confirm that my love-infused-but-lopsided soufflé is still edible.”
the first bite was molten chocolate heaven, rich and airy despite the uneven appearance. you made a soft, involuntary sound of appreciation, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. when you opened them, he was watching you, a hopeful, almost anxious look on his face.
“good?” he asked, taking his own first, tentative spoonful.
instead of answering with words, you scooped up another bite from the messy, overflowing ramekin—his ramekin. you held it out to him, surprising yourself with the easy intimacy of the gesture. “you tell me.”
his eyes went wide for a moment before a slow, devastating smile spread across his face. he leaned forward, his lips closing around the spoon you offered in a way that made your pulse stutter. the soft, pleased sound he made, his own eyes fluttering closed in bliss, sent a wave of heat spiraling through your chest.
“incredible,” he breathed, his gaze locking with yours, dark and full of a wonder that had nothing to do with the chocolate. then, a mischievous glint returned. he scooped up some of his own. “your turn.”
you leaned forward to accept the bite he offered, hyperaware of how his gaze tracked the movement of your lips around the spoon. the chocolate was perfect—rich and warm and somehow tasting even better when he was the one feeding it to you.
“this is ridiculous,” you murmured, but you were smiling, caught up in the sweetness of the moment.
“ridiculously perfect,” he agreed, then leaned closer, eyes dark with intent. “you’ve got chocolate...”
instead of telling you where, he kissed you, slow and sweet and tasting of molten chocolate and something like joy. when he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips barely brushing yours, you were both breathing unsteadily.
“found it,” he murmured against your mouth, then kissed you again, deeper this time.
the spoons clattered forgotten to the counter as his hands found your waist, lifting you easily onto the prep surface. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as his mouth moved against yours with increasing hunger.
“satoru,” you gasped between kisses, your hands fisting in his t-shirt.
“been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, his voice rough with want. “been thinking about you. for weeks.”
his mouth trailed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp and laugh at the same time. “been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, voice full of wonder like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. “been thinking about you. driving myself crazy for weeks.”
your fingers tangled in his silver hair, and he practically melted into the touch, letting out a soft, almost reverent sigh. “you’re ridiculous,” you murmured fondly, then squeaked when he found that particularly sensitive spot again. “and apparently very good at distracting people from baking.”
“i’m a man of many talents,” he said against your skin, then pulled back to look at you with that boyish grin that made your heart do stupid things. “though i have to say, this is my new favorite.”
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel small and cherished and utterly safe.
he groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender. his hands, large and sure, span your waist before sliding down, gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes your breath catch. with an effortless display of power, he lifts you, settling you back onto the cool, flour-dusted prep counter without breaking the kiss. you are surrounded by him, pinned between his hard body and the solid surface, the intoxicating scent of him—clean soap, expensive cologne, and a faint, sweet hint of matcha—filling your senses.
he breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it makes you dizzy. his breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily. he rests his forehead against yours for a moment, a quiet beat in the rising storm, as if to center himself.
“been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl, “since the first time i saw you wipe flour on your apron.” his thumbs trace slow, hypnotic circles on your hips. “weeks, cupcake. i’ve been going out of my mind.”
the raw honesty in his voice, stripped of all its usual playful charm, makes your heart hammer against your ribs. you can only nod, your fingers still tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt.
he straightens up slightly, his gaze dropping to the simple, practical dress you wear for work. a slow, wicked smirk begins to curve his lips. “this has got to go,” he decides, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. he reaches for the small zipper at the back of your neck, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “can’t properly appreciate the artistry with all this… fabric in the way.”
a wave of shyness washes over you, and your hands instinctively move to cover his. “satoru, wait…”
he pauses, his large, warm hand gently covering yours. he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his storm-glass eyes holding yours, suddenly tender. “hey,” he whispers. “it’s just me. just us. i want to see you. all of you.” the sincerity in his voice, the quiet plea in his eyes, melts your resistance. you slowly, hesitantly, release his hand.
with a triumphant but gentle smile, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. he peels the fabric from your shoulders with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, not exposed. he lets the dress pool around your waist, revealing the simple cotton bra and bloomers you wear for comfort during long hours on your feet. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure, letting it fall away.
his breath hitches. “fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost worshipful intensity. his eyes, so often a playful, teasing blue, are now dark with a raw, unadulterated awe. he reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, as if memorizing your shape. “so perfect.”
he breaks away for a moment, and you hear the soft hiss of a canister. he returns with the whipped cream you’d left out from the cupcake prep, a playful, predatory glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a frantic flip.
“what are you doing?” you whisper, your voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat.
“you make perfect things all day,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble, as he steps back between your legs. “so sweet. so delicious.” his hand slides up your thigh, his touch warm and sure. “it’s only fair i get to make you my pastry for once.” he shakes the can, the sound a playful rattle. “for research, of course.”
you watch, a mixture of terror and fascination, as he aims the nozzle. “satoru, that’s going to be… cold,” you manage, a faint note of protest in your voice.
“i’ll warm you up,” he promises, his eyes dark with intent.
he doesn't start where you expect. he sprays a small, perfect dollop of whipped cream on your inner thigh, right above your knee. the cold shock makes you gasp, your legs instinctively trying to close. he just chuckles, a low, pleased sound, and holds them gently in place. he leans down, his silver hair brushing against your leg like spun silk, and licks the cream away in one slow, deliberate swipe. his eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste. his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded. “delicious.”
he moves up, a slow, methodical artist at work. he sprays a delicate swirl on your hip, another on the sensitive skin of your stomach, just above your navel, each cold touch followed by the hot, wet warmth of his mouth. he’s decorating you, his movements precise and artful. his final touches are the most deliberate: two perfect, delicate rosettes piped directly onto your nipples. the intense cold makes them pebble instantly, and you cry out, a sharp, surprised sound.
“look at that,” he breathes, admiring his handiwork, his voice thick with a possessive pride. “my perfect little cupcake. so pretty.” he leans in and devours his creation, his tongue tracing the swirl on one nipple before he takes the entire hardened peak into his mouth, licking and sucking the sweet cream away until you’re writhing on the counter, your fingers fisting in his hair. he gives the other nipple the same reverent, all-consuming attention, his praise a constant, filthy murmur against your skin. “so sweet… knew you would be… perfect for me…”
his attention then moves lower, his mouth trailing a hot, wet path down your stomach, licking away every last trace of cream. his hands find the waistband of your bloomers, then the delicate lace of your panties beneath. he doesn't remove them. instead, he hooks his fingers in the elastic, pulling the fabric taut, creating a perfect frame for the sight of you. you’re already dripping for him, the thin lace dark and damp with your arousal. he groans, a low, satisfied sound against your skin. “look at how wet you are, pretty girl. already melting for me.”
he doesn't push the fabric aside. he presses his mouth right against the damp lace, the slightly rough texture an immediate, shocking friction against your sensitive flesh. his tongue darts out, tracing the outline of your folds through the material, mapping you. the friction is maddening, a delicious, textured pleasure that makes you cry out, your hips lifting instinctively from the counter. he laps at you, teases you, soaking the lace until it clings to you like a second skin.
“so sweet,” he pants against you. “i can taste you right through your panties. fuck, that’s so hot.” his praise is relentless, a filthy, hypnotic mantra. “that’s it, let it go for me… soak yourself for me… i’m going to taste every drop…”
then, the teasing stops. he positions his mouth directly over the heart of you, and with a low groan, he pushes the tip of his tongue firmly against the lace, right over your entrance. he doesn't just lick, he fucks. he presses his tongue into you, a firm, insistent pressure that mimics the head of a cock, working his way into your channel through the thin barrier of fabric. the sensation is overwhelming, a dull, deep friction that sends shockwaves straight to your core.
he moves with a steady, relentless rhythm, his entire focus narrowed on this single, filthy act—fucking you through your own panties. you can feel the lace stretching, rubbing, a maddeningly indirect stimulation that is somehow more intense than direct contact. he works you like this for long, torturous moments, his breath hot and ragged, until your mind goes blank with overwhelming pleasure.
with a choked sob, you come, your body convulsing on the counter, your inner muscles clenching with a helpless, shattering release.
he stays there, lapping up the fresh wave of your release through the lace, until the last of your shudders subside. then, and only then, does he pull back, a triumphant, proprietary smirk on his lips. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your soaked panties and bloomers, pulling them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion, tossing them aside.
“oh, pretty girl,” he says, his voice a low, teasing drawl as he looks at the damp, glistening evidence of your pleasure on the counter beneath you. “you made a mess.” he tuts playfully, shaking his head. “we can’t have that. health hazard, you know. very unprofessional.”
before you can respond, a mortified blush heating your cheeks, he’s leaning in, his tongue darting out to clean you up, licking the sticky wetness from the cool stainless steel. his thoroughness is both humiliating and unbelievably arousing.
when he’s finished, he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry. “all clean,” he purrs. “but i think i missed a spot.”
he reaches for the whipped cream canister again. your eyes widen. “satoru, no…” you breathe, a weak, helpless laugh escaping you.
“satoru, yes,” he corrects, his grin wicked.
this time, he sprays a single, perfect, generous dollop right onto your swollen, hyper-sensitive clit. the cold shock makes you gasp, your hips lifting off the counter, a sound that is half protest, half plea.
he watches the cream start to melt against your heat, a slow, decadent drip. “now, for the final, most important detail,” he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation.
this time, there is no barrier, just his mouth and tongue and teeth, a relentless, worshipful assault. he licks away the cream with slow, languid strokes, savoring the taste of it mixed with your own unique sweetness. his tongue is an instrument of pure pleasure, tracing circles, flicking, dipping inside you.
his praise starts again, a low, constant murmur against your most sensitive flesh as he works. “fuck, you taste so good… my favorite flavor… so responsive for me, pretty girl… that’s it, let me hear you… scream for me this time…”
he finds your rhythm, his tongue a merciless, perfect piston against your clit. the pleasure is sharper this time, more intense, building with a speed that terrifies and excites you.
you feel the pressure coiling low in your belly, a tight, frantic knot. he senses it, his ministrations becoming more insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs to hold you still. he is determined to wring another orgasm from you, to leave you completely, utterly wrecked.
you come apart for him again, the climax even more intense than the first, a shattering, vocal scream that echoes in the quiet kitchen as he swallows every last drop with a deep, possessive groan.
he pulled back, mouth slick with your taste, a triumphant smirk curving his lips. you were a beautiful, dazed mess on his counter, boneless beneath his gaze.
then, unexpectedly, tenderness welled in him. he kissed you again—softer this time, slow and languid, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. his hands slid from your thighs to brush your hair back, careful, hesitant. he was trying to be good.
but you were wrecked. your body still trembling from back-to-back orgasms, raw with sensitivity, high on his filthy praise—and now achingly empty. his gentleness only stoked the hunger. you craved the strength he leashed, the overwhelming power you knew he held. you needed more.
“satoru,” you whisper, your voice shaky but threaded with a raw, undeniable determination. your hands, which had been limply resting in your lap, come up to fist in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. his gentle caresses aren’t enough. “don’t… don’t be so gentle.”
his hands still in your hair. he pulls back slightly, his storm-glass eyes searching yours, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily clearing the haze of lust. he sees the pleading in your gaze, the desperate want, and something darker, more primal, begins to stir in their depths. the carefully constructed dam of his control begins to crack.
“you sure, pretty girl?” his voice is a low, dangerous growl, a stark contrast to his previous soft praises. the air crackles with a new, sharper tension. “i’ve been trying really hard to be good for you. but if you ask me not to be…”
you just shake your head, a single. your legs, which had been lying limp, tighten around his waist, hooking your ankles behind him, trapping him. “i don’t want you to be good,” you breathe, the confession a spark in the charged air, an open invitation to the freak you know is lurking just beneath the surface. “i want you.”
that’s it. that’s the only permission he needs. his control shatters into a million pieces. the last vestiges of softness in his expression vanish, replaced by a raw, possessive hunger that makes a shiver of fear and excitement race down your spine. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and the grip on your thighs becomes bruising, possessive.
“then you better hold on tight,” he growls, his voice a guttural promise of what’s to come.
“not here,” he says, his voice rough, a surprising, almost feral nod to the hygiene of your workspace, a last remnant of his respect for your craft. he glances around at the flour-dusted surfaces, at the cooling soufflés, then back at you. “i’m going to ruin you, and i want to see your face when i do it.”
before you can respond, he’s lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing, your legs locked tight around his waist. his stride is long, purposeful, carrying you out of the warm kitchen into the dark back office. the door slams shut behind him, the echo sealing you off from the world. he drops you onto the worn couch, the springs groaning under the impact.
he looms in the dim light, a towering silhouette of unrestrained want—a predator finally given leave to hunt. his fingers fumble at his cargo pants, grace traded for frantic urgency, the rasp of his zipper loud in the silence.
then he’s free. your breath stutters, eyes widening as the faint glow catches on him—thick, heavy, impossibly long. he’s big. so big. a sharp, sweet edge of fear slices through the haze of your arousal.
“so pretty for me,” he pants, his eyes dark and wild as he moves over you. “all wrecked and wanting it.” he pins your wrists to the couch cushions above your head with one large, strong hand, his grip firm but not painful, a gesture of absolute domination. with his other hand, he parts your slick folds, his thumb stroking your clit in a way that makes you gasp.
he guides himself to your entrance. you’re soaked, still leaking from your last orgasms, but even so, the thick, blunt head of his cock just nudges against you, a solid, unyielding pressure. it’s too much. it won’t fit.
“satoru,” you gasp, your eyes wide, a real note of panic in your voice as you feel the impossible pressure. your hips instinctively try to shift away. “i don’t… i don’t think i can.”
“shhh,” he soothes, his voice a low, ragged rumble, though his eyes are blazing with intensity. he doesn't pull back. instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “yes, you can, pretty girl. you were made for this.” a possessive growl underlines his words. “and i’m going to make it fit.”
he demonstrates a restraint that is almost terrifying. he doesn't push. instead, he begins a slow, torturous tease. he rocks his hips, fucking you with just the very tip, the wide, smooth head of his cock stretching you, parting your slick folds, making you impossibly wetter.
he moves in and out of just that first inch, a maddening, relentless rhythm that feels like both heaven and hell. his control is absolute, his powerful body held perfectly in check.
“that’s it…” he groans, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his temples. “feel how much i want you? just the tip, and you’re already so tight… so good… gripping me…” every word is a praise, a promise. he watches your face, watches your eyes screw shut as you bite your lip, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being slowly, deliberately claimed.
you’re whining now, desperate and needy as your hips buck instinctively, trying to take more of him. the initial fear has been replaced by an all-consuming need to be filled by him, completely and utterly.
“eager for me, huh?” he chuckles, a dark, pleased sound. his hips stutter, a sign of his own fracturing control. “good. that’s so good, pretty girl. now, take me. all of me.”
he shifts his angle slightly, and then, with a slow, deliberate, powerful push, he begins to fill you. it’s a gradual invasion, an inch-by-inch claiming of your body. it’s an overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness, a delicious, burning stretch that makes you cry out, your back arching off the couch.
he keeps going, slowly, steadily, until he’s buried to the hilt, and you feel a profound, soul-deep stretch as he bottoms out against your cervix. he fills you completely, impossibly.
he stays there for a long moment, buried to the hilt inside you, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming size of him. he pants above you, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes closed as he just savors the feeling of being completely, perfectly sheathed inside you.
“fuck,” he breathes, the word a reverent sigh. “perfect fit.”
he shifts his hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate grind that draws a whimper from your throat, and a satisfied smirk touches his lips. he opens his eyes, their storm-blue depths dark and intense.
when he finally begins to move, it’s with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. he pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of him retreating making you whine in protest, your hips lifting off the couch to chase him. he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “uh-uh, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his free hand coming down to press your hip firmly into the couch cushions, pinning you in place. “i’m in charge now. you’ll take what i give you.”
he thrusts back in, slowly, every inch a rediscovery, a fresh wave of overwhelming fullness. he establishes a deep, hypnotic rhythm—a slow, complete withdrawal followed by an even slower, deeper return. with every inward stroke, he presses deep, his powerful hips rolling, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in a way that makes you see stars.
“feel that?” he groans, his voice a low, rough rasp by your ear. “that’s all for you. all of it.”
you can only nod, your own breath coming in ragged gasps, your mind starting to short-circuit. the dual stimulation is too much, your senses overloaded. you’re trapped, pinned by his hand on your hip and his other hand holding your wrists, completely at the mercy of his slow, deliberate torture.
“use your words, pretty girl,” he demands, his rhythm faltering for just a second. “i need to hear it. tell me how it feels.”
“it’s… so much,” you gasp, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. “satoru, please…”
“please what?” he presses, his hips resuming that slow, torturous grind. he knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing out the pleasure, pushing you closer and closer to the edge only to pull you back. “tell me what you want.”
“i want… more,” you sob, the admission torn from you. “faster.”
a dark, possessive grin spreads across his face. “not yet,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss you, a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of salt and want. “not until you’re begging for it.”
he continues his slow, deep, punishing rhythm for what feels like an eternity. he talks to you the entire time, a constant stream of filthy praise and possessive commands that unravels you completely. “so good… gripping me so tight… look at you, taking all of me without even a single complaint… you were made for this, made for me…”
he’s right. you were. the initial overwhelming stretch has melted into a deep, profound ache of pleasure. your body, which you thought couldn't possibly take him, has molded around him, welcoming him.
finally, just as you feel like you’re about to shatter from the tension, he changes the rhythm. his thrusts become shorter, faster, focused on that one spot deep inside you that he seems to have memorized. your own hips start to buck against his hand, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm.
“there it is,” he pants, his own control starting to fray. “that’s what i wanted to see.”
his head dips down. as a particularly deep, powerful thrust makes you cry out his name in a sob of pure pleasure, his mouth finds the soft flesh of your shoulder, just above the collarbone. he bites down. it’s not enough to break the skin, but it’s a sharp, possessive pressure that leaves a clear, red mark. a brand. he licks over it immediately, the rough swipe of his tongue soothing the sting.
“gotta leave a little reminder for you,” he rasps, his voice a possessive growl against your skin, his thrusts becoming frantic now, slamming into you. “so you don’t forget who you belong to. so everyone knows.”
the mark, his possessive words, the overwhelming fullness, the shift to a desperate, frantic pace… it all sends you spiraling. your mind goes white with sensation, and you come with a choked scream, your body convulsing around his thick cock, your inner muscles clenching and milking him with a helpless, frantic rhythm.
your orgasm only makes him harder, his own release held back by a thread of sheer, iron will. the feeling of your inner muscles convulsing around him, milking him, sends a shudder through his powerful frame. he groans, a low, guttural sound of a man right on the edge. but he’s not done with you yet. not even close.
he pulls out of you with a wet, obscene slap that makes you whine in protest at the sudden emptiness. but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. before you can even process the lingering tremors of your climax, he’s pulling you up from the couch, onto your feet.
“turn around,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl, thick with unshed lust. you’re pliant in his hands, dazed and completely his to command. you obey without question, letting him guide you the few steps to the small, cluttered wooden desk. he positions you, turning you so you can plant your hands on the edge of it, your ass pushed out for him, a perfect, vulnerable offering.
he presses his hard, sweat-slick body against your back, caging you in, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cool wood beneath your palms. “look at you,” he rasps, his voice a low growl right by your ear as he admires the sight of you, bent over and waiting for him. “so good. so obedient for me.”
one powerful arm snakes around your front, his forearm pressing with deliberate, firm pressure against your throat. it doesn’t hurt, not yet, but it’s a clear, undeniable act of control. your breath hitches, a jolt of pure, primal fear mixing with a sharp spike of arousal.
his hold tilts your head back into the crook of his shoulder, exposing the long, pale line of your neck to him. his mouth is right there, at your ear, at your throat, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. his other hand grips your hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady, claiming you. you are completely, utterly his to manhandle.
he thrusts into you from behind in a single, powerful motion. the angle is impossibly deep, hitting a spot that bypasses thought and sends a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. a scream tears from your throat, but as it does, the pressure on your windpipe increases. not enough to truly choke you, but enough to cut the sound off, turning your scream into a pathetic, breathy whimper.
the world begins to swim at the edges, your head light and floaty from the lack of air. it’s terrifying. it’s perfect. the combination of overwhelming fullness and oxygen deprivation sends you spiraling, your mind going blessedly blank.
his thrusts are deep, powerful, slamming into you with a relentless, animalistic rhythm. with the pressure on your throat, every frantic gasp for air, every choked moan, is a sound of pure, helpless submission that seems to drive him wilder.
his mouth finds the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and as he fucks you, he latches on, sucking hard. you feel the sting, the pull, and you know, with a dizzying thrill, that he’s leaving a dark, undeniable hickey. another mark. a claim for all to see.
he’s not pulling out. this is the final, undeniable act of possession. “i’m going to come inside you, pretty girl,” he groans into your ear, his hips slamming into you, each word a percussive beat against your senses. “i’m going to fill you up… make you mine.”
the combination of his filthy, possessive words, the choking pressure making your head spin, the new, stinging mark on your neck, and the overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness is what sends you over the edge one last time.
your fourth, and most intense, orgasm hits like a lightning strike, a complete system overload. your mind whites out, your body convulsing violently around him, and the helpless, breathy sounds spilling from your lips are his undoing.
with a final, desperate groan that’s more roar than word, he thrusts deep one last time and floods you with his release, the hot, thick seed a shocking, intimate brand deep inside you, coating your womb, claiming you from the inside out.
he collapses against you, his entire weight a comforting, solid presence. his arm immediately loosens from your throat, allowing you to drag in a ragged, desperate lungful of air. your vision clears, the world snapping back into sharp focus. his breathing is harsh, ragged against your ear, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your back. for a long moment, you just stand there, tangled together, held up only by the desk and his strength, the aftermath of the storm washing over you in slow, trembling waves.
he doesn't let you go. after a minute, when his breathing has started to even out, he shifts. his movements are gentle now, a stark, beautiful contrast to the ferocity of moments before. he pulls you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle in a secure, protective embrace. he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the dark, angry-looking mark on your neck. his lips are soft, almost apologetic, yet deeply possessive.
“come on,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. he helps you gather your discarded clothes—the dress, the bra, the panties—not with any sense of shame, but with a quiet, domestic tenderness. he guides you back to the couch, sitting you down gently before finding a clean dish towel from a nearby hook and wetting it with a bottle of water from your desk. he kneels before you and carefully, tenderly, cleans you up. every soft swipe of the cloth is an act of worship, an apology, a promise.
when you’re clean, he helps you dress again, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he zips up your dress, his fingers brushing against your skin. he pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest, his arms a safe haven. you’re exhausted, boneless, and completely content.
and in the beautiful, comfortable wreckage he’d so lovingly made of you, you felt safer and more cherished than ever before. you were, unequivocally, his.
consciousness crept in slowly, warm and hazy and completely disorienting. your bed felt softer than usual, sunlight streaming through curtains that you definitely remembered closing last night. you were wearing your favorite sleep shirt—the oversized one with tiny croissants printed all over it—and had absolutely no memory of changing into it.
blinking up at your ceiling, pieces of the previous evening started filtering back. the baking lesson. satoru’s hands over yours. flour everywhere. the soufflés rising unevenly. kissing him until your lips felt swollen and your heart hammered like it was trying to escape your chest. everything after that was a haze of heat and breathless whispers and the way he’d touched you like you were something precious and breakable and his.
but how did you get home?
you sat up slowly, running hands through thoroughly disheveled hair, trying to piece together the gap in your memory. the last clear thing you remembered was being wrapped around satoru on your office couch, both of you breathless and covered in flour, the cafe dark except for the warm glow from the kitchen.
your phone sat on the nightstand, and when you grabbed it to check the time, your heart nearly stopped.
9:47 am.
wait, that couldn’t be right. you shot up from bed like you’d been electrocuted, panic flooding your system. if it was 9:47 in the morning, that meant— “shit, shit, shit!” the cafe should have opened an hour and forty-seven minutes ago. customers would have been lined up. your regulars, your weekend rush. they’d be confused, probably annoyed. your perfect attendance record, your reputation, everything—
that’s when you smelled it. coffee. real coffee, not the instant stuff you kept in your apartment for emergencies. and was that… bacon?
you stumbled toward your bedroom door, still half-panicked and completely confused. the soft sounds of someone moving around your kitchen, the quiet sizzle of something in a pan, and—was that humming? a low, familiar melody that made your chest flutter with recognition.
padding barefoot down the hallway, you stopped short in your kitchen doorway.
satoru stood at your stove, wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else except one of your aprons tied around his narrow waist. the soft pink fabric with tiny cupcakes printed on it looked absolutely ridiculous stretched across his broad shoulders, the ties barely meeting around his back. his silver hair was still sleep-mussed, sticking up in several directions, and he was humming while orchestrating what looked like a feast designed to feed a small army.
the counter was covered with an impressive spread that belonged in a five-star brunch restaurant. thick, fluffy japanese pancakes stacked impossibly high, their surfaces golden and perfect. fresh strawberries and blueberries arranged in artful clusters, some cut into delicate fan shapes. crispy strips of bacon laid out in precise rows alongside what appeared to be perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes, golden and herb-crusted. scrambled eggs that looked like silk, probably made with cream and patience.
a small bowl of homemade whipped cream sat next to another containing what could only be maple butter. and was that hollandaise sauce? actual hollandaise sauce, made from scratch in your tiny kitchen, keeping warm in a makeshift double boiler.
