𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ six years of tension snap when satoru’s jealousy finally explodes, leading to a heated argument that turns into a desperate, messy hookup where he makes it very clear you’ve always been his.
✿ ◞◟) gojo satoru 𝓍 female!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, porn with plot (but its mostly porn lmao), best friends to lovers, jealousy, satoru is down bad, lot of kissing, handjob, big dick!satoru, biting, begging, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, missionary + doggy style, praise, dirty talk, satoru is pathetic.
gojo satoru had been your best friend for six years, and in that time, you'd learned to accept certain things about him.
one — he was obnoxiously handsome. not in a way that felt fair or earned, but in the kind of effortless, god-cheated way that made waitresses forget his order and strangers stop him on the street to tell him he should model. satoru had white hair that never seemed to have a bad day, lashes so long they cast tiny shadows on his cheeks, and eyes so blue they looked like someone had turned up the saturation on just him while the rest of the world stayed normal.
two — satoru had very, very loud opinions, especially about anyone you dated.
you'd noticed the pattern about a year into your friendship, when you'd casually mentioned a guy from your psych class who'd asked for your number. satoru had been sprawled across your couch, stealing your fries, and he'd gone still for a second before tilting his head and saying;
"him? really? he's got weird eyebrows."
you'd blinked at him.
"his eyebrows are fine."
"they're asymmetrical," satoru had said, like that was a real crime. "and he laughs like a seal. you really want to listen to that for a whole date?"
you'd gone on the date anyway.
the guy's eyebrows had been perfectly normal, and his laugh had been genuinely nice, but satoru's comment had stuck in your head the whole time, making you hyperaware of things you never would have noticed otherwise.
that was his gift, or his curse, you hadn't decided yet.
since then, there had been others;
a very sweet and cute guy from your economics discussion group who satoru had dismissed as "way too short for you" (he’d been five eleven). a sweet philosophy major who satoru had claimed "smelled like soup" (he hadn't). a theater student who satoru had said was "obviously using you to get over his ex" (that one had actually been true, and you'd hated admitting satoru was right).
each time, satoru had been there, lounging in your space like he belonged there, making comments that ranged from mildly annoying to borderline cruel. and each time, you'd rolled your eyes and gone on the date anyway, because that was just how satoru was; opinionated, dramatic, a little bit of an asshole.
but satoru was also the one who showed up at your door at 2am with takeout when you failed a midterm.
the one who let you cry on his shoulder after the theater student broke your heart, the one who remembered how you took your coffee and which side of the bed you slept on and the name of your childhood stuffed animal.
so you let the comments slide, mostly.
but this time was different.
this time, his name was jaehyun, and you'd met him at a house party two weeks ago — the guy was in grad school for architecture, had kind eyes and a quiet laugh, and when he'd asked you out for coffee, you'd felt that little flutter in your chest that you'd almost forgotten existed.
you'd mentioned him to satoru casually, the way you always did, expecting the usual eyeroll and some stupid comment about jaehyun's haircut or his shoes.
what you got was something else entirely.
"jaehyun?" satoru had repeated, his voice doing something very strange — going flat in a way it never did. "what kind of name is jaehyun?"
"a perfectly normal one," you'd said, not looking up from your phone. "he's in grad school. architecture. really sweet."
"architecture," he had echoed, like you'd said jaehyun collected human teeth. "so he draws buildings. cool. very exciting."
you'd glanced up then, frowning.
satoru was sitting across from you at the campus coffee shop, his long legs stretched out under the table, one of his legs pressed against yours in that way he always did — like he needed to be touching you to exist properly. his sunglasses were pushed up into his white hair, and his expression was carefully, almost aggressively, neutral.
"what's your problem?" you'd asked.
"nothing," he'd said, too fast. "no problem. i'm thrilled for you. jaehyun the architect. hope he designs you a very nice house."
you'd stared at satoru for a very long moment, waiting for the usual punchline. but he'd just smiled — that big, fake, toothy smile that meant he was annoyed about something and pretending he wasn't at all.
you'd let it go. you were used to satoru being weird.
but over the next week, his weirdness escalated into something you couldn't ignore.
it started small; satoru started showing up at your apartment unannounced, which wasn't new — he'd always done that, letting himself in with the key you'd given him after he'd climbed your fire escape twice in one week. but before, he'd text first, or at least announce his presence with a dramatic "honey, i'm home!" as he walked through the door.
now, he just appeared.
you'd be doing dishes, and suddenly there he was, leaning against your doorframe like he'd been there the whole time. you'd be studying at your desk, and satoru’s chin would appear over your shoulder, his chest warm against your back, asking what you were doing in a voice that was way too low for the question he was asking.
and god, the touching.
satoru had always been touchy. you'd known that about him from the beginning — the way he'd sling an arm over your shoulders, rest his hand on your lower back when you walked through crowds, drape his legs over yours when you sat together on the couch.
he was a physical person, and you'd never minded, because it was just satoru.
but this was very different.
now, satoru’s hand found the small of your back every time you stood next to him. his fingers brushed your wrist when you handed him something. when you sat on the couch together, he pulled you against his side like you might float away if he didn't hold you down, his arm tight around your waist, his thumb tracing circles against your hip.
and it was always casual, always easy, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it.
but you were aware.
painfully aware, every time his thigh pressed against yours, every time his breath ghosted across your neck when he leaned in to look at your phone, every time his fingers lingered on your skin a second longer than they needed to.
you didn't say anything. because what would you even say? 'hey, why are you touching me so much?' that sounded crazy. he was your best friend, and best friends touched.
but then came the comments…
"so when am i meeting jaehyun?" satoru asked one afternoon, sprawled across your bed while you got ready to go out.
you weren't even going out with jaehyun — you were simply going to a study group — but satoru had shown up forty minutes ago and hadn't left.
"you're not," you said, digging through your closet for a hoodie. "we've been on two coffee dates. it's not serious."
"but it could be," satoru said.
it was not a question, and his blue eyes tracked you across the room, and you felt them like a physical weight.
"maybe," you said, because you didn't know yet.
jaehyun was nice. jaehyun was safe. but jaehyun didn't make your heart race in that annoying, confusing way that made you want to scream.
satoru made a sound in the back of his throat, something low and very dissatisfied.
"jaehyun wears new balance sneakers," satoru said, like he was delivering a closing argument. "new balance! do you really want to be seen with a man who wears new balance?"
you turned to look at him.
"you're wearing crocs right now."
"crocs are ironic," satoru said, completely serious. "new balance is a cry for help."
you threw a pillow at him. he caught it without looking, grinning, and you tried to ignore how your stomach flipped.
the worst night, the night everything broke, started like this;
you had a date, a real one.
jaehyun had texted you earlier in the week asking if you wanted to go to that new ramen place downtown, the one with the hour-long wait and the broth people wrote blog posts about. you'd said yes, because you'd been wanting to go, and because jaehyun's texts made you smile, and because you were trying very hard to be normal about all of this.
you hadn't told satoru.
not because you were hiding it, exactly, but because you knew damn well — you knew — what would happen if you did; the comments, the touching, the way he'd look at you with those too-blue eyes like he was trying to communicate something you didn't have the vocabulary to understand.
so you kept it to yourself.
you got dressed in your room, you picked out a black dress that made you feel so pretty, you did your makeup carefully in the bathroom mirror. your hair fell prettily in waves around your shoulders, and you added a necklace — something delicate, something that caught the light.
you casually were just reaching for your black coat when the front door opened.
"satoru," you said, and your voice came out strangled.
your best friend stood in your doorway, and for a moment, neither of you moved. his eyes swept over you — the dress, the makeup, the necklace — and something flickered across his face; something fast and dark that he smoothed over before you could fully read it.
"going somewhere?" satoru asked, and his voice was light, but his jaw was tight.
you should have lied. you should have said study group, or grocery shopping, or literally anything else, but you'd never lied to satoru before, not about anything that mattered, and you didn't know how to start now.
"i have a date," you said. "with jaehyun."
the silence that followed was deafening.
satoru didn't move; he simply stood there, one hand still on the doorknob, his body blocking the doorway like he could physically prevent you from leaving. his white hair was slightly messy, like he'd been running his hands through it, and he was wearing that black sweater you liked — the one that made his shoulders look impossibly broad.
"jaehyun," he repeated flatly.
"yes," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you intended. "jaehyun. the architect. the one i told you about."
"i know who jaehyun is," satoru said.
he completely stepped into the apartment, finally, and pushed the door closed behind him. the click of the lock was weirdly loud in the quiet room.
"i just thought you would have better taste."
the casual cruelty of it stung.
you felt it in your chest, sharp and hot, and suddenly you were so tired — tired of the comments, tired of the games, tired of the way satoru touched you and looked at you and made you feel like you were constantly missing something obvious.
"what is your problem, satoru?" you asked, and your voice cracked in the middle.
satoru blinked. "what?"
"you heard me."
you turned to face him fully, your coat completely forgotten on the couch. your hands were shaking, so you curled them into fists at your sides.
"every single time i mention someone, you have something to say. their eyebrows are wrong, they're too short, they smell like soup—"
"the soup thing was valid—"
"it wasn't!" you shouted, and satoru's mouth snapped shut. "it wasn't, satoru. and now it's jaehyun, and you won't even give him a chance. you show up at my apartment without warning, you won't stop touching me, you look at me like—"
you stopped, breathless, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
satoru was watching you with an expression you'd never seen before. his usual mask — the arrogant smirk, the lazy confidence, the annoying playfulness — had slipped away entirely. underneath was something raw. something hungry.
"like what?" satoru asked, and his voice was low. rough. "like what, sweetheart?"
you shook your head, stepping back, and your legs hit the edge of the couch.
"this isn't fair. you can't just—you don't get to act like this every time i try to move on. you don't get to be jealous when you're the one who—"
"jealous?" satoru laughed, but there was no humor in it. "you think i'm jealous?"
"i know you are," you said. "everyone can see it, satoru. suguru sees it. shoko sees it. i'm pretty sure my neighbor across the hall sees it, and she's half-blind."
satoru's jaw tightened.
he took a step toward you, then another, until he was close enough that you could smell his cologne — something clean and warm, like cedar and vanilla. his hand came up, and you flinched, but he just tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, his long fingers trailing down the side of your neck.
"and what if i am?" he murmured. "jealous. what if i can't stand the thought of you going out with him tonight? what if i've been going crazy for weeks, watching you text him, hearing you say his name—"
"then you should have said something," you whispered, and your voice broke on the last word.
satoru's hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had to look at him. his eyes were almost desperate, searching your face like he was looking for something he needed to survive.
"i'm saying something now," he said. "i can't watch you with anyone else. i can't do it. i've tried—god, i've tried—but every time you smile at someone who isn't me, i want to tear something apart."
your breath caught. "satoru—"
"so if you're gonna be with someone," he continued, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "it's gonna be me."
the words hung in the air between you, heavy and electric.
you could feel the heat of satoru’s body through your dress, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each uneven breath. his hand was still on your jaw, gentle but firm, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
"what about jaehyun?" you asked, and it came out breathless.
satoru's eyes darkened. "fuck jaehyun."
and just like that, he kissed you.
it wasn't a soft or gentle kiss, no, it was so desperate and hungry and a little bit angry, like satoru had been holding this back for long years and the dam had finally broken.
satoru’s mouth moved against yours like he was trying to prove something, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper.
you made a little sound — something between a gasp and a moan — and satoru swallowed it. his other hand found your waist, pulling you against him until there was no space left between your bodies; he was warm and solid and everywhere, and your brain had stopped working entirely.
when he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. satoru’s lips were swollen, his eyes dark, and there was a flush creeping up his neck that you'd never seen before.
"tell me you don't want this," he said, his voice rough. "tell me to stop, and i will. but if you don't—"
you kissed him again, because you couldn't not. because six long years of insane tension and longing and denial had been building to this moment, and now that it was here, you couldn't imagine doing anything else.
satoru groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. he walked you backward until your legs hit the couch, and then he was lowering you onto the cushions, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the fabric.
"god, i've wanted this for so long," he murmured against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point. "so fucking long. you have no idea."
"then show me," you said, and you felt him shudder.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes roaming over your face like he was memorizing it.
"when i'm done with you," satoru said, and his voice was low and dark and full of promise. "you're not gonna remember jaehyun's name."
and then he kissed you again, and you stopped thinking about jaehyun entirely.
satoru's mouth was hot and insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your toes curl inside your boots. he kissed like he did everything else — like he was competing for something, like he needed to win. but there was desperation underneath it, a trembling kind of hunger that made his hands shake slightly where they gripped your hips.
you kissed him back just as hard, your fingers tangling in his soft white hair, pulling him impossibly closer.
satoru made a sound — something low and wrecked — and his hips pressed into yours instinctively; you could feel him already, hard against your thigh through his jeans, and the knowledge sent a rush of heat straight through your core.
"bedroom," satoru murmured hungrily against your lips, and it wasn't a question.
you nodded, breathless, and then he was pulling you up off the couch, his hands never leaving your body. one palm flat against your lower back, the other cupping the side of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair. satoru kissed you the whole way down the hall — deep, messy kisses that made you stumble backward, trusting him to guide you.
he did. of course he did.
satoru’s body was a wall of heat in front of you, and his hands were everywhere; your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass through your dress. he squeezed once, experimentally, and when you gasped into his mouth, he did it again, harder.
"fuck," he breathed, and you felt the word more than heard it.
your bedroom door was open, and he walked you through it without looking, his attention entirely on your mouth, your jaw, the spot behind your ear that made you shiver when he kissed it. the backs of your knees hit the bed, and you fell backward onto the mattress, pulling him with you.
satoru caught himself on his forearms, hovering over you, his hair falling forward into his eyes.
for a second, he just looked at you, like he couldn't believe you were here, beneath him, your dress riding up your thighs and your lipstick smeared across his mouth.
"you're so pretty," satoru said, and his voice cracked in the middle. "god, you're so pretty. i'm gonna lose my mind."
then he sat back on his heels and pulled his sweater over his head in one movement.
you'd seen satoru without a shirt before — pool parties, beach trips, that one time his dorm ac broke and he'd walked around campus in nothing but shorts for a week. but this was different; this was close, and private, and his skin was flushed pink across his chest, and you could see everything.
satoru’s shoulders were absurdly broad, tapering down to a narrow waist that made your mouth water. his chest was defined but not bulky — it was lean muscle that shifted under pale skin as he moved, and there was a thin line of white hair trailing down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans, and satoru’s arms were roped with veins that stood out when he flexed.
he caught you staring and smiled — not his usual cocky grin, but something softer, almost shy.
"like what you see?"
"shut up," you said, and reached for him.
satoru came down willingly, his body pressing you into the mattress, his skin warm and smooth against your palms. you ran your hands over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the way his muscles jumped under your touch.
he was all heat and tension, and when your nails dragged lightly down his spine, satoru groaned and buried his pretty face in your neck.
"you're gonna kill me," he mumbled into your skin.
you kissed his shoulder, then his collarbone, then the hinge of his jaw. your hands slid down his sides, over his ribs, and when they reached the button of his jeans, you didn't hesitate.
satoru went rigid.
your fingers fumbled with the button, then the zipper, and then you were reaching inside his boxers, and—
oh!
satoru was ridiculously big.
well… you'd known he would be, somehow — everything about satoru was excessive, after all — but fucking hell, feeling him in your hand was completely different. he was thick and hot and already leaking, and when you wrapped your fingers around him, his whole body shuddered.
"sweetheart," satoru gasped, and it came out as a whine, so high and so desperate.
his hips jerked into your hand involuntarily, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his breathing ragged.
"fuck, fuck, please—"
you stroked him slowly, your thumb spreading the wetness at the tip, and satoru made a sound you'd never heard from him before. it was broken and insanely needy, and satoru was shaking — actually shaking — his long fingers digging into the mattress on either side of your head.
"please what?" you asked, and your own voice was rough.
he lifted his head just enough to look at you, and his eyes were glassy, pupils blown so wide there was almost no blue left.
"please don't stop," satoru whispered. "please. i've wanted this for so long. i've thought about your hands—god, i've thought about your hands so much—"
you squeezed gently, just a little firmer, and his sentence cut off in a choked moan.
satoru buried his face in your neck again, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, and you felt him pulse in your hand; his whole body was tense, thighs flexing against yours, and you could feel how close he was — the way his stomach kept twitching, the way his hips started moving in small, desperate little thrusts into your fist.
"if you keep doing that," satoru said, muffled against your shoulder, "i'm not gonna last."
you didn't answer, you just kept going — steady, intentional, your grip adjusting to the slickness now, your thumb pressing into that spot right under the head on every upstroke. you wanted to see satoru fall apart; you wanted it more than you'd ever wanted anything.
and then he did.
it wasn't loud, that was the thing.
satoru’s breath hitched, held, and then released in a long, shuddering exhale against your neck. his whole body locked up for a second — his back arching just slightly, fingers twisting in the sheets — and then he broke.
you felt it in your hand first; the pulsing, the warmth spilling over your fingers, the way satoru’s hips stuttered and stopped. then the rest of him followed; his forehead pressed harder into your shoulder, almost like he was hiding. his arms trembled on either side of you. a sound came out of him — soft, wrecked, more breath than voice — and you realized his free hand had moved to grip your hip, not guiding you, just holding on.
you kept stroking him through it, slow and gentle now, and satoru whimpered and tried sooo hard to squirm away from the sensitivity even as he pushed into your touch at the exact same time. satoru’s face was still buried in your neck, and you could feel how warm his cheeks were, how damp his lashes were against your skin.
for a moment, neither of you moved.
satoru’s breathing was uneven, hitching every few seconds like he was still coming down, and your hand was a mess, and you didn't care at all.
finally, he lifted his head.
satoru’s face was flushed, his lips parted, his hair a disaster. he looked at you like he'd never seen you before — or maybe like he was seeing you clearly for the first time.
"your turn," you said, and your voice was steadier than you felt.
he blinked slowly, like the words had to travel through fog to reach him, then something completely shifted in satoru’s expression — something dark and determined settling over his still-soft features, a spark of that familiar satoru intensity cutting through the haze.
"my turn," he agreed.
his still trembling hands easily found the hem of your dress, and he pulled it up and over your head with an impatience that made you laugh — a breathless, surprised sound that turned into a gasp when he bent down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach.
satoru worked his way up slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered, his lips hot and wet and reverent. when he reached your bra, he looked up at you, asking silent permission. you simply nodded, and he reached behind you to unclasp it with fingers that trembled even more.
the bra joined your dress on the floor.
satoru sat back on his heels and stared at you; his blue eyes traveled down your body — your breasts, your stomach, the lace edge of your panties — and his expression was almost painful to look at; like he was in awe, like he was in pain.
"you're so beautiful," satoru said, and his voice was hoarse. "i don't—i can't—"
"toru," you said, and your own voice was shaking. "please."
that broke whatever trance he was in.
satoru lowered himself over you again, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was softer this time, almost tender, and his hand slid down your body, over your ribs, your hip, until his fingers brushed the waistband of your panties.
he pulled back just enough to look down, and then his fingers were hooking into the lace, but he didn't pull them off. instead, satoru pushed them to the side.
the air hit your wetness, and you felt exposed and seen and so incredibly turned on you thought you might combust. satoru's breath caught when he saw you completely, and his pupils swallowed the very last of the blue.
"all this for me?" he murmured, his fingers hovering just above where you needed him.
"y-yes," you said, and you meant it more than you'd ever meant anything. "always for you."
satoru’s eyes flicked up to yours, and something shifted in his expression; something soft and fierce and terrified all at once. then he looked back down, and his middle finger slid through your folds, gathering your wetness, circling your clit in a way that made your hips jerk off the bed.
"fuck," you gasped.
"that's it," satoru murmured, his voice low and focused. "that's it, sweetheart. let me hear you."
he circled your clit again, slow and meticulous, watching your face. when you moaned — loud, involuntary — his lips curved into a smile that was almost smug, but then you moaned again, and his smile faltered, replaced by something hungrier.
"you have no idea," satoru said, his finger still moving in lazy circles. "what this sound does to me."
he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your back arched off the bed.
it was so good — way too good — the stretch of his long fingers, the curl of them inside you, the way he found that spot immediately like he'd been studying a map of your body for years. his thumb pressed against your clit, and he started a rhythm that made your vision blur.
"right there?" satoru asked, and his voice was strained.
"y-yes—yes, don't stop—"
and satoru didn't stop.
he fucked you with his long fingers like he really meant it, his palm slapping against your clit with every single thrust, his blue eyes never once leaving your face; he watched every expression, cataloged every sound, and satoru’s own breathing was ragged, his hips pressing into the mattress like he was fucking it just to keep himself sane.
"you're so wet," he said, almost to himself. "god, you're so wet. is this because of me? because of what i said?"
you couldn't answer — you couldn't form any words — so you simply nodded, your hands desperately gripping the sheets, your hips rocking against his hand.
"say it," satoru demanded, his fingers curling harder. "say you want this. say you want me."
"i want you," you sobbed. "i want you, toru, please—"
he added a third finger, and the stretch was almost too much, the pressure building in your core until you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do a damn thing but feel. his thumb pressed harder against your clit, rubbing in tight circles that matched the rhythm of his fingers, and he leaned down to kiss your chest, your collarbone, the side of your breast.
"cum for me," he murmured against your skin. "cum on my fingers, sweetheart. i want to feel it."
you shattered.
it crashed over you in huge waves, your whole body convulsing, your nails digging into satoru's shoulders as you rode out the pleasure. he didn't stop — he kept his fingers deep inside you, he kept his thumb on your clit, working you through every aftershock until you were trembling and oversensitive and crying his name into the quiet room.
when you finally stilled, satoru pulled his fingers out slowly, carefully, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he brought them to his mouth.
he licked them clean.
his eyes never left yours as he did it, his tongue sliding between his long fingers, tasting you like you were something precious. he made a sound — low and satisfied — and when he was done, and held his fingers out to you.
"your turn," he said, echoing your words from earlier.
you took his wrist and guided his fingers to your mouth; you sucked them in, one by one, tasting yourself on his skin. his breath hitched, and his hips jerked against the mattress, and you felt powerful in a way you'd never felt before.
when you let go, satoru’s fingers were slick with your spit, and his eyes were almost black.
"f-fuck," he whispered. "fuck, sweetheart. i need—i need to be inside you. please. i can't—"
he was shaking again, his composure crumbling completely, his body vibrating with need above you. you could feel him through his jeans, hard and aching, and you wanted him so badly it was a physical pain.
"then do it," you said. "do it, satoru."
he fumbled with his jeans, pushing them down just enough, and then he was there — pressing against your entrance, the head of his huge cock nudging at your wetness, both of you breathing too fast.
"look at me," he said, and his voice was raw. "i want you to look at me when i finally make you mine."
his voice cracked on the last word, and something in your chest splintered; this wasn't just sex, you could see it in his eyes — blown wide, glassy, stripped of every layer of sarcasm and swagger he'd ever worn. satoru looked terrified and hungry and so in love it was almost painful to witness.
"toru," you whispered, and his name felt different in your mouth now.
"i know," he said, and he sounded almost sorry. "i know we should talk. i know we're gonna have to figure out what the hell we're doing tomorrow. but right now—"
he pressed forward, just barely, the head of his cock catching against your entrance, and you both gasped.
"—right now, i need to be inside you. i need to feel you cum around me. and i need you to watch me fall apart while i do it."
you nodded, unable to speak, and satoru pushed in.
just an inch — slow, so slow — and your body stretched around him, full and burning in a way that made your eyes water. satoru was so much bigger than his fingers, thicker and hotter, and the pressure was almost too much. you felt every millimeter, every pulse of his cock as it slid into you, and the sound he made — god, the sound — was something you'd never heard from him before.
it was a broken moan, high and desperate, like he was the one being split open.
"fuck," satoru choked out, his forehead dropping to yours, and his breath was hot and uneven against your lips. "f-fuck, baby. you're so—you're so tight—i can't—"
his hips stuttered, and he pushed deeper, another inch, and your nails dug into his shoulders. the stretch burned in the best way, your body adjusting to him, and you could feel every ridge, every vein, every tiny shift of his hips.
"m-more," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "please, toru. i want all of it."
satoru made a sound like a wounded animal, and then he pushed forward in one long, slow thrust until he was buried completely inside you.
you both stopped breathing.
he was everywhere, filling you completely, stretching you in a way that bordered on overwhelming, his hips flush against yours; you could feel him throbbing inside you, could feel the way his whole body trembled above you, his arms shaking where they caged you in.
"oh my god," satoru breathed, and his voice was wrecked, absolutely destroyed. "oh my god. sweetheart. you feel—i can't—there aren't words."
his eyes were squeezed shut now, his jaw tight, and you watched a bead of sweat roll down his temple. he looked like he was in pain. like he was holding on by a thread.
"toru," you said, reaching up to cup his face. "look at me."
his eyes opened, and what you saw there completely made your heart clench; satoru looked dazed, almost drunk, his pupils so blown there was only a thin ring of blue left now, his lips were parted, his breathing ragged, and when you ran your thumb across his cheekbone, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to your palm.
"you're gonna be the death of me," satoru murmured against your skin. "you know that, right? i've been imagining this for six years, and it's still—it's so much better than i ever—" he cut himself off with a shaky exhale. "i'm not gonna last. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, but i can't—"
"then don't," you said. "move, toru. please move."
well… he didn't need to be told twice.
satoru pulled out slowly — agonizingly slowly — until only the tip remained inside you, and then he pushed back in, just as slow, just as deep, his eyes never left yours, watching your face as he bottomed out again, and the expression on his face was one of pure, reverent awe.
"that's it," he whispered. "god, that's it. you're taking me so well, sweetheart. so fucking well."
he did it again, and again, each thrust was slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every sensation; the drag of his huge cock against your walls, the way you clenched around him, the little sounds you made every time he pushed back in. his hands roamed your body — your waist, your ribs, your breasts — touching you like he was afraid you'd disappear.
"you're so beautiful," satoru said, and his voice was thick. "i've wanted to touch you like this for so long. you have no idea how many times i've jerked off thinking about you. thinking about these sounds you're making right now."
satoru’s hips snapped forward a little harder, and you moaned at that — loud and unfiltered — and satoru's eyes rolled back for just a second.
"yeah," he breathed. "yeah, like that. i want to hear you. i want everyone to hear you. i want jaehyun to hear you and know—know that you're mine."
the possessiveness in his voice should have scared you, but instead, it made you clench around him, and satoru groaned so loudly you felt it vibrate through his chest.
"you like that?" he asked, his pace picking up slightly. "you like it when i get jealous? when i talk about how you're mine?"
"fuck—yes," you admitted, because you couldn't lie anymore.
not with your best friend inside you, not with his skin against yours, not with the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
satoru's smile was sharp and hungry.
"good. because you are mine. you have been since the day you let me climb your fire escape."
satoru kissed you then — it was deep and messy, his warm tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that matched his hips. he was fucking you slowly but deeply now, each thrust pushing you up the bed a little, and you wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer.
that changed everything.
the angle made him hit something inside you — something that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you cried out against his mouth, and satoru swallowed the sound, his hips stuttering before he found a new rhythm; faster, harder, still deep, but no longer gentle.
"there?" satoru gasped, pulling back just enough to look at your face. "is that the spot? right there?"
you couldn't answer, you could only nod, your hands fisting in his white hair, pulling him down so you could bite his lower lip. and satoru moaned loudly, and his hips snapped forward so hard the headboard banged against the wall.
"oh—f-fuck, sweetheart," satoru panted. "you're gonna make me come so fast. i can't—i've been waiting too long for this. you feel too good."
his hand slid between your bodies, and his thumb found your clit, and you nearly screamed.
he circled it in tight, fast motions, exactly the way you needed, and the combination of his enormous cock hitting that sweet spot inside you and his thumb on your clit was too much. the pleasure built so quickly it was almost painful, your whole body tightening like a coil about to snap.
"that's it," satoru murmured, his voice low and dark and completely gone. "cum for me again, sweetheart. i want to feel you cum on my cock this time. i want to feel you squeeze me while i'm inside you."
his thumb pressed harder, his hips moved faster, and he was looking at you — watching every micro-expression on your face with an intensity that should have been overwhelming.
but all you could feel was him. all you could hear was the sound of his breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies moving together, the little whimpers that fell from his lips every time you clenched around him.
"i'm close," you managed, your voice breaking. "oh my god, toru, i'm so close—"
"yeah?"
satoru was practically fucking you in earnest now, his composure completely gone; his hair was a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from your kisses.
"you gonna cum for me? gonna soak my cock, sweetheart? i want to feel it. i want to feel you—"
you came.
it surged through you without warning, your whole body arching off the bed, your nails raking down satoru’s back as you convulsed around him. satoru groaned — a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere primal — and his hips kept moving, kept thrusting, working you through every second of your orgasm.
"oh, fuck," he gasped. "oh, fuckfuckfuck, sweetheart—you're squeezing me so tight—i can't—i'm gonna—"
satoru pulled out just enough that you felt the first pulse of his release, hot and sudden, and then he pushed back in and buried himself to the hilt as he came inside you.
his whole body shook, his arms gave out, and satoru collapsed on top of you, his face buried deep in your neck, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he emptied himself into you. he made sounds you'd never heard him make — broken, desperate sounds, almost like sobs — and you felt each pulse of his cock, each wave of his release, hot and filling.
"g-god," satoru whispered against your sweaty skin. "god, sweetheart. i love—i—"
he didn't finish the sentence, maybe he couldn't, maybe he was too far gone.
you held him, your fingers threading through his sweaty hair, your legs still wrapped around his waist. his cock was still inside you, softening slightly but not pulling out, and you could feel his cum leaking out around him, warm and wet.
for a long moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke, the only sounds were your breathing, slowly evening out, and the distant hum of the city outside your window.
satoru's hand was tracing patterns on your hip, lazy and absent, and you thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. maybe you'd get a moment to process what had just happened.
then satoru shifted.
his hips rolled forward, just slightly, and you felt him twitch inside you.
"satoru," you said, your voice hoarse.
he lifted his head, and his eyes met yours; they were still dark, still blown wide, but there was something new there now. something hungry and determined and a little bit feral.
"i'm not done," satoru said, and his voice was rough. "i'm not even close to done."
he pulled out slowly, and you felt the loss of him acutely — the sudden emptiness, the trickle of satoru’s cum that slid down your trembling thigh. but before you could mourn it, he was flipping you over, pulling you onto your hands and knees, his hands gripping your hips.
"i've been thinking about this position for years," satoru murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. "thinking about how deep i could get. how loud you'd be."
you heard him spit into his hand — you heard the wet sound of him stroking himself — and then he was pressing against your entrance again, already hard, already ready.
"toru," you said again, and it came out as a pathetic whimper. "i'm still sensitive—"
"i know," satoru said, and he sounded almost apologetic. almost. "but you feel too good, sweetheart. and i'm so fucking obsessed with you. i can't stop. i don't want to stop."
he pushed in, and you both moaned.
it was different from the first time; you were still so wet, still so stretched, still so full of his cum, and satoru slid in easier now, way deeper, until you felt him in your stomach.
satoru paused for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck.
"baby, tell me when," satoru said, his voice strained. "tell me when you're ready."
you took a breath, then another, the sensitivity was fading, replaced by a familiar ache, a familiar need.
"now," you said. "move now."
and he did.
satoru started slow again, but this time it was different.
this time, he was savoring; his hands completely roamed your body — your back, your ass, your hips — and he leaned over to press kisses along your spine. his huge cock dragged against your walls in a way that made your eyes roll back, and he was murmuring things against your skin; things you couldn't quite understand, things that sounded like praise and worship and desperation all at once.
"you're so perfect," he breathed. "so perfect for me. this pussy was made for me. you know that? made for my cock."
satoru’s pace quickened, his hips slapping against yours, and the sound was obscene — wet and loud and relentless. he reached around and found your swollen clit again, rubbing in tight circles, and you sobbed with the overstimulation of it.
"too much?" he asked, but he didn't stop. "or not enough?"
"m-more," you gasped. "more, toru—please—"
he gave you more.
satoru fucked you harder, faster, deeper, his grip on your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. his breathing was ragged, his moans were loud, and he was talking — talking constantly, a stream of consciousness that was half dirty and half desperate.
"look at you. taking me so well. you're so wet. so fucking wet. is this all for me? tell me it's all for me."
"it's all for you," you said, and you meant it.
satoru groaned loudly, and his hips snapped forward even harder, and you felt a second orgasm building — faster this time, sharper, pushed along by the overstimulation and the sound of his voice and the way he was fucking you like he needed you to survive.
"cum with me this time," he said, his voice breaking. "i want to feel you cum while i'm filling you up again. i want to feel you squeeze every drop out of me."
his thumb pressed down on your clit, and his hips lost their rhythm, becoming sloppy and desperate, and you knew he was close, and so were you. so close—
"now," satoru gasped. "now, sweetheart—"
you came together.
it was messy and loud and overwhelming, your body clenching around him as he spilled inside you again, his hips jerking erratically as he rode out his orgasm. you collapsed onto the bed, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside you, still pulsing.
neither of you moved.
satoru’s breath was hot against your ear, his heart pounding against your back, and you could feel him — getting hard again, still inside you, still not pulling out.
"one more," he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even through the exhaustion. "just one more. and then maybe we can talk about how i'm in love with you."
you laughed — a breathless, surprised sound — and satoru kissed your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your jaw.
"i'm serious, baby," satoru said, his hips rolling forward again, slowly. "i've been in love with you for years. and now that i've had you like this—"
he pushed deeper, and you moaned.
"—i'm never letting you go."
satoru’s hand slid under you, finding your clit again, and you realized he actually meant it.
Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - your self-proclaimed biggest fanboy, your #1 stan, your hottest - makes his delusions of you everyone else’s problem (step on him), and the one time he proves that even the most delusional, dirtiest of fantasies really do come true (still, step on him).
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!idol!reader, fanboy!Gojo, 5 + 1 things, he’s down BAD, stan Twitter, social media, fandoms, headIines, parasociaIism, shenanigans, slight crackfic, YEARNING Gojo, pússydrúnk Gojo, face-sítting, fíngering, he goes feraI, spíttíng, P TALKING, manhandIing, first times (his), matíng presses, he’s your fan with a big D, fitting it, rough s, chokíng, cervíx kíssing, sensitive Gojo, slight switch dynamic, creampíes, mentions of kids, overstím, happy ending, hard launching, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 13.9k
A/N. Babygirls would y’all believe that I was deep in the trenches of stan Twitter for fandoms I’m not even in gathering research for this for weeks…
Gojo Satoru is having the worst day of his entire life.
The worst day out of all the long, arduous, handsome (exceptionally handsome, he’d been voted ‘Most Likely to Grace a Vogue Cover’ three years in a row) eighteen years of his entire life.
For starters, their prank (plastering the hallway with the worst shots from Principal Yaga’s abstract dance lessons: Mean Girls-style) had been caught-in-the-act by none other than Yaga himself.
And Geto had somehow slipped away from Yaga’s rage (it’d been his idea- that bastard…) And he’d just lost his spot as valedictorian to Shoko (she cheated, he just can’t prove it.) And! On his way walking back home from detention, the convenience store was out of his favorite kikufuku mochi.
So all in all, for the worst day of his entire life, Gojo Satoru thinks he was handling it quite well-
He slams his hand down on the counter, “I’m going to kill mysel-”
And that’s the first time he hears it.
Your voice.
Not in front of him. Not behind him. Not even anywhere around him. It was - quite fittingly - emanating from above him, as if the heavens themselves had split open, and the first sign of the pearly gates was the voice of an angel.
You.
Gojo instantly darts his gaze to where the wiry, bespectacled cashier was staring to avoid eye contact with whom he likely thought to be a madman. A rather cheap device, with rather cheap graphics. A box with the most beautiful voice.
The first spark of elation today.
It sung to him, almost like a siren.
“I-it’s the leading contestant—eek!” The cashier says, and cowers in fear once Gojo’s azure gaze snaps to him in a split-second. Unwavering. Intense.
As the young man trembles, Gojo reads the name tag on his uniform: Ijichi. Huh? That name almost sounded familiar, was it perhaps a long lost friend? Some obscure family member? He looks at the man again, maybe not. Or perhaps…
“We go to the same school.” Ijichi sighs, when it becomes obvious that Gojo was furrowing his pale brows at the name tag. “I’m two years below you, but we had extended maths together. I sat next to you?” Again, that knit between the other’s eyebrows only grows deeper. “Also you plastered one of Yaga’s pictures on my backpack today.” He adjusts his glasses, “And my face.”
Recognition floods Gojo’s face, and he snaps his fingers. “Ahhh, I remember you now- yeah, sorry about that.”
“I-it’s alright! It was an accident.” Ijichi pauses. “I think.”
“Heh…” Pointedly, the white-haired of the two doesn’t answer that question. Instead, he’s turning his eyes back to the television above Ijichi, ravenous not to miss a single second.
The cashier follows, more easy-going now without any additional customers or managers there to keep him moving. He could afford to ask, “Ah- her. Do you watch idol competition shows often? I didn’t expect that of you, Gojo-senpai.”
“Excuse me?”
“I-I mean-” Ijichi waves his hands fervently in front of him in explanation, “It’s just- those shows really do target a certain demographic and- I just didn’t quite expect it with your…oh, but it has been g-getting popular these days so I don’t know what I’m saying-”
“I don’t.” Gojo admits, cutting through the other’s blubbering. He crosses his arms in front of him and aims to look as dignified as possible as he admires the lil’ dance you were doing as you sang. “It’s just…”
And he almost felt stupid asking this- hell, he almost felt fucking shy (which is impossible, Gojo Satoru is never shy). But he does so anyways—
Holding his head high. Index pointing straight at the blurry screen. Pixels which would not hide your beauty.
“Who’s that?”
“Th-that?” Ijichi turns his head back towards the television, and his face breaks out into a dopey smile - Gojo doesn’t even know why it irritated him so much. After all, that was exactly how he felt, too.
So why the hell was another smiling at you like this-
That’s when Ijichi says your name.
And any and all annoyances with the other man simply melts. Simply turns the insides of his chest all warm and gooey. Simply leaves him a little weak in the knees (and he was damn glad that his lower half was obscured by the counter).
Gojo repeats your name, like he was tasting it.
“Stage name: Cupid.” Ijichi continues, watching you dance about the screen now, as well. “She’s been a fan favorite since her audition, even though producers did do a bit of dirty editing to try and make her unpopular- fans saw right through it. And now she’s been in the lead for weeks.”
“Talented.” Gojo grits out - one word. Perhaps the only word that wouldn’t make him positively shatter that nonchalant façade of his and embarrass himself in front of fucking Ijichi of all people.
He nods at the vocal break you were continuing on-screen, your gentle lashes fluttering shut as you put your all into a song that seemed to be of your own make. You nail the note. He trembles. “Though I’ve…seen better.” Lies.
“She has come a long way.” Ijichi hums, eyes closing as he savors the music. It was the last few chords, perfectly in harmony. “She’s the fan-favorite to win the contract from executives, expected to debut sometime next year.”
“Ah- another idol then.” His throat remains parched with his own lies, growing dryer by the seconds of your voice. Your dance. Your presence. “Talented, though…” You finish off your final belt, and Gojo can only repeat, stupidly. Nonchalant, nonchalant. C’mon Satoru, you can do this.
Gojo shuffles, “So uh- what’s the show name?”
“Idol Academy.” The black-haired man answers, “New episodes air every week at 9PM.”
Scratching behind his back—nonchalant. “Ah, I’ll let my sister know-” You fool! You don’t even have a sister! And only too late does Gojo realize that Ijichi seems to realize this as well, “I mean- uh, Shoko…who is like a sister to me. I’ll let her know- and maybe I’ll check it out, too- if I have the time. Probably won’t though.” Nonchalant! Nailed it!
Ijichi nods, and he looks away from your finished performance. “Well, if you want to vote for her for the upcoming finals then her number is #143.”
“Ah, we’ll see…probably…won-” Except, for idols, a finished performance isn’t really a finished performance at all. Nonchalant! Nonchalant!
Because then there’s the ending fairy—you with your bright smile directed at the camera, your arms moving behind you as if you were drawing back a bow and arrow. Pop! The arrow embeds…deep into his heart. “I’m going to marry her.”
Gojo pauses after his confession.
Ijichi pauses after his confession.
It seems the world pauses after his confession.
Everyone but you (which made sense you were practically out of this world), who nodded along to the comments that the judges were giving you. As you walk off the screen, Gojo practically leans over the counter to watch your every step- and even your steps past the television frame-
Ijichi reaches up to turn off the television.
So nonchalant.
“Gojo-senpai…” He starts, and this time it’s Gojo that cowers at the way his schoolmate was looking at him.
Before he knows it, there’s the smack! of something being plastered on his face. Flat and glossy. Colors bursting even behind his scrunched-up eyelids.
A…poster.
“Her official poster.” There’s more than just a little amusement in Ijichi’s tone as he watches Gojo rip the paper off of his face and stare down lovingly at your own, right in the middle of it. Smiling a smile that seems to be just for him (nevermind the fact that this had once been Ijichi’s poster). “9PM on Channel 8, #143. Don’t let her down.”
Gojo would vote for you like his life depended on it.
That night, he went home and created a second Twitter account for himself.
@thestrongestfanboy: Voting for Cupid #143 on Idol Academy and u should too or else (҂` ﾛ ´)凸
@Fushidaddy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: already voted, youre late to the club lmao.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy: Blocked.
Liked by @CupidOfficial.
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@MnetIdolAcademy: ANNOUNCING THE OFFICIAL DEBUT LINE, CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR RISING GLOBAL STARS!
[GLOBAL VOTE FINAL RESULTS]
RANK #1—Cupid
(Read more)
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.
And he did.
From his phone, his laptop, his mother’s phone, his father’s phone- Geto’s phone, Shoko’s phone (where he found a copy of the last test paper’s marking scheme—he knew that little con-woman cheated, he feared for her future patients). Until, ultimately, you did win the competition.
Just as he’d wanted you to.
And Ijichi as well, he supposes. But he is younger (at least, visibly) and more beautiful - therefore Gojo thinks it should count more.
And so you swept every award in the reality competition, and snagged center spot in every headline, concert, and fan account that was ready to feature the freshly-minted popstar.
Almost two years later, by the time that your official debut had come ‘round with a hit single and an album that was climbing the charts, he’d just entered his first year in university. And by then, practically everyone in his life knew by now that he was a sort of…stan. Gojo accepted the title begrudgingly, after Geto and Shoko had walked into his newly-acquired dorm room one day and found every inch of his walls covered in your posters. There was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of you underneath his bed, too, but thankfully they hadn’t found that yet.
Geto threatened to strangle him until he took down the posters of you on his side of the room, at least. They were sharing, after all.
The room was appreciated on stan Twitter, at least. His latest post about it racked up a solid 992.1k views.
@thestrongestfanboy: New room pic!! Can u guess my ultimate bias, bet u can’t^^ \(★ω★)/
Attached was a picture that he’d forgone every single rule and regulation about internet safety to post: from the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, to the cardboard cut-out of you, to the plushie of your cupid character, to the American flag with your face on it (why always the American flag for these things, he wasn’t sure), to the rare photocards that he was holding up for the camera. It was a shrine.
The replies…not so much.
@pinkillit: Lemme guess…Cupid? Lol so real, I luv her too!
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @pinkillit: Well I love her more than u so…(￢_￢;)
@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Damn
@gggggnarly: WOAH??
@hearts2hurts: I can’t even send hate, this is impressive ngl.
@utahimeslefttoe: need to do this with my bias
@lovelicky: Parasocialism, who?
@yuuthebaddie: You scare the huzz
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I don’t need the huzz when I have my queen #thearrowhitme (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)
@Fushidaddy7 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: kinda wish I could hit you rn too #fakefan
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy7: ??? Blocked.
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Don’t u think it’s kinda problematic to be pushing 40 and arguing with minors online?
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: youre 19 tf are you talking about?? and also because you claim the arrow hit you, but you don’t even have her rare “First Love, First Kiss” photocard. youre no better than a local lol.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: U seriously think ur a bigger fan than me? I was there since even before our girl debuted. Lmao.
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i was there before she even entered the show- and yes. i am.
That particular scathing reply wasn’t over with just that, and Gojo had realized - clicking on the notification, to his slowly-growing horror - that it would be accompanied by a picture, as well. A snapshot to a room that looked much like his own.
From the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, a selfie with you at a rookie fanmeet before (dammit) you’d entered the competition, the cardboard cut-outs, the plushies, the flags, the rare photocards. And yes…the ultra-rare ‘First Love, First Kiss’ photocard that he’d last heard went for a comfortable few hundred dollars on the market.
With you costumed like a sweet, sweet cupid.
Sparkling eyes. Angel wings. Holding up the second button from the top of a school uniform - a symbol of confession in Japan - as if you were confessing to someone.
To him.
Gojo’s giggling stupidly and kicking his feet on the bed as he zooms in on the picture, taking in your picture on the photocard- before his phone buzzes with yet another Twitter notification and his heart plummets as he realizes just whose room this is. Fushidaddy8 himself could be seen reflected on the lone mirror in the room: scarred lips smirking, his beefy arms raised in a flex, biceps the size of Gojo’s head—
@pinkillit: He kinda ate you up ngl.
Ignoring that, he responded to the aforementioned perpetrator.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Well I’m going to marry her!! Hope that helps!! ╮(︶▽︶)╭
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: delulu really isn’t the trululu kid
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: That trend’s dead, unc.
Though he did slide into the other man’s direct messages right after that, in the hopes of buying out the exclusive photocard from him.
He was laughed all the way out of his direct messages.
Gojo Satoru did several things next.
He blocked (and reported) @Fushidaddy8.
He subscribed for a gym membership.
He dragged Geto out of their shared dorm room (sleep-deprived and grumbling at the 3:41AM on the clock, bound to miss the important physics exam that day…semantics, heh) as moral support on his trek to the post office. Where, when his best friend shivered at the cold early morning and questioned just what and to whom were they mailing, Gojo had answered-
“Oh, just my second button.” The very same one that he’d kept safely since their graduation from high school a few months ago - because, see, Gojo Satoru wasn’t the type to fall in love.
He wasn’t the type to confess.
Though, he did get confessed to more times that he could count (he was perhaps the second most popular bachelor on campus, right after Geto - but even that was a highly-debated ranking of first and second). He just never found the one.
That is…
Gojo beams, plastering on a few stamps on the cardboard box- much too big for but a single button. In it, he poured his feelings—corny, yes. But true. “I’m going to send it to my girl, Cupid-”
Geto punches him before he can finish.
@thestrongestfanboy: The lion does not concern himself with the pain that comes with #truelove, even if he cried a little ☆⌒(> _ <)
@Fushidaddy9 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmao loser.
Just a few months later, another one of your limited edition photocards was released: the “Said Yes!!” photocard that sold out instantly. Just the cutest photo of you receiving a second button in confession, your expression one of pleasant surprise.
No one believed Gojo when they told them that the button was his.
He bought five.
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.
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@BuzzFeed: Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who’s The Biggest Fanboy of Them All? Cupid’s Fandom Compare Notes on Fanboy Shrines and 35 Other Delulu Stan Happenings This Week.
(Read more on buzzfeed.com)
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Gojo Satoru had bought 67 albums.
67…heh.
Sixty-seven different copies of the very same album—yours.
Sixty-seven different copies of the latest addition in your platinum-reaching, Grammy award-winning discography: the ‘Obsession’ album.
Of course, they’re all yours. Because who else would have such banger songs that he wouldn’t mind replaying over and over again until Geto threatened to smash the damn things? Who else would have exclusive photocards so cute stuffed into the crevices of said albums, that he just had to collect them all? Who else would host a fancall event that he simply had to put a dent in his sizable bank account to win?
It was somewhat of a lottery system, and Gojo’s sure he’d funded his local record store for a few months at least with how much he’d cashed out there.
He’d been up bright n’ early on the day your album hit the stores - camping outside with a few avid others of your fandom (though, proudly, he’d been the first one there). Rushing with the rest to buy up your album, your merch, and with it…a chance to see you.
Every album bought was an entry into the raffle that’d grant them a chance to see you.
Just a few minutes of your time through the screen, and even that was like looking through the pearly gates of heaven in Gojo’s eyes. He’d dreamt about it, he’d manifested it, he’d tweeted about it so many times on his private account that everyone but Haibara had blocked him on.
@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I’M 22 NOW SO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME GET WHAT I WANT (ಥ﹏ಥ)
@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: LORD KNOWS IT WOULD BE THE FIRST TIME.
@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I believe in you Gojo-senpai ^.^
@Fushidaddy27 replying to @HiByeRawr: dont
@thestrongestfanboyPRIV replying to @Fushidaddy27: How did u even get here??
And so, the wait had dragged on with a few more accounts blocked.
Until, finally, one day Gojo had been simply scrolling through his emails as he usually did. A few updates from Canvas on his assignment grades. A few A+’s. An email from Geto with nothing but one of those old pictures from Yaga’s abstract dance classes attached. A few more A+’s. An email from the record store saying he won the fancall event. Yet another picture of Yaga-
His heart had damn near stopped.
Actually- Gojo doesn’t think he was even breathing as he hurriedly scrolled back and clicked open the email from the record store. He reads the very first word—
“Congratulations…”
And that’s all he needs to stand up and cheer-
“Shhhh—!” The cryptid-like elderly librarian, Gakuganji, shushes him from just a few tables away. A glare so intense that it makes Gojo sit back down in his seat in an instant, ducking back down to stare at his phone screen.
Heart thundering. Fingers trembling. “Oh my god…” He whispers to himself, knees bouncing underneath the mahogany table as he’s clicking on the link embedded into the email.
It takes him to the official site of your management, where the list of winners had been announced on one page dedicated especially to you. And there - right at the very top - his name.
Gojo Satoru.
Censored, yes. But he could read it well enough - it was only confirmation of what he already knew through the email.
And as Gojo tries to tame his giddy elation inside the library, he forgoes those revision papers of his to instead tap away at his phone. First, he texts his parents. Then he texts his friends. Then he emails Nanamin (also one of his friends, but the man had him blocked everywhere else…)- and just as he caught sight of that winner’s email again, Gojo squeals—
“Out of my library!”
Later, Gojo Satoru was added to the campus library Wall of Shame (and Nuisances).
But he didn’t care.
Not one single bit.
@thestrongestfanboy: About to meet my future wife- how do I look? (￣▽￣*)ゞ
Attached was a selfie of him making your signature bow-and-arrow pose a few days later.
He was well-fitted in his best dress shirt that hugged his toned waist. Cologne practically palpable through the screen. Soft white bangs tamed. Donning a silver chain. False glasses on because he heard in one of your latest interviews that you liked nerds.
Cheeks rosy.
“Bro, isn’t the call for like two minutes?” Geto grumbles from his bed on the other side of the room. Their cramped dorm was already small enough without the other pacing every inch of it in nervousness.
Gojo whips around with a snarl, “No, for your information it’s actually two and a half minutes.”
Geto squints, “Right…” Before he raises his nose into the air and sniffs—“And god- what is that awful fucking smell?”
“You don’t like it?” His best friend asks innocently, “It’s my cologne.”
“There’s no way your cologne smells like that?” The dark-haired man gapes, leaning back in his bed as he covers his nostrils with a palm.
Geto already has his answer by the way that Gojo starts to squirm. “Well…I may have also added in a bit of your cologne, too…”
“…”
“And Nanamin’s.”
“…”
“And Shoko’s-”
“What the fuck, Satoru?” Geto slaps a hand over his forehead, in the way he much seemed to do when it came to an antic that Gojo did without his consultation (he means, c’mon, if they were to be dumb fucks then they should be dumb fucks together).
But this was too far even for him.
And Geto only sighs before he’s reaching for his heavy headphones, placing the cushioned device on top of his head. “After this, we’re taking you out to touch grass, man.” He opens his phone to something and blocks out Gojo’s whining protests with it. “I’m serious.”
“And I’m serious when I say you better not fuck this up for me, Suguru.” Gojo stabs an accusing finger at his best friend, while his other hand reaches for his own phone - the scheduled time for your video call was nearing. “Keep yourself scarce when she calls me.”
“Mhm, whatever you say.”
“Because she’s my future wife-”
“Crazy story, bro.”
With Geto not even close to responsive any longer, Gojo huffs as he looks through his notifications-
@Fushidaddy31: YOURE SO CHOPPED LMFAOOOOOOOO
Nevermind.
Instead, he waits in front of his desk. Phone propped up. Earbuds plugged in. Back straight against his chair. More formal and elegant than he had in any of his other meetings or lectures before.
He turns off his notifications and opens up the app that management had directed him to through emails. Pressing on the screen record button, Gojo’s stomach turns as a staff member performs an ID check before the call.
And then it starts.
Your beautiful, beautiful face pops up on the screen.
Those eyes. That smile. The voice that says, “Hello?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Gojo’s heart drops to his stomach then takes a high-speed elevator right back up to his throat, he can feel the ba-dump! of it there. And later - years and years later - he’ll be able to cringe at the way that his naturally deep voice broke- “H-he-”
Before your face pauses.
It freezes.
And suddenly the call ends.
wait…Gojo taps on his Wi-Fi…he taps on his data…he taps on anything and everything that might make a difference. And yet, nothing ever does. Gojo immediately throws down his earphones on his desk and stands- so fast that his chair topples over—“Suguru!”
The dark-haired man jolts in his bed, turning over at the shriek with his brows scrunched in confusion. Seeing the state his best friend was in, he raises his phone as a shield. “What?”
“Don’t what me- don’t- you- you—” So enraged that he couldn’t even string together a coherent sentence. Face red. Veins popping on his neck. The only way that Geto manages to even slightly discern what the other man may be talking about is by the way he points at his phone, the shared Wi-Fi router, then his phone.
Geto’s mouth drops, “Ah…” And he catches sight of the orange, blinking right on the router that told the both of them that the day’s data has been finished. He looks at his phone…with the absolutely massive update that had just completed. “In my defense, Love and Deepspace had an update-”
“Suguru, I’m going to kill you.”
Ultimately, no amount of begging or crying to attempting to throttle Geto could reverse the fact that Gojo had won a fancall…and missed it.
All because of his Wi-Fi.
“There there, man.” Geto pats his friend - draped across his bed with his face in his hands - on the back. “At least the new event loaded- it’s an idol event, and I’ll let you play it with Sylus-”
Gojo only sobs louder.
“And then after that, we’ll actually go touch grass. How about that?”
@thestrongestfanboy: Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday to HELL. @DigiGeto ur going to HELL.
@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Mb
@Fushidaddy32: rare aesthetic: fancall with #her n made her do the coldplay kiss cam trend with me heh
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy32: Blocked.
@Fushidaddy32 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ??
@CupidOfficial: So glad to be able to talk with my lovely fans during the fancall event today!! Thank you to everyone that attended, and even those that didn’t attend heheh…I see you, and I love you <33
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@Variety: This week’s cover story:
Global Superstar Cupid: On Stardom, Surprises of Fame, and the Undying Support of her Fans (“There was actually this funny story with a fan that froze—”)
(see page 9…)
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Gojo Satoru was on cloud nine.
Gojo Satoru was in heaven.
Gojo Satoru was going to meet his wife.
Everywhere he looked, he could see that beautiful face of yours.
From the floor-to-ceiling posters against the stark white walls, to the stalls upon stalls of merchandise that featured you, to the rows upon rows of people wearing t-shirts with your face on it. Posters. Plushies. Bow-and-arrow lights. Everything that his heart could ever yearn for.
And that included you.
And no- Gojo hadn’t died and gone to heaven (evidenced by the way that no matter how many times he pinched himself, it still bruised). Don’t be silly! He was simply at a place that was rather similar, he imagines.
A fanmeet.
Where the excitement was palpable, and everyone here had arrived with the same goal in mind - to spend just a few precious moments with you in person.
In person!
Geto was the one that’d snagged him the ticket to this event, to make up for the rather tragic incident with the fan call two years ago. And so here he was, at your first-ever fanmeet in Tokyo. Gojo vibrated on the balls of his feet, and with his towering height he could make out just a few more meters until he managed to see you up-close.
He held one of his most prized possessions - your first poster from Idol Academy, the one that Ijichi had gifted him so many years ago - to his chest and sighed. In less than an hour, he’d have it signed. In less than an hour, he’d get to hold your hand.
In less than an hour, he’d get to see you.
There was a part of him that felt like it was tugging towards you already- and Gojo has to bounce himself slightly to find a way to channel the adrenaline.
It’d been quite the arduous journey to get to here, and he didn’t want to make a single mistake now - all the albums he’d bought, all the pictures from your latest fanmeets that he’d fawned over, all the stan Twitter fights.
Honestly, just today he’d gotten into it with some delusional loser online (@urmomstype) that’d been spreading rumors about you being…particularly close with the famed actor you had in your newest music video. Gojo shudders as he thinks back to it:
@urmomstype: A thread of all the PROOFS that #Cupid is dating the hottest k-drama actor right now—
Inside was some amalgamated mess of pictures of ‘shared couples items’ (half the population owned that shit, c’mon, that actor was far from special) and coded messages that apparently littered your social media. By the end of it, the user had been self-assured, a few other misogynistic antis were spouting hate, and Gojo was furious.
He’d typed away so fast that his thumbs were nothing but a blur.
@thestrongestfanboy: U call this proof?? Holy fucking airball lmao (￣ヘ￣)
@thestrongestfanboy: Bozo
@thestrongestfanboy: Ratio + L + my fav is better than ur fav
@thestrongestfanboy: She isn’t dating anyone BOZO!! Even if she was (which she isn’t) it’s none of ur business and ur a loser so go back to doing loser things. I bet ur an anti from that one other agency…凸(`△´＃)
@Fushidaddy89 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: yk for once i agree with you
@urmomstype replying to @Fushidaddy89: Why are two uncs replying to me…arguing with a minor btw.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @urmomstype: With this gift I summon-
It had lasted a few hours (and that was on the shorter end of the stick). Until, ultimately, Geto and Shoko had pulled his phone away from his face (he was defending your honor!) and reminded him that there were much more important things on the horizon.