“morning, beautiful,” he said without turning around, shoulders shifting as he adjusted the heat under a pan. his voice carried that particular roughness that came from a night of use, and the sound sent warmth spiraling through your chest as memories crashed back in vivid detail. “hope you don’t mind me raiding your kitchen. and your spice cabinet. and possibly your entire pantry.”
you stared at the spread, then at him, brain still trying to catch up to this alternate reality where satoru gojo had transformed your modest kitchen into a professional-grade brunch operation. “that’s my apron,” you managed, voice scratchy with sleep and something else entirely. your fingers unconsciously smoothed down your croissant-printed pajama shirt, suddenly very aware of how rumpled you probably looked.
he glanced down at the pink fabric with its cheerful cupcake pattern, then back at you with that boyish grin that made your knees forget their structural integrity. those impossible blue eyes held warmth and mischief and something deeper that made your pulse stutter. “looks better on you, obviously, but i didn’t want to get hollandaise on myself.” he gestured toward the elaborate spread with his spatula, movements confident and practiced, like he’d been cooking in your kitchen for years instead of hours. “thought you might be hungry after… well, after everything.”
the way he said ‘everything’ with that slight pause, that knowing look, sent heat creeping up your neck. memories flickered behind your eyelids—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d whispered your name like a prayer.
heat crept up your neck at the implication, memories flickering like film strips behind your eyelids. “satoru, what time is it? the cafe—i need to open, people are probably waiting outside wondering where—”
“relax, cupcake.” he turned fully now, and you caught sight of the feast he’d created on your small dining table. those long fingers gestured toward your phone on the counter, his expression gentle but firm. “it’s friday morning, yes. but look at yourself.”
you glanced down at your croissant pajamas, then caught sight of yourself in the microwave’s reflection. disheveled didn’t begin to cover it. you looked like you’d been thoroughly—well, exactly like someone who’d spent the night being completely and utterly ruined in the best possible way.
“when’s the last time you took a real day off?” he continued, leaning against the counter with those muscled arms crossed, the ridiculous apron making him look both domestic and absolutely edible. “and i mean a real day off, not just sunday afternoons when you meal prep for the week.”
“i don’t need—”
“you fell asleep mid-sentence last night,” he interrupted, storm-glass eyes serious now. “completely dead to the world. that’s not normal tired, sweetheart. that’s your body shutting down because you’ve been running on fumes for months.”
the endearment made something flutter in your chest, but you fought against the warmth. “people depend on their morning coffee. their pastries. i can’t just—”
“the world will survive one day without your croissants.” he pushed off the counter, moving toward you with that predatory grace that made your pulse skip. “but will you survive if you keep pushing yourself like this?”
you opened your mouth to argue, but he continued, voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. “i carried you home last night. you weighed nothing, and you were so exhausted you didn’t even stir when i changed your clothes or when the car hit every pothole between the cafe and here.” his hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone through the soft cotton. “when’s the last time someone took care of you?”
the question settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to brush away. you stared up at him, taking in the genuine concern in those impossible eyes, the way his hair stuck up in seventeen different directions, the careful way he was touching you like you might break.
“i already put a sign on the door,” he admitted quietly. “professional-looking thing. ‘temporarily closed for equipment maintenance, reopening tomorrow with fresh selections.’ even laminated it.”
“you…” you blinked at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to affection. “you laminated a sign?”
“seemed like something you’d appreciate.” that boyish grin made its appearance, but it was softer now, less performative. “besides, gives us the whole day to figure this out.”
“figure what out?”
“this.” he gestured between you with one hand, the other still resting on your shoulder. “us. whatever this is becoming.”
his own cheeks pinked slightly, and he ran a hand through his already-messy hair, the gesture making those silver strands stick up even more ridiculously. the movement drew attention to the lean muscles of his arm, the way his bicep flexed under unmarked skin. he was beautiful in the morning light, all sharp angles and soft edges, looking nothing like the polished influencer and everything like the man who’d whispered praise against your skin in the dark.
“right, about that. you were completely dead to the world, so i…” he paused, shoulders shifting as he turned to face you fully, and the careful way he moved suggested he was reading your reaction, making sure you were okay with this conversation. “i may have carried you.” the admission came out like he was confessing to a crime, storm-glass eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort.
you were quiet for a long moment, processing this while your fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of your pajama shirt. the image of satoru gojo, internet famous fitness influencer, carrying your unconscious form through the streets while digging through your purse for house keys should have been embarrassing. instead, it felt like being cherished. “called a car, had to dig through your bag for your keys—sorry about that, by the way. total invasion of privacy but you were unconscious and i couldn’t exactly leave you on the couch all night.”
“and the clothes?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper as you gestured to your croissant pajamas. your cheeks felt warm, not from embarrassment but from something softer, more vulnerable.
his flush deepened, spreading down his neck to disappear beneath the ridiculous cupcake apron, and he focused very intently on arranging the berries in perfect little clusters. his long fingers moved with surprising delicacy, the same hands that had mapped every inch of your skin now handling strawberries like they were made of glass. “you were… well, you couldn’t sleep in your work clothes. they were all flour-dusted and…” he cleared his throat, voice dropping to something rough and honest. “i was very respectful about it. found your pajamas in the top drawer, got you changed as quickly as possible.”
the careful way he said it, like he was worried you’d be upset, made something warm unfurl in your chest. after everything that had happened between you—the way he’d touched you, tasted you, made you completely his—the tenderness of him taking care of you when you were completely vulnerable felt more intimate than anything else. your heart did something complicated against your ribs, affection and gratitude tangling together.
“thank you,” you said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should. “for taking care of me.”
his shoulders relaxed slightly, and that devastating smile returned. “anytime, cupcake. literally anytime.” he moved back toward the stove, checking on something in a pan. “now come on, let me feed you properly. all this cooking and no one to appreciate it is making me feel like a very attractive housewife with an absentee spouse.”
despite everything, you snorted. “did you just compare yourself to a housewife?”
“a very attractive housewife,” he corrected solemnly. “the apron really brings out my eyes.”
you perched on one of your barstools, finally allowing yourself to really take in the spread he’d created. it was magnificent—restaurant-quality food that had obviously taken hours to prepare. “satoru, this is… how long have you been awake?”
“since about six.” he shrugged like it was nothing, plating the eggs with practiced precision. “i’m used to early mornings. besides, i wanted everything to be perfect when you woke up.”
something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said it, like making you elaborate breakfasts was just another tuesday for him.
he set a plate in front of you that could have fed three people. the pancakes were impossibly fluffy, stacked four high and dusted with powdered sugar. the eggs looked like silk, probably made with cream and the kind of patience you rarely had time for. the breakfast potatoes were golden and herb-crusted, the bacon perfectly crispy, and everything was arranged with an artistry that rivaled your own pastry displays.
“this is…” you took a bite of the pancakes, and flavor exploded across your tongue. light, airy, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of vanilla that made your eyes flutter closed. “holy shit, satoru. this is incredible.”
he beamed like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery, settling across from you with his own overfilled plate. “really? basic, but edible,” he said with obvious false modesty, but you could see the genuine pride in his eyes.
“basic?” you laughed, taking another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous in a way that had nothing to do with skipping dinner and everything to do with working up quite an appetite. “satoru, this is restaurant-quality. where did you learn to cook like this?”
you ate with the same focused intensity he’d seen you bring to your baking, that complete attention to flavor and texture that made him fall for you in the first place. watching you devour his cooking with such obvious pleasure made something warm and possessive bloom in his chest. he found himself memorizing the way you closed your eyes when you tasted the hollandaise, the soft sound you made when you tried the potatoes, the fact that you cleaned your plate completely before even pausing to breathe.
“years of meal prep,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady while watching you lick hollandaise off your fork with the same precision you used for piping buttercream. “when you’re trying to build muscle without destroying your body, you learn to make healthy food that doesn’t taste like punishment.” he gestured with his own fork, grinning. “though i’ll admit, i may have gotten a little carried away trying to impress you.”
“mission accomplished,” you said around another bite, then paused to really look at the spread. “seriously, satoru, this is restaurant-quality. why aren’t you doing this professionally?”
his cheeks pinked slightly, that boyish flush that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “because watching people enjoy things i make feels…” he paused, searching for words. “it feels like this. like watching you eat my food with the same appreciation i have for your pastries. makes me understand why you do what you do.”
you finished the last bite and sat back with a satisfied sigh, feeling more full and content than you had in months. the plate was completely clean—you’d devoured every single thing he’d made with the same focused intensity you brought to your own work.
“that was incredible. i mean it,” you said, then caught his expression. he was watching you with something like wonder, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“actually,” he said suddenly, setting down his fork and running a hand through his silver hair. “can we… can we talk about something?”
your stomach dropped slightly. here it came—the regret, the awkwardness, the ‘this was fun but we should probably pretend it didn’t happen’ conversation. you set down your coffee cup carefully, trying to keep your expression neutral. “okay.”
he pushed back from the table abruptly, starting to pace behind the kitchen island like a caged animal. his movements were agitated, nervous energy radiating from every line of his body. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, voice strained. “and i realized i did everything completely backwards last night.”
you blinked at him, confusion replacing dread. “backwards?”
“i should have told you how i feel first.” he stopped pacing long enough to gesture vaguely toward your bedroom, cheeks going properly pink now. “before we… god, your neighbors probably hate me. i didn’t even tell you i love you first and i just…” his voice cracked slightly. “i mean, i really went at it, didn’t i?”
the confession crashed over you like warm honey, sweet and overwhelming. your heart stuttered against your ribs. “you love me?”
he stopped pacing entirely, those impossible eyes meeting yours with devastating sincerity. his hands were shaking slightly as he ran them through his hair again, making it stick up in seventeen different directions. “are you kidding? i’ve been completely gone for you since that first chocolate tart. i rearranged my entire life around your operating hours. masaru thinks i’ve lost my mind.”
“you love me,” you repeated, softer this time, like you were testing how the words tasted on your tongue.
“embarrassingly much,” he admitted, voice rough with vulnerability. he resumed his pacing, gesticulating wildly now. “which is why i feel terrible that i didn’t say it before i… before we…” he trailed off, looking genuinely distressed. “i’m not usually the type to put the cart before the horse, you know? but you make me forget how to think straight.”
something about his genuine distress, the way he was beating himself up over the order of operations, struck you as absolutely ridiculous. a giggle escaped before you could stop it. then another. soon you were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of it.
“what’s funny?” he asked, stopping mid-pace to stare at you, looking wounded and confused.
“satoru,” you managed between giggles, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you’ve been courting me for months. bringing me ridiculously large tips. asking me to teach you to bake. memorizing my coffee preferences. learning my schedule by heart.” you stood up, still laughing softly. “if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”
his expression shifted from wounded to hopeful, like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. “so… you’re not upset that i did it backwards?”
“the only thing i’m upset about,” you said, moving around the island toward him, “is that you beat me to saying it first.”
his face transformed into that brilliant smile you’d grown to love, the one that made him look younger and completely unguarded. “so what does this make us then? officially?”
“well,” you said, reaching up to smooth down his ridiculous bedhead, fingers tangling in the soft silver strands. “you’ve basically moved into my cafe. you know my coffee preferences better than i do. and you just made me breakfast while wearing an apron that’s two sizes too small.”
he glanced down at the ridiculous cupcake-printed fabric stretched across his broad chest, then back at you with that boyish grin. “very domesticated of me.”
“extremely domesticated,” you agreed, hands still buried in his hair. “practically husband material.”
the word hung in the air between you, and you both froze slightly. too much, too fast, too honest for a morning after conversation.
“too fast?” you asked quickly, suddenly uncertain.
“definitely too fast,” he agreed, then that devastating smile returned full force. “but i like the sound of it anyway.”
you stretched up on your toes to kiss him, tasting coffee and maple syrup and morning possibilities on his lips. when you pulled back, both of you were breathing a little unsteadily.
“so… boyfriend then? for now?” you whispered against his mouth.
“boyfriend who’s completely obsessed with his girlfriend,” he confirmed, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. “and plans to continue being your most devoted customer.”
“what about your trainer? your social media following? the whole influencer thing?”
“masaru can learn to live with disappointment. some things are more important than macros.” he pulled back just enough to look at you seriously, those storm-glass eyes soft with affection. “like making sure the woman i love gets proper breakfast when she’s too tired to make it herself.”
warmth bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said ‘the woman i love,’ like it was the most natural thing in the world. “satoru gojo, are you offering to be my personal breakfast chef?”
“i’m offering to be whatever you need me to be,” he said simply, honestly, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your waist through the thin cotton of your pajama shirt. “starting with the guy who makes you eggs and tells you he loves you every morning.”
your heart did something complicated and wonderful behind your ribs. “i love you too,” you whispered, the words feeling both new and inevitable. “even if you did steal my apron.”
“our apron,” he corrected with a grin, then lifted you off your feet and spun you around your tiny kitchen, both of you laughing like teenagers who’d discovered something wonderful and secret. your hands fisted in the ridiculous cupcake fabric as he spun you, the world blurring except for his face, his smile, the way he was looking at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.
when he finally set you back down, he kept his arms around you, both of you still giggling and breathless. “we’re domestic now, remember?” he said, pressing his forehead against yours.
and standing there in your sunny kitchen, wearing croissant pajamas while satoru gojo held you close in your stolen apron, you thought maybe the best relationships really did come from a little bit of chaos, a lot of patience, and the perfect amount of sweetness.
seven months of official dating had settled into something sweeter than any confection you’d ever crafted. what started as satoru’s carefully timed visits to flour & sugar had evolved into something that had the internet completely obsessed and your little bakery busier than you’d ever dreamed possible.
it had started innocently enough—his social media transformation had been gradual, so subtle that his followers might have missed it if they weren’t paying attention. but the comments sections told a different story.
“bro where are the gym thirst traps”
“who is she and what did she do with our protein daddy”
“NOT HIM POSTING COUPLE RECIPES”
“the way this man went from ‘rate my deadlift’ to ‘rate our sourdough starter’ is sending me”
his instagram had become a love letter written in pixels and captions, a soft-focus documentary of domestic bliss that had somehow captured the internet’s collective heart. gone were the carefully staged shots of his abs and dramatic gym poses. instead, his feed had filled with your hands—piping delicate rosettes onto cupcakes, kneading dough with flour up to your elbows, writing recipe modifications in your careful script on index cards. blurry morning photos of you both tangled in the sheets above the bakery, sharing a croissant and coffee, your hair catching the golden morning light and his eyes soft with sleep and adoration.
“she said the croissants needed to be tested for quality control. who am i to argue with an expert? #worthit #carbsarelife”
the gym content that remained had evolved too. videos of him teaching you proper deadlift form while you corrected his piping technique, both of you collapsing into giggles when he inevitably got buttercream on the barbell. couple workouts that ended with you both on yoga mats, breathless and laughing, sharing post-workout protein smoothies that you’d somehow made taste like birthday cake.
his captions had gotten impossibly sappier, much to his trainer’s horror and his followers’ secret delight.
“strongest thing about me is how hard i fell for her” under a photo of you both covered in flour after an epic food fight that had started as a serious recipe test and devolved into full-scale warfare.
“she lifts my spirits, i lift heavy things. perfect partnership #relationshipgoals #sheputsupwithme”
“plot twist: the real gains were the pastries we made along the way” posted with a picture of a particularly elaborate croquembouche you’d attempted together, which had collapsed spectacularly but tasted like heaven.
but it was the video that really sent everything viral. he’d filmed you teaching him how to make croissants at 4 am, both of you in matching flour-dusted aprons, your voice gentle and patient as you guided his hands through the delicate lamination process. the video caught the moment when he’d finally gotten the fold right, the way your face had lit up with pride, how he’d spun you around the kitchen in celebration, both of you laughing breathlessly in the pre-dawn quiet.
“month 6 of pastry school with the best teacher in the world. still can’t believe she hasn’t fired me yet #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything”
the video had exploded overnight. suddenly everyone wanted to try the bakery where the internet’s new favorite couple had fallen in love. the hashtag #flourandsugar started trending, with people posting their own attempts at your recipes and sharing photos of their visits to the little bakery that had stolen the internet’s heart.
which was how you’d found yourself six months later, standing in what used to be the cramped storage room behind your original space, now transformed into a sun-drenched new kitchen three times the size of your old one. the success had been overwhelming in the best possible way—the new space was a baker’s dream, with warm butcher block counters instead of cold steel and creamy subway tiles that caught the light. it was professional, yes, but it still felt like your kitchen.
that warmth extended upstairs, where you’d expanded into a proper second floor with big, beautiful windows that flooded the space with light, now filled with mismatched armchairs you’d found at flea markets, their plush velvet cushions in shades of dusty rose and sage green inviting people to linger for hours. you’d added low bookshelves filled with old novels and cookbooks, making it feel more like a cozy, lived-in library than a cafe.
and outside, you’d finally built the outdoor garden patio you’d always dreamed of. it was a hidden city oasis, where climbing jasmine and wisteria wove through rustic wooden trellises, their sweet scent mixing with the aroma of fresh baking. warm, rounded wooden tables were nestled amongst potted lavender and herbs that you used in your recipes, and in the evenings, the entire space was lit by hundreds of soft, twinkling fairy lights, making it feel like a secret garden straight from a storybook. a small, charmingly weathered stage was tucked into a corner, where local musicians played soft acoustic sets on friday nights.
satoru had insisted on being involved in every aspect of the renovation, showing up in a hard hat that was completely unnecessary but made him look adorable, asking the contractors a million questions and somehow charming them into letting him help with the purely decorative elements. he’d painted the entire garden fence himself, claiming it was “functional exercise” when masaru complained about his training schedule.
and somewhere in the midst of expansion plans and permit applications and the beautiful chaos of success, he’d also become your unofficial apprentice.
every morning, he’d show up before opening hours, hair still messy from sleep and eyes still soft with dreams, pressing coffee into your hands and tying on the custom apron you’d made him—black with “sous chef (in training)” embroidered in white thread.
he was surprisingly good at it, once you got past his tendency to treat everything like a chemistry experiment that required his complete focus and undivided attention. his hands, so used to precise movements in the gym, had adapted quickly to the delicate work of pastry. he could pipe perfectly uniform rosettes now, roll pasta thin enough to read through, and his bread kneading technique was flawless—all that upper body strength put to decidedly more domestic use.
the only problem was how clingy he got during work hours, like a cat who’d decided you were the only warm spot in the house.
“focus,” you’d murmur when you caught him staring at you instead of watching his custard, which was definitely about to curdle if he didn’t pay attention, your own concentration wavering under the weight of his gaze.
“i am focused,” he’d protest, those storm-glass eyes never leaving your face, his head tilting in that way that made his hair fall across his forehead just so. “just not on the custard.”
he had a habit of finding excuses to be close to you—reaching over you for ingredients he could easily grab from the other side, his chest brushing against your shoulder as he moved with unnecessary slowness, pressing himself against your back to “check your technique” when you were demonstrating something he’d watched you do a hundred times, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured questions he already knew the answers to. stealing kisses between timer intervals that left you both breathless and your kitchen staff rolling their eyes so hard they risked permanent damage.
“you know,” your assistant manager had said one particularly busy morning, watching satoru follow you around like a lovesick puppy with separation anxiety, “most people don’t let their boyfriends work in their restaurants because it’s unprofessional.”
“good thing he’s not just my boyfriend,” you’d replied, not looking up from the wedding cake sketch you were working on, your cheeks warm with the kind of happiness that made everything else fade to background noise. “he’s my best student too.”
and he was. beneath all the playful clinginess and shameless flirting, he’d thrown himself into learning your craft with the same intensity he brought to everything else. he studied cookbooks like training manuals, practiced piping techniques until his hands cramped, and had somehow memorized the temperature preferences of every regular customer without being asked.
tonight felt different, though. there was an energy humming beneath his skin as he helped you test a new recipe—a delicate honey lavender cake that had been giving you trouble for weeks. the kind of nervous energy that made him move too precisely, like he was afraid his hands might betray him. he’d been unusually quiet, focused with an intensity that went beyond even his usual dedication to perfection. his hands, normally so confident and sure, had trembled slightly as he held the mixing bowl steady while you folded in the final ingredients, his knuckles white with tension.
you’d caught him checking his phone more than usual, running his fingers through his hair in that telltale sign of nerves that made the white strands stick up at odd angles.
the new kitchen was empty except for the two of you, the dinner rush long over and your staff gone home. upstairs, you could hear the soft sounds of the last few customers settling their bills and heading out into the night. soon it would be just the two of you in your expanded little empire, testing recipes and stealing kisses between batches like you had every night for months.
“perfect,” you murmured, running the offset spatula around the bowl’s edge to catch the last bit of batter, satisfaction curling warm in your chest. “finally got the lavender balance right. not too floral, not too—”
“marry me.”
the words fell between you like flour from a torn bag, sudden and everywhere at once. your spatula froze mid-swipe, batter clinging to its edge, and the kitchen went so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the new industrial refrigerators, the distant tick of the timer counting down on the oven, the rapid flutter of your own heartbeat.
you turned slowly, your heart doing something acrobatic and terrifying in your chest, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.
satoru was standing by the three-basin sink, soap bubbles still clinging to his forearms from washing the mixing bowls, his storm-glass eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that made the air catch in your lungs. his usually perfect posture had crumbled slightly, shoulders curved inward like he was bracing for impact. in his damp hands—hands that could deadlift twice his body weight but now shook like autumn leaves—he held a ring.
it was simple. classic. a single diamond set in white gold, understated and elegant and so perfectly you that your throat closed with emotion. it caught the warm led lighting of your new kitchen and threw tiny rainbows across the stainless steel counter between you, each facet a promise you weren’t sure you were brave enough to believe.
“i—” he started, then stopped, running his free hand through his impossible white hair until it stood up in anxious spikes. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck above the collar of his black henley. “i had a whole speech planned. been practicing in the mirror like an idiot for weeks. masaru kept finding me in the gym storage room rehearsing it to the resistance bands. hell, i even practiced on the contractors during the renovation, and they all said it was solid gold. but standing here, watching you perfect something for the hundredth time just because you refuse to settle for anything less than beautiful, i just… i can’t wait anymore.”
you set the spatula down with trembling fingers, your mouth slightly parted in shock, your eyes never leaving his face. there was something raw there, something that made your chest feel too small to contain your heart. the way he was looking at you—like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life without knowing it.
“i know we’ve technically only been together seven months,” he continued, words tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. his free hand gestured wildly, flour still dusting his knuckles. “but i’ve been reorganizing my whole life around you for almost a year now, and it doesn’t feel fast. it feels like… like i’ve been waiting my whole life to find someone who makes me want to be better. who makes me want to learn the difference between brown sugar and turbinado sugar because it matters to them. who makes me want to wake up at 4 am just to watch them create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.”
tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t look away from him. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything but stand there in your flour-dusted apron with your heart trying to climb out of your throat.
“you turned me from a guy whose idea of cooking was protein powder and water into someone who knows seventeen different ways to fold dough,” he said, his voice dropping to that soft, rough register that made your knees feel unsteady. “you made me trade my supplement-covered bathroom counter for skincare products and fancy soaps that smell like vanilla and cardamom. you let me reorganize your spice cabinet by color and didn’t even laugh when i alphabetized the sprinkles. you taught me that there’s a difference between vanilla extract and vanilla paste, and somehow made me care about it enough to argue with the supplier about quality.”
he was rambling now, the speech he’d practiced forgotten in favor of raw honesty, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“you make me want to be the kind of man who deserves a woman who puts that much love into everything she touches,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “and i know i’m not there yet, but i want to spend the rest of my life trying. if you’ll let me. if you’ll have me, with all my terrible habits and my tendency to leave protein powder rings on your pristine counters and my complete inability to remember which spoon is for tasting and which is for mixing even though you’ve told me a thousand times—”
“yes,” you breathed, the word escaping like a prayer, like something that had been building inside you for months and finally found its way out. your hands flew to your mouth, tears spilling over your cheeks. then louder, clearer, with a certainty that surprised you both: “yes. yes, of course, yes. you beautiful, ridiculous man, yes.”
relief crashed over his features like sunrise after the longest night, his shoulders sagging as the tension finally left his body. suddenly he was moving, crossing the spacious new kitchen in three quick strides, his long legs eating up the distance between you. he scooped you up, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you around despite the flour that would definitely transfer to his black henley.
you laughed—bright, joyous, disbelieving—the sound echoing off the stainless steel surfaces as he set you down gently, his hands framing your face like you were something precious and fragile.
he took your left hand with reverent care, his fingers steady now, and the ring slipped onto your finger like it had been waiting there all along, a perfect fit that made your heart stutter. you stared down at it through tears, this small, shining promise that caught the light and threw it back in brilliant fragments.
“it was my grandmother’s,” he said softly, his thumb tracing over your knuckles, his voice thick with emotion. “she would have loved you. probably would have spent hours teaching you her secret recipes and conspiring against my diet with homemade cookies and guilt trips about being too skinny.”
you looked up at him, this beautiful, impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world, and felt something click into place deep in your chest, like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t known you were solving. “she raised someone pretty wonderful,” you whispered, your voice watery with happiness.
he cupped your face in his flour-dusted hands and kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like promises and the lingering sweetness of cake batter. when you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the moment.
“so,” he said, that familiar playful edge creeping back into his voice, though it was rougher now, weighted with emotion. “think we should celebrate with cake?”
you laughed, the sound bubbling up from some deep, happy place inside you, your hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. “the honey lavender isn’t ready yet.”
“then i guess,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there, “we’ll just have to make do with each other.”
and in the warm, sweet-scented sanctuary of your expanded kitchen, with an engagement ring catching the light and his arms around you, you thought you’d never tasted anything sweeter.
the next few weeks passed in a blur of congratulations and wedding planning that somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world, like every decision was just another recipe to perfect together. your expanded bakery had become an even bigger destination after satoru posted a photo of your engagement ring next to a perfectly plated slice of the honey lavender cake, captioned simply: “she said yes. tastes even sweeter than it looks. #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything #futurewife”
the internet had collectively lost its mind with joy, his comments section turning into a virtual celebration that lasted for days.
but the real magic happened in the quiet moments between the public celebrations. like the evening you’d spent sprawled on the living room floor of the apartment above the bakery—your apartment, officially both of yours now, his name on the lease and his terrible reality tv preferences integrated into your netflix algorithm—surrounded by wedding magazines and cake flavor combinations scribbled on index cards.
“okay,” you said, shuffling through your notes with the same methodical precision you brought to everything, your engagement ring catching the lamplight as you moved. “we’ve narrowed it down to seven flavors. one for each month we’ve been together.”
“our love story in cake form,” he agreed, lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands, looking at you like you’d personally hung every star in the sky. his eyes were soft and dreamy, the way they got when he was completely, utterly content. “very us.”
“so the bottom layer,” you continued, consulting your carefully organized list, your brow furrowed in that adorable way it did when you were concentrating, “vanilla bean with salted caramel. for that first day you came in and i thought you were just another pretty face with a sweet tooth.”
“just another pretty face?” he gasped in mock offense, rolling onto his back and pressing his hand to his chest like you’d wounded him mortally. his hair fanned out against the hardwood floor like a halo, and you had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it. “i’ll have you know this pretty face was already planning our future together after that first smile.”
“mmm,” you hummed, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly as warmth bloomed in your chest, “the second layer is dark chocolate with raspberry. rich and a little tart, like how i felt when i realized you were actually going to be a problem for my carefully ordered life.”
“a problem?” he sat up, scooting closer until he could nuzzle into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “i prefer ‘best thing that ever happened to you.’”
“that’s layer seven,” you said softly, your voice going tender in a way that made his heart do somersaults. “honey lavender. sweet and unexpected and perfect.”
he went quiet then, understanding the weight of what you were saying, his arms tightening around you. “and the layers in between?”
“lemon with strawberry buttercream for the first time you made me laugh until my sides hurt—that morning you tried to help me make croissants and somehow got butter in your hair.” you were smiling now, lost in the memory, your fingers absently playing with the hem of his shirt. “coffee cake with brown butter frosting for all those early mornings you started showing up before we opened, just to spend time with me. vanilla rose for the day you told me you loved me. and…” you blushed, consulting your notes, “brown butter cake with cinnamon cream cheese frosting for the first time you stayed the night and i woke up to you making breakfast. the most chaotic breakfast, but the gesture was perfect.”
“hey,” he protested, pulling back to look at you with wounded dignity, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout, “that french toast was a masterpiece.”
“baby,” you said, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone, “you used hamburger buns because i was out of regular bread.”
“innovation,” he said solemnly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “that’s what separates the great chefs from the merely good ones.”
you’d spent that night planning every detail, from the sugar flowers you’d craft by hand to the way you’d display each layer so guests could see the beautiful cross-section of your love story. he’d been unusually quiet as you worked, and you’d found him later at your kitchen table at two in the morning, surrounded by crumpled papers and wearing the ridiculous “kiss the cook” apron you’d gotten him as a joke, his shoulders curved in defeat.
“baby?” you’d whispered, padding over in your pajamas and his oversized gym shirt, your heart clenching at the sight of him looking so lost. “what are you doing?”
“trying to write my vows,” he’d said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, his hands buried in his hair. “but i can’t get it right. how do you put into words the moment someone becomes your whole world? how do you explain that you didn’t even know you were incomplete until they showed up and made everything make sense? how do you tell someone that they turned you from a man who thought love was a distraction into someone who can’t imagine existing without them?”
you’d climbed into his lap then, right there in the kitchen chair, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed soft kisses to his temple. together, you’d found the words. together, the way you did everything now.
the cake tasting had turned into an event in itself. you’d closed the bakery early on a tuesday afternoon, transforming the main floor into a private testing kitchen with the kind of nervous excitement you usually reserved for new recipe launches. your wedding cake, all seven layers of your love story, sat on the counter in individual slices, each layer labeled with a small card explaining its significance in your careful script.
“okay,” you’d said, suddenly nervous as you watched him approach the display, your hands smoothing down your flour-dusted apron for the hundredth time. “remember, these are just samples. the actual wedding cake will be much prettier, and the proportions will be better, and—”
“cupcake,” he’d interrupted gently, taking your flour-dusted hands in his, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles in that soothing way that never failed to calm your racing thoughts. “breathe. it’s perfect because you made it.”
the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like perfection was just a natural byproduct of your touch, made your chest tight with emotion.
he’d insisted on tasting each layer separately, giving you detailed feedback like the world’s most devoted food critic, his expressions shifting from anticipation to bliss with each bite. the vanilla bean and salted caramel had made him close his eyes and hum appreciatively, a sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. the chocolate raspberry had earned a low whistle of approval that made your cheeks flush.
but you were just as gone for him, watching the way his face lit up with each taste, the way he’d pause and consider flavors with the same intensity he brought to everything else, the way his eyes would find yours after each bite like he needed to share the experience with you. when he reached for your hand during the coffee layer, threading your fingers together like he couldn’t bear not to be touching you, your heart did something ridiculous and fluttery in your chest.
“this one,” he’d said after trying the vanilla rose, his voice slightly rough, “tastes like that morning when you told me you loved me back. all sunshine and possibility.”
“you remember what i was wearing?” you’d asked, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn in by the softness in his expression.
“that yellow sundress with the little buttons,” he’d said immediately, his free hand coming up to trace the air where the buttons would have been. “you had flour in your hair and you kept fidgeting with the ties on your apron.”
the fact that he remembered those details, that he’d cataloged them like they mattered, made your breath catch.
but it was the honey lavender that had undone him completely. his whole body had gone still after the first bite, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment you’d worried something was wrong. then his shoulders had started shaking slightly, and you’d realized with a start that he was crying.
“that’s it,” he’d said finally, his voice thick with emotion, eyes still closed like he was afraid to break the spell. “that’s the one.”
“which one?” you’d whispered, though part of you already knew.
“the feeling. the one you were trying to capture when you made it for me that first time.” he’d opened his eyes then, and they were bright with unshed tears that made your own eyes prickle in response. “it tastes like the moment i realized i was completely, hopelessly, forever in love with you.”
“satoru,” you’d breathed, and then you were kissing him, tasting honey and lavender and promises on his lips, both of you crying a little as you held each other in your expanded bakery surrounded by the evidence of how far you’d come.
“marry me tomorrow,” he’d mumbled against your lips, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress like he was afraid you might disappear.
“we already have a date picked,” you’d laughed, but your voice was shaky with emotion.
“marry me right now then,” he’d said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and bright. “i don’t care about the dress or the flowers or any of it. i just want to be yours officially.”
the months leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of planning and preparation, but also of quiet domestic moments that felt like the real celebration
. mornings spent teaching him increasingly complex techniques, watching his confidence grow as he mastered croissant lamination and sugar work and the precise art of tempering chocolate, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration in a way that made your heart flutter.
afternoons working side by side, his playlist mixing with yours over the bakery’s sound system, creating the soundtrack to your shared life. evenings curled up on the couch, him reading nutrition labels to you while you sketched cake designs on his chest, both of you laughing at how perfectly your weird little habits complemented each other.
his social media had documented the whole journey, turning your followers into invested participants in your love story. posts about cake testing sessions and venue scouting, videos of him practicing his piping technique with the focused intensity he usually reserved for deadlifts, photos of you both covered in flour and grinning like idiots after successful experiments.
“wedding cake testing day 3: she’s perfect, the cakes are perfect, life is perfect #blessed #luckiestman #cakefortifiedgroom”
“month 12 of pastry school and she still hasn’t kicked me out. pretty sure that means i’m stuck with her forever #keeper #futurewife #sheputsupwitheverything”
the night before the wedding, he’d found you in the bakery’s kitchen at midnight, putting the finishing touches on the seven-layer masterpiece that would serve as the centerpiece of your reception. you’d been working for hours, crafting delicate sugar flowers by hand, each petal formed with the kind of patience and precision that had first caught his attention all those months ago.
“shouldn’t you be at your bachelor party?” you’d asked without looking up, your brow furrowed in concentration as you focused on attaching a particularly delicate rose to the top tier.
“nah,” he’d said, settling onto a stool at the work counter, his chin propped on his hands as he watched you work. “masaru and the guys went to some sports bar. figured they could celebrate my last night of freedom without me. i’d rather spend it watching you create magic.”
“it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” you’d protested halfheartedly, but you were smiling as you worked, warmth spreading through your chest at his presence.
“pretty sure that’s just about the dress,” he’d said, his voice soft with adoration as he watched your steady hands. “besides, i’ve been watching you create beautiful things every day for over a year. why would i want to stop now?”
you’d worked in comfortable silence, him occasionally handing you tools or holding delicate pieces steady while you attached them, his presence calming in the way it always was. when you’d finally stepped back to admire the finished cake—seven layers of love story rising in perfect, elegant tiers—he’d let out a low whistle of appreciation that made your cheeks warm.
“damn, cupcake. that’s not a wedding cake. that’s art.”
“it’s us,” you’d said simply, wiping your hands on your apron, and somehow that had said everything.
standing at the altar the next day in his perfectly tailored tux, satoru felt like his heart might actually burst from his chest. the ceremony was perfect—intimate and personal, held in the garden behind flour & sugar with your closest friends and family gathered under fairy lights and white flowers, the lingering scent of the bakery’s ovens mixing with the evening air.
the space had been transformed, but it still felt like home. like you. white flowers and trailing greenery wound around the fence he’d painted himself, and small tables scattered throughout the garden held miniature versions of pastries from your menu, little bites of your love story for guests to enjoy.
his hands were shaking again, the same way they had the night he’d proposed, and he had to flex his fingers to keep them steady. his best man kept shooting him concerned looks, and masaru had actually brought smelling salts, tucked discretely in his jacket pocket, after satoru had nearly fainted during the rehearsal.
but none of his nerves mattered when the music started—an acoustic version of the song he’d learned to play for you, performed by a local musician you’d hired for the garden’s friday night performances. none of his anxiety mattered when the small crowd rose to their feet, turning toward the bakery’s back door with expectant smiles.
and then you appeared, and the whole world stopped.
you emerged from the bakery like something from a fairy tale, like every perfect thing he’d ever dreamed of and several he’d never been brave enough to imagine. your dress was ivory silk and lace, simple and elegant and perfectly you, flowing around you like spun sugar as you walked down the short aisle between chairs draped with white fabric and scattered with rose petals—roses that matched the sugar flowers crowning your wedding cake.
but it was your smile that completely undid him—radiant and bright and aimed directly at him like he was the only person in the world worth looking at. your eyes were sparkling with tears and joy and so much love that he had to blink rapidly to keep from sobbing right there in front of everyone. the way you looked at him, like he was worth waiting for, like he was worth choosing, every single day.
his knees went weak, and his best man steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
when your father placed your hand in his, satoru had to take a shuddering breath because the moment felt too precious, too perfect to be real. your skin was soft and familiar, and he could feel the slight tremor in your fingers that matched his own nervous energy.
“hi,” you whispered, just for him, your voice slightly breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief and adoration.
“hi, beautiful,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your knuckles where his grandmother’s ring caught the golden hour light. “you ready to be stuck with me forever?”
“i’ve been ready since you demolished that first chocolate tart,” you said, your smile widening as you spoke, and he had to bite back a laugh because of course you’d make him smile even now, when his heart was trying to escape through his throat.
the ceremony passed in a blur of tears and laughter and promises that felt too big for words but somehow perfectly right. when the officiant finally said “you may kiss the bride,” satoru cupped your face like you were made of spun glass and kissed you like it was the first time and the last time and every time in between, pouring seven months of morning coffees and shared recipes and quiet domestic happiness into the moment.
the reception flowed seamlessly from ceremony to celebration, guests moving from the ceremony space to tables scattered throughout the garden and up onto the second floor of the bakery, which had been opened up and decorated with more fairy lights and flowing white fabric. the seven-layer cake stood in the center of it all, a tower of love story and sugar art that had guests stopping to take photos and marvel at the delicate details.
“ladies and gentlemen,” the musician announced as the sun set over your little empire, “the couple would like to cut their cake and share the story behind this incredible creation.”
you and satoru stood before the masterpiece, his hand warm and steady over yours on the knife handle, his chest pressed against your back as he murmured sweet nonsense in your ear that made you giggle. “ready?” you asked, looking up at him with eyes bright with happiness, your cheeks flushed with joy and champagne.
“been ready my whole life,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and meant it.
together, you cut into the bottom layer, the vanilla bean and salted caramel that represented that first day, that first moment when his world had tilted on its axis. the cake was perfect—moist and flavorful and beautiful in cross-section, each layer visible and distinct, a rainbow of your love story made edible.
he lifted the first piece to your lips with hands that finally weren’t shaking, watching as you bit into it with a soft hum of approval, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. a tiny dot of frosting stuck to the corner of your mouth, and without thinking, he leaned in and kissed it away, slow and sweet, tasting sugar and promises and forever on your lips.
“best cheat day of my life,” he whispered against your temple, his lips curving into a smile against your skin, making you laugh—that bright, joyous sound that had become the soundtrack to his happiness.
you looked up at him, your husband, this beautiful impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world and filled them with light and laughter and more joy than you’d ever thought possible, and felt your heart swell with so much love you thought it might actually burst.
“we’re just getting started,” you said, and kissed him again, sweet enough to rot his teeth, perfect enough to last forever.
as the night wound down and the last guests filtered out into the summer evening, you found yourselves back in the kitchen where it had all started, still in your wedding clothes but with bare feet and sleeves rolled up, sharing leftover cake and feeding each other bites while recounting the best moments of the day.
“i think,” satoru said, sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, you curled up between his legs with your head on his shoulder, his bow tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, “this might actually be better than my first chocolate tart.”
you gasped in mock offense, turning to look at him with wide eyes, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest. “better than the pastry that started it all? that’s basically blasphemy.”
“nah,” he said, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your ring finger, right over the simple gold band that now sat beside his grandmother’s engagement ring. “the chocolate tart was just the beginning. this is the happily ever after.”
you looked at him, this man who’d stumbled into your carefully ordered world and turned it into something sweeter, richer, more alive than you’d ever imagined possible, and knew with absolute certainty that this was what love looked like. not the dramatic, movie-perfect romance you’d once imagined, but this: wedding cake and bare feet and quiet promises made in kitchen light, surrounded by the beautiful life you’d built together from flour and sugar and impossible patience.
tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me @ilovebeansyay @ethereal-moonlit @anathemaspeaks @fancypeacepersona @scryarchives @chieeeeeee @snowsilver2000 @k-kkiana
The world’s strongest Jujutsu sorcerer bowed to absolutely no one. But would crumble to his knees for his dear darling wife. You were his exception, the one person who could control him completely.
Gojo had a reputation that carried across every clan and city. His presence alone could silence entire rooms without him needing to speak. Blindfolded or in shades, he revealed nothing to anyone.
He ignored elders, dismissed orders, and mocked all the rules of the council. Nobody could touch him or control him in any way, except for you. That was the difference.
There was a mission once where higher-ups barked orders at him, demanding strict obedience. Gojo only grinned, hands shoved into his pockets, and muttered, “Cute. But no. Not happening.”
He left them behind completely untouchable. Later, you softly called his name from across the room. He turned immediately and came directly to you without hesitation.
Another time, cursed users ambushed him in the middle of a city. Explosions ripped the streets apart. Blood techniques flew in every direction. Gojo flicked them away like they were nothing.
“Is that it?” he asked, grinning at their panic. They scrambled for safety while he remained untouchable.
That night, you pressed your palm firmly to his chest. “Sit,” you whispered softly.
He sat immediately. No argument. No prideful defiance. Just your voice and your command. That alone was enough to make him obey without question.
His students tried to challenge him as well. Yuuji begged for extra training. Megumi argued strategies. Nobara snapped at his laziness. Gojo laughed and flicked each of their foreheads without concern.
Then he came to you. You frowned sharply at him for being late to dinner. He muttered a quick apology and poured your drink like it was the most serious task. Nobody else ever got that.
The world’s strongest sorcerer was untouchable, unreachable, and unbeatable. Yet with you, he bent completely. Tonight, your gaze alone made him shiver with anticipation and obedience.
“On your knees, Satoru,” you said firmly, voice low and commanding.
He tilted his head. His grin twisted in amusement. “You really like bossing me around, huh?”
“Now,” you repeated, voice sharp and unyielding.
The single word was enough. He sank to his knees immediately. His tall frame folded down perfectly, hands sliding slowly against your thighs as he looked up at you.
“Happy?” he teased, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him.
“Not yet.” Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently to force him to meet your gaze.
His lips parted, breath caught sharply. His cock twitched inside his pants. He was already fully under your control.
“Fuck. You don’t play fair at all,” he muttered, pupils swelled, swallowing up his brilliant blues.
“You love it,” you said, pressing your thumb firmly against his lips. He opened his mouth immediately and sucked it, obeying without hesitation.
He groaned low in his throat. His tongue slid against your skin. You pulled back slightly. “God, you drive me completely insane every single time,” he muttered.
You tugged his hair again, guiding his face firmly against your stomach. “Mouth.”
He obeyed without a second thought. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your clothing out of the way. His lips pressed against your cunt, moaning as he made contact.
His tongue moved through your folds, sloppy, wet, and precise. He sucked at your clit with sharp, insistent need. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you in place completely.
“Fuck, Satoru,” you hissed, grinding your hips downward. He moaned loudly, saliva dripping from his lips. His mouth moved expertly over your slick, devouring you.
He pulled back only briefly to pant. “I can’t get enough of this. I cannot get enough of you,” he admitted, voice shaky.
“Shut up and keep going,” you demanded, pressing your hips harder against his face.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied immediately. He dove back in, thrusting his tongue deeply. His nose rubbed harshly against your puffy clit. His hands gripped your thighs as he held you completely.
The sounds around the room became obscene and filthy. Wet, sloppy slurps echoed. He wanted you completely trembling, begging, and ruined above him.
“Fuck—so good,” he groaned, eyes glassy. “I could stay here forever. Please, let me stay here and never stop.”
You pressed his head down harder. “Then stay.”
He obeyed instantly. His tongue swirled rapidly inside you. Your knees threatened to buckle beneath him. He held you steady, grinding his mouth into you without mercy.
“Fuck—Satoru—!” you gasped, thrusting against his mouth. He moaned harshly. His cock twitched painfully, ignored entirely, still restrained in his pants.
His glassy eyes locked on yours. “Cum on my mouth. Please. I need it. You’re mine,” he begged, voice trembling.
You pulled him closer, your orgasm hitting with shattering force. You screamed his name. Your cunt clenched around him. Slick poured down into his mouth. He swallowed every drop greedily.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, voice cracking. You tried to push him back.
He refused entirely, sucking your clit even harder until you yelped.
“One more,” he said, desperate. “Give me one more, baby. I need you.”
“Satoru—ahhh—fuck!” You cried out as another orgasm ripped through your body. You convulsed, trembling over him completely.
When you finally pushed him back, he sank onto his heels, panting heavily. His chin was dripping. His lips were swollen, red, and glossy.
His cock strained painfully against his pants. His chest heaved rapidly. “I would beg every day for this, every day,” he whispered.
“Good answer,” you said. You wiped his mouth with your thumb and then pushed him backward onto the floor. You straddled his lap immediately.
He grinned, desperate, lost. “Fuck—you are going to kill me tonight,” he groaned.
“That’s the point,” you said, lowering yourself slowly.
You pulled his cock free from his pants. His breath hitched sharply. He twitched under you. The size, the heat, the way it pulsed for you, it was obscene.
You lowered yourself fully. His scream was raw, loud, and desperate. His body arched as your cunt swallowed him completely.
“Fuck—fuck—baby—” he gasped. His head slammed against the floor. His hands grabbed your hips. Fingers dug in, holding you tight.
You sank down fully, tight around him. He shivered violently. Each thrust tore guttural moans from him. Pleasure and pain mixed.
“You’re huge,” you hissed, rolling your hips slowly.
How about dark obsessive geto who constantly worries his partner will leave him due to his own insecurities stemming from his poor mental health and the constant comparison to his best friend who he knows is stronger than him. (Ps. i love you blog so much you work is seriously so high quality🥹)
— my ribs are tired of holding your name, s. geto
feat. geto suguru
sum. “you keep building walls,” you continue, “and every time i climb one, you build another. and i climb that one. and then you build another. and i keep climbing, suguru. i keep trying. and every time i get to the top, you accuse me of trying to jump.”
warning. emotionally damaged geto, insecure!geto, chronic self-sabotage, possessive behavior, deep-seated inferiority complex (re: gojo), verbal conflict, loud affectionate partner vs emotionally repressed boyfriend, angst-heavy argument, crying during reconciliation, emotional vulnerability, self-worth issues, emotional dependency, frank conversation about trust and insecurity, teasing / pet names (crybaby, slut-o-sugu), emotional neglect (unintentional), unhealthy communication habits (being worked on), mutual emotional damage, explicit swearing.
the day starts off dumb, hot, and yellow.
you’re standing out in the training field at jujutsu tech, where the grass is dead in weird uneven stripes, the sky is the color of melted mochi, and the cicadas scream like the apocalypse is five minutes late. it's too hot to be outside and yet here you are, all of you, the entire absurdly overpowered gang of borderline feral twenty-somethings in uniforms that technically qualify as professional wear but mostly just cling to every patch of sweat like a personal vendetta.
your shirt is halfway unbuttoned because you’re dramatic and it’s hot and also because shoko said “you look hot like that” and that was the validation you needed to sin against standard dress code. your skirt is a little crooked, your socks mismatched, and you’re not wearing the school shoes because they gave you blisters and you threw them on the roof last week in protest. your whole vibe is “half put together, half lost a fight with a ceiling fan,” but somehow you still manage to look stupidly pretty, in that obnoxiously radiant way that makes half the people here contemplate violence and the other half contemplate poetry.
shoko’s beside you, dragging on a cigarette like she’s trying to summon a demon with her lungs. nanami is standing suspiciously far from everyone like he’s afraid of catching whatever contagious idiocy gojo and haibara are sharing today. haibara’s talking so fast he’s tripping over his own sentences, grinning in that full-body way that makes you feel like maybe god does exist, and he might be a blonde kid who smiles at frogs. gojo’s doing that thing again—showing off his infinity by making a pencil hover in front of haibara’s face and daring him to touch it.
“it’s like. right there,” haibara says, squinting with his nose scrunched and tongue sticking out. “why can’t i grab it?”
“you can’t because,” gojo hums, swaying on his heels, sunglasses reflecting nothing but the sharp arc of your dumbfounded expression, “i’m better than you. also because of physics.”
“physics is fake,” you say, point-blank, and gojo looks delighted. he spins the pencil in the air like a magician on meth.
you’re watching him with your mouth open just a little. you don’t mean to be impressed—okay maybe a little, but mostly it’s just kind of hot when someone can break the laws of space-time with their fingers and still be this stupid. he’s grinning like a child with a new toy and you can’t help it—you laugh, leaning forward, squinting to try and see how the hell the pencil isn’t being touched. it’s magic. it's annoying. it’s impressive.
you don’t see geto until you feel him.
his presence hits you like humidity and worry, like soft shadows pooling under the eyes of someone who hasn’t been sleeping right, like jealousy masked as detachment, leaning against the edge of the courtyard with his arms crossed and his mouth twisted into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. he’s in the shade of the old torii gate, hair tied up messily like he did it with one hand, long sleeves despite the heat like he's punishing himself. his eyes are on you.
not on gojo. on you.
and you don’t notice him noticing until he speaks, voice lower than usual, something coiled in his throat. “he loves showing off,” geto mutters, almost to himself, as if he’s just pointing out the weather, as if he’s not watching you stare at gojo’s infinity like it’s a mirror and you’re searching for something you lost.
you turn—blink, slow like syrup—and when your gaze meets his, you smile so fast and full it almost knocks the wind out of him.
“babyyyy,” you chirp, and you’re already moving, already walking—no, beelining—towards him with arms wide and that dangerous look on your face like you’re going to climb him like a tree and make it everyone’s problem. you reach him and throw your arms around his waist without asking, without warning, pressing your cheek into his chest like you’re trying to apologize for something you haven’t done yet.
his hand’s in your hair immediately. almost instinctual. desperate.
“you’re warm,” you murmur.
“you’re staring at satoru like he’s god,” he replies, and then blinks, and then tries to backpedal. “not that i care. i mean, obviously. he’s flashy. and stupid. like a glitter bomb in a trash can.”
you laugh into his shirt, nose wrinkling. “you’re such a hater.”
“i’m not a hater,” he says, lying directly to your face. “i’m just acutely aware that he’s the strongest.”
“so?” you tilt your head back to look up at him, eyes soft now, voice warm, sugar-slow. “you’re mine.” his throat bobs. you watch it. he doesn’t say anything. you shift against him, tugging him closer, and he lets you. he always lets you.
behind you, gojo yells something about “visual proof of my superiority” and haibara laughs so loud it echoes off the walls. shoko sighs like she regrets every choice that led her to this moment. nanami mutters something like “i’m going to fake my death.”
geto just looks down at you, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, fingers tightening in your hair like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. “you love him,” he says eventually, in that voice he uses when he wants you to lie to him.
you blink, and then furrow your brow. “i love you.”
he doesn’t believe it. not fully. not when he’s spent so long being second-best. not when the brightest star in the sky wears sunglasses and can make a whole room laugh just by breathing weird. not when geto knows—knows—he will never be enough.
but he lets you hold him. lets you bury your hands in his hair. lets you kiss the side of his jaw and say stupid sweet things like “my pretty boy,” like “you’re all i want,” like “even if you turned into a worm i’d still kiss your weird worm face.”
“that’s disgusting,” he whispers.
“you love it.”
he does. god, he does. he’s just scared. terrified, actually. of not being enough. of being a footnote in your story. of waking up and realizing you’ve finally noticed the way satoru shines brighter.
but right now you’re here, clinging to him, laughing like an idiot and calling him baby, and he thinks maybe he can breathe. maybe he can survive this. maybe, if he just holds you tighter, the fear will go quiet for a while.
“don’t look at him like that,” he mutters, nose pressed to your temple.
“like what?”
“like he’s everything.”