Namely, you…
Besides, he was glad to get away from the epic highs and lows of high school football stan Twitter. He was glad not to have to fight with what was likely some middle-aged, parasocial man there over you. He was glad not to get into futile shipping wars that-
“Do you think her actor boyfriend will be here?”
An agitating, grating voice breaks through his thoughts (really, it was the squeaky voice of a child), and Gojo’s immediately whipping his head down, down, down behind him.
It was a buzzcut boy, wearing a t-shirt with your face and a pair of soft feathery wings that was sold as one of your exclusive merchandise—and yet…those angelic appendages still wasn’t enough to hide the mischief in his face.
Gojo stares at him.
And he stares at Gojo.
“You.”
“You.”
As his blonde-haired guardian looks on in slight shock, Gojo stabs an index his way- “User urmomstype?”
“User thestrongestfanboy.” He then points at himself, “But you can call me Todo Aoi.” And before the older man can begin to sputter again, he raises a small palm to silence him (and why was Gojo being silenced by what looked like an eight-year-old?) “I already know who you are, Gojo Satoru. You’re infamous inside the fandom, y’know?”
He gapes, “I am?”
“Mhm.”
Before he starts twirling the curls of white at the base of his neck, Todo stares in bewilderment as the taller man starts squirming. “So like…d’you think that means there’s a chance she’d notice me, too?”
“…”
“…”
“F-forget that-”
“You really think you can pull fine shyt?” Todo squints up at Gojo, and then down at the sheer amount of merchandise he was draped in. “You’re chopped with a negative aura that no amount of aura farming could possibly replenish, brother. Your eyes are built like a 24k labubu. If you were a meal, even Fanum wouldn’t ask for tax. Even I’d win a mid-off against you. I hate to break it to you but she’s much better off with that actor-”
“Don’t think that just because you’re speaking in brainrot terms I don’t understand you- I’m brainrotted, too.” Seething, “And they’re not even dating-”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Definitely not!”
The little boy nods, sagely. “Still got the views for the music video, didn’t I? And what did you do? Whine about how you weren’t married to her yet?”
And to that he doesn’t have much to say, “Well…”
The blonde-haired woman that’d been holding Todo back finally announces her presence, “Hi there- apologies. My name’s Yuki.” She reached out her hand, and they shook - with Gojo dazed by the absolute demolishment of his character. “I’ve warned him about his ah- ragebaiting issue…it’s a work-in-progress.”
“I-I see…” Gojo breathes, looking back at the line - just a little longer and he’d be out of here. Just a little longer and he’d get to see you—“One question, I’m not actually chopped, am I?”
As Todo whispers the definition to Yuki, she shakes her head happily. “Oh, not at all! You’re not exactly my type, but trust that you’re quite the handsome character.”
“Handsome enough to pull my wife?” At her visible confusion, he jerks his head where your figure was seated at a black-clothed table, signing posters and making conversation with your line of fans. Oh- how perfect you were.
“O-oh! Her?” A line of sweat beads at her temple, “Well, why not?”
Gojo - quite maturely - sticks his tongue out at Todo.
But the boy only replies, “You look like you wear wigs.”
Gojo self-consciously runs a hand through his soft white hair, “I-I don’t!” He did take particularly good care of his hair.
“Do you wear wigs?”
“No, I do not-”
“Have you worn wigs?”
“No, I have not-”
“Will you wear wigs?”
“…Maybe?!”
“When will you wear wigs-”
“Please!”
“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to step out.” A gruff, masculine voice speaks out from beside him- and it didn’t match Todo’s probing voice. Not at all. Gojo turns his surprised head around and finds himself face-to-face with a stony-faced man.
As tall as him. Even beefier. With shades that reflected his own widened blue eyes.
His jaw drops, “Wh-what…”
The security guard gestures to Todo, and then towards the door with the ‘Exit’ sign. “For your disruption, we’re going to have to ask you to step out of the premises.” He cracks his knuckles, “Or you shall be escorted out.”
“No-” Gojo’s gasping, looking around for an answer. “No no no no- disruption? What disruption?”
“Arguments with a child-”
“That lil’ shit deserved it—” Gojo whines out, before realizing that that likely didn’t help his case. “I-I mean-” He’s gesturing to the boy that was clearly not disrupted in any sense of the word, “-look at him! He’s completely fine! In fact, I’m the one emotionally scarred.”
The other two also start to protest this course of action, and the security guard stays silent for a beat, and lets the counterargument sink in…
Before he raises his walkie-talkie up to his mouth, “We’re having some resistance here, I request back-up at the front of the line.”
“No no no-” He was just a meter away - a meter. “No, wait- please no.” And by now, the other fans were starting to point and stare at him now. At the way he was panicking. At the way he was trying to inch himself closer to the signing event. At the way he was so close to you- and yet, so far, with two burly security guards that clapped their hands down on his shoulders and dragged him away by his arms.
All the way to the exit.
As you stared.
“NOOOOOOO—!”
@thestrongestfanboy: I’m gonna be honest, kitten, daddy’s about to kill himself ٩(× ×)۶
@Fushidaddy103 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i saw the video youre trending on tiktok lmaooooo
@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: F in the chat
@pinkillit replying to @urmomstype: F
@hearts2hurts replying to @urmomstype: F
@utahimeslefttoe replying to @urmomstype: F
@lovelicky replying to @urmomstype: F
@CupidOfficial: Tokyo, oh Tokyo~
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TRENDING ON TIKTOK:
#Cupidfanmeet
#thatonecrazyguy
#thestrongestfanboy
#Cupiddatingrumors
#Cupidbemywife
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This was it.
This was Gojo’s last chance.
He hadn’t won a fancall since that one time (no matter how many albums he bought, the universe just wasn’t on his side), he’d been barred from your Tokyo fanmeet, he’d been known as that one delusional fanboy in your fandom.
Which was honestly fine. Gojo was fine.
He was completely and utterly fine-
“OHMYGODSUGURUI’MSOCLOSEITHINKICANSEEHERICANSEEHER-” Gojo yelled in Geto’s ear, over the roaring crowd that was most likely saying the same thing he was. He shook the man, and then proceeded to shake his other best friend standing right beside him. “YOUGUYSARETHEBESTANDILOVEYOUANDYOU’LLBETHEBESTMANANDBESTWOMANAND-”
“Not if I kill you right now.” Shoko mutters, punching Gojo right in the stomach so he’d shut up for the first time in the past few hours. She takes a puff of her cigarette, even though the stadium had a strict no smoking policy.
She needed it.
She deserved it.
Though, she supposed that there was no one to blame but herself.
It was obvious the toll that all the failed fancalls and fanmeets had taken on Gojo. And while she couldn’t quite understand the sheer ahem- delusion that came with it, she knew that this was something important to him. And Geto did, too.
Which was why, with the power of social media, the duo had reached out to that ‘urmomstype’ boy and his blonde-haired guardian. Apparently, even after Gojo had been escorted his merry way outside, the two had tried to overturn the decision, explaining that it’d all just been some silly banter and there really wasn’t anything to remove him over. ‘He might be chopped and unc, but he’s still a goat. Sorta.’ The boy had said, whatever that means…
But, alas, the security guard had been stubborn.
And so, the four - Shoko, Geto, Yuki, and Todo (yes, even Todo) - had wanted to make it up to Gojo in a different way. Despite not being able to attend the fanmeet, you still had your upcoming concert in the famous Tokyo Dome.
They’d stayed up all night on the phone trying out every connection they had to somehow get a few extra tickets.
All night.
There had to be something, right?
Until - finally, finally - Yuki managed to get in contact with Gakuganji (yes, their ol’ campus librarian), who managed to get in contact with Yaga (yes, their ol’ high school principal), who managed to get in contact with one of his other friends that knew someone on your staff team. And through a rollercoaster of contacts, they somehow managed to snag a few seats.
Front row.
Gojo had burst into tears the moment he read that pink slip of paper with your name in bold, surrounded by hearts. He’d crushed them all to him, so tight that Shoko wondered whether her bones might break, and whispered. “You guys are definitely invited to my wedding.”
And if her heart melted just a little bit then, well…she didn’t mention it.
Now, however, she’d no sooner be invited to Gojo Satoru’s funeral than his alleged wedding. To their own fortune, Yuki and Todo had been assigned places a few seats down. A weary Geto on the other side of their white-haired friend reaches his hands out towards her. “Cigarette, please.”
Shoko raises a brown brow, “You don’t even smoke?”
“I’m about to start.”
“You guuuuys—” Gojo drags on, as the opening notes of your album start to ring out on the speakers. He shoots his hands out to grab Shoko- and when she ducks, he shoots his hands out to grab Geto- and when he groans, Gojo only sways them in the air. “It’s about to start- she’s about to come on stage- oh my god, oh my god my wife’s about to come on stage-”
“She’ll be your ex-wife if you don’t calm the fuck down.” Geto can’t help but laugh. Shoko looks on in confusion as he moves in synchronization with Gojo to the first few dance moves of your routine. Geto answers her unspoken question, “What? He played it all the time in our dorm, I could recite every lyric and move in my sleep by now.”
“M-me too.” And as your silhouette starts to become projected on the screen behind you, Gojo’s starting to tear up. Large, bulbous tears of emotion.
They were both dancing in unison now.
Crying (Gojo, at least).
Shoko shakes her head with a chuckle of her own. “Idiots.”
And then you saunter your way onto stage and Shoko (as well as everyone in a five-mile radius) feels their eardrums stop working.
@thestrongestfanboy: I wasn’t just another screaming boy…I challenged her stare down…she saw me. She pointed—twice. And if u think I’m done? Let’s see if the wolf can find his prey again…good luck…(^人<)〜☆
Attached was a video taken from the concert - more girlish screaming (Gojo’s) than music, to be quite honest.
@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy114: I don’t see u at the concert. L |ʘ‿ʘ)╯
@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i dont see me trending on tiktok either
Gojo doesn’t even have the time to block and report Fushidaddy’s 114th account, because he’s too busy shoving his phone into his pocket and joining the screams for your encore that night. The one where you pretend to walk off, then dramatically sigh as you prance back down—
“Ah~” You’re voicing into the mic, looking at the sea of flash-lit faces around you. “Again? You lot are reeeeeally ravenous tonight, aren’t you?”
In unison, they roar. They agree.
With a faux huff, you’re placing your hand on your waist. It’s a pose infamous amongst your fandom, and they already knew what was coming up next- “Who’s got you so worked up, huh? Is it…me?” Roaring. Rumbling. Raging. You gasp, flattered. “It’s really me? Oh, now you’re just kidding—”
A furious shake of heads.
“You’re not? Well…” You smile, and it’s the type of smile that makes a flurry of star-stuck cameras go off. Basking in it, you walk oh-so-closely to the edge of the stage, where hands reach out to merely be in your presence. “That’s cute. But I still think I should arrest someone for being so naughty tonight, getting you all worked up.”
Crowds wave, volunteering themselves up to you.
You reach for your glittering belt and pull out the fluffy pink handcuffs that make them squeal, “And how aboooooout…”
Scanning the stadium.
Looking around.
Your eyes pass over the roaring head until—
“Ah! You there.” You’re pointing, your eye catching on a fluffy head of white hair. A face so handsome. So eager. “How about you? Would you like to be my arrestee tonight—?”
His deep voice sounds out, “Y-yes! Yes please-”
And as you near, the crowd grows even more restless. Like a tumultuous sea, the waves crash into each other, creating a rough tide that almost wanted to pull you in-
You blink.
And suddenly that white-haired man has disappeared.
But you’re by the edge of the stage by now, and you could feel the palms reaching for you as you try to discern just where he might be. “I uh-” You pause. Before the crowd surges forwards, and you’re thinking quickly to point out someone else. “Perhaps he isn’t so eager to be thrown in the slammer tonight-” They laugh, “-so how about you? Brown-haired girl? Would you like to be arrested by me~?”
She nods, and you proceed with your lil’ skit to ‘arrest’ her for being much too naughty.
Teasing and twirling, before you stand up and get on with the rest of your concert-
“And now—who’s ready for an encore~?”
You prance away, leaving a trail of glitter and song- and tears. Fuck, Gojo only claws himself up from the ground just as you finished your little arresting routine. The roll of the crowd had knocked him to the ground, and Shoko looks at her sad lil’ best friend.
She raises the handcuffs on her wrists, “Help me get out of these and you can have them, Satoru-”
“No, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Gojo straightens himself up, and Shoko’s shocked to find that he shakes his head in rejection.
“Satoru, are you okay?” Geto asks, warily.
“Yeah-” He sighs. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Something hollow in his breath. Something hollow in his heart, as he watches you slip away.
One.
More.
Time.
It’s alright.
It’s alright.
@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play Chasing Pavements by Adele
@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe
@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: but you good bro??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy117: No bro
@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i feel you bro
@CupidOfficial: White hair. White stars…
That night, while Gojo had tossed and turned himself into a fitful sleep, his phone buzzed with yet another notification.
One that he had to blink his eyes at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, one that he had to pinch himself at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
DIRECT MESSAGES for @thestrongestfanboy.
@CupidOfficial: You’re the white-haired boy from tonight, aren’t you?
@CupidOfficial: Sorry if this is forward of me, I’ve just seen you around quite a bit…on my timeline, at the fanmeet…
@CupidOfficial: I just wanted to ask whether you’d want to model for the cover of my upcoming album?
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@pannchoa: Rumors swirl of Cupid’s upcoming album! Dispatch hints and industry whispers - read the full EXCLUSIVE from her producer right here.
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First thing’s first, you had Gojo Satoru sit on the couch of your penthouse accommodation. Talking through the details of your secretive upcoming album, and how the aesthetic you were going for fit his dazzling looks perfectly.
Second thing’s second, you had him seated on your king-sized bed. Still babbling about your album- at least, he was. Though the both of you knew that it was something else entirely on your minds.
Third thing’s third, he was sprawled out on said mattress. You straddlin’ his handsome face like a perch. His puffy, pinkish lips glued to your cunt—
“Mmpf- mmmm…” Gojo’s groaning over the most lecherous squelches that you’ve heard in your entire life. They’re echoing out like one of your sweetest songs, in sloppy staccato with the rovering movements of his tongue.
Gojo Satoru was eating you out like he was ravenous.
Famished.
Grabbing ahold of each side of your ass cheeks, he’s dragging you back down onto his gaping maw each n’ every time you flinched away with a whine, letting his tongue slash deeply into your drivelling orifice. “Mmm- hck!” Gojo’s so sloshed on your syrupy pussy that he’s finding himself hiccuping, eyes rolling all the way to the back of his head once your sap trickles out with a splash! Straight into the back of his throat, “Ohhhhh, my sweet girl-”
“Now now-” With a shiver, one of your hands slithers down to tug on Gojo’s clammy white locks. Almost as if to pull him away- but that only makes him nudge his lips closer to your hole with a keen. “Make sure you remember to- haaah, breathe, Gojo-”
“Sa-Satoru-” He whispers this out directly against your quivering cunt, and the vibrations make your back arch perfectly. Looking up at you through his pale lashes, fluttering. “Please call me, Satoru…”
Just the tip of his tongue that reels back out to fuck back in-
“-ma’am.”
“O-oh—” You’re moaning out at the way that his thick muscle pierces you - not only was Gojo an avid talker, but he had the tongue to back that up, too. So strong. So lengthy. He’s stirrin’ his tongue around and around in circular motions to graze those ridged tastebuds of his into each tiny nook n’ cranny.
Pulling onto his sweaty bangs and that only seems to make him go even harder- “S’that what you want me to call you?” You’re managing out, looking down at him- and that seems to make him jolt at the sheer intensity. “You want me to call you…”
You teasingly trail off, and Gojo only seems to buck—his hips coming up to make your vast bed creek. Chin spankin’ against the edge of your cunt when he yearns even closer, “Yes? Yes?”
“Oh? Was I supposed to- hck! finish something?” Pretending to not know exactly what he wanted, and it frankly made you even wetter to see the way that the tips of Gojo’s ears burn bright red at being caught.
“You know what I want baby- you know-” Sputtering out scorching hot breaths against your hole, before you know it- Gojo has one of his hands looped ‘round your thigh. The flat of his right thumb rubbin’ up and down your clit, “You kn-know what I want- and this pretty pussy does, too.”
Just the sultry sensation of him toying with your nub makes you gasp and buck. With your head thrown back, he’s taking every forceful bounce.
With such immense pleasure, Gojo’s letting his entire pretty face get ridden. The seeping hot core of your cunt plasters from the tip of his nose, down, down, down to grind your clit on the point of his chin. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Timing your gyrations just right, Gojo purses his lips and he spits- “She’s just so wet, my light.” Creating a slippery puddle that lets him slither his tongue into you even faster, “Soooo fucking wet. Sooo fuh-fucking loud, might even be louder than you on stage- and she’s honest, too.”
You’re raising a brow in challenge, raising his blushing head from between your legs to simply ask. “And just wh-what is ‘she’ honest about?”
There’s another dangling line of saliva spat on top of your pussylips, and the edge of Gojo’s thumb presses each wad inside. You shiver - and so does your core. “She knows she loves me—she knows she wants to call me ‘Satoru’, doesn’t she?”
Oh.
You simply shiver- you don’t even have an answer, and Gojo doesn’t expect you to have one. With sensual movements, the plush part of his lower lip drag-drag-draaaaags down the front of your cunt.
He’s pulling his tongue back, just lightly tapping it on top of your shaky orifice—“Hey…” You’re grumbling out, when his teasing motions are lingering for just too long. You tug on his hair, and that seems to make him groan in ecstacy - the happiness of being used. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?”
“Why? Does she miss me?” Gojo prattles away - not to you, but to your dripping wet cunt. Almost as if to prove his point, just the spit-covered edge of his tastebuds slither close to your hole. And it makes you clench—
Around nothing, because Gojo’s pulling away in an instant.
He never imagined how fun it would be to tease you.
His pretty, swollen lips turning up into a dirty grin. “Ohhh, don’t you worry, my light.” And the crown of his thumb rolls over your clit a few more times, “I already know that she misses the feeling of my tongue fucking ‘er-” And just as you wanted (because he could never leaving you longing for too long) Gojo’s tongue starts moving in, sinking. “Already know she wants to be f-filled up like no other could, already know every word to your songs- every lyric- every syllable. Already know you’re gonna feel my tongue between your legs- and you’re going to call me—”
You breathe, “Yes?”
And he’s almost pleading. “Your good boy?”
“Well…” You twist your fingers harshly into his silken white hair, and it makes Gojo moan. Slightly shoving him where you wanted him the most- “-then shut the fuck up n’ prove it to me, Satoru.”
And that’s all he wanted.
That’s all he needed. For now.
Until you’re calling him your ‘good boy’ exactly like that dark, carnal part of him wanted you to—Gojo’s grunting at the shock of his first name leaving your pretty lips, in that sing-song voice of yours.
A sudden lurch that makes him shove his clammy head between your legs once more. He’s glued to the sheeny inner parts of your thighs, roughly gluing his mouth over your glazed pussylips.
“Oh- oh…” Heavy pants leave your mouth, and your chest heaves each time Gojo’s probin’ not only his prolonged tongue inside you- but also his slender fingers. “You’re really trying to prove it t’me-”
They were just so long. The curvaceous tips of his digits deliciously curving into your tenderest spots- he glides them perfectly along your walls. Fitting the ridges of his middle and ring fingers against your g-spot.
Thoroughly. You could feel the way that Gojo was grinning against your cunt folds as he feels your cute walls clamp down ‘round his touch- “I found that spot, my light. It feels sooooo gooood having my fingers all up in there, hm? Can you feel me right there-”
“Y-yes-” Fuck, he was circlin’ the padded tips of his fingers and that made you fall upon the bed. You clap a hand down on that mahogany headboard of yours and use it to keep yourself moving- “Fuck, it feels so good.”
“Then don’t you think I deserve it…” He’s pouting, plush mouth now pulling back to clamp down your clit, too. And not only was he suckin’ on that nub, he was biting down, too. “M’your number one fan.”
“Mhm—fuh-fuck.” Your head falls back when he’s pressing his lips together and draaaaagging the fleshy top of your clit backwards. Just stretching. Just itching this carnal itch.
When you’re distracted by the white-hot pleasure that bursts behind your lids at the feeling, Gojo’s easily managing to sneak in yet another finger. A third one that pummels your bruising g-spot just as hard. “Can recite your every lyric. Every fanchant.” The hot crevice of his mouth moves rapidly against your core.
Furiously.
He’s drawing out a saucy pattern with his tongue, one that you’re only later realizing are the strokes to spelling out your stage name.
C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D.
Gojo’s hot tastebuds salivate right down your front, pressing on your clit until you see sparks behind your eyes. “See- see?” There’s an almost crazed look in Gojo’s peripherals, rolling until they were almost nothing but pure white as you clench down on him roughly - and you start to wonder just what you have released. “See, m’your biggest fan- hck! M’your good boy, and this pretty pussy knows it.” He almost sounds pathetic begging between your legs, drooling, drunken. “And- and that’s not all-”
“Satoru, what do you mean that’s not…” Your sentence slowly dissolves in your throat, and with every push of his slimy tongue, you’re realizing just what he’s talking about.
Because instead of the curving ‘C’ that meant he was spelling out your stage name, Gojo was slashing something out. Long, hard lines that edged you closer towards your bliss—
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.
“Mmm, you really are my biggest fuh-fan.” You’re somehow managing out, and the only thing you can do right now is grab ahold of Gojo’s hair and let him lavish you with his mouth. “You really love me, Toru?” And you feel him jolt at that cute nickname- “Or do you love my pussy?”
“Both. Both.” Fingers spearheading you so fast at this point that the skin ‘round his mountainous knuckles turns red. Stinging red. Needy red. Just like the strawberry shade of his overworked lips-
Plap! after plap!
And you’re not sure if the sounds are from the way you’re riding his handsome face, or the impact of him banging his fingertips into your deepest insides. “Both both both- fuck, I wanna have you drippin’ down my tongue for forever, my light. Could have you squeezin’ around me like this for ages, mmm, m’fucking obsessed.”
“A reference to my- haaah, to my album?” You question, and you were just so close. You were just so rapidly nudging yourself closer on top of him like this- “But what if you can’t breathe, Toru?”
“I don’t need to-” To which Gojo only grips the side of your ass with his free hand, tugging you down. Jolting you atop him. Manhandling you down further. He scrapes his swabbing fingers even further down your walls, past the spot of your bundle of nerves. “I don’t need to at all. Hah- I don’t need to breathe if I can have you like th-this…”
Your mouth dries of a response, because just then, he’s changing up the pattern of his sizzlin’ tastebuds again.
Long, luscious strokes.
M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.
Your eyes snap wide open, and you’re gasping at the realization of what exactly he was spelling out. “O-oh…” Chin slathering with a waterfall of your spittle, you’re just holding onto him for dear life at his vulgar kisses. “Satoru, I think m’gonna c-cum—”
And you’ve had voice training before, you’ve been used to keeping your voice steady even in the most pressurized of environments- but just then, your tone cracks as you heave your sultry body forwards and cum.
Hot, glistening waves of bliss.
A heat that takes over your body, from your scalp to your toes.
Again and again.
Slight tears prick behind your eyelids as you let Gojo fuck you through your high with his tongue, “Fuck- fuck, you made me cum-” Somehow pinpointing each peak of your orgasm to stick his fingers in for. Thud, thud, thud. “-and I didn’t even expect it.”
“Mmmm—” And you don’t know who was more gone on the fact that you were cumming like this, you or him. Because Gojo was lappin’ away with his thick tongue, slurping. “Tastes so sweet, my light. S’like sugar on my tongue…”
“Oh, you really are pussydrunk.” You whisper, and let his face move back and forth to elongate your euphoria. “Keep going, Toru—h-hah, keep going.”
“Anything for you, ma’am.”
How he loved the way you soaked yourself just a lil’ wetter at the sound of him saying that particular title. How he loved the way you’d flinch and tremble on top of him when he licked you from the tip of your clit and down to the end of your cunt. How he loved the way your high bated to nothing but mere tingles, and you shivered sensitively when he still kept going.
“My orgasm’s over now, Toru—” You hiccup, your tears starting to spill. “You were such a…good boy.”
And that’s when Gojo jolts, his entire body running with a shockwave that made itself obvious even to you. Curiously, you’re peering behind him- before he’s drawing your attention back to the front with a few more plunging pushes of his tongue. “Mmmm, m’your good boy. Your good boy- your good boy.”
G-O-O-D-B-O-Y.
“Mhm—” And when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to wrench himself away anytime soon, you’re bawling. “Fuck- fuck, Satoru m’so sensitive.”
“M’sorry, my light, I just can’t seem to-” Somehow managing to pant through his thorough pushes, it was honestly a wonder that he could even find the time to breathe at this point- with the way he was glued to your puckered pussy. Mouthing out what felt like the most popular lyrics to your songs at this point- “-can’t even seem to stop. It’s like I’m…almost like I’m-”
You flinch when he spits once more, the wad oozing down your slit.
“-addicted.”
You take a goood, long look at Gojo: puffy eyes, bleary vision, his mouth all puffy and raw around your cunt. Nearly every inch of his face was covered in a sappy layer of your slick, and it dripped down to drench your pillow beneath. Like a puddle.
Your cup your hand down from his hair n’ to his cheek, and Gojo practically melts at the touch. You had the distinct thought that if he were a cat, he’d be purring. “But Toru-” Jutting your bottom lip out for emphasis, “I want to give you the same, you know what I mean? S’that alright.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you could step on me and I’d thank you.” He says, before wrenching off of your swollen pussylips with a wettened plop!
A loud, dramatic mwah!
It makes your heart race, and something in Gojo’s tightened trousers twitch. Eagerly, you’re shuffling yourself off of him and sitting on one end of the bed.
Earlier, Gojo had simply ripped off your skirt and panties off- and his flooded mouth drops further with every item of clothing you’re taking off. Until you were completely exposed, and you’re directing him with a finger to do the very same.
“Yes, ma’am-” There’s absolutely no hesitation before his t-shirt (with, tastefully, your face on it as part of your merchandise) comes off. And you’re absolutely shocked- because Gojo wasn’t the trim, lanky figure that you’d expected him to be.
Instead, he was built.
Well-chiselled pecs that made you ache to touch them, leading down with a deep valley to the muscles of his washboard abs. Almost like a ladder. They were decorated only with a few beauty spots, and a line of sparse white hair that led down, down, down.
Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he then tugs down on the hemline of his pants and boxers, revealing—oh.
He flushes at the intensity of your stare, “Wh-what?” Almost squirming, he just felt so shy by the way his idol was looking at him like you just wanted to tear him apart. Sensually. “Is something not-”
“You’re just so big, Satoru.” You gasp, your eyes never straying from him.
Naturally, your hand reaches out to grab the ninth of his loooong inches, thick and hot in your hold. Glistening with need. His tight balls clenching. He was so hard that every pulsation was visible even from here.
A few veins decorated his shaft, and he was so reddened at the tip, n’ dripped down a stream of milky precum just at the feeling of your palm on him.
Slowly - ever-so-slowly - you start to lower your head…
“Oh.” Gojo pants out a scalding breath. “And that is…good?”
“It’s perfect.”
Gojo’s watching you through partly-cracked eyelids, feeling so hypnotized by the sight of you below him. He raises himself slightly on his haunches with a hiss, the hot air from your mouth kissin’ his tip—it almost- it almost reminded him of the way you’d lean in so close with your microphone.
Lips so soft.
Tongue so talented.
Just gently pressing—
And that’s when Gojo chokes back a needy cry and cums- straight down the front of your pretty, pretty face. In a split-second, you have your tongue filthily dangling out to catch the wads of seed that he was pouring out.
Splat after splat that ended up emptying on your tastebuds.
He’s bucking to let his shaft glissade just further down your tongue- and the mere plush feeling of him only makes his geysering divot spill out more generously.
“Fuck-” Gojo scrunches his azure eyes, head fighting not to throw back and miss a second of the sinful sight below. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- I can’t believe I’m…this is all your fault, sweetheart, ngh.” And his abs flex as he starts up a lil’ half-rut to fuck himself through his wave of bliss.
“Mmm—” You’re savoring the salted caramel taste of him, something so sweet about him. Amused, you raise a brow. “I barely even put my mouth on you, and you’re cumming already?”
He’s raising his hands to his blushing face, peeking out through his fingers. “Actually…it’s the second time tonight m’cumming, my light.” As you raise your brows in slight surprise, and flick your eyes to the drenched mess of his boxers. “The haaaah—the first time was when you- you called me your ‘good boy’.”
“Oh.”
Cumming just from eating you out? Now that really made your cunt throb with torturous need, and you’re sliding a hand between your legs to feel for the wetness there.
“Well, then-” A beautiful grin graces your face, and it’s enough to make Gojo’s swollen cock twitch. “-guess you have one more to make up t’me if you’re such a, mm, good boy, huh?”
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
Before you know it, you’re being splayed out with your back against the bed. The mattress slightly dips as Gojo hovers his muscular weight above you, and he’s gently pushin’ apart your legs, sweat beading on his forehead as he takes in your dripping wet core.