“he’s not,” you whisper back. “you are.”
and for a second—for just one stupid, aching, precious second—he lets himself believe it.
and still, despite all of your sweet words, it was genuine, he can feel it—god, he knows it, because your voice doesn't tremble when you speak to him like that, when you call him baby like it's a title only he deserves, because your arms wrap around him without hesitation, without a shred of self-consciousness, like you were born to press your cheek against his chest and claim his heartbeat like a possession—but it’s exactly that very genuineness that breaks him open like overripe fruit, leaking sweetness and rot in equal measure, because if you're not saying these things to make him feel better, if you're not performing affection like a duty to his instability, if you’re not twisting your tongue into kind things for the sake of the pitiful man with shaking hands, then that means you truly don’t know.
you don’t see.
you don’t see the writhing, twitching grotesquerie beneath his skin, the deep-rooted, festering neurosis blooming like mold in the attic of his mind, where every echo of your laugh that isn't for him becomes a curse, every side-glance to satoru becomes a betrayal etched in neon across his heart, every accidental praise becomes another stone in the cathedral of doubt he's building inside his ribs. the worst part—the unspeakable horror—is that you’re not doing it on purpose.
you’re not cruel. you’re not manipulative. you’re not twisting knives for the pleasure of watching him bleed. no, you’re just yourself—bright and unaware and devastatingly honest—and that makes it all the worse. it means you say things because you mean them. it means you laugh at gojo’s idiotic jokes because they are, somehow, tragically, funny. it means you stare at infinity like a child at fireworks because it really is incredible.
you didn’t see how his fingers curled into his sleeves when your eyes lit up at gojo’s trick, the slow glow of awe blooming across your face like a sunrise that didn’t belong to him. you didn’t see the moment he stopped breathing—not because he was angry, but because he felt small, like a ghost watching his own funeral, invisible and pathetic, haunting the edges of a life he so desperately wanted to be enough for.
he thinks—he knows, or thinks he knows, which is worse—that you don’t even realize what you’re doing to him. that you water the doubt in his chest like a houseplant you forgot was dying, just by being lovely, just by laughing with gojo like he’s gravity, just by letting your eyes shine when you turn to talk to the man who never had to earn his greatness, who never had to wonder if he was enough. and geto—geto knows he is not gojo. geto is the shadow beside him, the hand on the leash of monsters, the quiet one, the tragic one, the one with too many teeth in his head and too many thoughts he can't kill.
but you—oh, you—you love him like he’s sacred. you touch him like he’s fragile. you kiss him like you’re starving, and maybe that’s what hurts the most. because what if all of that tenderness is wasted on something ugly? what if he’s just tricking you by existing, by being held together with string and superiority complexes and the gnawing fear that he was never first choice?
and you don’t even know.
you don’t know that when you say “you’re my pretty boy” with your hands in his hair, you’re also reminding him he is not the strongest. you don’t know that every time you tell gojo “shut up you idiot, i love him more” and laugh afterward like it’s just a joke, geto has to convince himself that maybe it’s not a prophecy.
you don’t know that you are unknowingly breaking him apart in slow, slow motion.
and he—well, he doesn’t know how to tell you without sounding insane.
because what is he supposed to say? “hey, every time you smile at satoru i imagine dying?”
“every time you laugh with him i feel like a stand-in until you wake up to the fact that you could have had something better?”
“sometimes i think about leaving before you realize you should have chosen him?”
and it’s stupid. god, it’s so stupid.
because the truth is this: your eyes twinkle more when you see geto, but he’s so wrapped in his own gloom he doesn't see it. you smile the biggest when he’s near, but he thinks you're just being nice. if you could drool when he walks into a room, you would—but he assumes you're just affectionate by nature. he's so busy comparing himself to a man who commands the cosmos that he doesn't notice the way your whole body sighs when he touches your waist. he doesn’t notice the way your voice gets softer when you say his name. he doesn't hear how different it sounds when you call him “baby.”
he’s handsome, heartbreakingly so, in that melancholic, slow-burning way that makes people write books and ruin marriages. his voice calms you. his hands—gentle, always gentle, even when they tremble—make you feel safe in a world full of curses and blood. he doesn’t get it. he doesn’t see it.
and you—you have no idea what you’re growing inside him. no idea that your joy with others becomes a mirror in which he sees every flaw of his soul, stretched and swollen. no idea that your kindness is interpreted by his demons as deceit. no idea that he loves you like a disease, and that he’s terrified you’ll find a cure.
because no one ever tells you that the person who holds you the softest might be doing so out of fear, not confidence.
and geto—sweet, obsessive, silently-unraveling geto—is falling apart inside, smiling when you kiss him, nodding when you tease gojo, trying not to think about how loudly the silence screams when he’s alone with his thoughts after.
it’s the kind of afternoon that feels like it’s not real—like it slipped through the cracks of the calendar, wedged itself in the teeth of time, and declared itself holy by virtue of its stillness. the dorm is quiet. the kind of quiet that rings. outside, the breeze hisses softly through the leaves of the massive tree leaning against geto’s window like an old friend who overstayed their welcome but knows no one will ever ask them to leave. the sunlight is filtered green, dappled and half-hearted, lazily laying itself across the floor in long bands that look like something out of a forgotten summer. the air smells faintly of dust, tree bark, and the faint residue of incense someone burned yesterday—sandalwood and melancholy.
you’re in his bed, half-tangled in his sheets, half-tangled in him, like some poor feral animal who crawled into his room and decided to live in the softest place it could find. your face is pressed against his chest, his skin warm and bare and stupidly smooth, like he’s never known the sin of shirt fabric. he’s only wearing black boxers and a distant expression. you, in your wrinkled tank top and panties you don’t even remember picking out, look like an afterthought in the most divine way. like you fell into the scene by accident and made it whole.
the fan is broken. the tree is not. it blocks the sun with slow, moving shadows that breathe across the bedsheets like lazy ghosts.
you’re quiet. your fingers are not.
they move slow, ritualistic, circling his abs like you’re trying to draw a curse or break one. not even looking. just tracing. like his body is braille and you’re trying to read a language older than speech. and then, because your mind works like that—full of thorns and flowers and nothing in between—you say it. plain. soft. not even whispering. “i love you.”
not because you expect anything. not because the moment calls for it. but because it’s true and the truth sometimes leaks out of you when you’re not careful. like blood from a paper cut you didn’t feel until it stained the sheets.
geto, who had been staring out the window with the quiet, vacant air of a man trying to convince himself he could think his way out of his body, blinks. turns. slowly. as if surprised to remember you’re real. as if he didn’t realize until now that the heat against his ribs was you and not some hallucination.
and when he looks at you—really looks—you see it. the earthquake in his chest. the panic, the disbelief, the yearning so sharp it could cut glass. it’s not that he doesn’t believe you. it’s that believing you might destroy him. but he smiles anyway. a tiny one. reverent. crooked at the corner like it’s broken under the weight of everything he doesn’t say.
he leans in.
kisses your forehead like an apology he’ll never give.
“i love you more,” he says, and it sounds like a dare. like a curse. like he’s saying, don’t test me, i will ruin myself for you. you don’t answer. not because you don’t have a response, but because you’re too busy memorizing the way his breath hitched, just a little, like he didn’t expect the words to leave his mouth.
and beneath all of that, under the hush and heat and softness of this moment, something awful stirs. because here’s the truth: this is the kind of intimacy that unravels people. not the naked skin, not the shared bed—this. this total, wordless trust. this stupid, reckless vulnerability. this belief that the person beside you is home.
and geto—poor, slow-burning, obsessive geto—can’t stop thinking about how fragile it all is. how easy it would be for you to wake up tomorrow and decide gojo makes you laugh harder. how simple it would be for someone else to trace those circles on someone else’s chest, and mean it.
he thinks: i will die if they ever stop loving me.
he thinks: i am already dying, slowly, because part of me doesn’t believe they ever could.
and you—sweet, oblivious you—have no idea. you’re just happy. just here. just in love with a man who doesn’t know how to let love rest inside him without turning it into a monster. so you hum, quietly. press your hand flat against his chest like you’re trying to anchor him to this moment. like you can feel the sea of doubt under his ribs, trying to pull him under.
and you say nothing else.
because you don’t have to.
because you’re in his bed, in his arms, in his life.
and for now—for now—that is enough. even if tomorrow he convinces himself it’s not. you’re talking to him.
god, you’re talking about nothing—something dumb, barely stitched together from fragments of mid-day delirium and your frankly impressive talent for word-vomit, maybe something about the bird outside the window that looked like it was considering tax evasion, or your growing theory that shoko is a lich who sustains herself with stress naps and nicotine, or how maybe, just maybe, nanami is an ancient spirit bound to human form by a tragic contract involving ties and capitalism. it doesn’t even matter what you’re saying. the words are nonsense. stupid little scraps of joy thrown into the air like confetti, and you’re laughing at your own joke before you finish the sentence and geto watches you like you’re a sunbeam trying to teach itself how to talk.
you’re mid-monologue again, some long-winded, winding-uphill nonsense about how if you were born a curse, you’d probably be one of those stupid little weak ones with googly eyes and wet noises, the kind that follow sorcerers around like lost puppies until someone squashes them accidentally with their heel.
“—but i’d be like, you know, cute disgusting. not like scary disgusting,” you say, dragging a finger across geto’s chest as if drawing diagrams helps your argument. “like a... squishy blob with little teeth, and a weird scream that sounds like a microwave breaking. a cursed spirit with anxiety. do you think you’d exorcise me, or would you keep me as a pet?”
he hums, eyes half-closed, smile lazy. “depends. would you still wake me up at two in the morning to talk about whether or not you think nanami has ever tasted bubblegum?”
you gasp. “rude. i’m intellectually curious.”
“you’re an unsupervised existential crisis in a tank top.”
“flattery will get you everywhere, baby.”
you say it with that ridiculous lilt you use when you’re being an absolute problem, and he laughs, actually laughs—soft and deep and achy, like something unsticking from his ribs—and it hits him all at once, how much he missed this: the noise, the closeness, the way you turn everything into a theater of warmth and chaos, like the world is a toy and you’re just here to wind it up until it sings something stupid.
he had forgotten. he had forgotten this feeling. how it feels to be close to you like this. how it feels to see you soft and stupid and warm, sprawled over him like you were poured there from a jar labeled beloved—how it feels to see you laugh with your whole face, lips curled and eyes half-shut, how the sound of your voice becomes something holy when you’re not trying to be profound, when you’re just being you.
and then you shift—slipping forward, sliding over his bare stomach with all the grace of a cat made of molten affection, your thighs warm as they bracket his hips, your tank top askew and collar slightly off-center in a way that makes his chest ache—and you lean down, slow, lazy, like gravity only partially applies to you, pressing your lips to the curve of his neck. soft. reverent. like he’s not a person but a prayer whispered into flesh.
he hums, stupidly. soft and low. like something in him uncoiled and exhaled all at once.
and then he opens his fucking mouth.
because unfortunately, tragically, horrifically—he’s been spending too much goddamn time with gojo.
and that means his brain has become infested with whatever glittering, narcissistic virus satoru carries like a crown of thorns made of LED lights and cocaine. that means geto, in a moment of unprecedented peace, of sacred affection, of genuine happiness, chooses to ruin his life like a man determined to leap off the bridge of emotional stability into the sea of self-sabotage.
he says, too casual, too joking, too Gojo™, “unless, of course, you were just wishing it was him you were kissing.” he even says it with a grin. like it’s funny. like it’s not the ugliest thing he’s ever said.
and the silence after? oh, god.
it’s the kind of silence that makes the air feel like it’s holding its breath. the kind of silence that tastes like iron. the kind of silence that feels heavy, like the room itself is judging him. you pull back. instantly. not dramatically, not cruelly, just quietly. your legs still around his waist, but your upper body lifts, and you look at him.
not wide-eyed. not offended. no. worse.
you frown.
not the cute frown you wear when he refuses to buy you boba because it’s midnight and you’ve already had three. not the fake pouty frown you use when you want to manipulate him into giving you his hoodie.
no.
it’s the you-hurt-me frown. the what-the-fuck, why-would-you-say-that, do-you-actually-think-that-of-me frown. the one that lands on your face like a crack across porcelain, small and shattering.
and geto’s soul evacuates his body.
he goes still. absolutely still. like an animal that realizes it's stepped into a trap too late. his breath stops in his throat. his heart curls in on itself. he wants to go back in time exactly seven seconds and beat the shit out of himself with a shovel.
your eyebrows draw in. that frown. the wrong frown. not your usual weaponized brattiness. not your theatrical “buy me bobba or i’ll become feral” frown. this one’s quieter. realer. like a line drawn in the sand.
“what the fuck, suguru?”
his stomach drops.
“wait—shit, wait, I didn’t—” he sits up, too, but you shift back slightly, still on him, but no longer touching like before. “i was joking.”
“joking?” your voice is sharp, incredulous, but still wounded under the surface like a cracked glass holding water. “do you think that’s funny?”
“no! no, it was stupid, okay? it just came out—satoru’s been—he gets in my head and—”
“so now he’s in your mouth, too?”
“babe—”
“no, seriously,” you cut him off, arms folding over your chest in a way that’s defensive, not playful. “do you really think i’m with you just because i can’t have him?”
he flinches.
you laugh, but it’s not really a laugh, it’s that bitter exhale of someone trying not to cry out of sheer insult. “fucking hell. you really think i’d do that.” he grips your thigh. gently. desperately. “no. i don’t. i know you love me. i know that. it’s just—fuck. i have so many voices in my head and none of them sound like you.”
you blink. slowly. jaw tight. “so whose do they sound like?”
he hesitates. then, quieter: “mine.”
you look down at him, eyes suddenly tired. not angry. not harsh. just sad in a way that makes him want to die and rewind time at once. “you think so low of yourself that even my love starts to feel like a lie.”
“yes,” he says, before he can stop himself. “yes. all the time. every day.”
your mouth opens, then closes again. your fingers twitch. you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time in a light he never let you turn on. then—voice so soft it could kill a man: “i love you so loudly. and you still don’t hear it.”
he closes his eyes.
“...wait—fuck. wait, wait,” he says, hands rising as if to physically pull the words back out of the air. “i didn’t mean it like that.”
you don’t say anything. not yet. just looking at him, eyes dark and serious in a way he hates, in a way that reminds him you’re not a dream, you’re not a doll, you’re not a fantasy built to nurse his broken self-esteem. you’re a real person, with real feelings, and he just stepped on them.
“it was a joke—i was being—i thought—” he stammers, then groans, covering his face with one hand. “fuck. fuck. i’m sorry.”
you slide off his lap slowly, knees on either side of him, sitting back on your heels like you're retreating into yourself. not angry. just… wounded. confused. like something fragile just snapped and you’re trying to figure out if it can be repaired.
and geto—geto—wants to scream.
because it was a joke. a stupid, god-awful, shitty joke pulled from the tangled, moldy corners of his insecurities, and it wasn’t fair to you, not even a little, and the second it left his lips he realized that. because all of his rotting self-doubt, all of his warped mirrors and festering fears, none of that is your responsibility, and the way your smile faded is now permanently etched into the surface of his heart.
“you think i’d want to kiss gojo?” you say, quiet, and you’re not crying but there’s something in your voice that makes him wish you were, because crying he could fix. crying he could hold. crying would mean you still want comfort. this tone—this smallness—it means you’re folding away from him, and that’s the worst thing.
“no,” he breathes. “no. i don’t. i don’t, baby, i know you love me, i know—i just—”
he wants to explain. he wants to take a scalpel to his skull and show you the thoughts that never leave him, the way he measures himself against gojo and always comes up short, the way your laugh—even when it’s his—echoes in his head next to the idea that someone better could make you laugh harder. he wants to scream i’m sorry i’m so fucked up that i don’t believe i’m lovable even when you love me so loudly it fills rooms.
but he just kneels there, mouth open, heart bleeding, staring at the person who holds his soul like glass.
and he prays—god, he prays—that this isn’t the moment he loses you. not over something this stupid. not over a joke that wasn’t a joke. not when you’re the only thing that makes him feel real. “i didn’t mean it,” he says quickly, reaching for you, but you’re already sliding back.
you swing a leg off him and stand, bare feet hitting the cold floor with a thud. your tank top is twisted and your panties are riding up but you don’t care. your hands are already reaching for your clothes—your crumpled skirt, the stupid hoodie you stole from him, the bra you only wore for two hours before declaring it a torture device.
“babe, wait—wait, please,” he says, sitting up, guilt crawling across his face like rot. “i wasn’t serious. it was just a joke.”
you laugh. sharp and humorless.
“that’s your joke?” you snap, pulling your shirt down over your head. “what, implying i want to fuck your best friend instead of you? hilarious. really. top-tier comedy.”
“i just—i don’t know,” he runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. “i say stupid shit when i feel… small.”
“so i’m supposed to be your punching bag now?” you shoot back. “every time your insecurity flares up, i’m the one who has to swallow it?”
“no,” he says, but it’s useless. he knows he fucked up. he always knows, but not until it’s too late. not until your face is twisted with that specific kind of hurt that’s worse than tears. worse than yelling. the kind where you look like you’re doubting not just him, but yourself.
“you think so little of me?” your voice is quieter now, trembling. “you really think i’d do that to you?” he stands. walks toward you. not fast. like he knows he doesn’t deserve to close the distance too quickly.
“i don’t,” he says. “i just think—i think so little of me.”
you stare at him for a long, long moment. long enough that the wind slips through the open window again, brushing past you like an apology neither of you know how to give. “you should figure that out,” you say finally, voice flat, eyes empty in that dangerous way, “before you start accusing the people who love you of being liars.”
he opens his mouth. closes it. swallows the scream in his throat.
you pull your shoes on, tying them too tightly, too fast.
“you’re leaving?” he asks, because of course he asks. because he can’t stop himself from twisting the knife even further. “what do you want me to do, suguru?” you look at him, eyes burning. “stay? act like that didn’t hurt? laugh and say it’s fine? i’m not gojo. i don’t think everything’s a fucking joke.”
you don’t slam the door when you leave.
you don’t have to.
the silence left behind is louder than anything else.
the days after the fight bleed together like oversteeped tea—everything too warm, too bitter, too slow. you and geto orbit each other like dying stars, held in place by gravity and shared history, but no longer touching, no longer colliding, just spinning in silent misery. you see him in the halls, in class, at meals, and he always looks like he’s about to say something and then doesn’t. like he’s swallowed his tongue and learned to live with the taste of regret.
you’ve slept in your own dorm for three nights straight, and it feels wrong. your bed feels too wide. too cold. your dreams feel half-finished, because his arms aren’t there to wrap around you like a promise or a trap. and the worst part is that you miss him—desperately—but your pride is a wild, wounded thing, and it won’t let you crawl back without some kind of apology. some kind of offering. and he hasn’t come. not yet.
so when gojo and shoko find you sulking under the big willow tree on the edge of the training grounds, back against the bark and face hidden beneath your hoodie like a grumpy swamp cryptid, you know they’re going to say something. you just didn’t think it would be a tag-team intervention.
“you look like a haunted garden gnome,” gojo says, flopping down beside you with his usual lack of respect for personal space or the gravity of emotional suffering. “like if despair was sold in a vending machine.”
“you look like a toe,” you mutter.
“thank you, i work hard on my appearance.”
shoko slides down beside you on the other side, moving slower, more cigarette-exhausted than usual. her eyes are unreadable, but you know she knows. they both know. you told them. or—well—you unloaded on them. cried into shoko’s lap like a feral child and screamed into gojo’s hoodie while he patted your head like you were a shaken can of soda he didn’t know how to open without getting emotional residue all over his sleeves.
gojo wanted to go knock on geto’s door immediately, fists clenched, hair a mess, sunglasses slightly askew like he was gearing up for a final boss fight. “i’m gonna fucking kill him,” he announced. “i’m gonna punch him right in the feelings.”
you had to physically restrain him with a sandwich.
and now they’re here. in the shade. sitting with you while the wind threads through the branches like lazy fingers. the air smells like grass and resentment. “so,” shoko says, flicking her lighter open, then closed, then open again. she doesn’t light a cigarette. she just clicks. “you gonna keep sulking until you grow moss, or are you gonna go fix it?”
“he hasn’t even tried,” you snap. “why should i?”
“because you love him?” gojo says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the goddamn world. “and you’re both idiots, and I’m stuck watching this romcom spiral into tragedy with no popcorn.”
you glare at him. “he implied i wanted to fuck you.”
gojo blinks. then his whole face contorts. “ew,” he says, recoiling. “ew ew ew ew—”
“you asshole,” you snarl, smacking him on the side of the head so hard his sunglasses fly off. “what the fuck does ew mean?”
“not like that! i just—ugh,” he rubs his temple, making the most disgusted face known to man. “you’re like—i don’t know—you’re like a weird little sister who grew up too fast and discovered eyeliner and sarcasm and now threatens me with violence every day.”
“you deserve violence,” you hiss.
“you’re missing the point,” shoko cuts in, voice dry but patient. “you’re both clearly miserable. and he’s probably rotting in his dorm, crying into your pillow or whatever tragic goth shit he does when he fucks up.”
“he thinks i’m secretly in love with gojo,” you say, voice bitter.
“so?” shoko shrugs. “you think he’s secretly in love with his own self-hatred. neither of you are wrong.”
gojo makes a sound of betrayal. “what the hell, shoko.”
“i’m just saying,” she says, calmly, lighting the cigarette this time. “he’s fucked up. and he loves you. and he thinks he’s not good enough for you, so his brain makes it true. because if you did leave him, at least he wouldn’t be surprised. that’s how he protects himself. by hurting first.”
you go quiet.
the wind picks up again. the willow leaves sway above you, casting dancing shadows across your knees.
“…you think he misses me?”
“oh my god,” gojo groans, flopping backwards into the grass like he’s been shot. “he’s dying. i walked past his dorm last night and i could feel the heartbreak seeping out of the walls like mold. he’s probably been listening to sad music and wearing your socks.”
you blink. “he stole my socks?”
“focus,” shoko says flatly.
“he loves you,” gojo adds, suddenly serious, one hand over his eyes. “he’s just bad at showing it when his brain tells him you’d be better off with someone shinier.” you sigh. long and slow. your hands curl in your lap. your pride still screams wait. but your heart aches in a voice that’s softer. more tired.
“…should i talk to him?”
“yes,” both of them say in perfect unison.
you look at the ground. then the tree. then the sky. then your hands. and finally, with the weight of something blooming and dangerous and inevitable—
“…fine.”
gojo cheers like you just proposed to someone.
shoko takes a drag and exhales smoke shaped like the word finally.
and somewhere across campus, in a dim dorm room that smells like you, suguru geto sits on the floor with your sock in his hand, thinking he’s already lost you.
and by “fine,” what you actually meant was not that you were going to go marching off like a romcom heroine into geto’s dorm with a heart in your hands and forgiveness on your tongue, no—fine meant sitting under the willow tree like a bitter little gremlin wedged between shoko and gojo, bruised ego still bleeding and brain racing through forty-three different emotionally catastrophic speeches you might unleash on him later, maybe, if the stars aligned and your pride didn't stab you on the way there.
you were fine, in the same way a nuclear reactor is fine ten seconds before meltdown. you were chewing on a blade of grass like it owed you money, pouting so hard your face hurt, glaring at nothing while shoko offered you her cigarette and gojo kept throwing pebbles at a tree trunk like he was trying to invent a new form of passive-aggressive communication.
"you should open with, ‘hey, remember when you accused me of wanting to fuck your best friend? yeah, that was cute,’" gojo offered brightly.
“you should open with a taser,” shoko said, more thoughtfully.
“i should open his ribs and see if his brain lives there,” you muttered, deadpan, still chewing the grass like it was gum made of hatred and embarrassment. “or you could talk to him like a normal person,” shoko added, eyeing you. “but no. emotional maturity is out. vengeance is in.”
“he’s not even gonna apologize, watch,” you snapped. “he’s gonna sit there and sulk like a kicked dog and expect me to heal him.”
“sick,” gojo said. “love that for you. toxic codependent shit. ten out of ten.”
“you two are insufferable,” you sighed.
“and you love us.”
unfortunately, yes.
you didn’t even notice gojo stiffen at first, just vaguely caught the movement of his head turning sharply. then—without warning—he kicked shoko directly in the shin. “fuck,” she hissed, whipping her hand out and smacking him upside the head with the practiced brutality of someone who’s done this a hundred times and will do it a hundred more. “why—”
“he’s coming,” gojo hissed through his teeth.
and then: “don’t turn, don’t be weird. act normal. act cool. god, you’re both failing this already.”
your spine snapped straight as a board. your mouth dried up. your heart started pounding in your throat like it was trying to escape through your ears. “fix it,” shoko muttered, standing and dusting off her pants. “i’m so fucking done with this tension. it’s killing the vibe. gojo hasn’t stopped singing breakup songs in falsetto for three days.”
“and none of you will respect my artistic journey,” he added, deeply offended. “i was working through grief.” as they passed you—shoko silent and annoyed, gojo loud and annoying—they both deliberately did not look at geto.
gojo, however, couldn’t help himself.
as he passed his oldest friend, he fake-coughed the word, "slut," with the kind of deadpan theatricality only gojo could manage.
geto, who by now had mastered the art of long-suffering, didn’t even pause—just rolled his eyes so hard it looked like a muscle spasm. but his lips twitched, barely, like he was suppressing the kind of smile you reserve for siblings and long-time war allies. gojo was going to harass him about this later. obviously.
and then it was quiet again.
just you. and him.
he stood there for a moment. above you. his shadow cutting a line across your lap.
“hey,” he said, voice soft. soft in a way that made your stomach do something unfortunate. careful, almost reverent, like if he said it too loudly it would shatter the whole world into a million sharp edges.
you didn’t respond.
you didn’t look at him. didn’t acknowledge him. you turned your face just a fraction to the side, still chewing the same doomed grass blade like it was your last shred of dignity. you pouted. you sulked. you glared at a nearby squirrel like it had personally betrayed you.
he smiled.
a real one. crooked and a little sad, but real. something in his chest loosening at the sight of you, even if your mouth was all twisted up in that furious little snarl you wore like armor.
he didn’t say anything else, didn’t press. he just sat down beside you slowly, knees drawn up, hands folded in his lap like he knew he was in the presence of something dangerous and sacred. and you sat there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, heat simmering between you like a story waiting to be told.
he sits beside you like he’s not sure he’s allowed to exist in the same space as you anymore, like the air between your shoulders might be mined or cursed or laced with invisible tripwires, and for a while, he doesn’t say anything at all—which would be fine, good, even, if he didn’t then ruin it, like always, with that nervous, twitchy brand of humor he inherited from spending too much time under gojo’s blinding light.
“so,” he starts, voice light, falsely casual, “gojo called me slut, which, first of all, rude, but also—i’m assuming you told him about the comment. the one where i accidentally implied you wanted to climb his weirdly long legs like a tree.”
you exhale through your nose so hard it could be classified as an act of war. you don’t look at him. you stare ahead like the wind is more interesting, or the squirrel that has returned to judge you both from a nearby branch. still chewing that same miserable blade of grass because you’re too proud to spit it out now, because it’s your only weapon, your shield, your protest sign.
“you’re lucky i didn’t let him punch you in the dick,” you mutter, dry, sharp, practically spitting the words. “he was ready to do violence for my honor.”
“oh, i could tell. he looked like he was about to write poetry on my grave,” geto says, grinning crookedly, trying to test the waters, to see if he can make you laugh, because that would mean he’s not drowning anymore. “you know, i used to be the poetic one, but lately it’s all been gojo writing haikus about heartbreak and chewing drywall.”
you glance at him, a little. just enough for your eyes to flicker in his direction, not enough to be kind. “why are you here,” you say, voice flat. “what do you want, suguru?”
he blinks.
you turn your whole head this time, eyes sharp and tired, mouth pressed into that grim, bitter curve he knows is a prelude to disaster. your face is flushed, not from heat but from all the things you’ve been choking on since he opened his mouth in that dorm room and poured doubt into your lap like it was a gift.