You swear you catch his mouth watering at the sight- “No need to be nervous, Toru. Have you ever done this before?”
He shakes his head, “No, it- it was actually my first time eating you out, too.” Peering up at you with teary eyes, “Did I do good?”
Did he do good?
If that was his first time, you didn’t know what would happen with his second, his third, his tenth. And you’re snapping yourself forcefully out of that little reverie, “Yes- fuck, yes you did so good. Was such a good boy for me.” He grunts, something ruined in it. “Now I need you to be a good boy f’me again, okay? C’mon- put my legs on your shoulder—yeeeees, just like that.”
His muscles shifted underneath your heels, he was just so hulking.
“Now bend, Toru-”
“Bend?”
“Bend.”
And Gojo wanted to prove himself to you, just like before. He wanted to do his very best for you, you, you and only you - even if that meant…manhandling his one and only idol, just a little.
With a primal lurch, Gojo then has your knees pushed all the way up to your tits. “Like this?” Your body bent completely in half, like a lawn chair. “Like this?” And his hips slotting between your legs- in this mean mating press, Gojo’s furious cock stuffs juuuuuust inside- “Like- like-”
Before he’s slouching his head forwards and pushing—
“Fuck-” Gojo’s canines try to sink into his lower lip, before he’s realizing that that won’t hold back his gruff noises and he’s simply keening. Carnal. Baritone.
A thin line of drool starts to splash from the side of his maw, before his entire body bows inwards to yours. Like he was focusing each n’ every ounce of strength into pryin’ aside your swollen folds and squeeeeezing his round, girthy tip inside. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- fuck!” And then you clench and you can hear the exact moment that the sensation pangs through Gojo’s body, “I think m’gonna cum again- fuck, m’gonna cum again just from this.”
“If you do then I want it allll inside-” You say, looking up into his attractive face - so unintentionally sexy. Gojo was flushing. Rabidly slobbering. His dick aching.
He was so hard that you could feel the prominent outline of each vein, scraping your insides as Gojo tries to push past the slight resistance of your entrance and buck and buck- “Don’t- oh.” He could barely even echo out a coherent thought with your wet pussy wrapped ‘round him like this. “Don’t- fuckin’- talk like that- s’only gonna make it, ngh, worse.”
“But I thought you were my good boy?”
“Fuh-fuck.” Gojo hollows out, with a clouded breath that made it seem as though every ounce of sanity was leaving his body along with it. And at that very second, you feel him spurt out just a single pearly white bead of cum.
It splats! down at the back of your pussy, and makes you shiver at the feeling. Meanwhile, Gojo’s forced to lurch up one of his fists and gnaw down on it to control himself. “Fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing t’me.” The blood vessels at his neck and temples pop as he somehow stops his dribbling cock from flooding your insides any further. “Didn’t know how fuck- fucking mean ya are, my light.”
“What can I say?” You hum, your hamstrings all sore with the intrusion that was being lodged in your lower half. “You were the criminal that got away- ngh, at my concert.”
“Mhm—?” Still rutting. Just animalistic half-ruts.
“And I want you to fuck me filthily, Toru.”
Oh…at this confession of yours, he grows even bigger inside of your tight channel. The girth of Gojo’s cock swells up, and his sheer length pushes apart your walls, molding them to him-
“Oh- oh my…” There was still a light sheen of your slick on Gojo’s face that he hadn’t been able to greedily lap away, and it’s then - mid-sentence - that you choose to lean yourself closer to him and get a taste.
To which Gojo’s hazed blue eyes snap open- and oh, the look in them makes your legs tighten. Makes them fail- he’s snapping them open in a singular fluid motion, uncaring of the way it exhausts your muscles. Uncaring of the snug stretch-stretch-streeeeetch of your cunt once he’s mazing himself inside. “-my light.” Gojo bites out, “I’ll give you anything you need…”
Just then, your ears ring with a sharp clap!
You’re wondering whether it’s your ears.
You’re wondering whether it’s your heartbeat.
You’re left wondering no longer when you register it’s the slamming impact of Gojo’s toned v-line snapping against your lower half. Bottoming out in one motion, he’s deeply probin’ his rotund tip into the back of your treacly pussy.
Bottoming out? Already?
“And that includes fucking you like the slut you want to be fucked as.”
Oh.
Oh.
It seems that perhaps you’ve broken him.
Because then Gojo’s pounding his rough, ravenous hips into you all the way until his white happy trail scrapes your clit, and the end of his shaft reaches for the back of your throat.
“What the fuck…” He stops as he feels the tender end of your pussy - teary eyes widening. And the first thing out of his mouth is, “Is this real?” In utter, feral disbelief. “There’s no way this is…” Before Gojo’s pinching himself.
He bottoms out a few more times, and each time the look in his eyes grows more distant. Jaw dropping further and further with the pure ecstacy of having his painfully-hard erection surrounded by your soft warmth. “Are you- hck! are you holding up, Toru?”
“Holding up? Holding up?” He almost cackles- octaves higher, almost crazed. He turns to you, “Pinch me.”
“What-”
“Pinch me.”
And so you do - right on the strawberry nubs of his nipples, where he was just so sensitive. Only when the painfully lewd sensation confirms it’s real does he start formulating his sloppy cadence, “Fuck! It doesn’t fucking feel r-real. It can feel like this, sweetheart?” He was rutting his hips impatiently into you like he was trying to fuck the answer out of you. Each n’ every loooong, winding vein glissading down your walls. “N-ngh, she feels like heaven ‘round my cock.”
“Oh yeah—?” Purposefully, you clench. “Like that, Satoru?”
He simply shivers, “Y-yes.” You can feel him thumpin’ away at the goopy back of your pussy, with his circular divot creaming out in pre. “She’s sucking up every inch of me- fuck, huggin’ me so tight. Bet she can feel my veins reeeeeal good, can’t she?” A few slurps as he sloppy fucks his way in, which he takes as an answer. “Mhm, she can.”
And you only clench harder-
“Oh.” He whimpers, “Have mercy.”
“I dunno…” You drag out from the back of your throat, and you have to curl your toes to stop the pleasure from overflowing and interrupting your sentences. “You didn’t have mercy when you ate me out earlier, did you?”
Gojo gasps-
“And when you screamed at my concert, and when you disrupted my fanmeet.” You’re quite enjoying watching him fall apart - head hung, hips stuttering as he struggles to hold himself back. You wonder just what might happen if you made this handsome virgin Gojo…break. “So why should I show you- ngh, mercy?”
“Please- oh, what are you—”
Whatever Gojo was going to say is immediately derailed by the casual way you’re hiking up a hand to your stomach. Pressing dooooown just as his throbbing length was sinking in, “Filthier, Toru.”
And that’s when something in your favorite fanboy - in Gojo Satoru - snaps.
That’s when your positions shift.
His sap dribbles down n’ overflows just like the way your steaming tastebuds do, and your teeth clench after every one of his thrusts. Harder. Faster. Just like you’d said, he was thwacking his aching hot cock into you so hard that the curve of his ballsack was swatting your cunt. Slowly, you’re growing more and more hypnotized by his roverin’ dick stuffing every ounce inside you full. “Just like that- hah-” Arms wobbling, you struggle to reach ‘round Gojo’s shoulders. “Oh- just like that-”
“Just like that?” He asks, oh-so-kindly. And you almost feel a glimmer of hope for your poor body when Gojo gently tugs your arms around his shoulders. Letting you grab onto his deltoids-
“But I don’t think s’filthy enough, my light.”
Oh…so you were mistaken.
“Filthier, you said?” He repeats your words from earlier, fully channeling his energy to swabbin’ every point of your cunt. Gojo feels your legs slipping, and he’s reaching a hand behind his neck to pin your ankles together - locking them in place. “Look-” Other hand thumbing between your puffy pussylips, “Look, she wants it harder- faster, too. She’s practically flooding out and begging for it.”
“Oh my god-” Your pillow is drenched in a layer of your spittle by now, and your back arches. “Keep- keep going.”
“Keep going? But I wanna go even filthier, sweetheart.” That familiar pout of his makes an appearance, though there was something much more…sleazy about it this time.
Your nails dig into the plush mountains of his muscles, shifting underneath your touch each time he’s reeling his body back. Back, back, back. Gojo was putting his entire frame to work - not just his hips - each time he’s shovelling his cock into you.
And the extra pressure makes the rounded crown of his shaft embed deep into your cervix, leaving a bruise there that acts as the perfect target for the next slam. And the next. And the next. “Please-” You’re gasping out, sobs bubbling in your throat. “Please please please- please, and how are you gonna be even filthier?”
“Like this.” Just to prove his point, his free hand tilts open your chin and spits straight in your mouth. And without wasting a second longer, Gojo spanks that very hand back down on your hips to keep you from running. “Aaaand—”
Instead, he’s using his strength to pliably jerk you back down. Hissing between your parted lips, “Like this.” He’s bubbling up even more saliva- this time, down your slippery slit. That hand of his on your hip reaches over, and with the forefront curve of his thumb, Gojo’s smearin’ the wad of saliva on top of your pussy. Pressing down on your clit- “Because m’just your pathetic fanboy, my light, listening to- ngh, every word you say. So when you say filthy, m’only gonna go filthier.”
You almost don’t want to dare to ask, “And h-how will you make this…even filthier?”
But you knew he wanted you to.
You knew he was just dying to fuck the words out of you.
Gojo’s plastering a sleazy smirk across his face, and it damn near looks downright blasphemous with the layer of syrup on his features. “I h-have an idea or two…”
He’s not telling you what the idea is, he’s showing it to you - with his fingers twisting on top of your clit to spell out some of the very words he’d spelled out with his tongue earlier.
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.
Furiously, your body thrashes at the mercy of his clutches. Gojo was holding you down ruthlessly, a mean expression taking over his face when he finds out that he can simply pin you down and make that glistening hole of yours take it.
M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.
All those zaps of pleasure that you loved so much, that you were moaning so much at. You’re so cockdrunken by this point that spittle sloshes ‘round inside your mouth- and Gojo only leans over to lick off the drivels of it escaping your mouth.
<3
Just in time to crash his lips into your when you cum.
“C-cumming.” You’re gasping out, almost in disbelief at the sheer strength of the orgasm that was flooding your entire body. Bucking back into his thrusts, “So much- it’s- it’s so much, fuck.”
“Yes-” Gojo growls, slightly breathless at the fact that this was you—and you were cumming ‘round his cock, suctioning every tender ridge on his shaft, fully fucking yourself through the complete waves of your high.
Bliss upon euphoria.
If you thought that your orgasm was incredible earlier, then you weren’t ready for this one. It simply takes over every part of you, until it felt like your nerves were fried with the sensation.
He stops pinning you down any longer, letting you bounce your hips back into his to your heart’s content. “That’s right, use me.” Gojo’s fingers are but a blur on your clit, “Use me to ride your high- fuck, use me as much as sh-she wants. Let me feel every inch of you squeezin’ around me-”
“I can’t be the only one.” Despite the pangs of your bliss, you somehow manage to blink away your tears to gaze up at him. With a hand fisted in Gojo’s perspired hair, you’re pulling him in reeeeal close, “Want you to cum insi- oh, fuck.”
You don’t even have to finish your sentence.
You don’t even have to finish your thought.
Because the moment that Gojo realizes what you’re trying to say to him, the bawling divot at the end of his shaft pours out white-hot cum. Heard throwing back. Chiselled body bowing into yours. Voice straining with a call of your name.
It’s just the creamiest texture, it polishes a layer of white on your cervix and along your walls until the syrup froths outside.
Gasping, Gojo brushes his thumb between your folds and plugs up your leaking hole. Overspilling. So many webbed layers were seeping out of you, and he was taking the time to push every ounce of it back inside- “Fuck.” He whispers, thickly. “Fucking hell.”
“S’all inside, Satoru.” You mewl, gliding your hand up and down your front. “I can feel it splashin’ around inside-”
“Don’t say that- don’t- fucking say that-” He just barely chokes out- before one of Gojo’s hands lets go of your ankles to actually squeeze that pretty neck of yours, so perfect in his grip. “Don’t say that or m’gonna…”
“Or what?”
“Or m’gonna cum again-”
“Can feel it alllllll up inside.” You continue, despite the lecherous tightening at your throat. And Gojo has to listen on in pure agony as that voice he loves so much continues on—“Honestly- at this rate, you might just get me- ngh, pregnant, Toru.”
And that does it- he’s splurging out his dewy wet wads all over again. It seeps a layer of white into your glossy insides, making every thrust of his slippery.
With a slight whimper, he doesn’t waste time fucking those droplets of cum inside even if it aches him with sensitivity. The reddened tip of his cock twitches, and Gojo’s balls nuzzle the forefront of your cunt, already sucked dry with nothing more to give-
“You kn-know-” When Gojo speaks, it almost sounds like he’s crying- oh. Something hot and wet drips from his eyes, he actually was crying in overstimulation.
The texture of your cunt leaving him red n’ raw, but even then he’s way too addicted to try and bring himself to stop. Moaning, “-I did say something about you st-stepping on me, my light.”
Your brows raise.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
.
.
.
It’s almost a year later when Gojo posts:
@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play I Just Had Sex by The Lonely Island.
@Fushidaddy1008 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmfao as if anyone would bang you
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1008: Ahhh, my wife would bang me~! ＼(≧▽≦)／ Also blocked (*≧ω≦*)
@Fushidaddy1009 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: wife?? lmfao i thought Cupid was your wife?? youre saying you banged Cupid??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1009: Exactly~! Blocked (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
@thestrongestfanboy: I would let her step on me (and HAVEEEEE) <(￣︶￣)>
@thestrongestfanboy: Does anyone have that meme of the guy shooting a basketball from the moon and actually making the basket???
@thestrongestfanboy: I’M IN LOVE.
@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro do you gen need your meds or…
@Shokomedical replying to @DigiGeto: I’ve prescribed all he needs, idk how but it’s gotten worse since that concert last year.
@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Happy for you Gojo-senpai ^.^
@thestrongestfanboy: MY BEAUTIFUL WIIIIIIFE~! ٩(♡ε♡)۶
And then came the disaster, perhaps. Because he’d meant to attach a completely innocent picture of you from your last show, he’d meant to post something that would have been inconspicuous with everything else that your fansites were posting.
But this is Gojo - and that’s obviously not what happened.
Attached to that aforementioned tweet was a picture of none other than Gojo Satou and you. Not from a concert. Not from afar. In the flesh, in nothing but a soft blanket covering your most intimate parts, clearly bitten all over and sex-hazed.
You were raising a digital camera up, your smile peaking through its edge as if you were taking a picture of a picture. And Gojo himself was in the corner - bitten, marked, a dopey smile and just as ruined, as sex-rumpled as you were, shirtless.
The first night.
How damning.
In the split-second that the photo had been up, it spread across stan Twitter like wildfire. And all of Gojo’s subsequent tweets had upwards of 1M+ views just because of it.
@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT
@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DIVA DOWN DIVA DOWN
@thestrongestfanboy: I DIDN’T MEAN TO POST THAT PLEASE FORGET ABOUT IT.
@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro actually….did it? The fanboy actually did what every delulu stan hopes to do??
@gggggnarly replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU HOOKED UP WITH QUEEN CUPID?!
@hearts2hurts replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I fear I, again, can’t send hate because this is impressive ngl.
@utahimeslefttoe replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i know this is a marketing stunt i just cant prove it (uta give me a chance pls)
@lovelicky replying to @thestrongestfanboy: PARASOCIALISM WORKED??
@yuuthebaddie replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU GOT THE HUZZ??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I GOT THE HUZZ!! („ಡωಡ„)
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DELETE-
@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Satoru what the fuck
@Shokomedical replying to @thestrongestfanboy: SATORU WHAT THE FUCK
@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I always knew the day would come!! Congratulations, Gojo-senpai ^.^
@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: What did I miss?? Do I need to make a new thread??
@Fushidaddy2067 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: thats it siri play chasing pavements.
And that’s when it spreads outside of your fandom, first to the celebrity news outlets, and then everyone else. Soon enough, BuzzFeed, TMZ, Pannchoa were all tripping over themselves to be the first to report and interview on the subject. Personally, you knew that Dispatch was foaming at the mouth to drop the annual bombshell with all the sordid details.
TRENDING ON TWITTER:
#CUPIDPICTURE
#CUPIDDATING
#THESTRONGESTFANBOY
#DELULUISTHETRULULU
#HEGOTTHEHUZZ??
#LFORFUSHIDADDY
@CupidManagement: As a company, we do not interfere in the private lives of our artists and we kindly ask everyone to stop spreading any malicious rumors. We wish all the best to Cupid, and her relationship going forward.
And you?
@CupidOfficial: Ahhh might be as great a time as ever to announce that my new album, Stargirl, will be out on all platforms November 28th!! Here’s the cover art, hope you love it (and a special thank you to the special boy that made it happen) <33
On the cover, a picture of Gojo.
Not as you’d seen him in the bedroom, of course. It’d been exciting work to get to the studio, to don him in the most ethereal flowy whites, to place him in the midst of a blank background and stud his hair with roses, to bathe him in a dreamy light. It was almost hazy. In the picture, his face was turned away but he was staring into the camera- and…perhaps past it.
Right where you’d been, directing him.
With such a loving glimmering in his eyes that it made one almost shy to directly at it.
Your vision had some to life.
It quickly racks up a comfortable million plus views on Twitter, and you quietly shut off your phone as the notifications keep beeping. Instead, snuggling up to Gojo right back in your penthouse, right beside you (not before you give him a lecture on double-checking the pictures he posts, of course.)
geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader
content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+
note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush.
Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know.
Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair.
It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own.
Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room.
Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”
You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.
Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”
“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!
“Rehearsed how?
You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right.
Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”
You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.
Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?
You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.
“Then go find him.”
When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise
For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.
Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.
All you have to do is make him see you.
You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.
If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.
The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.
Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold.
One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation.
You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice.
Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for.
Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend.
If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face.
You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know.
The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess.
Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been.
“Hey!” He calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this.
A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls.
“In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!
His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement.
“What is it?
“Is it a fight?
“Please tell me it’s a fight.”
“Did someone break something?”
Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you
“Aren’t you coming, Satoru?”
Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.”
Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop.
Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies.
You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you.
For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound.
His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.”
“That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.”
Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?
For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.”
He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays.
“Excuse me?”
“Not a stray,” he amends lightly at your glare. “More like her lost puppy.”“Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”
“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?
“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me.
“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”
“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.
“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here.
He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”
You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink.
“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.
You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.
Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.
Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.
You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.
When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way.
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?
When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.
Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”
His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.
“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes.
When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?"
You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin.
“I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?"
Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here."
His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?"
You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?”
Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?”
Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness.
Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.”
You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood.
“Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.”
Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onwards.
You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses.
“I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?”
He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.”
Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain.
“Wait!” He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”
You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.
“I like Geto!”
For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.
“What did you just say?”
You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”
He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"
You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”
“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”
“Yeah?”
“Alone.”
“Right.”
His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”
“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”
He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”
You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.
Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”
“What was that?”
“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”
You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”
Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.
“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”
“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”
He doesn’t budge.
“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”
He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”
“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”
His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”
“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”
Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”
“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”
You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.
Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”
You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.
“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”
You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?”
“Just get up there before I change my mind.”
Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around.
When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to.
“Five minutes.”
You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?”
“You have five minutes before I’m going back down.”
You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.”
He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.”
“With Geto.”
You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?”
Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?”
“I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?”
“Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–”
“Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.”
“Oh. So that makes us competition?”
He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.”
You nod.
“You want to confess to him.”
“Obviously.”
“Date him?”
“That’s the goal."
“Sleep with him?”
You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.”
“Because,” You say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.”
“So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?”
“Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?"
Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.”
“That’s fine, I’m flexible.”
“That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.”
“Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.”
“He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” He shoots back.
“I accept and embrace his past.”
“He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.”
“I have hands, I can put them away.”
“Where’s your self-respect?”
“With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.”
Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“That’s why I’m asking you for help.”
“You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”
Again, you can only shrug.
When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.
“I’ll tutor you!”
His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.
“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”
“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”
You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!”
Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher.
“You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.”
“It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.”
“It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?”
“I’m offering to give you academic support!”
“With strings attached.”
“Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.”
He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?”
“Well, you haven’t yet.”
“That's because I don't need one.”
“Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?”
“You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?”
You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.”
He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request.
Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic.
“Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—”
“Hey.”
“—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.”
You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant.
“Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.”
You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—”
“Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.”
Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.”
At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.”
You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?”
He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.”
“Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.”
“How big?”
His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.”
You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.”
“I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?”
When you shake your head, he nods. “Then, we’ll start tomorrow.”
“Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!”
“I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?”
You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.”
“Oh, so you know?”
You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“A complaint?”
You bite your lip. “A suggestion.”
“Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.”
Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!”
But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan.
It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise.
Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn.
“You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster.
You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?”
“Then I guess you’re up to step two.”
“Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.”
Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.
You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.
No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.
It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.
You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.
Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.
And then, you see him.
His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.
“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.
You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.
Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.
You weren’t ready for both of them.
Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.
“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”
You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.
“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”
You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”
He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”
“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.
“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”
You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.
This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.
“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”
You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”
“No? And is that not my coffee?”
You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.”
He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.”
Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is."
Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?”
“Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.”
It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first.
“Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.”
“Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.”
You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto.
“Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?”
You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!”
“You did.”
“He probably thinks I’m a freak!”
“Probably.”
“And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!”
“So now it’s suddenly my fault?”
“You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!”
“Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for.
Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.”
“You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?”
You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly.
“No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.”
You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying.
You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago.
Still a little mortifying but now bearable.
Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.”
You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder.
“Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?”
You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders.
“I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.”
“I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.”
He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”
You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.
“Where are we going?”
“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”
“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.
“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”
You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”
You stop abruptly.
“Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“Your place?”
Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?”
“Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?”
“Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.”
“But you just said we’re going to your place.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Your place as in the Sig Kap house.”
“Look at you go.”
You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come.
“Gojo.”
“Yeah?”
“I am not going to your frat house.”
“What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?”
“I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.”
“Great. Let's end this here.”
Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.”
“You're not doing yourself any favours.”
“Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.”
You stand your ground. “Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Gojo.”
He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun.
“You want Suguru, right?”
Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?”
“Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?”
“I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—”
Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?”
You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more.
“So where are we going?”
You give in. “Sig Kap.”
“Wrong way, sweets.”
You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction.
Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you.
At some point, you stop responding entirely.
Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs.
“Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking.
He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare.
Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.
“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” You hiss.
“It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.”
You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out.
“Yo!”
Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.”
You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too.
Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari.
“You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever.
Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.”
“Damn, back for more?”
Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment.
“She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?”
“That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks.
Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.”
He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power.
Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown.
Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription.
“This is what you bring girls back to?”
Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.”
You eye the seat in disdain.
“What's with the look?”
“Is that even sanitary?”
He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?”
You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?”
“What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap.
You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”
Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.
“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.
He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”
You pause and type it in. It goes through.
“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.
You look on the screen. “67.”
He chuckles. “Nice.”
“Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?”
He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details.
“Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?”
Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents.
“Gojo.”
“Mhm?”
“You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.”
Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?”
“This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!”
“Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.”
Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?”
“Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?”
“51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.”
“Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop.
“I demand another favour.”
He freezes. “You can’t just do that.”
“I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.”
Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.”
You wonder if he’s sulking.
“But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.”
You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.”
He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego.
“Hey.”
He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest.
“Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you.
“You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.”
“Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!”
His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?”
You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Define zero.”
“Have you kissed anyone?”
You look away. “Define kissed.”
He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—”
“Please!” You say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—”
“Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”
“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got.
Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint.
Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face.
“...okay.”
Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax.
“Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.”
“Eager much?”
He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.”
Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.”
“It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.”
You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?”
“You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.”
He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation.
“Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.”
“You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.”
You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.”
Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped.
And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission.
Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles.
Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.
The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.
For once, Gojo isn’t talking.
He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.
You steal a glance at him.
His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress.
“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?”
You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again.
A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet.
“Hey,” he says suddenly.
You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.”
You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.”
He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.”
You study him. “Do they?”
He hums and doesn’t elaborate.
The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night.
You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other.
“You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.”
He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.”
“I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up.
He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax.
“You really think I can pass?”
“Yes.”
Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away.
“Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.”
You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.”
He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener.
For some reason your feet slow.
“Hey, Y/N.”
You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
“Yeah?”
He hesitates.
“See you tomorrow."
You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside.
Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back.
Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should.
Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not.
For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image.
Right, this is for him.
Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications.
gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><
You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.
you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig
gojo: who said anything about being worried?
also don’t flake on me tomorrow
i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u
gojo: oh u know do u?
so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?
you: it’s not a date
gojo: sure it isn’t
you: it’s just practice
gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t
but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk
you: please
like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee
not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks
gojo: ure a hard girl to please
you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard
try impossible
gojo: harder than hard?
you: ?
gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason
anyway
is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city
you: the campus works for me
gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you
you: no way
gojo: sure sweets i believe u
don’t wear anything boring
first impressions matter yk
you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations
its just practice !!!!
gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me
for suguru
like for practice
you: ?
i know what u meant
but sure
as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie
gojo: wouldn’t dream of it
see u saturday sweets
You stare at the nickname longer than you should.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving.
you: goodnight gojo
The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone.
You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you.
You show up early like a super fan.
You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.
You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.
You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.
The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.
Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.
“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”
“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”
You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”
“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”
You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”
“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”
“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”
“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly. “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”
You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian.
“‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.”
“I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.”
He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.”
“We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.”
“I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.”
“I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.”
“For practice.”
“Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.”
You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.”
“It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.”
“When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.”
“Just once, Y/N.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.”
“Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” He squeals.
You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.”
“Are you here to mess around or help me?”
“Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?”
“About Geto?”
“Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident.
You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric."
“Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?”
“Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended.
“He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.”
“And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?”
“I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.”
“I wasn’t going to parrot him.”
“I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.”
“Okay, harsh.”
“It's all tough love, sweets.”
You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”
“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?”
“I want to be someone he likes.”
“So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?”
Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order.
“Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.”
You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.”
“It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral.
You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied.
“And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?”
Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.”
You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.”
One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”
“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! one hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.
You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”
The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”
“We're good, thank you.”
Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.
Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.
“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.
Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”
“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”
She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”
Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.
“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”
Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”
“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”
You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.
You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.
“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”
“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.
She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.
“Done staring?” He teases.
“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”
“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”
You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.
“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”
He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”
“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”
“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses.
Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off.
You clear your throat again.
“You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.”
“Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.”
You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?”
“You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?”
“Yeah, let’s not.”
He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers.
“I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.”
You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.”
“So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?”
That gets you frowning again.
“Do you always call everyone something?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You called her sweetheart.”
“I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?”
“She has a name tag.”
“I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges.
You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?”
He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”
Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully.
“Here you go!”
“Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look.
You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with.
The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance.
“I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!”
He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared.
“Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.”
“Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.”
Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.”
You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.”
You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.”
He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!”
“Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”
“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.”
“You're lucky I got that reference.”
Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?”
“Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.
“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”
“Anything else, Geto expert?”
Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”
You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”
Gojo’s mouth twitches.
You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.
“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.
He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”
You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”
“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”
“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”
“My ass has never once graced those benches.”
“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”
“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.
“Because Shoko went.”
He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”
There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”
“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”
You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.
“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.
You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.
“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”
Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.
“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”
“Again, should I be concerned right now?”
“Are you homophobic?”
“No?”
“Then you’re fine.”
“Wait…”
Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”
He pauses and looks up.
“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”
You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks. You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.”
He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.”
You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm.
He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.”
Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—”
He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak.
“Yes, yes, I got it,”
He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens.
“Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.”
“Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?”
“I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay, make sure to—”
“Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction.
You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.
Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.
Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.
you: u free? im coming over
You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.
You stare at his chest.
“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”
Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.
“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”
You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”
“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”
You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Are you going to put on a shirt?”
He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”
You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.”
He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?”
“It's common sense when you have a guest over.”
His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?”
“But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.”
“Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?”
“I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers.
“No, but I do have some manners for my guest.”
“You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.”
“Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?”
You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?”
Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly.
He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?”
“I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?”
“Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock.
“Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.”
He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.”
“That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.”
“But this is practice.”
“You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.”
“I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.”
His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push.
“Just think of me as one of your hookups.”
He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”
“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!”
His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.”
You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?”
“Sex.”
You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked.
“We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss.
Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.”
You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!”
He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?”
You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?”
“Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly.
Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form.
“You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?”
You shake your head slightly.
Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips.
When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours.
Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression.
“Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.”
You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Butterflies?”
He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.”
Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?”
“Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.”
“Don't call me that, I cringed.”
He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.”
With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace.
It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end.
When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back.
“Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.”
“What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind.
“That was my tongue.”
“Why didn’t it feel good?”
He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.”
“I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.”
“Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.”
You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping.
“You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist.
You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again.
“Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance.
“For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.”
Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive.
Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense.
“Just… slower,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.”
He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one.
You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over.
His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it.
He swallows it down without hesitation.
His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you.
His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness.
You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff.
Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.
Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder.
You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him.
Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—”
“Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you.
You swallow. “You just—”
“I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly.
When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely.
You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off.
“Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes.
You don’t hesitate. “No.”
You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath.
“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.”
You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway.
Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself.
His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair.
A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips.
Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling.
You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge.
Wow.
You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water.
Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.
You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.
Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”
“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”
You clamp your mouth shut obediently.
The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.
Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.
“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”
You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”
“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”
Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further.
“We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams.
You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.”
He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.”
You frown. “Why?”
“It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?”
Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?”
He snorts. “I’m not a creep.”
When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted.
When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.
If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto.
Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not.
It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever.
In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own.
Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send.
you: hey are you in class today?
Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes.
gojo: yeah i am
stalking me, super fan?
you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u
gojo: :(
why whats up though
ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right?
you: yeah how did u know that?
u sure ure not my super fan?
gojo: guilty!
i just know dont ask what u cant handle
so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me
you: well you have class with geto right
The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear.
gojo: yeah i do
you: can i come see you?
gojo: what
you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him
u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right
so like
wouldnt this be perfect?
gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart
you: ?
gojo: our class ends later than urs
you: that’s fine i can wait !!
gojo: nah i dont feel like it
you: ?????
man what the hell you said you’d help me
gojo: and i did
on saturday
what if i want suguru all to myself today?
you: come on please???
gojo: what if i dont want to see u
you: well i wont be bothering u this time
i just need an excuse to see him
i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident
i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away
like i feel like i can really do it this time you know?
please satoru?
gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are
fine
ill get us to go to the library
you: THANK YOU@!!!!!!
gojo: u owe me
you: YES DEFINITELY
gojo: another date this friday then
you: OKAY!!!
wait what
Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white—
When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent.
You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him.
Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen.
And of course, Geto sits across from him.
Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.
“Oh, hi Satoru!”
He doesn’t look up. “Hey.”
Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!”
Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?”
Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up.
“Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.”
Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.”
You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze.
“Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.”
You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there.
You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on.
“What was that about?” You laugh.
Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.”
He looks up at you patiently.
“Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?”
You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly.
“So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?”
“You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.”
You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.”
Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?”
“Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.”
“I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.”
“If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.”
“Do you want to go with me?”
Your brain blanks.
“What?”
“I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.”
Your answer is obvious.
“I’d love to!”
It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness.
Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone.
“Can I have your Insta then?So I can text you the details later.”
Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time.
When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming.
Oh god, he’s looking right now.
"Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.”
“Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it.
“I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?”
“Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.”
He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.”
Your breath catches.
“After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath.
Geto nods, completely at ease.
“If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.”
You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other.
He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks.
You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry.
“Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.”
“Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.”
“That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem."
“Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.”
You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.”
You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery.
Could things possibly get any better?
“You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?”
You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.”
“I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face.
“No, no! nothing like that!” You rush to explain.
He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?”
While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him.
“What do you mean?”
“Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.”
Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?”
“Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.”
“What about them?”
He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”
You shake your head.
“Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.”
“And some people still don’t like him?”
“Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.”
Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.”
Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache.
“He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.”
He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile.
“It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents.
You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you.
You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even.
Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold.
You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
“Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally.
Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.”
You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you.
“Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently.
You freeze for a split second.
Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself.
“Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.”
You bite your lip.
“See you at the match though?"
Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?”
The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else.
You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct.
“Go away, I'm jerking it.”
You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk.
“Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?”
No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed.
“Y/N? What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand.
“Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.”
“No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.”
You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you.
“Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him.
He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.”
You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.”
“Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?”
You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start.
“About everything?” You try weakly.
He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.”
Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict.
“...that’s it?”
“That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.”
He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression.
“That's it?” he repeats, slower this time.
You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.”
Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading.
Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling.
“You’re terrible,” he mutters.
He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt.
“You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?”
“Yeah but—”
“And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?”
“I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.”
“You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight.
“So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully.
He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.”
The worry comes back tenfold.
“But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.”
You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t.
You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away.
“Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter.
He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.”
“I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.”
“I open up to you and this is what I get?”
“You did not open up.”
He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.”
You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away.
The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere.
After a moment, he speaks again, softer.
“Did you at least get what you wanted?”
You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.”
Gojo goes still beside you.
“My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.”
You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying.
“Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.”
He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass.
The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head.
Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.”
“A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto.
“How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask.
One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.”
You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.”
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face.
“Oh.”
“I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.”
He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Y/N.”
You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”
Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.”
“Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.”
You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.”
He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.”
“No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.”
“You were fantasising before?”
“Let's not go there.”
“It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?”
He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.”
“So you had to use your hand.”
“I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.”
Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together.
“Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?”
He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you even remember how to kiss?”
“Find out for yourself.”
You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him.
“It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster.
“Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn.
You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time.
Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh.
You both look down.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior. “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?”
You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?”
“Game is game.”
He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated.
When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.”
“Anywhere?”
“I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.”
You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be.
As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.”
You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.”
“I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.”
He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak.
“You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch.
“This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.”
“You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.”
His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?”
“Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away.
“Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?”
You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed.
Fine, challenge accepted.
You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks.
It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead.
“Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?”
You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong.
You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping.
“I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!”
Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale.
You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?”
“That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?”
You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?”
“No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”
Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle.
When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking.
“Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.”
You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell.
Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave.
“Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core.
Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?”
You nod, eyes trained on his bulge.
He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum.
Your first words are, of course, very sexy.
“Oh damn.”
Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.”
“It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.”
That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.”
“She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch.
“Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.”
Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft.
“Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.”
He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.”
He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you.
He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.”
His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand.
Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants.
To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away.
“Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”
“What?”
“This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips.
“Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.”
“I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?”
“Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head.
He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.”
Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost.
The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you.
Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance.
“Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.”
“Even better,” he moans.
You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm.
The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully.
Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.”
His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke.
“Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.”
The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent.
“Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head.
He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.”
A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm.
“Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?”
The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering.
“Yeah, do it. cum for me.”
Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—”
He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm.
He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly.
“I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?”
You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt.
“I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?”
He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.”
He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning.
“You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him.
“Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?”
“Embarrassed,” you say immediately.
“But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast.
Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.”
“Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.”
You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position.
Now you remember.
“I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off.
His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.”
“But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.”
“That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.”
“Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.”
“And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.”
“How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing.
His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.”
The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you.
You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly.
You go very still and so does he.
His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”
“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?”
“But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?”
The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing.
“This isn’t… about that.”
“Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.”
Has Gojo always been so reasonable?
“Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?”
“Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded.
“How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?”
Your stomach swoops.
“Just to know what it feels like?”
“Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.”
You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace.
“Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?”
You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put.
You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear.
You swallow, hard.
“You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.”
His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
“I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?”
“You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.”
He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?”
You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.”
It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?”
You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh.
“You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.”
“Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband.
“Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling.
]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.”
“Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.”
He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still.
“Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.”
You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties.
“You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.”
“If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly.
He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else.
Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit.
“Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again.
“Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.”
“Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you.
You feel his arms tighten around you.
“Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation.
When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you.
With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you.
The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly.
“Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?”
He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed.
Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck.
You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out.
He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.”
“Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original.
And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back.
He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while.
He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched.
You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside.
“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.”
“S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep.
His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—”
You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone.
His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck.
It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again.
When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through.
He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap.
“Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?”
You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.”
“Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.”
“You're making me sound like a dog.”
“Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side.
You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest.
“You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something.
“Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.”
You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument.
Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions.
And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs.
You stiffen and he notices immediately.
“Uh. Do you… want to—”
“Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—”
You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless.
“Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.”
“No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself.
His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?”
You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment.
Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess.
Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on.
For a moment, neither of you know where to look.
You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor.
“Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?”
The normalcy of the question feels surreal.
“I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”
You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over.
Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time.
“Right,” you say.
“Right,” he echoes.
He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?”
You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.”
Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain.
“If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside.
You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway.
Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?”
“Uh-huh.”
The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious.
At the top of the stairwell, you stop.
“Are we still going the same way?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches.
“See you, Y/N.”
You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back.
Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits.
“Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly.
He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm.
“Night, sweets.”
When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise.
You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong.
You’re not sure why you care so much.
You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal.
You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before.
Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena.
You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight.
You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave.
When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes.
The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.
Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately.
Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable.
His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from.
He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours.
I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—
Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours.
The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face.
A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it.
06.
If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride.
Heat rushes to your face.
It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming.
When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs.
From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing.
Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips.
“Y/N?”
You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy.
“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.”
You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”
He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place.
Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention.
It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted.
And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white.
To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward.
Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching.
You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained.
BUZZWORD
The game starts fast.
Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice.
You lost track of the puck almost immediately.
Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”
Your eyes find him easily.
He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck.
Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder.
The first goal goes to the other team.
Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it.
Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set.
Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”
Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed.
On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage.
It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments.
By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely.
The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left.
The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts.
Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl.
The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him.
Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice.
You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved.
“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer.
Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits.
He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink.
The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net.
For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts.
Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you.
Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration.
He's laughing.
Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline.
They won.
They actually won.
You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth.
Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look.
His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute.
Your stomach swoops violently.
You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves.
You want to throw your arms around his neck.
You want to tell him that was incredible.
You want—
“Y/N?”
Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.
You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile.
“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”
Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed.
Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.”
The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on.
“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears.
On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance.
Are you going?
Your fingers curl into fists at your side.
“Ready?” Geto asks softly.
You swallow. “... yeah.”
But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole.
BUZZWORD
It should be fun.
Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense.
You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.
But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you.
Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe.
You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending.
And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to.
Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads.
“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.”
you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him.
For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush.
You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts.
When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop.
You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time.
Gojo.
Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.
He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand.
“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”
You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”
The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!”
“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”
“I never asked you to!”
“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”
Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”
“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!”
At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto.
Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”
Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”
“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”
You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”
“Oh. So you're okay?”
You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay.
“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word.
“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.”
“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Just like this?”
Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill.
Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered.
“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.”
Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.”
“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.”
For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella.
You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face.
His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small.
“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”
Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?”
This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain.
But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you.
What the hell?
His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”
Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight.
“Satoru–”
“my place,” he blurts. “we should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.”
“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile causes the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state.
“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”
“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”
Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.”
You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.”
He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that.
At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you.
“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes.
You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head.
“Hey!”
He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”
Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees.
“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”
“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”
He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions.
“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”
Hikari quickly notices your presence.
“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”
Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”
“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you.
When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.
“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair.
“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's sukuna?”
“The guy in the room next to mine.”
“Oh.”
He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more.
“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”
“It’s not.”
He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”
You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”
He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”
“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.”
“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.”
“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”
Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.”
You let out a slow exhale.
This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society.
Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word.
But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan.
“I think I’m in love with you too.” You say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips.
“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”
“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”
He chuckles, breath misting your face.
His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.
“Cold?”
You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes.
He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you.
“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.”
You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set.
His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace.
“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in.
You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat.
He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”
He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him.
Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours.
He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps.
His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact.
“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”
You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”
He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”
But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching.
His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head.
“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough.
You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”
“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”
“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering.
“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”
You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.
“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.”
You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity.
“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties.
His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside.
You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth.
“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him.
“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles.
Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second.
Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit.
You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes.
“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!”
With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive.
He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.
“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”
He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”
You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words.
He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds.
Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips.
You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu.
“You okay?”
You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed.
You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress.
Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”
He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”
You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”
Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent.
“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”
You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”
“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”
Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone.
“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”
His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin.
You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene.
He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”
“Sweets,” you remind him.
He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.”
The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust.
“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.”
You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth.
“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.”
Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room.
“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”
He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste.
“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.”
His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you.
When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down.
Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction.
He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing.
“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”
You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”
His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”
But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.”
Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”
He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention.
You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”
“What’s got you so wet, hm?”
You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”
“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”
His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp.
“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”
He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine.
The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”
Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw.
“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”
You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom.
The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in.
“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”
“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”
He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”
His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in.
It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb.
“Can I keep going?”
You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air.
"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly.
“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself.
“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick.
“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience.
Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts.
“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”
The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly.
“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”
His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him.
When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips.
Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you.
He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck.
“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”
You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”
He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you.
“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?”
You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth.
“You?”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty.
Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose.
And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too.
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.
Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach.
You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.
You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this.
“Did you wait long?”
You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring.
You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.
You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice.
“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease.
He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?”
You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.”
Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile.
Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?”
“Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.”
“Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.”
“I learnt that the hard way.”
He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return.
“Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears.
“I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.”
He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.”
You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.”
“Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering.
You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.”
Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you.
Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care.
He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.”
“What?
“Why don’t we just have a threesome?”
a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate
SYNOPSIS ⋮ when the cameras stop rolling and the lights dim, some things are supposed to fade with them. you’re not supposed to fall in love with your co-star. your co-star isn’t supposed to care about you the way he does. unfortunately, neither of you have ever been very good at following the script.
GENRE ⌗ PAIRING ⋮ fluff. kdrama actor!riki x actress!reader.
CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ SFW. toxic industry, angst, eventual comfort/fluff, riki is a YEARNER, skinship, kissing, fem!reader, reader stars as han seri, nishimura riki as haruto marukami. barely proofread.
AN ⋮ whew it’s finally here. i didn’t mean for this to be 15k words i’m sorry.. i’m like two weeks late to valentines but i hope this still brings the romance vibe regardless. thank you @dollhoonki for hosting this with me! ur the sweetest ever <3333 also this is BARELY proofread because i was in such a rush to upload this asap, sorry… haha. Enjoy it Anyway Ok?
PLAYING ⋮ in the dark — venturing, bedsheets — illusion hills, about you — the 1975, basically any yearner song you can think of
WC ⋮ 15k
NISHIMURA RIKI was the love of your life. there wasn’t any question to it.
perhaps it took you a little over sixteen episodes to realise this—but when you did, oh—the feeling came full force, tugging, pushing at every heart string until you could no longer remember a single line of yours until he was off set.
the producers always found it odd. director kim thought there was a particularly niche charm behind it: made the chemistry ten times realer, and a hundred times more beautiful. he remembers when riki would stand in the rain, as the scene had called for, and you’d jumble up your words so horribly that they’d need at least six takes. six.
“y/n, dear god, are you sure you even went to hanlim?”
and you’d shrugged it off, as anyone else would.
but by the time episode five had aired, you’d watched yourself back on the premiere and almost peeled your skin off at how utterly lovestruck you looked in 4k resolution.
did you dream up hanlim, or did nishimura riki just have that effect on everyone?
what seemed even more puzzling was the fact that he was so understanding, weirdly kind about it all—telling you that it’s okay if you need twenty takes for a simple hallway-brush-of-fingers scene, or if you take a little too long to remember a line half-way into filming.
“it’s okay, y/n, really. we’re still on schedule, right?”
he’ll pass you a water bottle. wrap your blanket around you a little tighter because the set was, for some reason, planted in the middle of snowy seoul. you’re shivering and nishimura riki’s smiling at you, gentle and fuzzy like he doesn’t know he’s warmed you up more than the sweet coffee the makeup artists offered you earlier in the morning.
and there was those evenings when the cameras rolled a little too far past schedule—the sun bleeding into your hair, golden, soaking your skin in something he can’t quite replicate with a script.
it’s exactly why director kim just tells him to go with his gut. there’s nothing that a script-writer could pen and flesh out that’ll capture the way nishimura riki looks into your eyes—the way his hands reach for the small of your back, pulling you into his faux fur winter coat—dropping his head into your neck, small pecks against your forehead before the scripted goodbye.
“goodnight, seri.”
and though he mutters an entirely different name, production (and literally the entire cast) knows just who he’s referring to.
─────────────────────────
WHEN DO YOU REALISE YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON YOUR CO-STAR?
it’s after episode four.
the restaurant is tiny with the smell of oil and salt clinging to the walls—a hum of conversation buzzes around you, soft enough that it feels like the world has paused or turned it’s volume down.
you’re both exhausted. makeup’s smudged in places you don’t, can’t even care about, and your clothes are sticking to skin from hours under studio lights. the day has been eighteen hours of lights, cameras, endless retakes, and you can feel every second of it pressing down.
especially now.
riki sits across from you, stirring his drink absentmindedly, eyes never leaving your face. he’s looking at the way you desperately slurp your noodles, almost snickering at how you don’t even take a second glance at him once your noodles arrived.
“you like it?”
you’re nothing like what you post on instagram. he knows because he checks it every few days, even if he’s not allowed to follow you.
“fuck, this is amazing,” you mumble between slurps, chopsticks moving at lightning speed as they meet your lips. “you should’ve brought me here sooner!”
riki smiles softly, cheeks turning a light pink—the steam and your pure hunger blinds you to it, though. thankfully.
he leans into the leather seat, the booth suddenly feeling a little too warm for his liking. he’s not sure if it’s just in his head or if it’s all you.
regardless, riki blames it on the way you’re laughing through your noodles—the way his ears automatically pick up on every huff and giggle of yours. it’s making him feel all fuzzy.
nishimura riki needs to be up at seven tomorrow. you do too. so why are you kicking each other’s feet under the table at two in the morning, in some random ramen place?
and then his phone dings—it’s a reminder for 5 hours from now, which is the time he has to be up and ready to go on his morning run.
he continues to watch your hands move, noodles slipping from your grasp, chopsticks wobbling clumsily between your fingers, and he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.
“you’re… fast,” he says quietly, voice soft, almost drowned out by the low hum of the restaurant.
you pause, mid-slurp, finally glancing up. “excuse me?”
your eyebrows raise, questioning, and he tilts his head. “fast eater,” he clarifies, chuckling under his breath. “hungry girl.”
heat crawls up your neck and spreads over your cheeks like spice powder. or maybe you’ve just put too much of it in your broth.
you’re not sure why this feeling in your stomach is specific to nishimura riki. you’ve heard of actors falling in love with each other—it’s what the crazy production schedules and close proximity does to you. the shared ambitions, the romance that they make you imitate on screen… it’s not special.
and yet.
there’s something in the way he says it. something in the soft lift of his lips, the warmth that flickers in his eyes, the patient way he watches you devour your noodles without a hint of judgment. not like the other co-stars, not like the crew, not like anyone who’s ever stared at you expecting a performance.
he sees you.
all of you.
and for the first time that week, maybe even that month, you feel… comfortable. like you could put down that annoyingly tight mask and not fear the world crumbling.
“full?” his eyes flicker momentarily to your emptying bowl, about three quarters done now. he takes another slow sip of his drink, his posture visibly relaxing at the warm liquid that glides down his throat.
“mhm,” you hum and then sigh, peering into your bowl to see a bowl licked clean of any soupy remains and lost noodles. “very.”
the warmth blooming in your chest feels more dizzying than the lack of sleep. your fingers place your chopsticks on your bowl, resting across it’s rim, chest still hammering like it wanted your heart out of it’s bony cage.
riki looks awfully casual, but his eyes never leave you. they glimmer in the warm light above your heads and the quiet focus in his gaze is intoxicating, like he’s taking you all in.
“what?” riki asks, not expecting any answer in particular; it’s more to tell you that he acknowledges the way you’re looking at him right now, and that he thinks it’s cute.
you can’t tell if it’s nerves, exhaustion, or something else entirely—all you know is that you want to keep looking back at him. over and over.
“do you always bring your coworkers out to dinner?”
riki chuckles, the blonde streak in his hair falling over his forehead. his nose scrunches as he laughs at your seemingly hilarious question—you can only stare blankly at him, anyway.
“hey,” you say, half-offended, half-curious. “it’s a valid question.”
riki shakes his head, still smiling. “no,” he says easily. “i don’t.”
you narrow your eyes at him. “so what, i’m special?”
it’s meant to be teasing, but he doesn’t answer immediately. the lag registers even in your extremely exhausted brain.
instead, riki’s just looking at you—strict, sharp eyebrows pinching in a way you’ve become familiar with. he does it when he’s not sure it what he’s going to say should even be said at all.
why is he looking at you like that, anyway?
“i just thought you’d like it,” he says finally, softer, like it doesn’t mean much. “you looked like you needed something real. that shit they were giving during filming had to be poison. even i couldn’t finish it.”
and it’s odd how true yet unequivocally false that reason is. yes, riki saw you visibly grimace at the thought of relying on energy drinks for fuel—and while he was also deathly worried that your heart might spontaneously combust, his reason for bringing you here is actually quite selfish.
he hates the way you act.
no; don’t get him wrong. he thinks you’re a brilliant actor. he’s watched every drama you’ve starred in as preparation for this one—he thinks the emotions you bring, the characters you wear, the words you spill are breathtaking. unmatched by anyone else.
correction: the acting he hates is the face you put on in front of everyone else, even if the cameras stop rolling.
the polite smile, the effortless charm, the perfectly curated instagram posts—he knows it’s a mask. he knows the real you is tucked somewhere under the exhaustion, the stubborn pride, the stress of everyone expecting you to be untouchable.
you falter. sometimes.
it’s in moments like when a shoot finally ends and your posture loosens, and immediately straightens again. or when you fall asleep on that grey couch in the makeup room, or when you think for a minute before declining a sweet treat from a staff member.
“you’re a little too observant for my liking,” you smile—and it’s like the world just stops for the man in front of you at a little flash of teeth.
“what kind of co-star would i be if i wasn’t?”
and maybe it’s the way the warm light hits his face. or it’s the faint scent of his cologne lingering, or the way his eyes crinkle when he actually smiles at you that gets your heart rate all sputtery and jumpy. you don’t really care.
your chest flutters, small and traitorous, and your fingers curl slightly into your palms—your nails sink into the flesh, like the pain is the only thing keeping you from leaning across the table and closing that distance.
“aren’t you scared someone’s gonna see us together?”
riki tilts his head, eyes catching yours with a faint gleam, like he’s intrigued that you’d even ask such a thing. “i know the owner. plus, even if someone did see us—i don’t think that’d be so bad.”
you let a short huff escape your nose, the sound barely registering above the hum of the restaurant, and you feel the heat creeping up your neck and to your ears.
it’s ridiculous. absurd, even. and yet you can’t deny the tiny pulse of thrill that runs through your chest. or maybe it’s just the tiny, demonic voices of your PR team telling you to get the hell out of there.
you glance down at your noodles, pretending to be distracted, but you’re acutely aware of him—the tilt of his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice, the fact that he sees you and doesn’t want to blink. just in case you’ll vanish.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
riki leans back slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and your stomach twists at the way it feels like he’s reading every thought you haven’t dared speak.
“meaaans,” he says slowly, lowering his head as if weighing the right words, “i am really good at handling PR matters. have you seen my insta—“
“riki!”
and then, you’re laughing in this tiny booth with him at two in the morning, acting like you’re anyone but the two people who have a week’s worth of activities crammed into a single day tomorrow—lips curling upwards, cheeks flushed in something unapologetically real.
but now riki’s looking at you with a calm so unfazed it makes you want to stop feeling altogether. the electricity in your veins is too loud, too sharp, and it makes zero sense—this isn’t supposed to happen now. it’s supposed to be that thick collection of paper that makes it romantic; the production. editing. soundtrack. where the hell are the cameras?
still, here he is, just sitting there. watching you like the world has narrowed down to this booth, this laugh, this stolen slice of time that he’s personally dragged you away for.
no slow love song. no slow motions or directed touches. just the two of you.
you can’t move, can’t look away, can’t do anything but feel it all.
has he always looked this good?
─────────────────────────
HE CALLS YOU CUTE IN THIS EPISODE.
seri is once again sacrificing precious hours of sleep to finish a dumb project with her involuntarily chosen partner—it’s two in the morning and he’s slumped over the coffee table, staring straight into her eyes, cheek smushed against his forearm as he counts the stars in her sparkly irises.
“i appreciate it, you know,” riki, or rather haruto, mumbles, and you almost snicker at the way the pen falls from between his fingers, spinning abruptly stopped. you’re not sure if that was part of his lines. “i was falling asleep in that lecture. i’m incredibly blessed to have you as my partner.”
“am i supposed to believe you?”
your pen scratches against the thick notebook paper, your mind scrambling to remember just what happens next—you’re doing great so far, writing everything the script had detailed, neatly, fitting everything into a single row. “anyway, this isn’t free, y’know. just cause you were sleeping, doesn’t mean i have to catch you up on everything.”
riki holds his knee close to his chest, tucked tight as his arm leans against the wood. he props his head up, lazily, like he was going to knock out cold any moment now.
the camera’s are panning towards him, close-ups, focusing on the way his eyes linger on your face. partially obscured by your hair, your irises peek through your locks, jumping around as you read the textbook that’s splayed open between the two of you. some random mathematical theorem nonsense the crew borrowed from a local library.
“oh?”
you know he’s watching. you know that this is what’s supposed to happen. you also know there’s at least thirty people watching you two do this—but that’s never been an issue. this is literally your job. you’ve been paid to do this for years, and so has riki; but it doesn’t make the pounding in your chest subside.
you’re about ten cues away from that damn line. you’re not sure why you’re counting, actually—you just know that it’s not out of your own volition.
you couldn’t help yourself when you saw it: riki’s line, a single, meaningless thing that was printed in thick ink on your scripts.
you had to restart with every run. you’d somehow jumble up all your words once you got to it. it is up to the heavens now that you remember all your lines, all your movements, all your memorised expressions once it happens.
“so, what do i owe you, my dear partner?” riki smiles, wide, easy. like he really means it—like the camera’s aren’t rolling right now, catching every faint glimmer in your eyes as you turn towards him, just as expected. your hair falls away from your face, your face glowing under the warm light cast overhead. “i think that this is enough. my presence is a gift.”
“you’re funny, haruto,” you scoff, and while it was truly humorous—enough for you to burst into a fit of laughter—you weren’t trying to film an entire scene again. your head turns back to your laptop, fingers mashing away, before you remember just what’s about to happen:
“and you’re. . .” he pauses. you wince. “cute. like, you know—”
cut!
the director’s voice slices through the set from behind the camera. he crosses his right leg over his left, a soft smile settling on his weathered face as he lets out a measured sigh.
there are two sides to the coin director kim seems to value so much: on one, the kind of electric chemistry you can’t manufacture between just any two co-leads; on the other, the inevitability that one of you will ruin a take the second the proximity gets too real.
riki bites down on his bottom lip, worrying the skin raw before squeezing his eyes shut, as if that might shield him from the camera crew’s stares—and from the co-stars lingering just beyond the set.
this is bad. humiliating, even.
it’s one line. one stupid line that a fifth grader in a school play could deliver without blinking, and he’s tripping over it like he only decided to become an actor yesterday.
what the hell is wrong with him?
he knows the line. he’s memorized the entire script front to back, could probably recite your dialogue along with his if someone shook him awake at three in the morning. this scene isn’t heavy. it isn’t layered with subtext or grief or some grand emotional crescendo.
“you okay?”
your voice brings him back to this plane of reality embarrassingly fast. he opens his eyes before laughing dryly, scratching at the back of his neck in an attempt to play it off.
“yeah,” he replies, “i’m good.”
your eyebrow lifts, unconvinced, but you don’t press. instead, you turn toward the crew clustered behind the cameras and lighting rigs. the set hums back to life—indistinct chatter, footsteps shuffling across the floor, the click of equipment being adjusted.
“i’m so sorry!” he calls out to the staff, bowing his head slightly. there’s a beat, then a ripple of easy laughter.
it’s your damn face that’s ruining his ability to act. it just brings him back to that night—the one where you had soup on your chin and a feverish hunger in your eyes, when your face was bare from makeup swiping micellar water all over your face after filming.
damn this stupid scene. damn your pretty, bare face that keeps stealing all his focus.
and damn his lack of discipline.
a few quiet minutes pass as everyone resets. light technicians adjust the angles overhead; the cinematographer reviews the last clip in low murmurs. cables are checked, marks retaped, continuity confirmed.
director kim straightens in his foldable chair, posture sharpening with renewed focus. he rubs his chin once, contemplative, then looks back toward the monitor.
riki leans lightly against the couch prop pressing against his back, waiting for the cue. he stares at nothing in particular, jaw strung tight, anything to negate your presence next to him.
he feels like a little kid next to his crush.
a makeup artist steps in to reapply balm to his lips—he’s chewed most of it off without realizing earlier.
“stop biting.” she mutters gently, disposable applicator dabbing away at his lips. her gaze is oddly judgmental, like she knows exactly what’s going on. is he being that obvious?
he gives her a sheepish nod. you can’t help but snicker at that—smiling at the way his ears flush a pretty peach hue when he realises you’re staring.
“can we test the mics one more time?” the sound engineer calls.
the boom dips. the red indicator light blinks on.
“haruto, give me a line, will you?”
riki swallows. “and you’re. . .” his voice catches for half a breath—his eyes flick up. it’s the wrong move. you’re still watching. “cute.”
it’s barely audible on their end. his mic must have shifted around while filming the previous scenes.
“have i lost my hearing?” the engineer frowns. “someone fix his mic—“
riki swallows, jaw tight, and instinctively fiddles with the collar where it—the mic—should’ve been sitting. it’s true it’s shifted, now upside down and barely clinging to the thin fabric inside his shirt, but he doesn’t exactly do a great job fixing it himself.
and you. being the angel you are, and maybe the devil whispering in his ear, step in.