“if you came here to just joke about it,” you say, low, quiet, angry in a way that’s sad, “you can leave. seriously. just go. i’m not gonna play the cute forgiving girlfriend who laughs because oh no he has trauma, poor boy, let’s excuse everything he says, okay? i’m not doing that.”
he’s silent for a second.
the tree above you rustles. the grass doesn’t move. time hangs crooked.
you’re breathing too fast. your hands are clenched in your lap. you’re wearing one of his old sweaters, sleeves rolled past your elbows, and he can’t tell if that means you miss him or if you just ran out of clean laundry.
“i’m mad at you,” you say finally, voice cracking like tired glass. “i’m so mad i want to scream. and it’s worse because i miss you, too, and that makes me feel stupid.” geto doesn’t smile now. doesn’t laugh. just looks down at his hands, nodding like he’s being scolded by god and knows he deserves it.
“i know,” he says, and it’s not an apology, but it’s close.
you don’t answer. not yet. not until he stops trying to make you laugh and starts trying to make it right.
he sits there with the weight of the world sagging his shoulders like an old coat soaked through, the silence between you stretched tight like the gut of an animal ready to snap open, and he doesn’t say anything for a moment too long—just watches your face with that ruined expression, like he’s preparing himself to be gutted by your next breath, which, fair enough, because you are winding up like a storm with nowhere to go but him.
you stare at him like the sight hurts, because it does, because loving someone shouldn’t feel like you’re screaming underwater and being asked to repeat yourself because they can’t quite make out the syllables through the flood.
and then you say it, voice low and shaking, hands trembling in your lap not because you’re weak but because your body physically cannot hold all the acid burning behind your ribs anymore.
“do you know how exhausting it is to love you this loud?” you laugh, but it’s broken. it sounds like something dying in the back of your throat. “how many times i’ve said i love you like a shield, like a spell, like a reminder so you wouldn’t forget it the second you looked at someone shinier, stronger, someone who doesn’t flinch when you pull away—”
“i don’t want anyone else—”
“then why do you keep acting like you do!?”
he freezes.
“why do you keep putting those words in my mouth like you want them there?” you hiss, eyes glassy, voice sharp and wet and crumbling all at once. “why is every good thing i say to you met with silence or suspicion or some fucking joke about how i must be lying?”
he doesn’t answer. he’s staring at his knees now. you hate that. you hate when he looks away like that. like he can’t even be bothered to meet your eyes in the moment he’s being dissected. you shove your palms into the dirt beneath you, sitting up straighter, angrier.
“i get it,” you say, biting the words out like they’re meat you’re sick of chewing. “i get it. you’ve got that rotting brain stew of trauma and abandonment and trust issues and whatever the fuck else that makes you think love is something you have to doubt or test until it breaks—but i’m not here to prove myself to you every time you feel insecure, suguru.”
his name sounds heavy when you say it. like something sacred dragged through blood.
“i loved you loud,” you go on, quieter now, more dangerous, “i made it obvious. i held your hand in front of people. i stayed when you were insufferable. i kissed you when you couldn’t look me in the eye. i made you laugh when you were trying to hate yourself. and you—what? accuse me? say some dumb shit like i want your best friend just because i laugh at his stupid jokes? just because he doesn’t spend every second trying to figure out how to sabotage the one good thing he has?”
“i didn’t mean to—” he says, but it’s too late.
“no, fuck that,” you say, mouth trembling. “i know you didn’t mean to. but it still hurts. it still fucking sucks. and it’s unfair—it’s so fucking unfair. because i never made you feel small, but you make me feel like i’m one wrong word away from being cast as the villain in your tragic little fantasy.”
he’s breathing shallow now, fingers twitching against his thighs. he looks like he’s been slapped, which is good, because you want it to land. you need it to land. you need him to hear it.
you lower your voice, the last words slipping out like blood from a cut you didn’t know you made until it soaked through your shirt.
“and you know what?” you blink, jaw tight. “love isn’t gonna be enough. not if all you’ve got for me in return is doubt.” you pause. “because no love survives being treated like a lie.”
he doesn’t say anything.
and this time, you look away. because if you look at him now, you’ll cry. and you’re not ready to cry in front of the man who keeps tearing you open and then wondering why you bleed.
he still doesn’t say anything.
and that silence—god, that silence—hits harder than any scream could have. it lands in your chest like a fist made of fog, slow and suffocating, and you almost laugh, because of course he won’t speak now. not when it matters. not when your voice is already fraying at the edges from the weight of all the things you’ve been carrying for him, all the words you’ve said like prayers, all the “i love you”s you’ve hurled into the hollow of his chest hoping they’d echo back as belief.
but they didn’t. they never did. and now here you are, trying not to cry under a fucking willow tree like you’re in some pretentious indie film where the girl realizes her boyfriend isn’t broken in the cute way, but in the slow, silent, corrosive way.
so you speak again, because if you don’t, you’ll explode or evaporate or maybe just fold inward and disappear completely.
“say something,” you murmur, not even angry anymore—just tired. “just say something, suguru. anything. lie to me, tell me i’m overreacting, tell me you’re sorry, tell me to go fuck myself—but something. because i’m sitting here bleeding, and you’re just watching.”
he moves then—barely—but it’s enough. a twitch. a shift. he lifts his hand like he might reach for you, but he stops halfway, lets it drop, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and full of static, like a signal that’s been trying to break through but can’t find a clear frequency. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, like it’s a confession and a curse. “i didn’t mean for you to feel like this.”
you stare at him, dry-eyed and numb.
“you didn’t mean to,” you echo. “right.”
he flinches. a little.
“you never mean to,” you say. “that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? you never mean it. but it still happens. and i’m the one stuck piecing myself back together after every little crack you make.” he looks away, shame blooming slow on his face like a bruise. you almost hate how soft he looks. how sad. it makes it so much worse. because you love him. even now. even when he’s being like this.
and that’s the problem.
because love should not have to survive the person who’s supposed to give it back.
“you keep building walls,” you continue, “and every time i climb one, you build another. and i climb that one. and then you build another. and i keep climbing, suguru. i keep trying. and every time i get to the top, you accuse me of trying to jump.”
his head drops into his hands.
you bite your lip, hard, trying not to shake.
“you act like loving you is some impossible thing,” you say, voice thinner now, more fragile. “like i’m doing it out of pity. or boredom. or because i don’t know better. and that’s—insulting, you know? it’s fucking insulting. i’m here. i chose you. again and again and again. i could have run. i could have left. but i didn’t.”
you laugh once. short and sharp.
“and you still think i want him.”
geto’s voice breaks when it finally comes.
“i don’t,” he says. “i don’t think that.”
you shake your head. “you do. somewhere in that cursed head of yours, you do. and i’m tired, suguru. i’m so fucking tired of being the one trying to prove it’s real.”
and then you go quiet. because that’s it. that’s all of it. everything’s out now. there’s nothing left but the ache, and the wind, and the long, slow realization that this might be where the road splits for real. he breathes in. tries to steady himself. and then— “…i don’t know how to be loved like that.”
your head snaps toward him.
he’s still looking down. his voice is barely a whisper. “i’ve never had it. not like that. not the kind that stays. not the kind that fights. so i keep waiting for the part where you realize i’m not worth it and leave. and i say stupid shit so when you do go, i can tell myself i was right.”
you close your eyes.
“that’s not love,” you say. “that’s fear dressed up in all your worst habits.”
he doesn’t argue.
and maybe that’s something.
maybe that’s the beginning of something that doesn’t end in ruin. maybe. but not yet. you’re still sitting inches apart, and the world’s still tilted. you’re not ready to reach across the gap yet.
and neither is he.
so you both sit there, broken in ways the other can’t fix—yet.
but maybe. maybe. if he stops being a hater. and if you stop letting your heart bleed out for nothing.
he breathes in like he’s about to dive into something cold, unforgiving, filled with sharp rocks and worse things—truths, mostly—and when he speaks, it’s not slick or clever or rehearsed like it usually is, but raw and cracked and clumsy, like someone dragging words up from the floor of their own stomach with their bare hands.
“i didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he says, eyes still on the dirt, voice hoarse like it’s being rung from him like blood from a shirt, “so i started preparing for you to leave. way before any of this even happened. i just—i kept thinking, she’ll get tired, or she’ll see through me, or she’ll realize what she’s dealing with.”
you don’t speak. you want to. your mouth is a loaded gun of feelings. but you let him keep going. because if he stops now, you don’t think he’ll find his way back.
“and every time you loved me,” he says, “i felt grateful, yeah, but also… sick. like it wasn’t mine to keep. like it was rented time. borrowed air. and i knew i was gonna lose it, so i started building the fire before the house even burned. made myself the villain. made you the exit plan.”
he looks at you then. finally. and his eyes are the worst part—glassy, too open, like the door of a church that’s been broken into. they’re not trying to manipulate you, they’re not begging for forgiveness with pretty tricks or soft phrases—he just looks ruined. and aware of it. the worst kind of self-awareness.
“i’m sorry,” he says, and it doesn’t fix anything, but it lands heavy in the air, sincere and sour and real. “for what i said. for how i said it. for letting the fear drive the car again.”
he swallows. hard.
“i know you’re tired,” he says, voice quiet now, like he’s confessing to god in the smallest chapel in the world. “i know you’ve been carrying the whole weight of us on your back, trying to be enough for two people, because i kept shrinking and hiding and being a fucking coward who couldn’t just admit that being loved felt like holding fire in my bare hands.”
you look at him. you’re still not sure if you’ll forgive him yet. your heart wants to. your spine doesn’t.
he shifts closer, just barely, like a slow tide.
“but i’m not asking you to carry me anymore,” he says, softly, “i’m asking you to stay. and let me learn how to carry my share. even if it’s slow. even if i fuck up. even if i don’t always know how. just—”
he breaks off, exhales like he’s coughing out something rotten.
“just don’t go. i’ll get better. i’ll be better. if you stay.”
and it’s not dramatic. he doesn’t fall to his knees or cry or make a scene. he just sits there, cracked wide open beside you, offering you the ugliest parts of himself like a peace offering built out of trash and thorns and trembling hands.
and you feel it then, that impossible ache, because fuck, he means it. he really does. he’s terrified and fucked-up and still halfway wrapped in all his bad wiring, but he’s finally doing what you begged for—he’s talking. not joking. not blaming. just talking.
but still.
you let the silence stretch. you let him sweat in it. because love is not mercy, and forgiveness isn’t free. and maybe this time he needs to feel that.
your voice, when it comes, is soft but not sweet.
“i’m not staying because you beg,” you say. “i’ll stay if you start showing up. for me. for yourself. for the love we’re trying to keep alive before it starves.”
he nods. quickly. like the words are water and he’s parched.
you don’t smile.
but you don’t walk away either.
and that’s the beginning of something.
he’s already moving when you don’t walk away. he doesn’t wait for another breath, doesn’t second-guess the one moment of green light he’s been begging for with his whole, ruined body—he just shifts, turns, wraps his arms around you like he’s stitching himself back into reality. and for once, he does it right. not desperate, not rushed, not like he’s trying to trap you—but like he’s coming home.
“i missed you,” he says against your hair, and it’s not a whisper, it’s not some trembling poetic ache—it’s solid. it’s true. it lands in your chest with all the weight of a war ending.
and this time—this time—he doesn’t miss it. he feels the sigh leave you, that soft little surrender in your spine when his arms go around your body, like you’ve been clenching for days and only now let yourself breathe. it’s the sound of a truth exhaling. it’s the soft collapse of someone who’s been carrying more than they ever said.
“fuck,” he says, so quietly. “i really missed you.”
and then, because you don’t pull away—because your arms slowly, slowly come up to hold him back—he shifts again, pulls you fully onto his lap, your legs thrown across his thighs like they’ve always belonged there, his hands on your lower back like he’s scared to let go in case this was all a trick, in case he opens his eyes and you’re not real anymore.
and that’s when you start crying.
just a little.
just a hitch of breath, a tremble of your shoulders, your face tucked into the curve of his neck and chest like you’re trying to hide the way your whole soul just cracked open. “you fucker,” you say, voice thick, muffled. “you stupid, beautiful, emotionally constipated fucker.”
he laughs, startled, holding you tighter. “accurate.”
“if you ever break my heart again—ever—i’m gonna make gojo scream ‘slut’ at you every single day for the rest of your life.” he snorts, one of those ugly, chest-deep laughs he never lets out around anyone but you.
“he already does,” he wheezes.
“well, louder,” you say, sniffling like a dramatic feral princess. “he’ll scream it like a fucking curse. he’ll make it your new name.”
“‘slut-o-sugu,’” he murmurs thoughtfully, stroking your hair like he’s imagining it embroidered on a shirt. “has a ring to it.”
you punch his shoulder, but it’s weak. you’re still crying. he wipes your cheek with his thumb and smirks like an asshole. like the boy who first stole your snacks and called it love. “you’re such a crybaby,” he says gently, and kisses your temple. “always crying when i apologize. it’s kinda hot. should i fuck up more often?”
you punch him again, harder.
“okay, okay,” he laughs, catching your hand, kissing your knuckles. “i take it back. no more fucking up. just. you and me. alright?” you look at him—finally, fully—and even with your puffy eyes and wet lashes and tragic little pout, you still manage to glare like a queen preparing to outlaw every bad habit he’s ever had.
“i love you,” he says, and this time, he says it like it means something. not like it’s armor. not like it’s a desperate tether to stop you from floating away. but like it’s a quiet, impossible truth he’s finally brave enough to hold without bleeding.
“i love you even when you’re angry. i love you when you yell. i love you when you look at me like i’m the world’s biggest idiot. i love you when you’re snotty and terrifying and telling gojo to maul me in the quad.”
“good,” you say. “because i love you even when you say dumb shit that makes me want to fight you in public.”
you wipe your face on his shirt. deliberately.
“and also,” you add, “you’re paying for my next four bobbas. minimum. for emotional damages.”
he laughs again, the kind that shakes his whole body. and you feel it. you feel him. back. suguru, your suguru, the one who kisses your wrist just because it’s there, who lets himself be loved even when he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve it, who holds you like maybe he finally gets it—what you’ve been trying to show him all along.
“done,” he says, voice warm against your skin. “but only if you let me drink half of them.”
suguru isn’t the type to rush when he has you to himself. he takes his time undressing you, like every button and zipper is something to savor. he enjoys peeling each layer away slowly, fingers brushing against newly exposed skin, eyes drinking in every inch of you and how you shiver. it’s not just about getting you naked—it’s about unwrapping you, piece by piece, with patience.
his quiet touches.
his touch is always soft, but firm. his hands move like he’s learning you all over again, every graze intentional. fingertips dragging over your arms, your back, your waist—he wants to feel you, ground you, remind you he’s right there with you when he pumps you deeply. you can tell he’s memorizing you by the way he moves.
his whispers of affection.
suguru whispers sweet things to you between kisses. such low, intimate little confessions like “you’re so perfect,” or “i’ll never get enough of your sweet pussy.” his voice goes straight to your chest, curling around your heart like a secret only he gets to say, and only you get to hear.
his kisses everywhere.
he kisses more than just your lips—he trails his mouth down your neck, your collarbone, your nipples. he knows exactly where to kiss to get those little gasps he knows and loves. he takes his time with it, tasting every part of you. he’s not in a hurry to get anywhere but here.
his warm voice.
there’s something magnetic about his voice when you’re in his hands. hot, sweet, and steady. it never needs to rise above a murmur to make you listen. he speaks to you as if you’re fragile and precious, even when things get real messy. his words pull you deeper into the moment, helping you let go and feel everything.
his soothing touch.
if things start to get intense, suguru always holds you. fingers through your hair, soft circles traced down your spine. he pauses just to hold you, to remind you that you’re safe. that this is love, not just lust.
the mutual devotion.
the way he looks at you during intimate moments is unreal—like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. you’re the center of his universe in that space. nothing matters more to him than you, and he makes damn sure you feel that in every look, every touch, every breath.
he's a hand holder.
he’s a hand holder, always. during foreplay, during sex, even after. it’s one of the many quiet ways he loves staying connected to you. sometimes he squeezes your fingers right when you need it most, like a silent reminder.
the slow, soft sex.
usually he prefers it slow—thorough and intentional. just to take away your tension with his tenderness. he’s not chasing the finish line. he wants you to feel every second of it. the pace of his cock is steady, each thrust drawn out, like dragging a match along the edge of something combustible.
his love for light teasing.
suguru lives for teasing. he knows your body too well—how to hover just above the places you want him most, how to pull back right when you’re close. he watches you squirm, loving how you ache for him before he finally, finally gives in.
heheheeeeeeeee sex with husband!suguru cuz his pregnants wifes libido is literally over the roof with these raging hormones. she is like a dog in heat.
𓂃୨ৎ mdni. pregnancy, riding, creampie, breeding kink, body insecurity (related to pregnancy weight), multiple rounds of sex, aftercare, domestic fluff
the house is quiet, late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the living room. suguru’s sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the back, watching you shuffle around in nothing but his oversized shirt, the fabric stretching tight over your swollen belly. seven months pregnant, and you’re a vision—curves fuller, skin glowing, but there’s a restlessness in you, a hunger that’s been there since the hormones kicked into overdrive. you’re like a dog in heat, insatiable, craving him morning, noon, and night, and fuck, he loves it. loves you. loves the way you’re both animals now, rutting like you can’t get enough.
you catch his gaze, pausing mid-step, and he sees it—the glint in your eyes, the way your thighs press together. “suguru,” you whine, voice thick with need, and he’s already hard, cock twitching in his sweats at the sound. you’ve fucked three times today already—once in the shower, water slicking your skin as he pinned you against the tiles; once in the kitchen, bending you over the counter; and now you want more. he grins, lazy and predatory, spreading his legs wider. “c’mere, baby,” he says, low and rough. “you’re gonna kill me, but i’m not complaining.”
you’re on him in seconds, straddling his lap, hands fumbling with his waistband. your belly presses against him, heavy and warm, and you hesitate, a flicker of shyness crossing your face. “i’m so… big,” you mutter, cheeks flushing, hands hovering over your stomach. “what if it’s too much?” suguru’s heart twists—he hates when you doubt yourself, especially now, when you’re carrying his kid, looking like a fucking goddess. he grabs your hips, firm, pulling you closer. “you’re perfect,” he growls, eyes dark with want. “and i want you so bad it hurts. let me fuck you ‘til you can’t think.”
his words light you up, shyness melting under the heat of his desire. you free his cock, thick and leaking, and he groans as you stroke him, your hands shaky with eagerness. “ride me,” he says, voice almost a command, but there’s pleading in it too. “i love watching you fuck yourself on me.” you whimper, nodding, but your movements are slower now, the weight of your belly making it harder. he sees the struggle and helps, hands guiding your hips, lifting you slightly as you line him up.
you sink down, slow at first, and fuck, it’s heaven. he’s deep, stretching you wide, and you both moan, raw and loud, as you take him fully. “so tight,” he rasps, hands roaming your thighs, your ass, gripping hard enough to bruise. “every time, baby, you feel like a dream.” you’re hesitant, trying to find your rhythm, but the hormones have you desperate, hips rocking before you can stop yourself. he helps, lifting you, letting you bounce, and the sight—god, the sight. your tits, fuller now, straining against his shirt; your belly, round and heavy; your face, flushed and needy, lips parted as you pant. he’s obsessed, wants to burn this into his brain forever.
“suguru,” you gasp, hands braced on his chest, nails digging in. “s’too much, but i need it.” you’re a mess, grinding down, chasing the friction, and he loves how wild you are, how you’re both reduced to this—animals, clawing at each other. he thrusts up, meeting your movements, and you cry out, head tipping back, the sound driving him feral. “that’s it,” he grunts, hands sliding to your ass, spanking you lightly, just enough to make you jolt. “fuck yourself on my cock, baby. cum. for me.”
you try, bouncing harder, but the weight slows you, frustration flashing in your eyes. he senses it, takes over, lifting you effortlessly, slamming you down in time with his thrusts. “let me help,” he murmurs, but there’s a mean edge to it, a teasing lilt. “can’t even ride me proper with that belly, huh? good thing i’m here to fuck you right.” you whimper, clinging to him, and he loves it—loves how you need him, how you give yourself over completely.
he’s deep, so deep, each thrust hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and you’re loud, moans spilling out, unfiltered. “more,” you beg, voice breaking, and he gives it, relentless, fucking up into you like he’s trying to plant another baby right now. “fuck, i want another one,” he groans, hands cupping your belly, imagining it swollen again, full of him. “gonna keep you like this, always.” you shudder, turned on by his words, by the idea, and he feels you clench, milking him, pulling him closer to the edge.
“suguru, i’m—” you don’t finish, orgasm hitting hard, ripping through you. you scream, body shaking, and he holds you through it, thrusting harder, chasing his own release. “fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he pants, watching you fall apart, loving how you drench him, how you’re his. he comes seconds later, spilling deep inside, groaning as he fills you, the thought of breeding you again making it that much sweeter. you collapse against him, panting, sweaty, and he wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple, your hair, your shoulder.
you’re still trembling, and he shifts, careful not to jostle you too much, laying you back on the couch. “one more?” you mumble, half-joking, but there’s that glint in your eye, the hormones still raging. he laughs, soft but wicked, already hard again at the thought. “you’re insatiable,” he says, climbing over you, but his touch is gentle now, hands stroking your sides, your belly. “gimme a minute, baby. let me take care of you first.”
he grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, helping you sip, wiping sweat from your brow with a cool cloth. “you feeling okay?” he asks, eyes searching yours, checking for any discomfort. your weight’s been on your mind lately, and he knows it, so he leans down, kissing your stomach, murmuring, “you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.” you smile, shy but warm, and he kisses you properly, slow and deep, pouring all his love into it.
“i love you like this,” he says, settling beside you, one hand resting on your belly, feeling the faint kick of your baby. “all needy, all mine. and fuck, when you ride me?” he grins, teasing, but there’s awe there too. “it’s the hottest thing. you’re perfect, baby.” you laugh, swatting him weakly, but you’re glowing, the insecurity fading under his praise.
“again soon?” you ask, voice soft, and he chuckles, pulling you close, already planning the next round. “soon as you want,” he promises, mean edge creeping back, but it’s wrapped in devotion. “i’m keeping you pregnant forever if it means this.” you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, curling into him, and he knows—he’s never loved you more than now, wild and wanting, carrying his child, his life.
he stays there, holding you ‘til you drift off, his hand never leaving your belly, already dreaming of the next time he’ll have you bouncing on him, fucking like animals, building a family one hot night at a time.
GETO N LOVE MAKING, NOTNFUCKING. backshots. sweet sweet sweet slow and passionate backshots PUHLEAHSEEE (YAY REQS ARE OPENN)
༉‧₊˚. don't hide from me | GETO Suguru
content warning: smut, love making, dirty talk, nsfw scenes.
word count: 387
note: this is very short but I enjoyed writing it! thank you for the request anon :)!!
༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!
Suguru thinks he might fall in love again. No, he is certain that he is falling in love all over again. His body feels jittery, like he can't contain himself--or the love that is pouring out of him, through his languid movements on top of your naked body. The one that he is so sure was made for him the same way he was made for you.
There was no other explanation to this, to the fireworks that were bursting around the two of you--or he could be hallucinating.
"Oh baby," he leans down to kiss your nape when he hears you whine about feeling so full of him, that you were growing sensitive to his touch. "I know baby, it's too much for you isn't it?"
It sure was. With a man his size, taking his huge cock was a challenge in itself. It felt like he was everywhere, all over you--it felt suffocating, but you liked it. Suguru was the air you breathed and more.
"Mhm," you nod your head into the pillow, so cockdrunk and adorable. "'s too much, Sugu," you let out a sigh when he picks up his pace again, hands resting on each side of your head. He puts everything into his thrusts, that the headboard slams against the wall several times.
"Can't help myself, pretty," one of his hands slides to your hair, grabbing a fistful of it and he gently tugs your head back so he can see your pretty face. "This pussy--she's begging for it."
"Sugu," you say with a pout. Suguru kisses it so quickly, stealing your breath.
"Yeah?" he questions, lips pressed to your cheek.
"You play too much," He chuckles at this, playfully nipping at your jaw.
"And you don't like it?"
"...I do."
"I know," he rests his entire weight on top of your body this time, and you feel trapped between him and the mattress. "This pussy doesn't try to hide it,"
"Sugu--" you try to hide your face away from him, but his fingers sneaks down to your clit and he starts to rub at the sensitive bud.
"Nu-uh baby, don't hide from me," he whispers in your ear, his other hand sliding up to your neck and squeezing gently. "Wanna see 'n hear all of you."