“hold on,” you murmur, tugging the fabric aside and pressing the wire flat against his collarbone. your fingers brush his bare, warm skin for just a second, and he freezes while you readjust the audio device. “there. don’t move.”
nishimura riki thinks he’ll go into cardiac arrest—and while he is probably one of the best actors in the industry right now, most people on set could argue that there was nothing that could be done to hide the furious blush on his face… and the ways his eyes softened as your fingers grazed his skin.
he swallows trying to pull in a steadying breath, but his chest feels like it’s vibrating with a rhythm that doesn’t belong to his body. riki’s hands twitch at his sides, searching for something to direct his electrifying nerves to; the mic rests against his collarbone, perfectly adjusted thanks to you.
“thanks,” he mumbles when you pull away. you don’t reply, but the curl on the right corner of your lips speaks loud enough.
the crew murmurs while they adjust the lights, cameras, cables. it’s nothing to him, at least in this very moment—nishimura riki doesn’t notice when his name crackles through the earpiece, instead focusing on the odd suspension of time that floats around you: your eyelashes fluttering slowly, your movements that drag just behind everyone else’s.
“rolling!”
the red light flicks on.
it’s especially when the cameras start moving that he finds himself wishing—desperately—that there was a script for something like this.
─────────────────────────
THE MEDIA HAD IT’S FIELD DAY.
as usual.
it started small—harmless, almost predictable. every actor goes through this shit. it’s a promotional instagram story from riki: he always posts something from set. expensive sunglasses that he has no business wearing indoors. a blurry mirror selfie after hair and makeup, peace sign and all with a caption that means absolutely nothing.
you do the same. a quick snap in the dressing room mirror. a close-up of a prop you think is adorable. a behind-the-scenes shot of the couch from the confession scene. nothing incriminating. nothing meaningful.
and then the netizens begin.
they do their thing: zoom. crop. enhance. hell, there’s ship edits where you two aren’t even in the same frame.
it’s nothing you two aren’t used to. it’s never been new in this industry—you’ve lived through it all before, with different co-stars, different dramas, with less substantial “evidence”.
yet, with nishimura riki, you can barely keep it together.
it’s mostly because of the way you’re positioned conveniently in the corner of riki’s 19:6 story frame, half-hidden yet unmistakably you—with those winter boots and that painfully recognisable phonecase.
the way your laugh can be heard faintly in the background of one of his few stories.
the way your name somehow appears under almost every post he makes—tagged, mentioned, or simply standing two feet to his left.
but someone always has to notice the coffee, huh?
screenshots circulate within minutes. it’s two cups on the table. riki’s usual order written with his initials in black marker. and next to it, another cup with yours scribbled along the side.
next, someone replays that clip of him staring at you with a furious blush on his face—stunned, in all his glory, hands clawing at the fur carpet beneath you two like he needs something physical to remind himself this is real. it’s slowed down, zoomed in, sharpened to an almost criminal percentage. ‘so high school’ plays at half-volume over the edit, the chorus swelling right as your fingers brush his collarbone while fixing his mic, and the caption boldly justifies it by saying that co-stars don’t lose their voice over a simple, friendly interaction like that. be serious.
you tell yourself it’s ridiculous.
edits are manipulative by design. anyone can make a moment look bigger than it was.
still, you were there, and even without the slow motion or the corny music—you remember the way his breath hitched, the way nishimura riki’s throat bobbed before he forced out that soft, trembling “cute.”
watching it now, replayed for roughly 1.2 million people, your stomach does that same traitorous flip.
rikilover1234: does he know theres cameras
↳ jakrling127: i dont think he gaf tbh
it’s saturday. the episode aired five hours ago. you’ve been scrolling for two, refreshing your timeline like it personally owes you new information. every reload brings another slowed clip, another zoomed screenshot, another thread dissecting the exact millisecond his composure cracked.
it’s for a moment—just a fleeting, insignificant moment—you wonder if nishimura riki’s doing the same.
the thought lodges itself in your brain like a marble in a tin can, loud and impossible to ignore. is he seeing this? is he watching the same edits? does he know people are counting how many times he looked at you versus literally anythingelse in the room?
your thumb keeps swiping. your own face fills the screen again and again, interview snippets praising your performance, captions about how you “outdid yourself.”
yes! you should be focused on that.
and still, as if the fbi agent in your phone suddenly possessed mind-reading skills, your phone decided that riki’s clips need to keep slipping in between.
fans rambling about how different the atmosphere seemed when he was on set. how there was a glow on his face. how he wouldn’t stop smiling for nine out of ten minutes of the vlog. how he kept leaning toward you like you had your own orbit, and he was the moon.
someone stitches together every moment he laughs at something you say. another overlays heart graphics every time his eyes flick in your direction.
“my god,” you groan, feet kicking into the cushions on your sofa as you sink further in. a glass of wine sits on the edge of your glass table, still full from your distracted doomscroll.
it’s a past interview from when you first started filming together—around eight months ago. he’s wearing one of those expensive hoodies you can never pronounce, dark fabric swallowing his frame, sunglasses folded neatly on the table in front of him. the microphone looks obnoxiously huge against his face, headphones snug over his hair. it’s a radio show you’ve been on countless times before for different promotions.
the edit zooms mostly on him. the two hosts are cropped into smaller frames at the top so everyone stays visible. they bring you up, of course—how it’s like working with such a beloved actress, whether you’re still as kind and shy as you were during your first drama.
you snicker at your screen, cringing at the memory: you had been sweating bullets that day, barely able to form full sentences. absolutely stunned that anyone thought you deserved a talk show invite after one project.
“yeah! i remember she was stammering back then!” one of the hosts laughs, lighthearted.
and yet, riki doesn’t laugh with him.
he straightens instead, adjusts his posture. his hand slides off the table and folds neatly in his lap, like he’s bracing himself to answer something serious. the smile on his face softens—like he’s aware that they’re just teasing, and that he’s proud of the fact that if they saw you now, they’d never do it again.
he’s choosing his words.
“she’s amazing… incredibly talented. never worked with anyone like her,” nishimura riki replies, his voice crisp and clean through the obscenely expensive microphone pushed toward his mouth.
“i forget my words sometimes. everyone does,” he continues, fingers brushing the edge of the table before stilling. he tilts his head slightly, like he’s weighing whether he should say the next part at all.
he says it anyway.
“but when i look at her while filming, it all comes back to me. even if it’s not exactly the correct words, it just feels right.”
one of the hosts lets out a low, impressed hum. the other raises their brows, before looking towards the camera. “oh?”
riki only shrugs in response. like what he said wouldn’t fuel the endless ship edits to come in the months following.
and watching it now, eons later, you feel something shift uneasily in your chest—because at the time, you remember brushing it off, chalking it up to good media training. it’s co-star courtesy and polite admiration that was totally normal between two colleagues.
totally.
so why the hell are you blushing?
your nails clack against your screen as you click on the comments.
ericsohnsdirtysock: my parents… what do you mean it just feels right.?????
↳ xxjamesalphademoncoolxx: he is in love ill die on this y/nriki shaped hill
you laugh nervously, shaking your head. you bundle up into the woven blanket laid across your body, an odd idea considering the heat on your face just refuses to let up—perhaps it’s to hide your embarrassingly flushed face to whoever may be watching.
yes. it’s definitely that. your ancestors are shaking their heads, and you feel it.
your thumb moves almost without thinking. it’s a light tap: a stupidly, absurdly light amount of pressure that you think even an ant could outdo.
fuck.
the heart pops up anyway, and as fast as it does, your stomach plummets thirty floors down. splat, right on the concrete pavement below your complex.
your fingers freeze over your screen. your whole body has gone cold—this is catastrophic. an actress, liking a ship edit of her and her colleague. you might as well sign your contract termination.
oh, your agency is going to kill you.
─────────────────────────
IT’S NEARING MIDNIGHT.
the night is quiet, save for the steady rumble of riki’s car—he’s parked outside, not quite ready to roll into his garage just yet.
the gate to his house is tall in all it’s wooden glory. his house is humongous and dim from the lack of life in it, and he wonders for a moment if his dog is asleep yet, or waiting up for him. again.
still, he sinks further into the plush seat, pulling his phone out from his glovebox, refusing to let himself inside his own home.
the day had worn him out. endless shoots, modelling for brands that his manager insisted on promoting. it was five hours of posing with inconspicuous items that drained most of his energy, if tolerating that snobby photographer wasn’t the main cause.
well, at least the shots were good. nothing less expected from him.
the device feels heavy in his hands. it’s heavy, or perhaps he’s just too exhausted to be doing this. either way, it unlocks with one glance—and he’s opening instagram up.
his other hand runs through his hair. some of the gel from this morning sticks to his fingers, but all he can do is sigh and scroll, looking for nothing in particular (lie), typing no one’s name into the search bar (lie), and clicking on a very unfamiliar profile (lie).
who is he kidding?
it’s your post from the evening after your last dinner together. you’re holding a cup of coffee, sunlight spilling over your face, eyes crinkled in a laugh at something off-camera. the warmth of it makes his chest tighten, a quiet, familiar ache he’s been trying to ignore.
nishimura riki leans back in the seat, the leather pressing against him, and suddenly the exhaustion of the day feels almost inconsequential—all he can see is you.
the tilt of your head, the subtle way your fingers wrap around the cup, the ease of a laugh that he’s learnt to memorise the pitch of.
and the truth registers then: like the slow turn of a key in a lock, or something he’s been waiting to even think about when he’s not busy smiling for a camera.
riki’s been thinking about you all damn day—between flashes and camera clicks, posing for shots that demanded every ounce of energy he had.
it’s not the exhaustion that weighs on him.
no—it’s you. it’s all fucking you.
why isn’t he switching to his burner account is beyond him. he’s playing with fire as his thumb swipes mindlessly, each meeting of his finger with the screen a silent dare to his image.
he continues through the endless feed, fatigue pressing into his bones, when something sharp catches his eye: a post from one of those gossip pages.
it’s like there really are government agents in his phone. sunghoon will receive a call about this, he notes.
the thumbnail makes him pause. there it is—your name, your face, and the tiny heart you’d left on a fan edit, now blown up for anyone to see. the caption teases, something about “who’s really behind these likes?” and it’s simply ridiculous how he can’t help the rush of warmth that hits his cheeks.
a grown man, smiling at his screen in his car. his elderly neighbour is going to have a stroke.
and then he’s opening the comments, the air leaving his lungs instantaneously: the comments are vicious, casual in their cruelty, dissecting your actions, judging, speculating with what little they had. like usual.
he’s officially lost it.
nishimura riki is worried. for you. his co-star. his colleague.
the comments only get worse the more he scrolls. he knows this pattern like the back of his hand: he’s seen it before with other leads, people who could shrug it off, people who didn’t matter—people who he’s never thought twice about.
riki tenses up again, chest tight, fingers curling around the phone like he can hold onto you through it.
they know nothing about you. nothing about how kind you are when no one’s watching, how your shyness blooms around people who mean well, how your laugh—a little too loud by nature—can melt the tension on set faster than anyone else’s words ever could.
they don’t see how beautiful you are when the only light he can focus on is the soft glow in your eyes, or the warm yellow halo above your head. they don’t see the stubborn streak that keeps you moving forward when everything else tells you to turn back—nor the quiet, meticulous persistence that makes you fix every detail until it’s just right.
oh my god.
when did this even start?
perhaps the sweat on his palms is imaginary. his heart isn’t racing. he’s not biting back a smile while scrolling through your instagram again, and he’s definitely not replaying your highlights from when you were on vacation in japan—eyes zeroed on your adorable face, your laugh booming through the speakers as you fall backward into some random stretch of snow.
your arms are wide, moving up and down enthusiastically, like that was the entire point of the trip.
his jaw tightens.
the weather’s getting colder now. he wonders if you’re bundling up properly. if you remembered the thicker coat you always forget until someone reminds you, or if you’re in bed right now—tangled in too many blankets and sneezing into your sleeves because you refused to dry your hair completely. or maybe you’re by the window with a cup of tea, blowing gently across the rim before taking a careful sip.
nishimura riki shouldn’t want to know these things. shouldn’t think about them, shouldn’t care. shouldn’t even spare a single minute in his already insanely cramped schedule to have you running through his mind.
but he does care, and you do run through his mind. beautifully, might he add. he swears the image of you pops up in his head at least twice a day.
thrice, if he counts staring at your profile picture on his phone.
[NISHIMURA RIKI]: do you wanna get dinner tomorrow? after filming 23:58
[NISHIMURA RIKI]: ramen is good in this weather yknowww 23:59
the message looks deceptively casual, almost careless—like it didn’t take him five full minutes to decide whether or not to add the last sentence. he checks the time twice before sending it, as if the hour could reveal how much he’s been thinking about you.
the answer is all fucking day.
it’s this feeling that has him locked in his own car, clothes clinging to his skin, heart beating at the wrong pace, wrong rhythm.
riki drops his head back against the seat, staring at the dark ceiling of the car. the streetlight outside spills through the windshield in a muted gold, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his throat.
ramen is good in this weather.
is he in middle school? what the fuck kind of excuse is that?
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RIKI LOVED THIS PLACE.
if the food didn’t do it for him, it was the atmosphere. the air barely shifts when he strolls in—that bell above his head rings, and all he gets is a ‘welcome back’ from the head chef through that tiny window in the kitchen.
some celebrities say their home is the only place they can truly strip themselves of the lies they’ve worn throughout the day; the mask cracks once they’re enveloped by their familiar abode.
for riki, it’s that tiny booth seat at the back of this restaurant that does him in.
the leather is cracked and slightly stained with god knows what—the wooden table is chipped at the edges from years of accidental elbow nudges, and riki swears he sweats a little when he sinks all the way into the corner seat.
it’s ridiculous that he keeps returning here despite it all. his friends dine at michelin, fine-dining restaurants with four figure courses, while he slurps noodles at the back of a hole-in-the-wall that reminds him of his hometown.
and it’s enough that the food is equivalent to a flight back home—but nobody here knows who he is, or knows enough to care. there was once the bartender asked him what he did for work and riki responded with ‘to look pretty’.
it’s an hour to midnight and the snow is unforgiving, thick flakes collecting on the shoulders of your coat before you can even brush them off. you were the one who brought it up—how you were so hungry and needed a proper meal before heading home.
filming had wrapped earlier than expected, and while a few eyebrows were raised at the way both you and riki declined the after-party beers a little too quickly, the part where you slipped away from the group was even quicker.
it’s harmless. just food. together. away from everyone else like it was a secret that needed to be kept.
still, you keep your head down as you walk, scarf pulled higher over your mouth. your breath fogs into the night air and riki’s eyes can’t help but to catch the way you scrunch your nose in the cold—his fingers twitch, involuntarily, when yours rub together.
the city feels quieter under snow, softer, less busy, as if to make room for the both of you.
riki’s a step behind you at first, hands tucked into his coat pockets, matching your pace without saying much. you can feel him there without looking—the familiarity of it settling into your bones in a way that’s become routine.
they’ve started saying ‘welcome back’ to you, too.
“you’re the one who said you were starving,” he says lightly, as you turn the corner. same teasing edge that still gets on your nerves, but never enough to bite back. “i can hear your stomach already.”
“i am,” you reply. “don’t act like you weren’t waiting for me to say it.”
a faint laugh escapes him, warm against the cold. “i didn’t confirm that.”
but he doesn’t deny it, either.
the bell above the restaurant door rings when nishimura riki pushes it open for you, and the warmth hits instantly: humid, fragrant, sesame oil wafting through the air like it was a signature smell. the chef calls out his usual greeting—now smiling at the both of you—and that small, strange feeling begins to swell in your chest. again.
that booth.
no one else has sat there since you two last came. it’s nice to know that this spot has only ever belonged to him, and then to you, and the two of you together.
like it remembers, like it’s been waiting for you just as much as you’ve been waiting for it.
“back again?” someone calls out from the kitchen, and riki only smiles in response before his fingers find yours. he leads you toward the table with an ease that feels practiced, your fingers hooked loosely around his as if they’ve always known where to settle. there’s no hesitation in his grip, no glance over his shoulder to check if you’re still there.
like this is normal.
you can tell yourself that it is. the way you instinctively say ‘hello’, or the way your feet move before your brain does—towards that same booth, seats practically sunken in from the weight of both of you pressing down from frequent late nights.
you can tell yourself that this is like any other place, any other restaurant, any other spot—but the truth lingers in the smallest behaviours: your finger brushing his when he makes you try his bowl, your hearty laugh when riki lets you in on an inside joke between him and the owner, or your eyes softening when he tells you that this is your place as much as it is his.
is it, though?
the thought lodges itself into your chest. it never leaves, not until your boots scrape against the concrete outside and you’re peering back in through the windows. your bowls are still there, uncleared, licked clean. as always.
you’re waiting for a taxi. he’s waiting for yours to pick you up, so he can call his own.
“did you mean to like it?”
you’re counting the slabs on the floor. contemplate about it’s arrangement like it’ll tell you what to say to him.
riki’s scarf is covering most of his face. his face is scrunched up, looking towards the road.
“it’s fucking hilarious,” he mutters. “what they’re saying about us.”
riki’s voice is quiet enough that it almost gets swallowed by the wind. you hear it all, anyway—can’t even pretend not to know what he’s talking about.
the snow crunches faintly beneath your boots as you shift your weight. your taxi hasn’t turned the corner yet. the streetlight casts him in this soft glow, diffused, bright enough to see the worry sown into his face.
“it was just a tap,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. “my thumb. it slips sometimes.”
“your thumb,” he repeats, like he’s testing the logic of it. it’s not like he could disprove it, anyway. “yeah, sure.”
you finally glance at him. he’s standing closer than necessary, hands tucked into his coat pockets again, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. snow gathers in his hair. he doesn’t brush it away.
“if it didn’t mean anything,” riki continues carefully, “you could just say that.”
there’s barely any accusation in the words he chooses—his voice low, calm, everything that you aren’t. you sniffle once, blinking slowly as you reconsider your options carefully:
one, you tell him that it didn’t mean anything, or
two, you don’t respond.
or three, you tell the truth—admit that you watched it through, thought about him, wondered if the algorithm had been cruel enough to place the same video on his feed. confess that you thought of him at all.
“it didn’t.”
the lie leaves too easily.
and it’s odd how quickly you wish you could take it back—the ache blooming in your chest almost instantly, your stomach sinking in a way only regret can trigger. you know exactly why you said it. you know exactly what you’re protecting.
isn’t this cruel?
the last time a rumor attached itself to your name, it took months to untangle. articles dissecting your expressions. fans choosing sides. strangers building narratives out of nothing.
but that’s just it—nishimura riki is far from nothing.
your mind goes back to him. always. and so do your eyes, when your head involuntarily (debatable) turns towards his direction—just for a second.
nishimura riki only stares on. silent as the howl of this cold city, sharp nose peeking over the fabric of his dark scarf. snow settles on his lashes and he blinks once, twice, brushing it away without lifting a hand.
“well,” he mumbles, but his voice is a little muffled from where you’re standing. “i’ll see you tomorrow, won’t i?”
he will.
the low hum of passing motorbikes and cars nearly swallows the faint unsteadiness in his voice. he’s trying to keep it normal, to let you retreat with dignity, to pretend tomorrow will reset whatever just shifted tonight.
“yeah.”
so, when your head ducks and the warmth of this unfamiliar car finally graces you, it feels less like relief and more like retreat.
“goodnight, y/n.”
the door shuts with a muted thud, sealing you off from the cold—and from him. the heater hums to life almost immediately, dry warmth brushing against your cheeks, thawing skin that had gone numb in the snow. you murmur the address to the driver with a voice steady enough, and sink back into the seat as the car pulls away from the curb.
and though you know not to look, you still do.
through the fogging window, you catch him still standing there, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. he hasn’t moved.
the streetlight halos him in something almost cinematic, snow drifting lazily around him as if the world has time has suspended itself around him.
your reflection overlays riki’s figure as the car turns, your face ghosting over his body until he disappears completely from view. for a brief second, the two of you exist in the same frame: superimposed and inseparable before the angle breaks, and he’s gone.
no one is watching. no one has their phone shoved in your face demanding answers you can’t even begin to formulate. no one is zooming in on the space between you and him, slowing it down frame by frame, building a narrative out of a glance.
no one knows about this—whatever this is.
the car glides past intersections glazed in white, streetlights streaking across the window in soft, passing lines. it would be so easy to keep it that way. to let this exist only in late-night restaurants and snow-muted sidewalks, in conversations that never leave the air between the two of you.
the night moves like a silent black and white movie. blurry, choppy, muted as you punch in the code to your door.
you shower, slip into pajamas, sink into bed, and scroll, landing on nishimura riki’s page. again.
his latest post was just two hours ago—uploaded while you were juggling ten million side dishes, chopsticks flying, noodles disappearing faster than you realized. the first photo is his dog, curled up in sunlight, then a few casual shots of his outfits, his breakfast, a cup of coffee steaming in the morning light.
and then, you.
the frame catches you mid-laugh on set, a streak of paint smeared across your cheek, sunlight glinting off your hair. your eyes crinkle at the corners, wide and carefree, probably a little too much so.
even through the chaos of crew members, lights, cameras, and cables, every pixel seems to pause on you. the focus is undeniable. the photographer had his intentions.
and you can almost hear the echo of laughter, the soft scrape of your sneakers against the studio floor, everything.
even the way riki’s heart skips a beat at the shutter click.
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NISHIMURA RIKI DENIES LIKE HIS LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.
okay—maybe not his life. yours.
it’s mostly because he can already imagine it: the screenshots, the headlines, the instagram posts dissecting your accidental like like it was a signed confession. he can picture the way your smile would tighten along with the way your shoulders would lift defensively, the humiliation of being turned into a trending topic for something you didn’t even mean to do.
and the comments—the endless stream of slightly insane netizens making you seem like you’re delusional, crazy, desperate or all of the above.
riki hates it. he especially hates how he can’t reply to these comments themselves and tell them to run off the nearest cliff.
you see, usually, he’d mind his business. let agencies handle it. the managers can draft statements and spin barely believable narratives that won’t hurt as bad as those nasty comments.
after all, that’s what they’re paid for. he’s paid to act, promote, smile, and go home.
so why does it feel entirely different now?
riki’s sitting beside you in a brightly lit studio, ridiculous knit hat perched on his head because the segment demanded “fun accessories”.
the cameras are rolling, the host is laughing, and you’re holding a fairy wand with a plastic crown on your head. comments are streaming up the monitor like a waterfall of chaos, and he keeps looking at you—far more often than necessary.
you’re nervous. riki can see it even if you do it with your right hand instead of your left, further out of everyone’s sight. your fingers press into your thighs beneath the table, nails digging into fabric like you’re trying not to lose your composure at the 20th are-you-dating-eachother question.
your smile flickers half a second too late between questions. you nod a little too eagerly when the host jokes. you don’t do that thing where you clap or slam the table when something’s truly funny, riki notices, because nothing is truly worth the fake joy right now.
“sooo,” the host says brightly, glancing at the screen, “everyone wants to know—after that viral like—are you two actually together?”
and you grit your teeth because you just know from the way the crew behind set start to stare, just a little harder than before, that this is what it’s all been about.
you and riki received the invite on late-notice.
you should’ve known from the first question that this was another stupid interview that they’ll clip out of context, and soon after editing, be uploaded with an absurd thumbnail: faces cropped inches apart, added blush, a few added sweat effects.
oh, and the bold text in neon: CONFESSION?!
“uh…” riki mutters, eyes flickering towards you for just a moment—and it eats at you. the guilt of dragging him into this, the humiliation of him having to answer it at all; and even if he laughs it off, if he distances himself too clearly, if he makes it obvious this is ridiculous… everyone will see it.
riki straightens.
“no,” he says, firm. leaving no room for anyone to pry. “we’re not together.”
“we’re coworkers. we promote together. that’s it,” smiling politely, riki nods, eyes drifting towards you again. “the like was probably an accident. fans are creative.”
you forget you’re on camera. the fake smile you plaster on lags a little too obviously, and still—no one dares to push.
your nails dig into your thighs again under the table. you nod when the camera turns to you. “yes, it was nothing,” you add on, keeping your voice as even and unemotional as you can manage. “now, um—i just remembered my answer to the fifth question!”
nishimura riki knows when you’re acting, and he knows when you’re not. that’s the problem.
it’s months of standing inches apart under hot lights that trained him to catalogue you instinctively—the hitch in your breath before a line, the way your eyes can never stay on his when you’re lying about how much sleep you got, the way you overcompensate with cheerfulness when you’re getting yelled at by an assistant director.
he’s memorized you in ways scripts could never capture.
it’s all because of those late nights running scenes until sunrise, sharing a blanket when the outdoor shoot felt like a freezer. your fingers are threading through his during that confession scene in episode six and all riki can think about is how he wishes this was real—how he silently begs for everyone else to vanish.
or how he pleads, to no one in particular, that you’d be more than what a contract can outline.
though, right now, that’s all you are.
“oh my god,” riki exhales, a short, incredulous laugh slipping out before he can stop it. it isn’t mocking—it’s almost defensive. like he’s trying to shield you from how transparent this is.
he turns toward the host instead of you.
“she’s really competitive about those questions,” riki says lightly. a deliberate attempt at steering it away that just rubs salt in all your little papercuts. “if she thinks she got one wrong, she’ll think about it all day.”
the crew laughs, the host bites. the conversation swerves and riki never looks at you a second time.
─────────────────────────
IT’S JUST A KISS.
you’ve done it before—different co-stars, different sets, different plots with a different set of eyes glued onto you.
and still, the lights are glaring, the chatter is too loud, and the busy shuffle of shoes across the pavement is making you go crazy.
they’re still adjusting the lighting: warm, diffused, just enough to look real under the streetlamp. this corner of the park’s been closed off for filming, instead swarming with staff and management that have no business looking so stressed on a sunday night. air leaves you in a cold exhale, the vapour of your warm breath condensing in the chill.
riki’s sitting on a bench, sipping slowly from a coffee cup that’s become a signature now. there’s a few people talking to him—probably running through the scene again, due to the fact that he has way more lines than you this time—all while he nods, eyes fixated on the ground, or somewhere distant. you don’t know. you can barely see before makeup pulls at your hair.
you blink fast as you try to recalibrate. your reflection in the portable mirror feels foreign.
tonight, you are seri. you’ve always been seri.
and tonight, riki—or haruto—kisses you.
haruto marukami confesses his feelings to han seri after he breaks her heart.
in the script, he chooses ambition over love. he pushes seri away to protect her from the fallout of his scholarship scandal: coaches frown at missed routines, professors shake their heads at distracted focus, his discipline crumbling under the weight of his own heart.
he denies it when confronted—but everyone sees it.
how he wants you more than he wants that coveted spot in the rankings. how he wants you more than anything he could ever need from anyone and anything else.
it’s true—haruto never needed seri.
it’s just that tonight… when the script places seri’s teary face in front of him, haruto has to say what his heart begs him to.
“action!”
you step into the frame like this is who you are—it’s a little odd how you don’t have to try as hard to get the tears to flow. your boots scrape against the concrete, body moving, hitting every beat like this is choreography you’ve memorised to a T.
the cue comes.
riki steps closer, and even in character, the air between you feels thicker. it’s heavy, hanging with the weight of every emotion that seri and haruto’s shared, and even if none of it is real—your heart races and the tears prick your skin.
light snow falls on top of your heads. they fall on riki’s lashes, melting soon after, and he’s blinking like he’s unsure what this all means.
it’s just a kiss. a fake one. that’s what it means.
it’s his eyes that get you. thoughtful, like he can’t stand seeing you cry—they’re lingering, searching for something you’re not quite sure you can let be seen on camera.
you tilt your chin. your pulse is thudding hard, blood rushing everywhere; cars zoom past and the quiet sound of snow crunching underneath the tires makes none of this easier to avoid. you have nowhere to look except him.
every rustle of the crew behind the cameras fades. the world shrinks to the soft glow of the streetlamp and the space between your bodies.
his hand brushes yours—accidentally, or maybe not—before trailing up, fingers cupping your jaw with a softness that feels impossible on a set like this. riki holds you like you’re fragile porcelain, like any more pressure and you might shatter under his touch.
“pause… three, two.”
your breath catches, the countdown fading behind the rush of awareness, the tight coil of something electric between you.
“now.”
his lips press against yours. warmth blooms instantly, a fuzzy, dangerous sweetness crawling through your chest, sinking low into your stomach. it spreads, slow and intoxicating, like poison that seeps into every muscle until you’ve gone numb.
it’s technical. just a kiss. practiced and controlled like he’d run through it thousands of times before.
and then it isn’t.
there’s a tremor in his body, like his knees have just gone weak—it’s subtle when he shifts closer—he’s bringing your frame closer to his, desperate to hold onto you like this is the only time he, or you, won’t get punished for it.
nishimura riki’s hands move down: looping around your waist, keeping you flush against him—and no matter how much he fights to remember the next line and cue, he can’t seem to care.
your own fingers twitch, searching, remembering the last time you shared a touch that wasn’t under a lens. you’re not sure if this counts.
the director’s voice cuts through faintly in the distance, but it doesn’t reach you. the cameras, the lights, the crew—all of it melts away.
and when you pull slightly apart, the air between you is thick with something unspoken.
riki’s eyes meet yours: raw, slightly red from tears that he fought to keep in. your hands are trembling against his skin, and riki can feel every shaky breath that you try to draw.
“cut. fucking perfect.”
neither of you move.
“what are we doing?” riki whispers, low and hesitant, like any louder and he might lose control and take it all back.
your hands stay frozen against him, pulse hammering. your breath hitches, and you feel a lump in your throat beginning to clog every word you can think of saying.
“i don’t know.” you admit, the words bitter on your tongue, tangling with something raw and unspoken between you.
and you wish—desperately—that you could kiss him again. just for a second. without the cameras. without the crew. without every eye dissecting you like you’re a spectacle to be consumed.
without a care that the world is watching.
it feels insane. every celebrity craves that moment of security, that stolen privacy that never comes. you’ve always told yourself you’re the same—that you can navigate the glare, the gossip, the scrutiny.
and yet, here and now, in the middle of it all—you still want to be his. in front of the lights, the cameras, the industry that would personally strangle you both.
“okay.”
he pulls away—ten seconds too late. everyone behind set stares as if he’s lost his mind. his hands fall to his sides. a few steps back and he turns on his feet completely, muttering to the nearest staff member that he needs to get going. family emergency.
she looks at him like he’s gone crazy.
you’re left standing there, cold, the phantom heat of his body still pressing against yours.
“thank you for the hard work everyone,” director kim exclaims, and a burst of applause quick erupts in this corner of the park. “please rest well tonight!”
your eyes flick back to where riki had run off to. he’s nowhere to be seen: disappeared completely with the image of his back turned on you burned into your retinas, like a cruel joke.
it’s only when you get into your car that you realise his is already gone, and even later when you curl up into bed—waiting for a text that never comes.
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THE WEEKS THAT PASS ARE BLURRY.
initially, filming was slightly less than torturous—everything remained the same, but the two of you never did. every tiny thing felt like it was nudged off its axis, subtle enough that no one else noticed, but sharp enough that you did.
you told this is how it has always been. that this is the chemistry everyone keeps praising in interviews, the spark directors lean forward for behind their monitors. this is what makes the acting believable.
your throat still tightened every time you saw him.
five weeks later and the lights tonight are dim, warm and yellow, softer than the harsh studio glare you’ve been used to the past few months. they cast you in something forgiving, highlighting the careful brushstrokes of makeup the staff spent an hour perfecting. bookcases line the walls, filled with worn spines and quiet color. the space is small. intimate. almost domestic.
when you walked in, you expected a full production: towering cameras, boom mics suspended overhead, assistants darting around with clipboards. you expected a host with a polished grin and rehearsed questions designed to bait headlines—to measure every word, to survive another week of clipped edits and trending speculation that had nothing meaningful to say.
instead, your shoes meet wooden floorboards. there’s a low table. three chairs. two cups of hot tea already waiting. your weight sinks into the chair, the tension in your spine already undoing itself at the lack of glaring lights and busy shuffle behind the cameras.
it’s like you’re the only people here.
the host greets you gently. her voice is steady, unhurried. her eyes don’t linger on you any longer than they do on riki.
“should we get started, then?”
riki sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. he doesn’t look nervous, god, he never does—but his ears perk at your voice, involuntarily attentive to the shift of your weight and the soft ruffle of your clothes against skin.
“please welcome our guests, everyone.”
the first few questions are easy. favorite scenes. hardest shoots. what you learned about yourselves during filming, and what you wish you could’ve redone.
riki’s leaning back into his chair, toying with a tiny dice between his fingers. he answers everything with ease, voice low and steady, that familiar depth settling into the room and making it feel smaller than it is. you can already picture the comments that will flood in later:
how good he looks tonight.
how much quieter he seems when he’s seated next to you.
how his gaze softens every time you start speaking.
how he looks at you like you’ve strung the constellations into place yourself and decided, just for him, to let the world keep spinning.
you try not to look back at him for too long. the camera may be discreet, the setting intimate—but you’re not naive. angles can be manipulated. expressions can still be slowed down. meaning can still be assigned where you never meant to leave it, or where you never intended to reveal.
so you focus on the tea in your hands instead, on the warmth seeping into your palms, on the steady cadence of nishimura riki’s voice as the host nods along to his answers. but even without turning, you hear it—the soft hitch of his breath when you say his name again, and again, and again.
“so,” she speaks. her voice is crisp and clear in the way all talk show hosts somehow are. “how do you both feel, now that it’s over? haruto and seri got their happy ending, but what about you?”
riki’s leg stops bouncing mindlessly on the floor.
“the media’s been talking a lot about your dynamic,” she says gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. “i’ve seen it for myself. what you two have is truly beautiful. i mean, every scene feels like we’re right there witnessing something real. do you think it’ll be difficult to manage after it’s all said and done?”
her hands settle quietly in her lap, a soft, knowing smile resting on her face as she clarifies what she means—though she doesn’t really need to. you and the man beside you understand perfectly.
it’s hard not to, after all this time.
chemistry is a funny thing. it doesn’t announce itself when it arrives. it doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in. it seeps—into glances that last a second too long, into laughter that feels too easy, into silences that don’t need filling.
and most of all, it bleeds.
bleeds, into rehearsals and interviews and late-night dinners, into the spaces between scripted lines until you can’t quite remember which moments were written and which ones weren’t.
it bleeds into your veins when you touch him—when director kim calls “cut” and neither of you pull away just yet, suspended in that fragile space between performance and something almost instinctual.
it bleeds into the way he says your name off-camera, softer than necessary, like it belongs somewhere closer to his chest than paper. like it belongs on his lips.
and now, under these warm yellow lights, with the host waiting patiently and the microphones catching every hesitant, heavy breath: you wonder if it’s bleeding here too.
your shoulders angle toward him without thinking, and the quiet steadiness in his gaze lingers on his hands just before he turns to look at you before answering. just to make sure you’re okay with this, as if the question isn’t something he’s perfectly capable of responding to alone.
riki shifts slightly beside you, the faint sound of the dice clicking once against the wooden table before going still in his palm. when he finally speaks, his voice is even, hushed.
“well,” riki starts, then stops, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly like he’s reconsidering how honest he’s allowed to be. he looks past the cameras, past the glass and into the eyes of the recording crew. “i think we’ll just have to live with it. it’s been an honour to work with someone like her—and i agree, i don’t think i’ve ever felt such excitement for a project before.”
he breathes. draws in a long, full breath like everything he’s saying costs something. “but most times, it’s never just about the project.”
the room stills.
“i’ve worked on good scripts before. i’ve had great co-stars. but . . .”
your throat tightens.
“she challenges me,” riki says more quietly. “she notices things. cares about details no one else pays attention to—and when you work that closely with someone, and you spend that many hours together, it’s hard not to let that affect you.”
you chew at your cheek as if that’d somehow bring some answers to the questions swirling in your mind.
“it’s been wonderful,” you finally exhale, eyes tracing the suddenly interesting wood patterns on the coffee table in front of you. “anyone who works with him is extremely lucky. it’d be hard for me to forget all the memories.”
the look he gives you is what you’d imagine a hole in the heart would feel like. eyes soft, glistening, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly; refusing to speak up as if he knows that’ll only bury you both six feet deeper.
the rest of the show passes on in a blur of tears that refuse to fall, accompanied by the pounding of your heart in your ears—it’s all you can feel.
it’s when the cameras finally stop rolling and the host’s voice fading into polite chatter that you sit back. your hands are resting limply in your lap, and the realization washes over you that the room feels impossibly still.
riki doesn’t move either; he just watches, quiet, every unspoken word hanging heavy between you. outside, the city carries on, oblivious to what’s happening in this tiny studio—but you know. he knows.
here, in this moment, you know you love nishimura riki.
and he knows he loves you, too.
“thank you for today!”
it’s after the lights finally dim and the ‘on-air’ finally shuts off that riki starts packing his belongings and notes into his bag, folding them with methodical care. he glances up at you without much thought, voice casual as you’re putting your coat back on. “you hungry?”
you hesitate, caught off guard by how ordinary the question feels after everything that’s just passed. even so, the answer slips out before you can stop it.
“i am.”
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THE RESTAURANT IS QUIETER THAN USUAL.
not empty, but rather muted. the dinner rush has passed, leaving behind the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of ceramic against wood. the windows are fogged slightly from the warmth inside, blurring the city lights into soft halos. your eyes extend past the glass and melted-snow-turned-water-droplets, following the crowd of people that refuse to shop during the day.
your gaze lingers on a couple: their fingers are intertwined, and the woman holds a cup of coffee that looks like it’s made with more milk than anything caffeinated. the man next to her holds her purse. she talks his ears off, and he just smiles, listening.
“you okay?”
nishimura riki’s voice makes you jolt. when your head finally turns in his direction, you realise both of you have barely eaten anything out of your bowls.
he looks good tonight, like he always does—infuriatingly so. his hair falls in soft, deliberate strands against his forehead, those black-rimmed glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose. hoodie hanging loose at the collar, secured with small safety pins that glint faintly under the overhead light, the fabric bunching around his neck.
riki’s collarbone catches the yellow glow in sharp relief, broad shoulders sinking back against the cracked leather booth like he’s always belonged there. like you’ve always been meant to sit across from him, watching.
“yeah.”
it’s automatic.
he studies you for half a second longer than necessary before finally picking up his chopsticks at your reassurance—however unconvincing it sounds.
the restaurant feels altered tonight. like it just knows. there’s no music humming through the speakers, no usual crowd filling the corners with noise—even the kitchen sounds muted, distant. the absence of it all only sharpens everything else: the soft drag of ceramic against wood, the faint rustle of his sleeve when he moves, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
in the same way, you’re certain—certain that he can see the way you refuse to meet his eyes and settle for peeks through your eyelashes.
“how have you been?” riki asks, gentle as ever, the sound of his chopsticks clanging against the bowl being the only thing you hear under his voice.
filming ended weeks ago.
it shouldn’t feel like you’ve crossed timelines just to sit across from him again.
“busy,” you answer, twirling noodles you don’t eat. “interviews, some brand meetings. i flew back for a few days.”
riki exhales softly, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. he remembers seeing it on his timeline—purposeful or accidental, he doesn’t know. “i know.”
your head lifts slightly at the offhand way he says it.
“you posted,” riki clarifies, offering a faint shrug—as though it was only incidental, like he hadn’t noticed the exact time it went up. “i saw.”
a quiet thought settles in before you can brush it aside: is this what the two of you are going to be now?
without shared call times and cramped dressing rooms and the convenience of always existing in the same frame—will it just be this?
nishimura riki, keeping up with you the way everyone else does: through posts, through highlights looping endlessly, through moments edited for millions?
will he have to watch you?
across the table, riki finds his mind unravelling in a similar fashion—because how is he supposed to reduce you to something public, when he’s already known you in private? he’s seen the unguarded pauses between takes, the way your expression shifts when you’re concentrating, the small habits no camera has ever captured.
how does he rewrite all of that?
“right,” you say, the word softer than you intend.
a beat passes. the steam between you thins, curling, fading into the warm air above the table.
“you?” you ask, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his.
he holds your gaze for a fraction longer than necessary before leaning back slightly, fingers tapping once against the side of his bowl.
“same,” he says. “work. meetings. a lot more work.”
you hum, unconvinced. “that’s it?”
riki’s smiling at you like you’ve been caught in a lie. “what were you expecting?”
“i don’t know.” you twirl your chopsticks through broth that’s starting to get cold. “something more specific.”
“like?”
like do you think about me, or do you check my page before bed?
like, do you miss it?
alas—you don’t say any of it. you know it’ll only lead to answers that you can’t stomach.
“are you sleeping well?” you settle on instead.
riki’s brow lifts slightly, fingers feeding a tiny piece of seaweed into his mouth. “i sleep.”
“that’s not what i meant, riki.”
“i know.”
the words eat away at you.
he shifts forward again, forearms resting on the table now. close enough to watch the faint crease of worry in your expression.
“i’ve been fine,” riki continues, voice a little more firm if only for the sake of reassuring you—still, there’s something restrained about it. “just adjusting.”
you sigh, finally accepting his answer, though your curiosity doesn’t fail to peek through. “to?”
“not seeing you every day,” riki mumbles, gaze fixed somewhere between the table and your untouched bowl. “i miss it.”
the words don’t echo, but they might as well.
the restaurant is almost empty now. it’s strange—barely midnight, and yet the place feels like it’s already folding in on itself. chairs scrape softly against the floor in the distance. dishes rattle faintly in the kitchen, out of sight, detached from whatever is happening in this booth.
for a split second, you wish you were one of them.
a plate. a bowl. a cup. something ceramic and uncomplicated and non-sentient, able to exist in the same space as him without having to interpret the weight of his voice.
or a tree outside the window—rooted, steady, immune to the way your pulse keeps climbing higher with every passing second. just missing a pulse at all.
or, maybe, that couple from earlier.
you’d be clinging to riki’s arm, laughing because the heels you insisted on wearing don’t quite fit right. you’d stumble, and he’d steady you without thinking. it would be easy. instinctive. unquestioned, missing a million different cameras behind you.
“i miss it too.”
i miss you, you think.
─────────────────────────
THE BILL COMES. neither of you reach for it at the same time this time—there’s an absence of playful bickering and forced normalcy. after a long meal, you both managed to finish up your food, though under much quieter circumstances.
the restaurant door swings open and the cold greets you instantly, sharper than you expected. your breath fogs in front of you. the pavement is still damp from melted snow, reflecting the streetlights in fractured gold streaks—nishimura riki’s fingers twitch as he walks next to you, your pinky brushing against his as you make way for the passerby’s walking in the opposite direction.
it’s a short walk to where your taxi pick-up location is set. your boots scrape against the wet concrete, the dull clunk of its heel the only thing you hear, accompanied by the soft, steady thud of riki’s shoes just behind you.
it’s still snowing. fine flakes drift in the air and disappear the moment they touch the ground.
it’s been a few weeks since you were last here. back then, you ran—or drove away, to be more specific. you remember it all, though it serves no real purpose, because it’s all in the past and nothing can be done now; not when production has wrapped and there’s no real reason to mend, sew, or stitch things back up.
your feet stop at the pick-up point. a bright red pin signals that the driver is ten minutes away.
ten minutes.
you half-expect nishimura to turn on his heel and make his own way home. it would be much easier, cleaner—it would be an unspoken understanding that this was just dinner, and that this is where the night, or you, end.
but you know him, don’t you?
always known him to stay, that is.
the ice-cold air of tonight freezes your lungs—or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s standing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, silent in a way that feels heavier than anything he’s said all evening.
unbeknownst to you, riki is fighting every instinct in him to reach for your hand: to lace his fingers through yours in front of the handful of strangers passing by, to stop pretending this is something casual and temporary. he wants everyone to see that this is how he feels, and god, it can’t change. no matter how much he’s tried.
“ten minutes?” riki asks, glancing over at your screen. his hands stay tucked into the pockets of his brown coat, scarf pulled high enough to cover half his face.
you nod.
ever since the last episode aired, his followers have almost doubled. the numbers climb in ways neither of you can really control anymore. the scarf does its job for you too—hiding, shielding—but it only adds to the distance.
you can’t help but wonder what he looks like right now.
is he biting the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s thinking too hard?
are his lips pursed into that smile you’ve started to forget?
“you should be heading home too,” you mumble, fingers gripping tighter at your cell. anything to anchor yourself to this moment. “it’s getting late.”
your gaze drifts across the street as the last word slips off your tongue.
two high school students cut through the crowd. the boy looks uncannily like nishimura—dark hair, tall frame, that same absentminded way of walking like the world will move around him. the girl trails half a step behind, fingers hooked into the strap of his bag as they navigate the pavement together.
she trips over a half-hidden tree branch, and he turns immediately.
nishimura riki definitely has his ways of bleeding into your life—even in the form of parallels and what-if’s and should’ve, could’ve, would’ves that won’t leave you alone.
“i really did miss you,” riki says, voice laced with exhaustion—like he’s been carrying the sentence around for weeks, weighing it, rehearsing it, nearly swallowing it down a dozen times before deciding he’d hate himself if he didn’t let it out. “y/n.”
if this is the last time, he can’t let you go like this.
you bite your bottom lip hard enough that the skin breaks before you draw a breath. “i really missed you too.”
cars honk. life moves past you like it’s in a sped-up timelapse, and nishimura and you are the only ones moving in slow motion. the lights are blaring and you can’t help but squint at the vehicles that pass by you two. the soft crunch of ice under the wheels pull you out of it, if only for a moment.
snow gathers briefly on his lashes before melting away. riki exhales slowly, like he’s about to say something reckless—in which he is. very, very reckless.
“remember that time someone asked us if we’d ever date each other?” riki breathes, voice as gentle as the day you met him. he used to bow so low just upon seeing your face.
but now, he just smiles.
your heart stumbles. you remember: the press junket, the flashing cameras, the way you’d both laughed it off like it was the most absurd thing in the world—and to be fairly honest, it was.
“we said no,” you murmur.
“we said it’d ruin the dynamic,” he adds. a faint, self-aware huff leaves him. “that we were just friends. that it’d be unprofessional.”
snow lands on the edge of his scarf. he doesn’t notice, and even if he does, riki only stares on—into the road, at the passing cars that have no idea what his heart is spilling.
“i answered it like it was hypothetical,” he continues, eyes steady on yours. “like it wasn’t something i’d already thought about.”
“but, y/n,” riki pauses before turning to look at you. you don’t realise that you’ve been staring at him, all this time—from the faint glimmer in his eyes and the reflection of seoul’s lights in them, to the sharp bridge of his nose. “i thought about it. i’ve thought about it so much that it’s driven me fucking crazy.”
you swallow. “riki—“
“i wonder if you’re doing okay when i can’t see you,” his voice shakes. “i know i’m being selfish.”
nishimura riki is not exactly sure when he’d fallen so hard. episode one, episode four, episode ten or sixteen—god, it doesn’t matter anymore—he just knows that he can’t crawl back from this, from you, from all the feelings you’ve dug up and run away from.
he’s spent majority of his life under these lights, in this world that’s been so cruel and utterly exhausting to move through—it’s only when you walk in, with bright eyes and hair so perfect it makes him stop breathing—that he finally understands that this normalcy is what he’s been chasing.
and for the very first time in years, what nishimura riki wants isn’t big, or shiny, or polished to perfection with his name inscribed in it.
it’s this.
standing in the cold, waiting for a taxi, worrying about whether you’re warm enough, or anticipating your order because you never stray from what you’re familiar with.
it’s walking someone home. it’s slowing his pace so they don’t stumble, and it’s memorising the way they take their coffee—it’s making sure they’re eating well. it’s making sure they’re sleeping.
it’s you.
“fuck,” he curses, muffled through the woven red fabric. “even now, i don’t care if someone sees us. i don’t care about it at all.”
“ki.” your brows pull together, and this time you don’t miss it—the unmistakable shine at his waterline, the way his lashes clump slightly from the cold and something heavier than snow. “why are you crying?”
and it’s almost instinctual—the way you turn fully toward him, closing the distance without hesitation. your hands come up to his face like they remember the shape of it on their own. your thumb brushes over the small mole beneath his left eye.
his cheeks are warm despite the cold around you.
“tell me you’ll run away again,” his voice breaks under your touch, and your thumb wipes away a tear that slides down his cheek. “tell me that this was just dinner, and i’m just your co-star. tell me that you can’t—“
the weight of your hands resting against his scarf make the fabric sink down. it falls under his chin, tucked under the sharp turn of his jawline, his full face now illuminated by the dim saturday moon.
his breath shudders against your wrist, turning to vapour in the cold—thin, fractured clouds that disappear almost as quickly as they form. he leans into your touch without thinking, like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the wet ground.
“i can’t do this again.”
it took you a little over sixteen episodes to get you here.
sixteen episodes of scripted longing and controlled proximity. sixteen episodes of pretending that the way your heart reacted to nishimura riki was temporary—occupational hazard, emotional bleed-through, something that would dissolve once the cameras stopped.
it did not dissolve.
if anything, it rooted deeper.
you can’t move on from him. not in the clean, professional way you told yourself you would.
and judging by the way he’s trembling under your hands, neither can he.
it’s cold. it’s so, so cold, and your feet hurt from standing so long in these ridiculously expensive yet uncomfortable boots. your scarf itches against your skin, you think, but it’s only an excuse for you to pull it downwards.
the wind brushes against your lips.
“i love you, ki.”
the world seems quieter. it always seems that way when you’re this close to him, noses touching, leaning in to feel your lips press together—and it has yet to sink in that anyone and everyone could snap a picture, and it’d be a media disaster.
it’s unfortunate that you don’t care anymore.
nishimura riki’s hands find your waist without much thought. you’re rising to your tiptoes, chest flush against his as he pulls you in to fill space that doesn’t exist; desperate, like he’s finally found his salvation.
you fit perfectly against him, he notices. it’s not something he wanted to ponder on, in case he sent himself into some crazy, delusional chain of thought that encouraged his already lovesick brain.
but god—you’re made for him.
your height against his chest. your hands fisted into his coat. the way your breath syncs with his after only a few seconds. a little bit like inevitability.
“say it again,” he mumbles between kisses, breath warm and uneven against your lips. his voice is hoarse now, stripped of all composure. his fingers tighten at your waist the longer you hesitate, desperate to hear it one more time. “please.”
you almost laugh through the tears still clinging to your lashes.
“i love you.”
your phone vibrates in the back pocket of your jeans. you forgot when you even shoved it in there, but you don’t bother to reach for it—he could appear in two seconds for all you care. you’d still choose this.
“i love you, too,” riki whispers back.
you’re not sure when you fell this hard.
his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing faintly as the snow continues to fall around you. riki’s grip loosens only slightly, enough to trace his thumb along your side like he’s memorising the shape of you there. as if he doesn’t already know it just by breathing this close to you.
you’re not sure when you fell this hard.
maybe it was gradual. it was definitely inevitable.
or perhaps, it was the first time he turned back to make sure you were okay.
but it’s after a little confrontation and a lot of running—sixteen episodes and five weeks later that you know this for certain:
SYNOPSIS ⋮ when the cameras stop rolling and the lights dim, some things are supposed to fade with them. you’re not supposed to fall in love with your co-star. your co-star isn’t supposed to care about you the way he does. unfortunately, neither of you have ever been very good at following the script.
GENRE ⌗ PAIRING ⋮ fluff. kdrama actor!riki x actress!reader.
CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ SFW. toxic industry, angst, eventual comfort/fluff, riki is a YEARNER, skinship, kissing, fem!reader, reader stars as han seri, nishimura riki as haruto marukami. barely proofread.
AN ⋮ whew it’s finally here. i didn’t mean for this to be 15k words i’m sorry.. i’m like two weeks late to valentines but i hope this still brings the romance vibe regardless. thank you @dollhoonki for hosting this with me! ur the sweetest ever <3333 also this is BARELY proofread because i was in such a rush to upload this asap, sorry… haha. Enjoy it Anyway Ok?
PLAYING ⋮ in the dark — venturing, bedsheets — illusion hills, about you — the 1975, basically any yearner song you can think of
WC ⋮ 15k
NISHIMURA RIKI was the love of your life. there wasn’t any question to it.
perhaps it took you a little over sixteen episodes to realise this—but when you did, oh—the feeling came full force, tugging, pushing at every heart string until you could no longer remember a single line of yours until he was off set.
the producers always found it odd. director kim thought there was a particularly niche charm behind it: made the chemistry ten times realer, and a hundred times more beautiful. he remembers when riki would stand in the rain, as the scene had called for, and you’d jumble up your words so horribly that they’d need at least six takes. six.
“y/n, dear god, are you sure you even went to hanlim?”
and you’d shrugged it off, as anyone else would.
but by the time episode five had aired, you’d watched yourself back on the premiere and almost peeled your skin off at how utterly lovestruck you looked in 4k resolution.
did you dream up hanlim, or did nishimura riki just have that effect on everyone?
what seemed even more puzzling was the fact that he was so understanding, weirdly kind about it all—telling you that it’s okay if you need twenty takes for a simple hallway-brush-of-fingers scene, or if you take a little too long to remember a line half-way into filming.
“it’s okay, y/n, really. we’re still on schedule, right?”
he’ll pass you a water bottle. wrap your blanket around you a little tighter because the set was, for some reason, planted in the middle of snowy seoul. you’re shivering and nishimura riki’s smiling at you, gentle and fuzzy like he doesn’t know he’s warmed you up more than the sweet coffee the makeup artists offered you earlier in the morning.
and there was those evenings when the cameras rolled a little too far past schedule—the sun bleeding into your hair, golden, soaking your skin in something he can’t quite replicate with a script.
it’s exactly why director kim just tells him to go with his gut. there’s nothing that a script-writer could pen and flesh out that’ll capture the way nishimura riki looks into your eyes—the way his hands reach for the small of your back, pulling you into his faux fur winter coat—dropping his head into your neck, small pecks against your forehead before the scripted goodbye.
“goodnight, seri.”
and though he mutters an entirely different name, production (and literally the entire cast) knows just who he’s referring to.
─────────────────────────
WHEN DO YOU REALISE YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON YOUR CO-STAR?
it’s after episode four.
the restaurant is tiny with the smell of oil and salt clinging to the walls—a hum of conversation buzzes around you, soft enough that it feels like the world has paused or turned it’s volume down.
you’re both exhausted. makeup’s smudged in places you don’t, can’t even care about, and your clothes are sticking to skin from hours under studio lights. the day has been eighteen hours of lights, cameras, endless retakes, and you can feel every second of it pressing down.
especially now.
riki sits across from you, stirring his drink absentmindedly, eyes never leaving your face. he’s looking at the way you desperately slurp your noodles, almost snickering at how you don’t even take a second glance at him once your noodles arrived.
“you like it?”
you’re nothing like what you post on instagram. he knows because he checks it every few days, even if he’s not allowed to follow you.
“fuck, this is amazing,” you mumble between slurps, chopsticks moving at lightning speed as they meet your lips. “you should’ve brought me here sooner!”
riki smiles softly, cheeks turning a light pink—the steam and your pure hunger blinds you to it, though. thankfully.
he leans into the leather seat, the booth suddenly feeling a little too warm for his liking. he’s not sure if it’s just in his head or if it’s all you.
regardless, riki blames it on the way you’re laughing through your noodles—the way his ears automatically pick up on every huff and giggle of yours. it’s making him feel all fuzzy.
nishimura riki needs to be up at seven tomorrow. you do too. so why are you kicking each other’s feet under the table at two in the morning, in some random ramen place?
and then his phone dings—it’s a reminder for 5 hours from now, which is the time he has to be up and ready to go on his morning run.
he continues to watch your hands move, noodles slipping from your grasp, chopsticks wobbling clumsily between your fingers, and he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.
“you’re… fast,” he says quietly, voice soft, almost drowned out by the low hum of the restaurant.
you pause, mid-slurp, finally glancing up. “excuse me?”
your eyebrows raise, questioning, and he tilts his head. “fast eater,” he clarifies, chuckling under his breath. “hungry girl.”
heat crawls up your neck and spreads over your cheeks like spice powder. or maybe you’ve just put too much of it in your broth.
you’re not sure why this feeling in your stomach is specific to nishimura riki. you’ve heard of actors falling in love with each other—it’s what the crazy production schedules and close proximity does to you. the shared ambitions, the romance that they make you imitate on screen… it’s not special.
and yet.
there’s something in the way he says it. something in the soft lift of his lips, the warmth that flickers in his eyes, the patient way he watches you devour your noodles without a hint of judgment. not like the other co-stars, not like the crew, not like anyone who’s ever stared at you expecting a performance.
he sees you.
all of you.
and for the first time that week, maybe even that month, you feel… comfortable. like you could put down that annoyingly tight mask and not fear the world crumbling.
“full?” his eyes flicker momentarily to your emptying bowl, about three quarters done now. he takes another slow sip of his drink, his posture visibly relaxing at the warm liquid that glides down his throat.
“mhm,” you hum and then sigh, peering into your bowl to see a bowl licked clean of any soupy remains and lost noodles. “very.”
the warmth blooming in your chest feels more dizzying than the lack of sleep. your fingers place your chopsticks on your bowl, resting across it’s rim, chest still hammering like it wanted your heart out of it’s bony cage.
riki looks awfully casual, but his eyes never leave you. they glimmer in the warm light above your heads and the quiet focus in his gaze is intoxicating, like he’s taking you all in.
“what?” riki asks, not expecting any answer in particular; it’s more to tell you that he acknowledges the way you’re looking at him right now, and that he thinks it’s cute.
you can’t tell if it’s nerves, exhaustion, or something else entirely—all you know is that you want to keep looking back at him. over and over.
“do you always bring your coworkers out to dinner?”
riki chuckles, the blonde streak in his hair falling over his forehead. his nose scrunches as he laughs at your seemingly hilarious question—you can only stare blankly at him, anyway.
“hey,” you say, half-offended, half-curious. “it’s a valid question.”
riki shakes his head, still smiling. “no,” he says easily. “i don’t.”
you narrow your eyes at him. “so what, i’m special?”
it’s meant to be teasing, but he doesn’t answer immediately. the lag registers even in your extremely exhausted brain.
instead, riki’s just looking at you—strict, sharp eyebrows pinching in a way you’ve become familiar with. he does it when he’s not sure it what he’s going to say should even be said at all.
why is he looking at you like that, anyway?