Crybaby!Husband!Gojo who has a huge fear of being abandoned. He constantly feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, and when he's with you, he feels that he can finally let his guards down, finally feel vulnerable. But today, he feels that may have been the biggest mistake he’s made yet. Getting scolded by Nanami for printing too many copies of a report wasn't nearly as awful as Gojo walking by a half-opened conference door, hearing some higher ups making fun of "being less focused on his work than usual." If he had just heard that, he wouldn't have cared because he knew the real reason he had been struggling to think straight was because of you. Your smile, your scent, your warmth. It was all he could ever think of, even at times like this. And it was the reason he had been too distracted to pay attention to the copy machine. All he could think about was being wrapped in your arms. But he feels his heart drop and his eyes fill with tears when he hears one of them muttering, "Wasn't he supposed to be the strongest?" He could feel his throat fill with the bitter taste of bile. He spent the rest of the workday silent. His eyes are still watery as he walks through the door of your shared home, and all he wants to do is fall into your arms. Let you comfort him and tell him how those higher-ups are useless assholes. But when he enters the living room, you're not sitting on the couch, curled up and reading your favorite book. And when he goes to the kitchen, thinking you'd be making yourself dinner right about now, the air is cold, and there's no smell of food. The dirty dishes from breakfast are still in the sink and there's no sign of you. "Of course," he thinks to himself. "You're asleep." You probably had just as bad of a day as he has and went to bed early. But Satoru doesn't find you when the bedroom door clicks open, just a cold empty bed. And in that moment, he thinks you've gotten sick of him like everyone else. He thinks he's gone soft and that maybe he doesn't deserve to feel taken care of, to feel at ease, when he should be protecting the world. Just like the higher-ups and Nanami, you would get sick of him, too. You would realize you deserve so much better.He can't help but slide down onto the floor, sobbing into his palms. The love of his life had left him all alone...The first thing you hear is sniffles when you exit the bathroom. When you heard the door to your house slam, so you were sure Satoru was home, but you didn’t expect to find him kneeling beside your side of the bed, sobbing. “Toru?”You take a seat on the floor beside him, bringing both your hands up to his face to wipe away the stray tears. He takes a second to even notice it's you touching him and not some hallucination, before he pulls you tight into his arms. “What’s wrong?” He doesn't respond. “Did you have a bad day?” He nods, and you bite back a smile at his childish behavior, not wanting him to start crying harder. “Are you happy with me?”His question breaks your heart. Instead of giving him an answer,you pull back from his hug, staring up into his icy eyes, and bring your face closer to his. He can feel the warmth of your breath on his face and he sees that look in your eyes. And all the air in his lungs exits in one shallow breath, when he realizes you've been sitting in front of him with nothing but your towel wrapped around you. You lean in, brushing your lips against his “Do you want me to show you how happy you make me?” This time, he has your full attention.“Use your words,Toru.” His voice is raspy from crying, but he still musters up the courage to let out a soft yes. Your smile takes away any doubt left deep inside of him. And after tonight, Gojo knows you’re happy with him.
operator's voicemail☎️- An early post since I'll be too busy to update my masterlist this weekend😮💨Also this is my first time trying this smaller font out so I hope it's still readable!Definitely going to make this into a series~
the roles you two would play in your marriage was never discussed officially; it just happened.
first, he was the one who cared the most about the house you’d settle down in. he hated new builds, thought they were lazily made and found the grey and the laminated floors spiritually offensive. he was insistent on having a spacious, lush garden for the three children he’d already named in his head. the walls needed to be soundproof, and he swears the reasons aren’t sexual – alright, they aren’t only sexual – a room for a walk-in closet, his obviously, arched doorways that are also tall enough for his height, and so on and so forth.
second, he was so caught up in decorating and overseeing the renovations that he began shirking his responsibilities with the clan, preferring to let the assistants handle it. that was his answer to everything. they need him to officiate a ceremony as the clan head?
but he has to oversee the installation of the new marble tiles in the bathroom. what kind of unfeeling monster would take him away from that?
when he did have to venture outside of his home, he’d slump into your lap and pout up at you. “they’re abusing me. do something, honeypie.”
“what am i supposed to do, toru?”
he groaned. “use your scary, wifey glare. it always works on me.”
“you have to go, hon. there’s no going about it. they’ve already accommodated you enough. come on, it’ll be quick. you’ll be back home before you know it.”
satoru muttered under his breath, “everyone hates me.”
and third, he loves waking up early to make you breakfast and packed lunch. he makes the cutest little octopus sausages, adds googly eyes to your onigiris, and writes sickly sweet love notes for you to find. it’s not a surprise to see him watching tutorials on how to level up his bento game. only the best for his wifey, he says.
as soon as you leave, he’s putting on a pretty pink apron, vacuuming the carpets, brushing the floor, dusting the counters, and watching zumba videos to keep his glutes in shape. satoru’s also a regular at the local salon – his cuticles are pristine, hair glossy, skin radiant, and he has all the latest neighbourhood gossip.
of course, when you come home, he’d have a meal prepared for you too. that’s usually the highlight of his day.
“okay, okay, babe, you gotta try this sauce and tell me what you think,” he insists, spoon feeding you his experimental concoction.
swallowing, you nod. “it’s amazing, toru. i love it.”
a blinding sparkle shines in his eyes and he punches the air in celebration. “nice! i knew i could trust linda from next door. did you know she used to run an underground spice empire in mexico before she had to run away here with her husband? no, it’s true. her husband got in trouble with the mayor because his daughter liked him but he rejected her advances ‘cause, you know, he’s happily married and all that. ugh, isn’t the world so messed up? i’d totally reject all the mayors’ daughters for you, sweetie.”
best believe, when baby number one arrives, he’s the most attentive father in the world. perhaps…a little too attentive.
every corner of the house is padded and babyproofed. he crawls around on all fours, purposefully bumping his body against the furniture and rating the pain on a scale of one to ten. “oooh, okay, see? if this was a normal baby, that would be an eight, for sure. but our baby’s gonna be strong like their daddy so this is an easy three out of ten. bring it on.”
he paints the nursery walls on his own, adding a distasteful mural of himself as cupid and assuring you that it’ll be good for the baby’s development to see their father in a body more relatable to its cherub form.
“no, sweetie, i swear, he’ll love it. look at me! i’m adorable.”
“...did you just spoil the gender of my baby to me, satoru?”
he gulps. “okay, i’ll paint over it.”
the baby wears all designer clothes too. what business a two month old has wearing a louis v bonnet, no one could say.
sure, there are things he misses – his students, the thrill of his job, seeing the world – but, in truth, none of those things are gone. he can still see those rascals; they’re invited over quite often, especially under the guise of free manual labour. he still annihilates a curse or two here and there, and you two do a lot of travelling already. plus, there really isn’t anything more thrilling than being able to present a nice, clean home to the literal love of his life who falls into his arms and lets him do whatever he wants.
you never complain about the cheesy matching pyjamas he shrugs you into after the bath he had drawn for your lethargic body. the movie he has lined up to watch is never protested against and how he loves to eat dinner with you in his lap because you’re too tired to feed yourself.
amazing, strong, independent woman, all sweet and relying on him. trusting him to always be home, to have everything taken care of, that is the meaning of masculinity, he thinks. this is power. this is wealth. this is happiness.
so, no one would be shocked to know, a day never comes where satoru regrets his decision.
he can only hope that in every timeline, in every alternate reality, every version of him made the same one.
tw. uncle!satoru, incest, age gap, breeding, coercion, dirty talk, praise, brief choking, baby as pet name, some jealousy, degradation, corruption kink, sneaking around
wordcount. 6.7k
a/n. ♡ commissioned by the amazing @antique-remains ♡ thank you so so much for commissioning me and for being absolutely wonderful!! i really hope you enjoy your fic,, i had a blast writing it so i kinda went a little crazy with the word count but! hgdfsy listen i hear gojo satoru i jump into the deep end i hooopppee you enjoy it lovely!!! <33 and thanks a million to the beta readers ilY so much
gojo satoru x fem!reader
The door rattles with a loud noise as you make it two steps down the hall. Two whole steps before long arms wrap under your shoulders and you’re whirled around against an equally lanky body, while your giggles fill the hall. They echo down the old family house, pristine and proper, and give your mother a well deserved moment of rest as she rolls the suitcases inside. “Hey- There’s my favorite little squirt,” his lithe voice hums gleefully when you press a childishly sloppy peck onto his cheek and squish your face to his shoulder, and Satoru barely bothers to give your mom a quick smile before stealing your entire attention away and putting you into his neck with a smile.
“You gotta visit more frequently, nee-san. I gotta show my favorite niece what I’ve learned at monster school, don’t I?”
Your chubby cheeks glow hot as you parrot him. “Monster!”
“Your only niece. And you’re more than welcome to take a few babysitting shifts, Satoru. Lord knows I could use it,” the soft-spoken woman would then chuckle, and leave you to it.
That’s how it was, always. You remember finding the days where snow stuck to the ground and made the house feel so much toastier, the most lovely of all- no excuses, no exceptions. Not that you could give a reason as to why, back then. It was probably because winter meant family time and holidays and presents, and most of all, it meant packing everything up into the car and driving down for New Years. Without fail, a white winter meant Gojo Satoru — and without fail, you’d look towards him like a world faithfully orbits the sun.
You can’t thank Satoru enough for taking his role so gracefully, at the time. When it was still fun.
Now winter means being locked up in your room while that same man parades around a different princess each year, and makes your start to the new entirely unenjoyable. After a good few hours of hearing the drinking and talking grow louder and louder -and then eventually quieter again, you finally dare peak your head around the corner. Because if you’re lucky, uncle Satoru will have no self-control. And the copious amounts of alcohol that festivities require will leave him blissfully unaware of your scowl at the foreign pair of shoes by the door. Your bare feet pad on the floor as you make your way past the soft rumble of the tv, and into the kitchen to pop open your own box of cake, and another bottle of bubbles for yourself.
The frosting sticks to the roof of your mouth three bites in, and makes everything a lot more palatable. The smell of the obnoxious festive scented candles, the deep beats of the slow make-out music reverberating through the walls of his otherwise impeccable apartment. The knowledge that you’re meant to wait out the inevitable turnaround from festive cheer to loud moans down the hall as the countdown hits 0. It’s been this way for years now, and you find yourself wishing spring would come a little faster.
You’d never be so lucky, though. You drop the fork in surprise when long fingers sneak around your neck to squeeze gently at the soft parts of it, and a breath brushes over the shell of your ear. “Boo.” Festive cheer and a softer familiar musk overtakes your senses.
“Satoru, you dick,” you squeak out a little too loudly, halfway to turning when a strong arm wraps around your hips to allow him to slot a little closer to your back. He peers over your head at the cake, breath dusting over your hair. Uncaring, of course, about the level of appropriateness or the way it sends a shiver up your spine.
“Bit early for a late night snack, isn’t it? You could at least have asked your favorite authority figure to join you.” His smile gleams in the low light of the apartment like a million diamonds, white head of hair tousled and bed-head like. The hand on your hip squeezes ever so softly before you shake him off, and cross your arms over your chest in defiance.
“You’re barely an authority, let alone my favorite. Besides, aren’t you kept busy with… Keiko? Kyoko?”
“—Kimiko. Why?” It’s then you make the mistake of looking up into those perfect baby blues through the half-tinted shades, and despite your earlier frostiness, he still searches for a handhold on your shoulder, softly brushing his thumb along the collar of your shirt. He stares like he can see through you, where your heart beats wildly in your chest. You’d dare bet money that sometimes he definitely tries to. But the calculating glances that flick over your face are kept quiet by a faint hum.
“She’s gone home. I thought maybe we could celebrate New Years together this time.” Satoru is always smiling. It crinkles his eyes, seems to ooze out of him like syrup. He’s good at that. At feeling trustworthy. But— “We still have a good twenty minutes until the fireworks. Come celebrate. For me?” There’s no mistaking the way he leans in to nudge your face up and puts on an exaggerated puppy-like pout. Gojo Satoru is anything but trustworthy.
But hard lessons are slow to stick. You find your mouth opening almost like instinct, sugar-coated tongue running over your lips as he waits. “Fine, until after the fireworks. Only ‘til then.” His mouth corners go a little more cat-like when the grin grows further, and he rubs his heavy palm and long fingers over your head with a soft chuckle.
“Right? You’d never leave your poor old, lonely uncle Satoru alone on a special day, right?”
The couch is abandoned for a slower sort of swinging around the living room once the clock starts getting close, and Satoru places another flute of golden bubbles into your hand— grinning as you move to the beat. Try and resist as you may, Satoru has given you much to be thankful for. The heat of his hand back on your head distracts you from the way the drink goes down too quickly, letting him pick your hand into his to pull you closer. “Have you ever slow danced before, pretty girl?”
You don’t get to say anything before you’re in his arms, hands to his chest and quickly sliding down to wrap around him instead, swallowing down the stirring heat that hits when he chuckles. You must be crazy. Must be. Your heart feels like it’s banging in your throat. But Satoru rests his chin on your head into the embrace, and swallows you up into his arms. And your throat burns like a raging fire yet again. It isn’t like that. It isn’t like that. You’re the one making it weird, and you know it. But you can’t help the goosebumps when he presses a kiss to your crown, or when he pauses to look down at you.
Grinning like he’s got the world in his palm, he leans in to almost brush noses with you. “This is kinda romantic, isn’t it?”
“Gojo Satoru,” you immediately feel the warmth flare up on your cheeks and ears, eyes going wide. But the grin is back instantly, and he chuckles.
“Alright, don’t get your panties into a twist.” The air of his breaths dusts over your nose when he stares, and doesn’t look away. “You’re so obvious when you want something. It’s cute.” He’s awfully, disturbingly pretty. However weird it is to notice that about your own mom’s brother… you never were able to lie yourself out of that conclusion.
The clock ticks loudly, counting down. But you can’t tear yourself away, blinking blankly at the way he gives your face a once over, before those eyes find yours. Glittering brilliantly, pulling at your sanity. You did always adore him. The first few fireworks go off loud in the distance, when your own uncle Satoru dips down and kisses you. You freeze. Warm lips and tongue pressing into your mouth- he full-on kisses you and runs a hand along your neck to pull you into him. A muffled squeak makes it’s way out of you, warm tongue getting to taste all of him. You- you don’t stop it. When he pulls back, his mouth lingers over yours, and that devilish mouth whispers, “happy New Year, baby,” without any ‘sorry’s.
+
The flowers are already starting to bloom in the colorful pots that swing outside the windows when you nurse your own cup of tea, and don’t bother lowering your eyes when bright azures meet your gaze. There’s something there that tingles your tongue, faint memories biting at your conscious, but too swift to grab hold of. You can’t read him anymore. It makes the familiar glint in them feel anxiety inducing. The gaze shifts, and you feel your spine relax. All tall, perfect, unfairly casual grandeur of him goes back to entertaining your cousins and Megumi— and your attention is finally allowed to shift back to your mom.
“Deary me… That child seems like he’ll never grow up,” she softly chimes, turning your way to take your hands, “I bet you’re twice the adult he is.” Her slight frown is one of fondness though, of care and concern; all of which only makes your stomach drop further. Your mom’s so enamored with her tight-knit little dream of a family. She’s completely unaware, too. Of the deadly, treacherous words that your mind whispers to you when it knows no one’s watching. Your mother’s warm smile remains. “If you ever decide you can’t keep up with him anymore, you’re more than welcome to move back home, honey.”
“I know, mom— but I like Tokyo. I like my friends here, and- my job’s here, and I like my job.” Her hand makes an encouraging circle over the back of your hand, and she nods.
Her warm smile doesn’t keep away the cold flare that travels down your back though. “And you also like Satoru, for reasons I still can’t wrap my head around.” Her look over in his direction has you resolutely studying your lap instead, as heat travels back from your chest to your face. “Even when you were little, your uncle ‘Toru could do no wrong. It was infuriating at times…” You try to put on a smile when you feel her eyes return back to you, and let the cup bear the brunt force of your anxiety. “Now I just think it’s sweet. I know I couldn’t deal with his antics anymore, for even a few days.”
“He’s…” You trail off before you can even get started, and let your tongue swipe along your bottom lip to get rid of the pesky memory again. You feel like your moral compass has been compromised. Your stupid little crush was meant to go unacknowledged, and fade. No one was supposed to be any the wiser. Satoru was never meant to do wrong. He’s -what- exactly, you try to ask yourself. Sneaky? Childish? The reason you can’t look your own family in the eye without blushing like a schoolgirl?
Your heart blooms when you catch a glimpse of his smile as the beer bottle brushes his lips, and he finds your shape again across the room.
Before you get a chance to look away, uncle Satoru’s already calling your name again with that sing-songy tone that’s got you hooked; and pulls you out of your seat with a few slow blinks. “There’s my favorite girl.” He swings an arm over your shoulders, and invades your senses yet again. “It’s getting a little too stuffy in here for your liking, hm? Mind if I steal her for a while?” His sister barely gives him the tiniest of eyerolls before waving you both off. And the white-haired force of nature doesn’t even stop to ask you. He knows he’s right.
Before long, the glances of family get captured by other things, and the honorary member of your family gives you a knowing look that you mirror. Not that Satoru would let it stop him if he saw. You only just look away from Megumi’s grimace before you freeze into place. There’s the tiniest of kisses to the skin behind your ear where Satoru whispers in your ear. “I was really missing you, baby.” There’s a heat that spreads all over you as he continues, barely hiding his affections. “Whenever I see you… I just wanna…”
Your eyes go wide when you turn to stare at him, then quickly around at the rest of the guests. Luckily, everyone seems too preoccupied to notice the way he wraps his arm around your waist to steer you towards the front door. “What? I wasn’t done.” he chimes, eyes glinting over like the Chesire cat, “I wanna come annoy you, is what I was going to say.” Alarm bells should go off. You want them to signal your disaster. But no such thing happens, and the way his lips almost drag over your pulse makes your entire body feel like you’re filled with static. “You know uncle Satoru loves you. Step out with me for a bit.”
+
The miserable drum of rain has no way of drowning out the thoughts in your head. A heat-caused thunderstorm should just be a minor inconvenience, but it feels awfully telling about your current state. The string of messages of Satoru’s latest -what you can now assume is- ex blink back at you as you check the time again, and sink deeper into the couch. The apartment always feels a little too cold when you’re here alone. And sure, you’ve been living here too, but you’ve been on your very best behavior all this time. Taking up only the space he was willing to give.
So you sit in silence as the room gets darker and darker, and instead of checking up on work mails, you let the icy silence of the apartment sit beside you. The messages weren’t exactly frantic, but— the door clicks softly across the room, and the pitter patter of the rain on the skylight grows even more impatient. “Uncle ‘Toru,” you breathe as he drags his wet self in, only to suck your bottom lip into your mouth.
There’s only a few times you’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing him like this. One was the first summer his best friend vanished into thin air, a shallow copy of your beloved left behind in its wake— and every few years after that. It drains all the color out of him, squeezes until there’s nothing left.
He looks drunk. He smells drunk too. But you still cross your arms and straighten your back, swallowing. “Ki-chan was worried about you. She says you two broke-”
“She’s right.” Satoru drops his bag by the tv, and unceremoniously kicks off his socks in the middle of the living room, slauntering towards the couch.
“Is that why you’re like this?” Your worry is undermined by a harsh snort and an equally unamused chuckle, before the white-haired man comes to a halt before you.
“Don’t be stupid. You and I both know it’s not.” His eyes are usually like the ocean on a summer day, bright, all-consuming, and peaceful— there’s nothing there when they land on you now. Just the dark, dreary image of a cloudy, uncaring vastness. “Get up, I’m trying to sleep here for the night.”
“I’m not leaving.” You’re not sure if the slight tremble in your voice is self-inflicted, but do your best to bite through the electric tension. “She also said that you’ve been saying all kinds of things that make no sense. Things about— me. And that’s why you guys broke up. She’s worried that you might try to do something to me.” Gojo Satoru is a lot of things. More things than a man with his constitution should be, all in all. Your light breath cuts the tension just enough for you to speak up again, staring up at him from your increasingly vulnerable position on the couch. “Well, will you?”
“Get up.” Before you have another chance to ask more, he takes you by the arm and pulls you up out of the couch in a split second, leaving you stumbling back. “Run off to your room now.” Smart, coherent thoughts leave you. Satoru looks like he’s hurting. Those long, white lashes and blue irises are no longer bright and understanding. They frame a simple look of distaste at the sight of you, and your rapid heartbeat falters. “I said, now.” As your tongue brushes your lips you search for something— anything— to say, but it seems he doesn’t want to let you. With large steps, he walks you back by your collar until your back hits the wall, and you stare up at him.
“Isn’t it bad enough that I already want you? What more do you need?” The cold, still wet touch of his thumb brushing your collarbones tingles down your entire body. “Tell me off. Hit me. Do something.” He’s basically begging now, through hard glares, teeth and a raspy voice. “Tell me off for treating you like this.”
You think you should. But all that you manage to say is a soft plea, eyes searching in the dark. “Uncle Satoru, I- I’m sorry.”
“Baby.”
His grip makes your shirt dig uncomfortably into your neck, but you barely feel it. Instead you raise your hands to cup his face, watching how the furrowed brows straighten out after only a few tight breaths. You mumble out a breath of his name, and allow him to pull you closer to his body until you’re pressed to his chest, face hidden against his collarbones. Until he leads you to look up at him and lets his lips brush over your eyelids, and the tip of your nose. “Your mom would kill me if she knew.”
You know him to be right. And still, you let his mouth meet yours. Meet and claim your tongue, hiking your one thigh up to allow him to melt against you. Rolling his narrow hips just a little too effectively against you. It’s way too much all at once, hot and cold meeting in the dark where his body grinds against you. You shouldn’t… allow any of this, right? But it feels too good to stop. Satoru clearly thinks so too when he grunts your name against your mouth, and his crotch rubs into your center.
It’s not hard to know what he’s thinking about as he drags his lips down the soft of your throat and sucks kisses into the skin. His strong fingers slide under your shirt to anchor at your waist, and leave goosebumps all over. “My pretty girl,” he ends up mumbling as his tongue makes shapes at the base of your throat, “you’re all mine. All fucking mine. Mh- never gonna let anyone have you.” It feels so good. Hearing that, however distorted by the moment— makes you feel like you’re floating. So much so, that it scares you. To think anyone would have such power over you.
Satoru goes in for another kiss, but you end up sliding out of his arms by mere chance, panting and shivering from the wet hands all over you. You take one single deep breath, and rush off down the hall.
+
When you sit at dinner the next day, rolling your veggies around your plate as you cast him weary glances from under long lashes, Satoru doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even blink out of place once, like the night before was just a dream. You’d really believe the slight ache of a hickey at the base of your throat to be an unlucky bruise, if you couldn’t notice the faint glances your way. After a while, his telltale grin slips back on when you startle at his voice, and he points his fork towards you. “You’re acting weird, you know that?”
“I- I’m acting weird?” Your voice pitches up almost comically, and his gleeful chuckle has your heart racing despite yourself. “W- about yesterday-”
“I’m taking you somewhere tonight.” Though the interruption should annoy you, he looks so content and smug as he stuffs the last of his food into his cheek, that you can only frown. His hand runs through his mess of white hair, noisily smacking his food as if to make a point. When you don’t immediately respond, he nods to himself, before leaning in. “I woke up with the worst headache of my life, I’ll have you know. But I’ve gotten over myself, I promise. And now I just want to hang out with my favorite niece.”
“Only niece,” you end up parroting, clenching and unclenching your hands into your skirt. “Where do you wanna go?”
“Call me ‘uncle ‘Toru’ again, and I’ll tell you.” You never tell him no.
As you walk through the hall with slow steps, the light falls like broken petals through the paper walls and casts everything in a hazy glow. For all your protests, uncle Satoru follows close behind, chirping all kinds of encouragements, giggling most of the way through. The lazy patterns he draws on your shoulders with his thumbs, or the brief brushes of his nose along your cheek, kisses behind your jaw— it all should make you feel a lot guiltier than it does. Instead you’re just wound up, skin tingling with every touch the longer it lasts.
“Are you gonna tell me why we’re here now?”
He hums that melodic agreement, before pointing you towards the rather familiar door at the right. “If you go in there, I will.” At your slight frown, he only presses on. “I promise. Come on, trust your favorite uncle.”
“You’re not my favorite.”
His voice grows low as his lips brush your ear, and those strong arms start gliding down the sides of your back. “Liar.” The kiss that is pressed to your pulse is slower this time, humming in your throat and making you swallow your words. His mind hasn’t changed after you ran out. Instead of focusing on that- on him, you reach for the door and slide it open, finding your and Satoru’s room barely changed at all. His hands come to press at the sides of your hips, long fingers trekking all over the skin he can reach. “I’ve been thinking for a while now…” His playful voice dips a little lower, and your breathing grows slower and slower. “I always meant it when I said you were my favorite... but-”
“But it’s a little different now, hm, pretty girl? When did you change so much?” Those hands that start sliding up along your thighs to hike your skirt up to your belly, and though you try to keep it down with a little breath, he denies it. “You don’t like it? That I wanna see all of you?” The little hum to your soft throat makes you feel like you’re charged to the brim, crackling each time he moves. It’s unbearable, and yet, you couldn’t move a muscle if you tried. “Tell me that I’m a bad guy.”
You can’t focus on anything. His nimble fingers toy with the edge of your panties, and the puff of his breath sends a shiver down your neck. “W-why’d you take me to our old- ah- place?” Satoru doesn’t wait for you to catch up before the frilly fabric drags along your thighs. Your awfully wet underwear lands around your feet, and he leans in to nudge your face to his. Kissing you over your shoulder as his body covers you from behind, and his waist pushes up against you. His tongue steals your attention away from his hands just long enough to lose track of them before they’re on your tits, squeezing them and making your cunt clench in anticipation.
“Because I wanted to prove something.” He rolls his clothed waist against your ass and makes that awful feeling even worse, forcing a whimper out of you. And that mind-numbing fucking laughter returns before his hands start moving to your center. You’re not sure if you want to push him away or ride his fingers with the slow drag of rough fingertips along the inside of your legs— not that it’s up to you anyway. “You’re no longer that good girl that’d idolize uncle Satoru, right? You’ve started thinking about other things when I’m around, hm?”
Fingers slide through the embarrassing amount of wetness between your legs with another noise from him, pressing his hardening cock harder against you and grinding it against you- and you have to fight the urge to just get face down on the floor for him. “F-fuck, baby, you’re already dripping all over my hand. Does uncle ‘Toru turn you on?” Two prodding digits slide into your clenching hole as he grins against your cheek, and his free hand meanly pinches a nipple. “C’mon, tell me. Tell me how much you like me.”
“Mh-ack, I- li-like you.” He goes to pull his hand back but you reach for it, and push it back inside to have his hand palm rubbing up against your clit. “A lot, I like you a lot! Please.” The curl of his long fingers inside you is enough to have you shaking, leaning back against his chest with one shoulder, and hanging onto his wrist. It doesn’t take much to have him smiling into the hickey he’s sucking under your jaw, and fighting back your resistance just enough to start pushing another finger inside. The slight ache is almost instantly replaced with the pleasure of having your clenching pussy filled so full. Everything blurs a little when you reach back for him for support, and his strong hand fucks smoothly in and out of you. “Mhm, ah, ah, I love my uncle Satoru. Sa. To. Ru.” Slick runs down your leg and makes his entire hand sticky, and he hums in agreement.
“That’s a good little niece. Love riding my fingers like this? You’re shaking, baby.” He knows what it does to you, must’ve known for a while, when his voice is pressed to your skin— it leaves you a mess. You try to respond, but your tongue gets all tangled, and you can only whimper and nod as his fingers fuck right into the spot you need them to. Your back curls against him as your legs get shakier, and your poor clit is grinded against his palm until you can’t focus on anything else. It feels so good. Good, good, good, good~ You want to keep riding his fingers forever.
“Lay down for me,” he rasps when you really start rubbing back against his hand, pussy so messy and full and your lips glossy with spit— and you almost cry when he starts pulling back.
“No, no no nonono, uncle Satoru, please. I’m close,” you squeak, only to allow him to push you down by your shoulder and watch as he slots his fingers between pink lips. “Hm- I- can I cum? Please?” Your thighs rub together as you lay down, and Satoru kneels before you to pry them open wide enough to fit his shoulders between.
“Shh, lift your ass,” he quickly chants, getting comfortable between your legs as his hands pry you open, “let me taste my favorite pussy the way I want.” His devilish mouth is on you before you can register it, hot and instantly too much. Your puffy clit is laved in licks and sucks that hit the spot just right, and every nerve end fires in a way that no one else could ever accomplish. His hums and the brilliant glint of his eyes as he watches you tear up and moan, lifting your ass closer to his face as his tongue licks and fucks your dripping pussy. He laughs when eating you out so good your eyes cross, before latching his mouth around your overstimulated nub for real, and sucking the light out of your vision.
Your legs shake before you’re clenching them around his head with a long, high-pitches whimper and a string of moans that roll through your body— and Satoru just keeps going, until you’re twitching and you try to push him away. Your breathing is rapid and shallow as you blink the black spots on your vision away and loosen the grip you have on his hair, but your legs still shake as he brushes his thumb over your pussy without pity. “That’s one. Wanna see how many more I can get you to?”
“No,” you immediately squeak, making his smug grin grow even wider. “I wanna… first, wanna have you- i-inside.” Admitting it is different than thinking it. And you’ve thought it, too much to count- but it still heats your cheeks and ears upon seeing the way Satoru’s lashes flutter a little, and he pushes his pants down to take his flushed cock out.
“Yeah? You want your uncle Satoru’s big cock inside you?” His hand wraps around his thick length with a little hiss, sliding his hand over the swollen, dark pink tip as you watch. “Say it properly, and I’ll give it to you.” You roll onto your side to yank your shirt up over your tits, and impatiently shake your ass as you whine out a noise that barely seems to register as you. But you can’t help it. The buzz from your orgasm only made your belly hotter, slicking up your legs and ass and dripping for him- as he sits up on his knees so slide his pants down further.
“Satoru~ please.” His hand moves up and down a few times as he raises a brow, and knocks away your hand when you try to touch yourself. “Please, please, puh-lease~” Your voice cracks when you lay back instead, and knead your tit as you try to pull him closer by wrapping your legs around him. “I want to have- uncle ‘Toru’s cock. I want to have my own uncle’s cock, I love my uncle- and I want- to be his personal pussy to use~” Tears spring up in the corners of your eyes, so you close them. “Now please just put it in. I’ve waited long enough-”
A little chuckle breaks up your begging before he kisses you deep and greedily, and suddenly the hot head of his cock pushes up against your sopping entrance. “Want it so bad you gotta cry about it? Poor baby.” He just about pushes in the slightest bit, and takes a slow breath to stare into your eyes. Pretty. So fucking pretty, all of him. “Sorry I made you wait. Uncle will fill this little niece's pussy up, don’t worry.” Then he pushes in with a slow press on your tummy that makes you blink back tears, as his heavy, hot cock breaks you open a little further, along with your sanity.
The smack when he bottoms out is a brief relief, before he pulls back and uses those strong legs to start really fucking into you, nose to nose. “Letting your own family fuck your greedy pussy like this, look at you. I’m a bad influence, hm?” The weight of him, the brushing of his pelvic bone to your clit, the grip on your thigh and brushing of your tits and every brief brush of his lips over yours is enough to have that coil pull back so tight in your stomach too quickly. You dig your nails into his muscular back as each pap of his balls smacking against your slick-covered ass rings out in the room, and the white-haired man hums. “Uncle Satoru’s your favorite, say it. That you’ll beg for my cock until you go hoarse.”
He presses his nose to your temple, and pants against you- fucking with a rhythm that’s taking the breath out of you. You’re already going to cum again. “Say that you want uncle Satoru’s kids filling up your belly, ahg- go on— mhm, that tight, t-tight fucking pussy.”
“Yes, yes, I want my uncle’s cum inside! My favorite uncle’s ruining my pussy!” you squeak, and then cry out against his neck. “I’m gonna cum again, uncle ‘Toru. G-gonna- agh-ughn- p-please don’t stop.” The thrusts get even deeper if that’s at all possible, lifting your one leg up to grind the head of his cock against your cervix with the position he’s got you in, and goes to cup your pussy. And even that slight touch is enough to have your vision going black and white, head blanking as another orgasm rolls over you and locks your leg around his hips— but the fucking doesn’t stop even then. “Agh-mygodI-ah, ahgh-nh. Uncle Satoru.”
It’s too much, you’re entirely too hot and sweat is rolling down your temple and his chest, but his cock still drives home over and over again like he’s willing to break you in half. You don’t want him to ever stop. “Hearing that filth coming out of your mouth- ugh, mhm, makes me want to keep fucking you forever. For eternity.” His waist bumps your overstimulated clit each time he bottoms out, ring of white around the base of his cock before he throws his head back and moans out your name. “You can’t ever let anyone know how much uncle Satoru loves fucking his little niece, okay? F-fuck. How much I love ruining that little attitude of yours.”
Your both knees are pushes to your shoulders as he moves up, pulling out just a second to fuck between the sloppy lips of your pussy. “Been wanting to fuck you since you moved in. Can’t help but get hard when you’re around. Bad uncle ‘Toru, right?” The head of his cock is so swollen and flushed and dripping with your mixed juices, and he stares at you through narrowed, perfect eyes as he pushes back in and watches his cock disappear into the hot clutch of your pussy, swallowing it up like a whore. His lip is pulled between his teeth as he groans, and fucks harder and faster into you like you’re barely a toy. “But I don’t care. Uncle’s gonna fuck this pussy every day from now on. My pussy. Mine.”
You can feel him in your throat with the way he pounds your pussy until you’re raw, squeezing your throat between his long fingers as his heavy balls hit you. And his mouth covers yours, tongues back together and spit messily covering your chin by the end of it. You don’t think eternity will be enough.
+
There’s some kind of failsafe inside every human, isn’t there? And yours is simply malfunctioning at the wrong times.
The woman hanging off his arm is lovely. Mina, you think it is. She’s smart and pretty and accomplished, and her hair has that perfect commercial shine as it bounces around her shoulders. And Satoru is laying on the sweetness thick, from what you can make out between the giggles and shiny smiles. Underneath the obnoxious shades hiding his pearly gaze from direct view as he makes quick work of scanning the beach. It sits in your stomach with an uncomfortable rumble. Even though you know… It’s for show. It’s all just for show.
You do your best not to frown when he looks back over his shoulder for a second to drag his eyes over you. “We should play beach volleyball!”
And a soft chuckle from the person by your side agrees when you can’t be bothered to. “You got it!” The blond is smart enough to give you a softly encouraging grin that makes you feel vindicated in your exasperation, before you stick up your own thumb. You have no intention of watching Satoru leave hot handprints all over her skin. The young man beside you clearly notices your hesitation, because he smoothes a palm down your spine to straighten you up a little, before blowing out a long breath that makes you smile. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’ll keep him busy if you’d rather lay in the shade for a little longer.”
Kenji’s fingers softly brush along the small of your back, then teasingly slips them under the knot of your bikini, as his mouth comes to hover over your ear. “Or we could sneak away for a little bit and…”
“And get caught for indecent exposure?” you giggle over your shoulder instead of letting him kiss you, and grab for one of the books that had gone untouched earlier in the day to tap it on his head. “We can’t,” you breathe with a smile, and watch as he takes that as a challenge. Really, you’re not one for fighting fire with fire. That’s Satoru’s play, and you don’t have any intention of mistreating anyone. But … the adoring gazes and personal attention does make the whole ordeal a lot easier to stomach. So easy even, that you’re down in the toasty sand with him above and your chest rising and falling rapidly for a few blissful seconds, before the volleyball hits the both of you on the sides.
Your eyes snap over to the head of white hair when he clears his throat, and holds his hands up in mock apology. Serene, picture-perfect smile plastered on his handsome face. You click your tongue, and you can’t hold back the angry echo of his name in your head as he walks up. “Sorry, sorry, my bad! You guys coming or what?” This whole song and dance is just— so frustrating. Despite your best effort to keep it in, a slight tick in your brow still makes its way onto your face.
“You guys start without me,” you breathe after a few seconds of staring Satoru down, allowing Kenji to pull you up from the sand to dust you off. “I’m going to go grab the sunscreen and the coolers from the car.” Kenji makes an attempt to stand, but you wave it off in favor of putting some space between you and the tallest as his crystal eyes drill holes through you. “No, I got it. Thanks though.”
By the time Satoru’s “girlfriend” walks up and slips underneath his arm, he raises a brow your way, and the glitter in his eyes makes you convinced that he knows just as well as you do. You do your best to ignore him — them, but you can still feel the sting of him appraising you through those stupid shades. Asshole. You swing your hips as you walk away, kicking up sand every time your slippers bounce up.
At least the short walk allows for a moment to cool off, and collect your thoughts. There’s no sense in getting fed up. He’ll just get home and start cracking jokes like always, pretending like he didn’t do something wrong in the first place. Nevertheless, you allow yourself only a short sigh and admittance of defeat in the little game you play as you click the trunk closed again.
Before you turn and walk into a solid chest, almost scaring you skittering back against the hot surface of the car. Large hands descend on you, one to wrap around your waist and the other covering your mouth- before he leans down further into your space. “So, so grumpy all the time.” Uncle Satoru’s rough handpalm slides down to grab a handful of your ass before he lowers his face to yours into a languid kiss, tongue tasting vaguely like strawberry as he drags it over yours with a hum. “Stop trying to make me jealous.”
“I’m— I’m not! And ‘m not grumpy. I just don’t want to see you,” you end up breathing out, wrapping your arms instinctively around his broad shoulders when those long fingers start toying with your pussy through the awfully flimsy fabric. “Satoruuu~”
His chuckle is matched with the impatient way he rubs two fingers up and down along your slit, and slides his other hand down your smooth stomach to start peeling it all off. “Call me uncle Satoru, c’mon baby. You know what I like.”
You barely have a chance to place your hand over your mouth to keep quiet as he noses your bikini top out of the way to drag his pink tongue languidly over your puffy bud— and those baby blues find you through wispy, white lashes. “Uncle ‘Toru, unc-cle ‘Ru— You’re gonna get us caught.” He sucks part of it into his mouth and leaves a mean mark with his teeth, before grinning.
You just settled on the bed, your shirt hanging loosely around you—the fabric a welcome relief from the constant feeling of everything being too tight. Your body was still sore, still healing, and the last thing you expected was your ridiculous husband sliding in beside you, chin propped on his hand as he stared at your chest through the loose shirt like it was the goddamn six eyes of heaven.
“Y’know, I always loved these,” Satoru drawled, his grin slow and mischievous as his long fingers tugged your shirt down a little further to expose more of your leaking breast. “But now? Now they’ve got special powers. My wife’s got the whole snack bar built in”.
You swatted at him while rolling your eyes, face burning. “Satoru—don’t. They’re leaking, it’s embarrassing—”
“Embarrassing?” he cuts in, already ducking his head to lick at the milky droplet beading out your puffy nipple. He groaned dramatically, loud enough to make you shove your hand over his mouth so he doesn’t wake the newborn. “Mmm—baby, are you kidding? This is like… gourmet”.
You gaped at him in disbelief, scandalized, while he kept going, mouthing at the swell of your tits with that stupid, greedy enthusiasm only he could pull off. His warm tongue circled sloppily around the bud, then he sucked hard, groaning when more milk filled his mouth. He pulled back just to flash you that cocky grin, lips shiny from the milky liquid.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Don’t tell the bakery down the street,” he teased with a wink before diving back in, stuffing his face between your breasts, nuzzling side to side like a total perv. He even made obnoxious slurping noises on purpose just to make you squirm.
“Satoru, you’re—ugh, you’re impossible!”.
“Impossible not to love you,” he mumbled against your delicate skin, hands squeezing your boobs like he was trying to wring them out, milky drips sliding down his chin. “C’mon, let me have ‘em, angel. You know I’m obsessed”.
Your head fell back against the pillows, torn between mortification and the sharp pulse of heat building low in your belly as he nursed and nuzzled, voice low and teasing between sloppy sucks.
“Married the prettiest girl in the world and she gives me free refills. Talk about jackpot”.
you tell yourself it’s just another patient, just another session, just another story you’ll file away and forget. but he remembers you—remembers your hands in his hair, your voice telling him to stay alive, the way you never looked at him like a lost cause. now he’s here again, smiling like it’s fate, and every word you said about his love not being wrong is starting to feel like a promise you never meant to make.
wc — 8.9k ๑˙ tags -> f!reader, reader is a therapist, modern au, dead dove: do not eat, psychological horror, obsessive behavior, unhealthy relationships, stalking, emotional manipulation, past suicide attempt, kidnapping, non-consensual drug use, gaslighting, captivity
the afternoon light filters through your office blinds in thin, golden strips, casting geometric shadows across the mahogany desk that separates you from your patient. your fingers trace the edge of your notepad, pen poised but motionless as you watch him fidget in the leather chair across from you. there’s something almost boyish about the way he sits—legs sprawled, one knee bouncing with barely contained energy, hands clasped and unclasped in his lap like he can’t quite figure out what to do with them.
“i think about her constantly,” he says, and his voice carries that same trembling quality it’s held for the past three sessions. vulnerable. raw. “every morning when i wake up, every night before i sleep. it’s like she’s carved herself into my thoughts and i can’t... i can’t get her out.”
you nod, maintaining what you hope is an expression of professional empathy. the poor thing looks so lost, so genuinely distressed by whatever romantic entanglement has brought him to your office. his hair catches the afternoon light strangely—not quite white, not quite silver, but something in between that seems to shift and change depending on how he moves his head. unusual for someone so young, though you’ve learned not to comment on such things unless patients bring them up themselves.
“when you say you think about her constantly,” you begin, voice gentle and measured, “can you help me understand what those thoughts look like? are they pleasant thoughts, or do they cause you distress?”
he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. more like air being forced from lungs that forgot how to breathe properly. “both? neither? i don’t know anymore.” his hands rake through that distinctive hair, messing it further. “sometimes i imagine what it would be like if she just... knew. really knew how much she means to me. and those thoughts feel like... like coming home, you know? like everything would finally make sense.”
you jot down a few notes, careful to keep your expression neutral. classic signs of limerence, possibly bordering on obsessive. “and the distressing thoughts?”
“the fact that she doesn’t remember me.” the words come out sharper than before, and you catch something flickering across his features—a tightness around his eyes that doesn’t match the vulnerability he’s been projecting. “we have history, and she acts like i’m nobody. like i’m just... another face in the crowd.”
“that must feel very isolating,” you offer, leaning forward slightly in your chair. the leather creaks beneath you, and you wonder if he notices these small sounds the way you do. occupational hazard, probably—training yourself to catch every micro-expression, every shift in tone. “unrequited feelings can be particularly painful when they’re connected to past relationships or friendships.”
“exactly.” he seizes on your words like they’re a lifeline, and suddenly that boyish energy is back, eyes bright and almost fever-warm. “you understand. you always understand.”
the intensity of his gratitude makes something small and uncomfortable twist in your stomach, but you push the feeling aside. he’s clearly been struggling with this for a while, and if your validation helps him feel less alone in his pain, then you’re doing your job correctly.
“it’s not unrequited,” he continues, voice gaining strength. “it can’t be. the way she looks at me sometimes, the way she used to...” he trails off, fingers worrying at the hem of his shirt. “god, i sound crazy, don’t i? talking about signs that probably don’t exist.”
“you don’t sound crazy,” you assure him, because that’s what he needs to hear. what anyone in his position needs to hear. “intense feelings can make us hyperaware of every interaction, every gesture. it’s completely normal to look for confirmation that our feelings might be returned.”
he goes very still then, in a way that reminds you of a cat that’s just spotted something interesting through a window. “normal,” he repeats, and there’s something almost reverent in how he says the word.
“of course it’s normal.” you set your pen down, giving him your full attention. “love—even complicated, difficult love—isn’t wrong. it’s one of the most human experiences we can have. your love isn’t wrong.”
the silence that follows feels different from the comfortable pauses that usually punctuate your sessions. this one has weight to it, substance, like the air right before a thunderstorm. he’s staring at you with an expression you can’t quite parse, something between wonder and satisfaction, and you realize you can’t actually tell what color his eyes are. they seem to shift like his hair does, blue bleeding into something lighter, something that might be gray or might be green depending on the angle of the light.
“my love isn’t wrong,” he echoes, and now he’s smiling. really smiling, for the first time since he started coming to see you. it transforms his entire face, makes him look younger and somehow more dangerous all at once.
“no,” you confirm, pleased to see this breakthrough in his emotional state. “it isn’t.”
“even when it’s all-consuming? even when i want to know everything about her, protect her from everything that might hurt her?”
“passion can feel overwhelming,” you acknowledge carefully. “but the intensity of your feelings doesn’t make them invalid. it sounds like you care about her very deeply.”
“i do.” his voice has gone soft again, but there’s something underneath the softness now, something solid and unmoving. “i’ve cared about her for a long time. longer than she knows.”
you glance at the clock on your desk—fifteen minutes left in the session. “would you like to tell me more about your history with her? sometimes understanding the foundation of our feelings can help us navigate them more effectively.”
“we went to school together,” he says, and his eyes go distant, unfocused. “she was always helping people. always so kind, so...” he pauses, searching for words. “she saved me, once. probably doesn’t even remember it, but she saved my life.”
“that sounds like a very significant moment.”
“it was everything.” the words are barely above a whisper. “she was everything.”
you nod, making a note about childhood trauma and formative relationships. “and now you’re both adults, in different places in your lives. that transition can be difficult when someone has been so important to you.”
“different places,” he repeats, and that strange smile is back. “for now.”
the session winds down with you offering some standard techniques for managing obsessive thoughts, resources for healthy relationship communication, gentle suggestions about respecting boundaries. he listens with rapt attention, nodding at all the right moments, asking thoughtful questions that make you think he’s really taking your advice to heart.
“same time next week?” you ask as he stands to leave, gathering his jacket from the back of the chair.
“wouldn’t miss it,” he says, and something about the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten inexplicably. “thank you. for everything. for understanding.”
“of course. that’s what i’m here for.”
he pauses at the door, hand on the handle, and turns back to look at you one more time. “you really believe that? that love isn’t wrong?”
“i do.”
“good.” he opens the door, steps halfway through, then glances over his shoulder with that transformative smile. “i’ll remember you said that.”
and then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of his cologne and a strange, creeping sensation that you’ve just missed something important. something vital. you shake your head, chalking it up to the emotional intensity of the session, and reach for your notes to start your post-session summary.
outside in the hallway, satoru leans against the wall and lets himself savor the moment. the taste of victory is sweet on his tongue, honeyed and warm and better than he’d dared to hope for.
his love isn’t wrong.
the words loop in his mind like a prayer, like a benediction, like the absolution he’s been craving since he was fourteen years old and realized that what he felt for you was bigger than friendship, bigger than gratitude, bigger than anything he’d ever experienced before.
you said it yourself, with that gentle voice and those soft eyes and that perfect, perfect naivety that makes him want to wrap you up and keep you safe from a world that doesn’t deserve you. love isn’t wrong. even when it’s all-consuming. even when it wants to know everything, protect everything, own everything.
he pushes off from the wall and starts walking toward the elevator, hands stuffed in his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking with adrenaline. god, you’re even more beautiful than he remembered. sitting there in your neat little blazer and pencil skirt, so professional and put-together, trying so hard to help him navigate his “complicated feelings.”
as if there’s anything complicated about loving you.
as if there’s anything complicated about wanting to take you home and show you exactly how much you mean to him, how much you’ve always meant to him, until you understand that this thing between you isn’t some modern romance that can be solved with therapy techniques and healthy communication strategies.
the elevator arrives with a soft ding, and he steps inside, watching his reflection multiply in the polished steel walls. his hair is still messed up from running his hands through it during the session, white strands falling across his forehead in a way that he knows makes him look younger, more vulnerable. more trustworthy.
it’s a useful look. you always did have a soft spot for lost things.
he remembers the first time you looked at him like that, back when you were both fourteen and stupid and he was having what his mother later called “a difficult adjustment period.” difficult. as if nearly overdosing in the school bathroom because the weight of existing felt too heavy for his fourteen-year-old shoulders was just a phase he needed to work through.
you found him there, slumped against the stall door with empty pill bottles scattered around him like confetti, vision already going soft around the edges. he’d expected screaming, maybe, or panic. instead, you’d knelt down beside him in your school uniform—navy blazer, white button-down, that little plaid skirt that he’d spent months trying not to stare at—and spoke to him in the same voice you’d just used in your office.
“hey,” you’d said, and your hand was cool against his forehead, checking for fever like his mother used to do when he was small. “stay with me, okay? just stay right here with me.”
you’d called for help, of course. held his head in your lap while you waited for the paramedics, fingers stroking through his hair and telling him stories about anything and everything—your weekend plans, the book you were reading for english class, the stray cat that had been hanging around your backyard. mindless chatter designed to keep him conscious, to keep him anchored to the world he’d been trying so hard to leave behind.
“you’re going to be fine,” you’d whispered as they loaded him onto the stretcher, and he’d believed you. believed in you. because you were the first person who’d looked at him and seen something worth saving.
and now here you are, eight years later, looking at him with those same soft eyes and telling him that love isn’t wrong. that passion isn’t something to be ashamed of. that caring deeply about someone is “one of the most human experiences we can have.”
the elevator opens on the ground floor, and he steps out into the lobby with its marble floors and abstract art and terrible elevator music piped through hidden speakers. everything is clean and professional and utterly forgettable, just like every other medical building in the city.
just like you’ve made yourself forgettable, apparently.
because you don’t remember him. oh, you’re too polite to say it outright, too professional to admit that your patient is just another face in the crowd of people you’ve helped over the years. but he can see it in the way you look at him—with kindness, yes, but not recognition. with empathy, but not familiarity.
you save people the way other people breathe. instinctively, constantly, without thought or effort or expectation of gratitude. and because it comes so naturally to you, because you’ve probably pulled dozens of broken teenagers back from various edges over the years, you don’t remember that he was the one you saved first.
that he was the one who taught you how good it feels to be someone’s hero.
the thought should make him angry, probably. should make him want to shake you until you remember, until you acknowledge what you mean to him, what you’ve always meant to him. and there is anger there, coiled tight in his chest like a snake waiting to strike. but it’s wrapped up in something else, something warmer and more forgiving.
because you haven’t changed. not really. you’re still the girl who knelt down in a dirty bathroom to comfort a stranger, still the woman who spends her days listening to people’s problems and telling them that their feelings are valid, that they’re not crazy, that love isn’t wrong.
you’re still perfect, in other words. still everything he remembered, everything he’s been searching for in every relationship since, everything he’s been waiting to come home to.
and if you’ve forgotten him, well. that’s okay. he can remind you.
he pushes through the glass doors of the medical building and steps out into the afternoon sunshine, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time. 4:47. you’ll probably work until six, maybe later if you have notes to finish. then you’ll drive home to your little apartment on elm street—the one with the blue door and the window boxes full of herbs that you never remember to water properly.
he knows because he’s been watching, of course. not in a creepy way, just... carefully. protectively. making sure you’re safe in a city that eats soft-hearted people like you for breakfast.
you take the same route home every day: left out of the parking garage, straight down fifth avenue, right onto elm. you stop at the coffee shop on the corner sometimes, the one with the chalkboard menu and the barista who always spells your name wrong on the cup. you buy groceries on sunday mornings and do your laundry on wednesday evenings and fall asleep on your couch watching old movies more often than you sleep in your actual bed.
you live a quiet, predictable, utterly precious life, and watching you live it has been the closest thing to peace he’s felt since he was fourteen years old and you told him he was going to be fine.
his phone buzzes with a text from his assistant—something about rescheduling a meeting, nothing important—and he swipes it away without reading. there’s only one appointment on his calendar that matters now, only one person whose schedule he cares about memorizing.
same time next week, you’d said, and he’d wanted to laugh at the sweet, professional way you’d said it. as if next week was some distant future he’d have to wait for. as if he wasn’t planning to see you much, much sooner than that.
because here’s what you don’t understand yet, what your careful therapeutic training hasn’t prepared you for: some obsessions aren’t meant to be managed or meditated away or redirected into healthier outlets. some loves are too big for techniques and coping strategies and weekly fifty-minute sessions.
some loves require more direct action.
he starts walking toward the parking garage, already planning his evening. he’ll drive to your neighborhood, maybe grab dinner at that italian place you like—the one where you always sit at the corner table and order the same pasta dish while you grade notes or read psychology journals. he won’t approach you, won’t disturb your routine. he’s not ready for that yet.
but he’ll watch. and he’ll wait. and he’ll remember the way you looked at him today when you told him that love isn’t wrong, that passion is normal, that caring deeply about someone is beautiful and human and nothing to be ashamed of.
you have no idea what you’ve just given him permission to do.
the parking garage is dim and cool, fluorescent lights humming overhead like mechanical insects. his car sits in its usual spot on the third level—black sedan, tinted windows, nothing memorable or distinctive about it. he’s learned the value of blending in over the years, of being forgettable in all the ways that matter.
except to you. he never wants to be forgettable to you.
he slides into the driver’s seat and sits for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel while he replays the session in his mind. every word, every gesture, every micro-expression that crossed your face while he fed you his carefully constructed story of unrequited love and adolescent trauma.
you believed every word, of course. because you want to help, want to heal, want to fix the broken things that people bring to your office. it’s what makes you so good at your job, and it’s what’s going to make this so much easier than it might have been otherwise.
you see the best in people, even when there’s nothing good left to see. especially then.
his phone buzzes again, and this time he checks it. a reminder about his real appointment next week—not the therapy session, but the other thing. the thing he’s been planning for months, ever since he found out where you worked and realized that fate was finally giving him the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
you think you’re helping him process his feelings, navigate his complicated relationship with this mysterious woman who saved him and forgot him and drives him to distraction with her absence.
what you don’t realize is that you’re helping him plan your own capture.
he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space, already thinking about the modifications he’s made to his house in the months since he found you again. the reinforced locks, the soundproof room, the careful attention to detail that will make your transition from therapist to patient to something else entirely as smooth as possible.
because he doesn’t want to hurt you. god, no. he’s spent eight years dreaming about the moment when he could show you how grateful he is, how much you mean to him, how perfectly you fit into the life he’s built around the memory of your kindness.
he just wants to love you the way you deserve to be loved. completely. exclusively. without the interference of a world that doesn’t understand what you are, what you mean, what you’ve done for him.
your love isn’t wrong, you told him, and your voice was so sure, so confident, so absolutely certain that he felt something inside his chest crack open and bloom like a flower that’s been waiting eight years for sunlight.
you’re right, of course. his love isn’t wrong.
even when it plans. even when it watches. even when it takes what it needs to survive.
the garage exit is just ahead, afternoon sunlight streaming through the opening like a promise. he drives toward it slowly, savoring these last few moments of anticipation before he begins the final phase of bringing you home.
after all, he has the rest of his life to show you just how right you were.
three weeks later, you wake up in a room that isn’t yours.
the realization drifts through the pharmaceutical haze like something half-remembered from a dream. your thoughts move like honey, thick and sluggish, each connection forming seconds after it should. the ceiling above you is cream-colored where yours was white, the light falling wrong through windows that face mountains instead of your familiar cityscape.
satoru watches from the doorway as awareness seeps back into your features with agonizing slowness. perfect. the sedatives are working exactly as intended—keeping you pliant without making you catatonic, confused enough to be manageable but coherent enough to understand what’s happening to you. he’d spent weeks researching the exact dosage, consulting with specialists under carefully constructed pretenses, ensuring that his butterfly would emerge from her chrysalis exactly as vulnerable as he needed her to be.
you don’t panic immediately. even drugged, you’re still his girl—always thinking, always processing, always trying to understand before reacting. your fingers move first, testing sheets that cost more than your monthly salary, then your arms, patting weakly for restraints that aren’t there.
he didn’t need to tie you down. where would you flutter to?
“good morning, sweetheart,” he says, voice carrying the same honey-warm tone he used in your office, and watches as you turn toward him with movements that remind him of a newborn deer—all uncertain limbs and blinking confusion.
morning light catches in the pale silk of his hair, transforming each strand into something between starlight and spider’s thread. he’s leaning against the doorframe with studied casualeness, wearing clothes that whisper money in their simplicity—dark jeans that fit like they were tailored for him, a white t-shirt soft enough to be cashmere. everything about him screams wealth and control, from his perfectly maintained appearance to the way he owns every inch of space around him.
like you belong in that space now too.
“where—” you start, then stop, pressing trembling fingers to lips that feel cotton-dry. the oversized button-down you’re wearing—his shirt, he’d been meticulous about that detail—hangs loose on your frame, neckline gaping to show the delicate architecture of your collarbones.
such fragile bones. he could snap them with barely any pressure at all.
“my house,” he answers the question you couldn’t finish asking, voice patient in the way adults use with confused children. “about two hours north of the city. beautiful area—you’ll love it once you settle in.”
settle in. like you’re a houseguest who’s going to be staying awhile. like this is a vacation instead of a kidnapping.
you swing your legs over the side of the bed with the careful deliberation of someone whose body isn’t quite obeying their commands. bare feet touch hardwood floors that he had refinished specifically with this moment in mind, every detail of this room curated around the fantasy of watching you wake up here every morning for the rest of your lives.
“satoru.” your voice wavers like a candle flame in wind, though you’re trying so hard to sound steady. trying so hard to be professional even now, even when professionalism is as useless as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. “this is—you can’t just—”
the way you fumble for words makes something warm and protective unfurl in his chest. poor little thing. so articulate in your office, so confident when you were the one in control. now you can barely string a sentence together, thoughts scattering like leaves every time you try to grasp them.
“can’t just what?” he tilts his head with genuine curiosity, pale eyes shifting from blue to something clearer, something that catches light like broken glass. “care about you? protect you? give you somewhere safe to be yourself?”
he wants to photograph this moment—you sitting on the edge of his bed in his shirt, hair mussed from sleep and drugs, looking at him with those wide, confused eyes like you’re seeing him for the first time. which, in a way, you are. the vulnerable patient from your office is gone, stripped away to reveal what was always underneath.
“kidnap me.” the words drop into the space between you like stones into still water. “this is kidnapping.”
such clinical precision, even now. he has to admire your commitment to maintaining that therapist composure, cataloging this experience like it’s happening to someone else. it won’t last—the drugs will see to that—but for now, watching you try to apply logic to a situation that exists entirely beyond logic is almost endearing.
“such an ugly word for something so beautiful.” he pushes off from the doorframe, movement liquid and predatory, and stops when you tense like prey scenting danger. always so perceptive, even impaired. it’s one of the things he loves most about you—how you read people, analyze threats, process information even when your world is dissolving around the edges.
especially when your world is dissolving.
“i prefer to think of it as... an intervention.”
you stand up then, swaying slightly as the drugs make the room tilt, and he’s struck again by how perfectly you fit into his space. how right you look wearing his clothes, surrounded by things he chose specifically for you. the morning light turns your skin luminous, makes you look like something painted by masters, something too precious for the harsh world outside.
something that needs to be preserved. protected. pinned carefully to velvet so it can never fly away.
“an intervention requires consent from the person being helped.”
still clinging to your training like it’s a life preserver. still believing that therapeutic principles apply to a situation where he holds all the power and you can barely think straight enough to remember your own name. the disconnect is delicious—watching someone so intelligent, so educated, so professionally competent reduced to reciting textbook definitions while wearing his shirt like a child playing dress-up.
“does it?” he asks, and there’s something almost playful threading through his tone now, something that makes the light in those strange eyes dance. “because i seem to remember you telling me that sometimes people don’t know what’s best for them. that sometimes they need professional guidance to see past their own cognitive distortions.”
your mouth opens, closes. he can practically watch the gears grinding in your head as you realize he’s using your own therapeutic philosophy against you, your own words twisted into justification for this moment. the confusion that flickers across your features is beautiful—intelligence at war with chemistry, professional knowledge crashing against personal helplessness.
you’re so much lovelier when you’re lost.
“that’s different,” you say finally, but there’s no conviction left in your voice. the drugs are doing their work, making everything feel distant and dreamlike, making it impossible to hold onto anger or fear long enough to fuel resistance.
“is it?” he takes another step, slow and deliberate, the way someone might approach a skittish animal. not because he’s afraid you’ll run—where could you go?—but because he wants to savor this. wants to stretch out these first moments of real honesty between you, when all your professional masks have been chemically dissolved and he can see straight through to the soft, vulnerable creature underneath.
“you told me that my love isn’t wrong. that passion, even overwhelming passion, is natural and human and nothing to be ashamed of.”
“in the context of healthy relationships—” you start, then stop when he takes another step closer. your back hits the window, cool glass pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt, and suddenly there’s nowhere left to retreat.
perfect. exactly where he wants you—caught between him and the morning light, backlit like something from a renaissance painting. he could frame this moment, hang it in a gallery, title it ‘butterfly learning to love her jar.’
“and what makes you think this isn’t healthy?” the question stops you cold, and he watches your face cycle through micro-expressions as you struggle to find an answer that doesn’t sound like recycled psychology. “i’m not hurting you. i’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do. i’m simply creating a space where we can explore what we mean to each other without outside interference.”
your hands flutter up to press against his chest, but there’s no real force behind the gesture. your movements are soft, uncertain, like you’re pushing through water instead of air. the drugs make everything feel distant, unreal, like this is happening to someone else while you watch from very far away.
“this is imprisonment.” the words slur slightly at the edges, consonants softened by whatever he used to keep you compliant.
“this is devotion.” he’s close enough now that you’re breathing the same air, close enough to see the way your pupils dilate when you look at him. close enough to smell his shampoo in your hair, his soap on your skin. “this is eight years of gratitude finally finding its expression.”
something changes in your face then. recognition dawning slow and terrible, features rearranging themselves around a memory you’d buried so deep you almost convinced yourself it never happened.
there she is. there’s his clever girl, putting the pieces together despite the pharmaceutical fog clouding her thoughts.
“eight years,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper.
“you’re starting to remember.” satisfaction blooms warm and golden in his chest as understanding flickers in your eyes. he’s been so patient, waiting for this moment when you finally connect the dots. when you realize that the vulnerable boy from your office and the broken teenager you saved are the same person. when you understand that this has always been inevitable.
“i was wondering when it would click.”
your hand goes to your throat, fingers pressing against pulse points that are fluttering like trapped birds. “the boy in the bathroom.”
yes. the word tastes like victory, like coming home after years of wandering lost.
“the boy you saved.” he reaches out, slow enough that you can see every detail of the movement, and touches a strand of hair that’s fallen across your cheek. you flinch but don’t pull away—can’t pull away, really, not when the drugs are making your reflexes so beautifully slow. “the boy you told would be fine.”
“that was—god, that was you.” your voice cracks on the words, and he can see tears gathering like morning dew in the corners of your eyes. not from fear—not yet—but from the sheer weight of realization crushing down on chest already struggling to process too much stimulation.
poor little butterfly. everything is too bright, too intense, too real when your mind is wrapped in chemical gauze.
“we both were just children,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down to cup your jaw with infinite gentleness. your skin is so soft, so warm, exactly as perfect as he remembered from all those nights he lay awake imagining this moment. “but you knew exactly what to say to keep me breathing. kept talking to me about nothing and everything until the paramedics came.”
his thumb brushes across the delicate skin just below your ear, feeling your pulse jump rabbit-quick under his touch.
“do you remember what you told me while we waited?”
you shake your head, but he can see in your eyes that you do remember, somewhere deep down where you’ve buried all the people you’ve helped over the years. his little collector of broken things, always moving on to the next wounded creature without looking back at the ones you’ve already fixed.
but he remembers everything. every word, every touch, every moment of that afternoon when you proved that some people really were worth saving.
“you told me about the stray cat in your backyard.” his thumb moves to trace the soft curve of your bottom lip, so careful, so reverent. “how it was skittish and wouldn’t let anyone near it, but you kept leaving food out anyway because you could see it was hungry.”
the tears spill over then, tracking silver lines down cheeks that flush pink under his attention. he wants to taste them, wants to drink in your sorrow and confusion and dawning understanding, but he restrains himself. there will be time for that later, when you’re ready to accept all the ways he plans to worship you.
“you said sometimes the most damaged things just need someone to prove they’re worth saving.”
just like me, he thinks, watching you crumble so beautifully. just like you proved to me.
“you remember now,” he murmurs, voice gone soft with something that would be love if love were big enough to contain what he feels. if love were adequate to describe eight years of obsession crystallizing into this perfect moment. “you remember why this isn’t wrong.”
“this isn’t—” you start, then make a small sound of distress when his grip on your face tightens just enough to remind you who’s in control here. your hands come up to push against his chest again, but the gesture is weak, more plea than resistance.
such a good girl, already learning not to fight him.
“this isn’t what i meant when i saved you.” the words come out broken, confused, like you’re not entirely sure what you mean anymore.
“isn’t it?” he leans closer, until his forehead almost touches yours, until you have no choice but to look into eyes that shift and change like water under moonlight. “you wanted to prove i was worth saving. well, here i am. saved. successful. alive because of you.”
your breathing is coming faster now, shallow little pants that make his shirt rise and fall against skin he knows is growing warm with more than just embarrassment. the drugs make everything feel intense, overwhelming—every sensation magnified until even the brush of fabric becomes almost too much to bear.
perfect. exactly how he needs you—open, vulnerable, every defense stripped away until there’s nothing left but raw feeling.
“not like this.” your voice is getting smaller, more uncertain, like a child lost in a crowded store. “this isn’t what healing looks like.”
“no?” he catches your wrists in his free hand, thumb stroking over delicate bones that feel like they might snap if he applied even the slightest pressure. such fragile architecture, such perfect construction. like you were made specifically to be held, to be protected, to be kept safe from a world too harsh for something so precious.
“then what does it look like? weekly sessions where you pat my head and tell me my feelings are valid while i pretend not to know your address? where you offer me coping strategies for an obsession that’s kept me breathing for eight years?”
you try to pull away, but your movements are clumsy, uncoordinated, like a butterfly trying to fly with torn wings. he lets you struggle for a moment, enjoying the way you sway on your feet, the way confusion clouds your features when your body won’t obey simple commands.
“obsession isn’t love,” you whisper, but the words lack conviction. everything lacks conviction when you can barely hold a thought long enough to examine it properly.
“says who?” the question comes out sharper than he intended, and he watches you flinch. immediately, he gentles his voice, his touch, because frightening you isn’t the goal here. confusion is useful—terror is not. “some psychology textbook? some professor who’s never felt anything half as real as what i feel for you?”
what i’ve always felt for you.
“says basic human decency—”
“human decency.” he laughs, and the sound is hollow in a way that doesn’t match the softness of his expression. “where was human decency when i spent eight years looking for you? when i went through relationship after relationship trying to find someone who could make me feel even a fraction of what you made me feel in that bathroom?”
his grip on your wrists shifts, becomes something that could be mistaken for gentle if you ignored the way it keeps your hands exactly where he wants them. trapped. helpless. dependent on his mercy for even the smallest freedom.
“where was human decency when i finally found you and realized you didn’t even remember my name?”
the accusation hits like cold water, and he watches you struggle to process it through the pharmaceutical haze. your mouth opens and closes, searching for words that won’t come, thoughts scattering like startled birds every time you try to grasp them.
so beautiful when you’re lost. so perfect when you can’t hide behind professional competence and therapeutic distance.
“i help a lot of people—” you begin, but he cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head.
“you help a lot of people,” he agrees, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “you collect broken things like butterflies and then you forget about them once they’re pinned to your board. do you have any idea what that feels like?”
he releases your wrists to frame your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away tears that taste like salt and surrender when he finally gives in to temptation and brings them to his mouth.
“to know that the most important moment of your life was just tuesday afternoon for someone else?”
the tears are falling freely now, and he can see the exact moment when the last of your professional composure crumbles. when you stop being his therapist and start being exactly what you’ve always been—a soft-hearted girl who saves broken things without thinking about the consequences.
“please,” you whisper, and the word breaks something open in his chest, something that’s been sealed tight since he was fourteen years old and certain he was going to die in a school bathroom. “please don’t do this.”
please. such a small word to carry so much weight. such a beautiful sound when it falls from lips he’s dreamed about kissing for eight years.
“don’t do what?” he asks, genuinely confused by the request. “don’t love you? don’t show you how much you mean to me? don’t give you the devotion you deserve?”
your face crumples, features dissolving into something raw and unguarded that makes his heart race with protective instincts so fierce they’re almost violent. someone this precious shouldn’t cry. someone this perfect shouldn’t suffer.
he’ll have to make sure no one ever makes you cry again once you understand that this is home now.
“don’t hurt me.”
“hurt you?” the suggestion seems to wound him, and for a moment his expression goes soft, almost innocent. like the idea of causing you pain is so foreign he can’t quite process it. “sweetheart, i would never hurt you. that’s the whole point of this—to keep you safe from a world that would hurt you without even realizing what it was destroying.”
you’re sobbing now, quiet and contained but impossible to hide, and he can feel each broken breath against his palms like a physical thing. the sound tears at him, makes him want to gather you up and rock you until the crying stops, until you understand that everything is going to be perfect now.
“this is hurting me,” you manage between hiccups, and the words hit him like accusations.
“no,” he says, voice firm with absolute conviction. the kind of certainty that could reshape reality through sheer force of will. “this is healing. you’re just not used to being taken care of instead of doing the caretaking.”
he steps back then, gives you space to collapse onto the bed because he can see your legs shaking too hard to hold you up. the sight of you curled up in his shirt, crying into hands that smell like his soap, is almost too much to bear.
no matter, you will soon learn to love your jar.
“you told me that my love isn’t wrong,” he continues, settling into the chair he placed specifically for moments like this. “you told me that passion is natural, that caring deeply about someone is beautiful. did you mean it, or were you just saying what you thought i needed to hear?”
you don’t answer, too busy trying to breathe through tears that show no sign of stopping. the drugs make everything feel amplified, overwhelming—even crying becomes an ordeal when your nervous system can’t properly regulate itself.
poor thing. he’ll have to adjust the dosage, find the perfect balance between compliance and distress.
“because if you meant it,” he goes on, voice conversational despite the way his eyes track every movement you make, every shudder and gasp and attempt to compose yourself, “then this is just love expressed honestly. completely. without the artificial boundaries that society puts on feelings too big for its comfort.”
“this is—” you hiccup, wiping your nose on the sleeve of his shirt with the unconscious intimacy of someone too broken to maintain social niceties. the gesture makes something possessive purr in his chest. you’re already adapting, already treating his things like they belong to you too.
“this is kidnapping and false imprisonment and—”
“and you’re going to report me to who, exactly?” he interrupts gently, head tilted like he’s asking about the weather. “the police who would need to find you first? your colleagues who think you’re taking a sabbatical to deal with a family emergency?”
your head snaps up, eyes wide with fresh horror. even drugged, you’re quick to understand implications. sharp enough to realize how thoroughly he’s planned this, how completely you’ve disappeared from your old life.
“what did you tell them?”
“that your mother is sick and you need time to care for her. very believable—you’re exactly the type who would drop everything to help someone you love.” he pauses, lets that sink in while you process the full scope of your isolation. “they were all very understanding. told me to give you their best and not to worry about anything while you’re gone.”
the sound you make is barely human, something between a wail and a whimper that goes straight through his chest like a blade. you’re overwhelmed, poor little butterfly. too much new information, too many changes all at once.
he’ll have to be more careful about pacing these revelations. you’re so delicate right now, so easily shattered.
“hey,” he says, voice dropping into the same gentle tone he used to calm you during sessions. “breathe for me. in through your nose, out through your mouth. you remember teaching me that?”
and you do remember—he can see it in the way your breathing automatically starts to slow, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought has failed. such a good girl, so well-trained in helping people regulate their emotions.
so easy to use that training against you when you’re the one falling apart.
“there you go,” he murmurs, settling deeper into his chair like he’s planning to stay awhile. like he has all the time in the world to watch you break and rebuild yourself in the shape he wants. “much better. see? your techniques work just as well on you as they do on everyone else.”
especially when you can’t think straight enough to resist them.
“why are you doing this?” the question comes out raw, scraped thin by crying and drugs and the dawning realization that no one is coming to save you.
“because i love you.” he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like the answer should be written in the morning light streaming through his carefully chosen windows. “because you saved my life and then forgot i existed. because every relationship i’ve ever had has been practice for loving you better.”
you look up at him then, really look, and he can see you trying to reconcile the vulnerable patient from your office with the man sitting calmly in front of you while you fall apart. trying to find the broken boy in the polished predator who’s stolen your life with the same careful precision other people use to plan vacations.
“the woman you told me about,” you say slowly, words slurring slightly as exhaustion and chemistry catch up with you. “in therapy. that was—”
“you.” he nods, pleased that you’re still capable of making connections despite everything working against your cognitive function. “always you. did you really think i was talking about someone else?”
your face goes through a series of micro-expressions as the full scope of his deception settles in. he’d sat in your office for weeks, feeding you carefully constructed lies about his obsession with some mysterious woman, watching you offer advice about managing unrequited feelings while you had no idea he was talking about you.
while you had no idea you were helping him plan your own capture.
“i thought—” you stop, shake your head like you’re trying to clear cobwebs from your thoughts. “i thought you were processing unrequited feelings.”
“they’re not unrequited.” his voice carries absolute certainty, the kind of conviction that could move mountains or reshape reality through pure force of belief. “you love me. you just don’t know it yet.”
but you will. he’ll make sure of that. he has all the time in the world to teach you, to show you, to prove exactly how perfect you are together.
“that’s not how love works—”
“isn’t it?” he leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on clasped hands. the pose is casual, unthreatening, like a friend settling in for a heart-to-heart conversation. “you told me yourself that sometimes people need guidance to see past their cognitive distortions. well, your distortion is thinking that you don’t belong to me.”
the word ‘belong’ hits you like a physical blow, and he watches your face cycle through shock, denial, anger, and underneath it all, something that might be recognition.
yes, he thinks, satisfaction warm in his chest. you’re starting to understand.
“i don’t belong to anyone,” you whisper, but there’s no conviction in it. the drugs make everything feel uncertain, make it impossible to hold onto anger or indignation long enough to fuel real resistance.
“you belong to me the same way i belong to you.” he says it matter-of-factly, like he’s discussing the weather or the color of the walls. “have belonged, will belong, always belonged. the only difference is that i’m honest about it.”
you start to stand up, probably planning to pace or put distance between you, but he raises a hand and you freeze mid-motion. interesting. your body remembers who’s in control here even when your mind is still trying to fight.
“sit,” he says quietly, and you do, probably without even realizing it. the drugs make you suggestible, compliant, easy to guide in directions that feel natural even when they shouldn’t.
“good girl.”
the praise makes you flinch, but he doesn’t miss the way something in your expression flickers at the words. the way your breathing changes, just slightly. the way your pupils dilate despite the tears still tracking down your cheeks.
beautiful. even drugged and crying, you respond to him. your body knows what your mind refuses to acknowledge.
“do you regret it?” he asks suddenly, voice gentle with genuine curiosity. “saving me, i mean. if you could go back to that day, knowing what you know now, would you still have stopped to help?”
the question clearly catches you off guard. you stare at him for a long moment, and he can practically see the ethical debate playing out behind your eyes despite the chemical fog clouding your thoughts. save a life that becomes a monster, or let a child die to prevent everything that followed?
it’s not really a fair question—he knows what your answer will be before you even open your mouth. you’re too good, too fundamentally decent to wish death on anyone, even him. even now.
it’s one of the things he loves most about you.
“no,” you say finally, and your voice is steady for the first time since you woke up. “i wouldn’t regret it. you were just a kid. you deserved help.”
perfect. exactly the answer he knew you’d give, exactly the proof he needed that you’re still the same soft-hearted girl who knelt in a dirty bathroom to comfort a stranger.
“even knowing what that help would cost you?”
“even then.” you meet his eyes directly, and there’s something fierce flickering in your expression now, something that cuts through the pharmaceutical haze and reminds him exactly why he fell in love with you in the first place. “i’d rather this than know i let someone die when i could have prevented it.”
the answer satisfies something deep and hungry in his chest, some last lingering doubt about whether you were really as perfect as he remembered. you are. you’re exactly as good as he thought you were, exactly as worth waiting for, exactly as deserving of the devotion he’s prepared to shower on you for the rest of your lives.
“that’s why this is right,” he says, settling back in his chair with visible contentment. like a cat who’s finally caught the perfect sunbeam. “that’s why you understand, even if you don’t want to admit it yet. you’d sacrifice yourself for a stranger’s wellbeing. how much more would you sacrifice for someone who loves you completely?”
“this isn’t sacrifice,” you say, but there’s less fight in it than before. exhaustion is winning the war against resistance, making everything feel distant and dreamlike. “this is force.”
“is it?” he tilts his head with that same innocent curiosity. “because you could leave right now if you really wanted to. the door isn’t locked. there’s no chain around your ankle.”
your eyes flick toward the door he’s indicating, then back to him. even drugged, you’re smart enough to recognize a trap when you see one.
“you said this place was hours from the city.”
“it is.”
“and i don’t have my car. or my phone. or any way to contact anyone.”
“all true.”
“so i couldn’t actually leave even if i wanted to.”
“couldn’t you?” he stands up then, movement liquid and predatory, like something that’s finally stopped pretending to be harmless. “you’re a resourceful woman. if you were really desperate to get away from me, i’m sure you’d find a way.”
the challenge hangs in the air between you, and he watches as you work through the implications with thoughts that move like honey. he’s right, of course—if you were truly desperate, if you really believed he was going to hurt you, you’d already be planning your escape. the fact that you’re sitting here having a conversation instead says everything about what you really think of him.
everything about what you really feel, whether you’re ready to admit it or not.
“you’re sick,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in it. no real conviction. just the soft confusion of someone whose world has been turned upside down too quickly to process.
“i’m devoted,” he corrects, moving closer with that same predatory grace. “there’s a difference.”
“no, there isn’t.”
“you told me there was.” he settles down beside you on the bed, close enough that you can smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “you told me that intense feelings don’t make someone crazy. that love, even overwhelming love, is natural and human and beautiful.”
your breath hitches when the mattress dips under his weight, when you realize how small you are next to him, how easily he could overpower you if he wanted to. but he doesn’t want to—that’s the terrible thing. he doesn’t need to use force when he has chemistry and isolation and your own essential goodness working in his favor.
“i was wrong.” the admission comes out broken, defeated.
“no,” he says, reaching out to touch your face with infinite gentleness. “you were right. you’re always right about love—it’s what makes you so good at fixing broken people.”
his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, comes away wet with tears that he studies like they’re precious gems before bringing them to his mouth. the taste makes something primal purr in his chest, satisfaction at finally being able to taste your sorrow, your confusion, your reluctant surrender.
“the only thing you were wrong about,” he continues, wrapping an arm around your shoulders like you’re something that needs comforting instead of someone who should be running, “was thinking you could fix me and then let me go. some things, once you save them, belong to you forever.”
you don’t pull away when he draws you against his side, don’t resist when he positions you exactly where he wants you—tucked under his arm like a child seeking comfort, head resting against his shoulder whether you want it there or not. you just sit there crying quietly while he strokes your hair with one hand and uses the other to tilt your chin up so you have to meet his eyes.
those strange, shifting eyes that seem to change color with his mood, blue bleeding to silver to something that might be gray or might be green depending on the light. beautiful eyes. hypnotic eyes. eyes that have been watching you for weeks without you knowing, cataloging your habits, your routines, your sweet predictable patterns.
“everything’s going to be perfect now,” he murmurs, voice soft with promise and threat in equal measure. “you don’t have to worry about anything anymore. don’t have to think about work or bills or all those people who want pieces of you without giving anything back.”
his fingers card through your hair, gentle and possessive, mapping the silky texture he’s dreamed about touching for so long.
“i’m going to take such good care of you. better care than you’ve ever taken of yourself. you’ll see.”
and maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the drugs still working their way through your system, or maybe it’s just the simple human need for comfort when everything familiar has been stripped away, but you let him hold you while you fall apart.