“i just thought you’d like it,” he says finally, softer, like it doesn’t mean much. “you looked like you needed something real. that shit they were giving during filming had to be poison. even i couldn’t finish it.”
and it’s odd how true yet unequivocally false that reason is. yes, riki saw you visibly grimace at the thought of relying on energy drinks for fuel—and while he was also deathly worried that your heart might spontaneously combust, his reason for bringing you here is actually quite selfish.
he hates the way you act.
no; don’t get him wrong. he thinks you’re a brilliant actor. he’s watched every drama you’ve starred in as preparation for this one—he thinks the emotions you bring, the characters you wear, the words you spill are breathtaking. unmatched by anyone else.
correction: the acting he hates is the face you put on in front of everyone else, even if the cameras stop rolling.
the polite smile, the effortless charm, the perfectly curated instagram posts—he knows it’s a mask. he knows the real you is tucked somewhere under the exhaustion, the stubborn pride, the stress of everyone expecting you to be untouchable.
you falter. sometimes.
it’s in moments like when a shoot finally ends and your posture loosens, and immediately straightens again. or when you fall asleep on that grey couch in the makeup room, or when you think for a minute before declining a sweet treat from a staff member.
“you’re a little too observant for my liking,” you smile—and it’s like the world just stops for the man in front of you at a little flash of teeth.
“what kind of co-star would i be if i wasn’t?”
and maybe it’s the way the warm light hits his face. or it’s the faint scent of his cologne lingering, or the way his eyes crinkle when he actually smiles at you that gets your heart rate all sputtery and jumpy. you don’t really care.
your chest flutters, small and traitorous, and your fingers curl slightly into your palms—your nails sink into the flesh, like the pain is the only thing keeping you from leaning across the table and closing that distance.
“aren’t you scared someone’s gonna see us together?”
riki tilts his head, eyes catching yours with a faint gleam, like he’s intrigued that you’d even ask such a thing. “i know the owner. plus, even if someone did see us—i don’t think that’d be so bad.”
you let a short huff escape your nose, the sound barely registering above the hum of the restaurant, and you feel the heat creeping up your neck and to your ears.
it’s ridiculous. absurd, even. and yet you can’t deny the tiny pulse of thrill that runs through your chest. or maybe it’s just the tiny, demonic voices of your PR team telling you to get the hell out of there.
you glance down at your noodles, pretending to be distracted, but you’re acutely aware of him—the tilt of his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice, the fact that he sees you and doesn’t want to blink. just in case you’ll vanish.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
riki leans back slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and your stomach twists at the way it feels like he’s reading every thought you haven’t dared speak.
“meaaans,” he says slowly, lowering his head as if weighing the right words, “i am really good at handling PR matters. have you seen my insta—“
“riki!”
and then, you’re laughing in this tiny booth with him at two in the morning, acting like you’re anyone but the two people who have a week’s worth of activities crammed into a single day tomorrow—lips curling upwards, cheeks flushed in something unapologetically real.
but now riki’s looking at you with a calm so unfazed it makes you want to stop feeling altogether. the electricity in your veins is too loud, too sharp, and it makes zero sense—this isn’t supposed to happen now. it’s supposed to be that thick collection of paper that makes it romantic; the production. editing. soundtrack. where the hell are the cameras?
still, here he is, just sitting there. watching you like the world has narrowed down to this booth, this laugh, this stolen slice of time that he’s personally dragged you away for.
no slow love song. no slow motions or directed touches. just the two of you.
you can’t move, can’t look away, can’t do anything but feel it all.
has he always looked this good?
─────────────────────────
HE CALLS YOU CUTE IN THIS EPISODE.
seri is once again sacrificing precious hours of sleep to finish a dumb project with her involuntarily chosen partner—it’s two in the morning and he’s slumped over the coffee table, staring straight into her eyes, cheek smushed against his forearm as he counts the stars in her sparkly irises.
“i appreciate it, you know,” riki, or rather haruto, mumbles, and you almost snicker at the way the pen falls from between his fingers, spinning abruptly stopped. you’re not sure if that was part of his lines. “i was falling asleep in that lecture. i’m incredibly blessed to have you as my partner.”
“am i supposed to believe you?”
your pen scratches against the thick notebook paper, your mind scrambling to remember just what happens next—you’re doing great so far, writing everything the script had detailed, neatly, fitting everything into a single row. “anyway, this isn’t free, y’know. just cause you were sleeping, doesn’t mean i have to catch you up on everything.”
riki holds his knee close to his chest, tucked tight as his arm leans against the wood. he props his head up, lazily, like he was going to knock out cold any moment now.
the camera’s are panning towards him, close-ups, focusing on the way his eyes linger on your face. partially obscured by your hair, your irises peek through your locks, jumping around as you read the textbook that’s splayed open between the two of you. some random mathematical theorem nonsense the crew borrowed from a local library.
“oh?”
you know he’s watching. you know that this is what’s supposed to happen. you also know there’s at least thirty people watching you two do this—but that’s never been an issue. this is literally your job. you’ve been paid to do this for years, and so has riki; but it doesn’t make the pounding in your chest subside.
you’re about ten cues away from that damn line. you’re not sure why you’re counting, actually—you just know that it’s not out of your own volition.
you couldn’t help yourself when you saw it: riki’s line, a single, meaningless thing that was printed in thick ink on your scripts.
you had to restart with every run. you’d somehow jumble up all your words once you got to it. it is up to the heavens now that you remember all your lines, all your movements, all your memorised expressions once it happens.
“so, what do i owe you, my dear partner?” riki smiles, wide, easy. like he really means it—like the camera’s aren’t rolling right now, catching every faint glimmer in your eyes as you turn towards him, just as expected. your hair falls away from your face, your face glowing under the warm light cast overhead. “i think that this is enough. my presence is a gift.”
“you’re funny, haruto,” you scoff, and while it was truly humorous—enough for you to burst into a fit of laughter—you weren’t trying to film an entire scene again. your head turns back to your laptop, fingers mashing away, before you remember just what’s about to happen:
“and you’re. . .” he pauses. you wince. “cute. like, you know—”
cut!
the director’s voice slices through the set from behind the camera. he crosses his right leg over his left, a soft smile settling on his weathered face as he lets out a measured sigh.
there are two sides to the coin director kim seems to value so much: on one, the kind of electric chemistry you can’t manufacture between just any two co-leads; on the other, the inevitability that one of you will ruin a take the second the proximity gets too real.
riki bites down on his bottom lip, worrying the skin raw before squeezing his eyes shut, as if that might shield him from the camera crew’s stares—and from the co-stars lingering just beyond the set.
this is bad. humiliating, even.
it’s one line. one stupid line that a fifth grader in a school play could deliver without blinking, and he’s tripping over it like he only decided to become an actor yesterday.
what the hell is wrong with him?
he knows the line. he’s memorized the entire script front to back, could probably recite your dialogue along with his if someone shook him awake at three in the morning. this scene isn’t heavy. it isn’t layered with subtext or grief or some grand emotional crescendo.
“you okay?”
your voice brings him back to this plane of reality embarrassingly fast. he opens his eyes before laughing dryly, scratching at the back of his neck in an attempt to play it off.
“yeah,” he replies, “i’m good.”
your eyebrow lifts, unconvinced, but you don’t press. instead, you turn toward the crew clustered behind the cameras and lighting rigs. the set hums back to life—indistinct chatter, footsteps shuffling across the floor, the click of equipment being adjusted.
“i’m so sorry!” he calls out to the staff, bowing his head slightly. there’s a beat, then a ripple of easy laughter.
it’s your damn face that’s ruining his ability to act. it just brings him back to that night—the one where you had soup on your chin and a feverish hunger in your eyes, when your face was bare from makeup swiping micellar water all over your face after filming.
damn this stupid scene. damn your pretty, bare face that keeps stealing all his focus.
and damn his lack of discipline.
a few quiet minutes pass as everyone resets. light technicians adjust the angles overhead; the cinematographer reviews the last clip in low murmurs. cables are checked, marks retaped, continuity confirmed.
director kim straightens in his foldable chair, posture sharpening with renewed focus. he rubs his chin once, contemplative, then looks back toward the monitor.
riki leans lightly against the couch prop pressing against his back, waiting for the cue. he stares at nothing in particular, jaw strung tight, anything to negate your presence next to him.
he feels like a little kid next to his crush.
a makeup artist steps in to reapply balm to his lips—he’s chewed most of it off without realizing earlier.
“stop biting.” she mutters gently, disposable applicator dabbing away at his lips. her gaze is oddly judgmental, like she knows exactly what’s going on. is he being that obvious?
he gives her a sheepish nod. you can’t help but snicker at that—smiling at the way his ears flush a pretty peach hue when he realises you’re staring.
“can we test the mics one more time?” the sound engineer calls.
the boom dips. the red indicator light blinks on.
“haruto, give me a line, will you?”
riki swallows. “and you’re. . .” his voice catches for half a breath—his eyes flick up. it’s the wrong move. you’re still watching. “cute.”
it’s barely audible on their end. his mic must have shifted around while filming the previous scenes.
“have i lost my hearing?” the engineer frowns. “someone fix his mic—“
riki swallows, jaw tight, and instinctively fiddles with the collar where it—the mic—should’ve been sitting. it’s true it’s shifted, now upside down and barely clinging to the thin fabric inside his shirt, but he doesn’t exactly do a great job fixing it himself.
and you. being the angel you are, and maybe the devil whispering in his ear, step in.
“hold on,” you murmur, tugging the fabric aside and pressing the wire flat against his collarbone. your fingers brush his bare, warm skin for just a second, and he freezes while you readjust the audio device. “there. don’t move.”
nishimura riki thinks he’ll go into cardiac arrest—and while he is probably one of the best actors in the industry right now, most people on set could argue that there was nothing that could be done to hide the furious blush on his face… and the ways his eyes softened as your fingers grazed his skin.
he swallows trying to pull in a steadying breath, but his chest feels like it’s vibrating with a rhythm that doesn’t belong to his body. riki’s hands twitch at his sides, searching for something to direct his electrifying nerves to; the mic rests against his collarbone, perfectly adjusted thanks to you.
“thanks,” he mumbles when you pull away. you don’t reply, but the curl on the right corner of your lips speaks loud enough.
the crew murmurs while they adjust the lights, cameras, cables. it’s nothing to him, at least in this very moment—nishimura riki doesn’t notice when his name crackles through the earpiece, instead focusing on the odd suspension of time that floats around you: your eyelashes fluttering slowly, your movements that drag just behind everyone else’s.
“rolling!”
the red light flicks on.
it’s especially when the cameras start moving that he finds himself wishing—desperately—that there was a script for something like this.
─────────────────────────
THE MEDIA HAD IT’S FIELD DAY.
as usual.
it started small—harmless, almost predictable. every actor goes through this shit. it’s a promotional instagram story from riki: he always posts something from set. expensive sunglasses that he has no business wearing indoors. a blurry mirror selfie after hair and makeup, peace sign and all with a caption that means absolutely nothing.
you do the same. a quick snap in the dressing room mirror. a close-up of a prop you think is adorable. a behind-the-scenes shot of the couch from the confession scene. nothing incriminating. nothing meaningful.
and then the netizens begin.
they do their thing: zoom. crop. enhance. hell, there’s ship edits where you two aren’t even in the same frame.
it’s nothing you two aren’t used to. it’s never been new in this industry—you’ve lived through it all before, with different co-stars, different dramas, with less substantial “evidence”.
yet, with nishimura riki, you can barely keep it together.
it’s mostly because of the way you’re positioned conveniently in the corner of riki’s 19:6 story frame, half-hidden yet unmistakably you—with those winter boots and that painfully recognisable phonecase.
the way your laugh can be heard faintly in the background of one of his few stories.
the way your name somehow appears under almost every post he makes—tagged, mentioned, or simply standing two feet to his left.
but someone always has to notice the coffee, huh?
screenshots circulate within minutes. it’s two cups on the table. riki’s usual order written with his initials in black marker. and next to it, another cup with yours scribbled along the side.
next, someone replays that clip of him staring at you with a furious blush on his face—stunned, in all his glory, hands clawing at the fur carpet beneath you two like he needs something physical to remind himself this is real. it’s slowed down, zoomed in, sharpened to an almost criminal percentage. ‘so high school’ plays at half-volume over the edit, the chorus swelling right as your fingers brush his collarbone while fixing his mic, and the caption boldly justifies it by saying that co-stars don’t lose their voice over a simple, friendly interaction like that. be serious.
you tell yourself it’s ridiculous.
edits are manipulative by design. anyone can make a moment look bigger than it was.
still, you were there, and even without the slow motion or the corny music—you remember the way his breath hitched, the way nishimura riki’s throat bobbed before he forced out that soft, trembling “cute.”
watching it now, replayed for roughly 1.2 million people, your stomach does that same traitorous flip.
rikilover1234: does he know theres cameras
↳ jakrling127: i dont think he gaf tbh
it’s saturday. the episode aired five hours ago. you’ve been scrolling for two, refreshing your timeline like it personally owes you new information. every reload brings another slowed clip, another zoomed screenshot, another thread dissecting the exact millisecond his composure cracked.
it’s for a moment—just a fleeting, insignificant moment—you wonder if nishimura riki’s doing the same.
the thought lodges itself in your brain like a marble in a tin can, loud and impossible to ignore. is he seeing this? is he watching the same edits? does he know people are counting how many times he looked at you versus literally anythingelse in the room?
your thumb keeps swiping. your own face fills the screen again and again, interview snippets praising your performance, captions about how you “outdid yourself.”
yes! you should be focused on that.
and still, as if the fbi agent in your phone suddenly possessed mind-reading skills, your phone decided that riki’s clips need to keep slipping in between.
fans rambling about how different the atmosphere seemed when he was on set. how there was a glow on his face. how he wouldn’t stop smiling for nine out of ten minutes of the vlog. how he kept leaning toward you like you had your own orbit, and he was the moon.
someone stitches together every moment he laughs at something you say. another overlays heart graphics every time his eyes flick in your direction.
“my god,” you groan, feet kicking into the cushions on your sofa as you sink further in. a glass of wine sits on the edge of your glass table, still full from your distracted doomscroll.
it’s a past interview from when you first started filming together—around eight months ago. he’s wearing one of those expensive hoodies you can never pronounce, dark fabric swallowing his frame, sunglasses folded neatly on the table in front of him. the microphone looks obnoxiously huge against his face, headphones snug over his hair. it’s a radio show you’ve been on countless times before for different promotions.
the edit zooms mostly on him. the two hosts are cropped into smaller frames at the top so everyone stays visible. they bring you up, of course—how it’s like working with such a beloved actress, whether you’re still as kind and shy as you were during your first drama.
you snicker at your screen, cringing at the memory: you had been sweating bullets that day, barely able to form full sentences. absolutely stunned that anyone thought you deserved a talk show invite after one project.
“yeah! i remember she was stammering back then!” one of the hosts laughs, lighthearted.
and yet, riki doesn’t laugh with him.
he straightens instead, adjusts his posture. his hand slides off the table and folds neatly in his lap, like he’s bracing himself to answer something serious. the smile on his face softens—like he’s aware that they’re just teasing, and that he’s proud of the fact that if they saw you now, they’d never do it again.
he’s choosing his words.
“she’s amazing… incredibly talented. never worked with anyone like her,” nishimura riki replies, his voice crisp and clean through the obscenely expensive microphone pushed toward his mouth.
“i forget my words sometimes. everyone does,” he continues, fingers brushing the edge of the table before stilling. he tilts his head slightly, like he’s weighing whether he should say the next part at all.
he says it anyway.
“but when i look at her while filming, it all comes back to me. even if it’s not exactly the correct words, it just feels right.”
one of the hosts lets out a low, impressed hum. the other raises their brows, before looking towards the camera. “oh?”
riki only shrugs in response. like what he said wouldn’t fuel the endless ship edits to come in the months following.
and watching it now, eons later, you feel something shift uneasily in your chest—because at the time, you remember brushing it off, chalking it up to good media training. it’s co-star courtesy and polite admiration that was totally normal between two colleagues.
totally.
so why the hell are you blushing?
your nails clack against your screen as you click on the comments.
ericsohnsdirtysock: my parents… what do you mean it just feels right.?????
↳ xxjamesalphademoncoolxx: he is in love ill die on this y/nriki shaped hill
you laugh nervously, shaking your head. you bundle up into the woven blanket laid across your body, an odd idea considering the heat on your face just refuses to let up—perhaps it’s to hide your embarrassingly flushed face to whoever may be watching.
yes. it’s definitely that. your ancestors are shaking their heads, and you feel it.
your thumb moves almost without thinking. it’s a light tap: a stupidly, absurdly light amount of pressure that you think even an ant could outdo.
fuck.
the heart pops up anyway, and as fast as it does, your stomach plummets thirty floors down. splat, right on the concrete pavement below your complex.
your fingers freeze over your screen. your whole body has gone cold—this is catastrophic. an actress, liking a ship edit of her and her colleague. you might as well sign your contract termination.
oh, your agency is going to kill you.
─────────────────────────
IT’S NEARING MIDNIGHT.
the night is quiet, save for the steady rumble of riki’s car—he’s parked outside, not quite ready to roll into his garage just yet.
the gate to his house is tall in all it’s wooden glory. his house is humongous and dim from the lack of life in it, and he wonders for a moment if his dog is asleep yet, or waiting up for him. again.
still, he sinks further into the plush seat, pulling his phone out from his glovebox, refusing to let himself inside his own home.
the day had worn him out. endless shoots, modelling for brands that his manager insisted on promoting. it was five hours of posing with inconspicuous items that drained most of his energy, if tolerating that snobby photographer wasn’t the main cause.
well, at least the shots were good. nothing less expected from him.
the device feels heavy in his hands. it’s heavy, or perhaps he’s just too exhausted to be doing this. either way, it unlocks with one glance—and he’s opening instagram up.
his other hand runs through his hair. some of the gel from this morning sticks to his fingers, but all he can do is sigh and scroll, looking for nothing in particular (lie), typing no one’s name into the search bar (lie), and clicking on a very unfamiliar profile (lie).
who is he kidding?
it’s your post from the evening after your last dinner together. you’re holding a cup of coffee, sunlight spilling over your face, eyes crinkled in a laugh at something off-camera. the warmth of it makes his chest tighten, a quiet, familiar ache he’s been trying to ignore.
nishimura riki leans back in the seat, the leather pressing against him, and suddenly the exhaustion of the day feels almost inconsequential—all he can see is you.
the tilt of your head, the subtle way your fingers wrap around the cup, the ease of a laugh that he’s learnt to memorise the pitch of.
and the truth registers then: like the slow turn of a key in a lock, or something he’s been waiting to even think about when he’s not busy smiling for a camera.
riki’s been thinking about you all damn day—between flashes and camera clicks, posing for shots that demanded every ounce of energy he had.
it’s not the exhaustion that weighs on him.
no—it’s you. it’s all fucking you.
why isn’t he switching to his burner account is beyond him. he’s playing with fire as his thumb swipes mindlessly, each meeting of his finger with the screen a silent dare to his image.
he continues through the endless feed, fatigue pressing into his bones, when something sharp catches his eye: a post from one of those gossip pages.
it’s like there really are government agents in his phone. sunghoon will receive a call about this, he notes.
the thumbnail makes him pause. there it is—your name, your face, and the tiny heart you’d left on a fan edit, now blown up for anyone to see. the caption teases, something about “who’s really behind these likes?” and it’s simply ridiculous how he can’t help the rush of warmth that hits his cheeks.
a grown man, smiling at his screen in his car. his elderly neighbour is going to have a stroke.
and then he’s opening the comments, the air leaving his lungs instantaneously: the comments are vicious, casual in their cruelty, dissecting your actions, judging, speculating with what little they had. like usual.
he’s officially lost it.
nishimura riki is worried. for you. his co-star. his colleague.
the comments only get worse the more he scrolls. he knows this pattern like the back of his hand: he’s seen it before with other leads, people who could shrug it off, people who didn’t matter—people who he’s never thought twice about.
riki tenses up again, chest tight, fingers curling around the phone like he can hold onto you through it.
they know nothing about you. nothing about how kind you are when no one’s watching, how your shyness blooms around people who mean well, how your laugh—a little too loud by nature—can melt the tension on set faster than anyone else’s words ever could.
they don’t see how beautiful you are when the only light he can focus on is the soft glow in your eyes, or the warm yellow halo above your head. they don’t see the stubborn streak that keeps you moving forward when everything else tells you to turn back—nor the quiet, meticulous persistence that makes you fix every detail until it’s just right.
oh my god.
when did this even start?
perhaps the sweat on his palms is imaginary. his heart isn’t racing. he’s not biting back a smile while scrolling through your instagram again, and he’s definitely not replaying your highlights from when you were on vacation in japan—eyes zeroed on your adorable face, your laugh booming through the speakers as you fall backward into some random stretch of snow.
your arms are wide, moving up and down enthusiastically, like that was the entire point of the trip.
his jaw tightens.
the weather’s getting colder now. he wonders if you’re bundling up properly. if you remembered the thicker coat you always forget until someone reminds you, or if you’re in bed right now—tangled in too many blankets and sneezing into your sleeves because you refused to dry your hair completely. or maybe you’re by the window with a cup of tea, blowing gently across the rim before taking a careful sip.
nishimura riki shouldn’t want to know these things. shouldn’t think about them, shouldn’t care. shouldn’t even spare a single minute in his already insanely cramped schedule to have you running through his mind.
but he does care, and you do run through his mind. beautifully, might he add. he swears the image of you pops up in his head at least twice a day.
thrice, if he counts staring at your profile picture on his phone.
[NISHIMURA RIKI]: do you wanna get dinner tomorrow? after filming 23:58
[NISHIMURA RIKI]: ramen is good in this weather yknowww 23:59
the message looks deceptively casual, almost careless—like it didn’t take him five full minutes to decide whether or not to add the last sentence. he checks the time twice before sending it, as if the hour could reveal how much he’s been thinking about you.
the answer is all fucking day.
it’s this feeling that has him locked in his own car, clothes clinging to his skin, heart beating at the wrong pace, wrong rhythm.
riki drops his head back against the seat, staring at the dark ceiling of the car. the streetlight outside spills through the windshield in a muted gold, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his throat.
ramen is good in this weather.
is he in middle school? what the fuck kind of excuse is that?
─────────────────────────
RIKI LOVED THIS PLACE.
if the food didn’t do it for him, it was the atmosphere. the air barely shifts when he strolls in—that bell above his head rings, and all he gets is a ‘welcome back’ from the head chef through that tiny window in the kitchen.
some celebrities say their home is the only place they can truly strip themselves of the lies they’ve worn throughout the day; the mask cracks once they’re enveloped by their familiar abode.
for riki, it’s that tiny booth seat at the back of this restaurant that does him in.
the leather is cracked and slightly stained with god knows what—the wooden table is chipped at the edges from years of accidental elbow nudges, and riki swears he sweats a little when he sinks all the way into the corner seat.
it’s ridiculous that he keeps returning here despite it all. his friends dine at michelin, fine-dining restaurants with four figure courses, while he slurps noodles at the back of a hole-in-the-wall that reminds him of his hometown.
and it’s enough that the food is equivalent to a flight back home—but nobody here knows who he is, or knows enough to care. there was once the bartender asked him what he did for work and riki responded with ‘to look pretty’.
it’s an hour to midnight and the snow is unforgiving, thick flakes collecting on the shoulders of your coat before you can even brush them off. you were the one who brought it up—how you were so hungry and needed a proper meal before heading home.
filming had wrapped earlier than expected, and while a few eyebrows were raised at the way both you and riki declined the after-party beers a little too quickly, the part where you slipped away from the group was even quicker.
it’s harmless. just food. together. away from everyone else like it was a secret that needed to be kept.
still, you keep your head down as you walk, scarf pulled higher over your mouth. your breath fogs into the night air and riki’s eyes can’t help but to catch the way you scrunch your nose in the cold—his fingers twitch, involuntarily, when yours rub together.
the city feels quieter under snow, softer, less busy, as if to make room for the both of you.
riki’s a step behind you at first, hands tucked into his coat pockets, matching your pace without saying much. you can feel him there without looking—the familiarity of it settling into your bones in a way that’s become routine.
they’ve started saying ‘welcome back’ to you, too.
“you’re the one who said you were starving,” he says lightly, as you turn the corner. same teasing edge that still gets on your nerves, but never enough to bite back. “i can hear your stomach already.”
“i am,” you reply. “don’t act like you weren’t waiting for me to say it.”
a faint laugh escapes him, warm against the cold. “i didn’t confirm that.”
but he doesn’t deny it, either.
the bell above the restaurant door rings when nishimura riki pushes it open for you, and the warmth hits instantly: humid, fragrant, sesame oil wafting through the air like it was a signature smell. the chef calls out his usual greeting—now smiling at the both of you—and that small, strange feeling begins to swell in your chest. again.
that booth.
no one else has sat there since you two last came. it’s nice to know that this spot has only ever belonged to him, and then to you, and the two of you together.
like it remembers, like it’s been waiting for you just as much as you’ve been waiting for it.
“back again?” someone calls out from the kitchen, and riki only smiles in response before his fingers find yours. he leads you toward the table with an ease that feels practiced, your fingers hooked loosely around his as if they’ve always known where to settle. there’s no hesitation in his grip, no glance over his shoulder to check if you’re still there.
like this is normal.
you can tell yourself that it is. the way you instinctively say ‘hello’, or the way your feet move before your brain does—towards that same booth, seats practically sunken in from the weight of both of you pressing down from frequent late nights.
you can tell yourself that this is like any other place, any other restaurant, any other spot—but the truth lingers in the smallest behaviours: your finger brushing his when he makes you try his bowl, your hearty laugh when riki lets you in on an inside joke between him and the owner, or your eyes softening when he tells you that this is your place as much as it is his.
is it, though?
the thought lodges itself into your chest. it never leaves, not until your boots scrape against the concrete outside and you’re peering back in through the windows. your bowls are still there, uncleared, licked clean. as always.
you’re waiting for a taxi. he’s waiting for yours to pick you up, so he can call his own.
“did you mean to like it?”
you’re counting the slabs on the floor. contemplate about it’s arrangement like it’ll tell you what to say to him.
riki’s scarf is covering most of his face. his face is scrunched up, looking towards the road.
“it’s fucking hilarious,” he mutters. “what they’re saying about us.”
riki’s voice is quiet enough that it almost gets swallowed by the wind. you hear it all, anyway—can’t even pretend not to know what he’s talking about.
the snow crunches faintly beneath your boots as you shift your weight. your taxi hasn’t turned the corner yet. the streetlight casts him in this soft glow, diffused, bright enough to see the worry sown into his face.
“it was just a tap,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. “my thumb. it slips sometimes.”
“your thumb,” he repeats, like he’s testing the logic of it. it’s not like he could disprove it, anyway. “yeah, sure.”
you finally glance at him. he’s standing closer than necessary, hands tucked into his coat pockets again, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. snow gathers in his hair. he doesn’t brush it away.
“if it didn’t mean anything,” riki continues carefully, “you could just say that.”
there’s barely any accusation in the words he chooses—his voice low, calm, everything that you aren’t. you sniffle once, blinking slowly as you reconsider your options carefully:
one, you tell him that it didn’t mean anything, or
two, you don’t respond.
or three, you tell the truth—admit that you watched it through, thought about him, wondered if the algorithm had been cruel enough to place the same video on his feed. confess that you thought of him at all.
“it didn’t.”
the lie leaves too easily.
and it’s odd how quickly you wish you could take it back—the ache blooming in your chest almost instantly, your stomach sinking in a way only regret can trigger. you know exactly why you said it. you know exactly what you’re protecting.
isn’t this cruel?
the last time a rumor attached itself to your name, it took months to untangle. articles dissecting your expressions. fans choosing sides. strangers building narratives out of nothing.
but that’s just it—nishimura riki is far from nothing.
your mind goes back to him. always. and so do your eyes, when your head involuntarily (debatable) turns towards his direction—just for a second.
nishimura riki only stares on. silent as the howl of this cold city, sharp nose peeking over the fabric of his dark scarf. snow settles on his lashes and he blinks once, twice, brushing it away without lifting a hand.
“well,” he mumbles, but his voice is a little muffled from where you’re standing. “i’ll see you tomorrow, won’t i?”
he will.
the low hum of passing motorbikes and cars nearly swallows the faint unsteadiness in his voice. he’s trying to keep it normal, to let you retreat with dignity, to pretend tomorrow will reset whatever just shifted tonight.
“yeah.”
so, when your head ducks and the warmth of this unfamiliar car finally graces you, it feels less like relief and more like retreat.
“goodnight, y/n.”
the door shuts with a muted thud, sealing you off from the cold—and from him. the heater hums to life almost immediately, dry warmth brushing against your cheeks, thawing skin that had gone numb in the snow. you murmur the address to the driver with a voice steady enough, and sink back into the seat as the car pulls away from the curb.
and though you know not to look, you still do.
through the fogging window, you catch him still standing there, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. he hasn’t moved.
the streetlight halos him in something almost cinematic, snow drifting lazily around him as if the world has time has suspended itself around him.
your reflection overlays riki’s figure as the car turns, your face ghosting over his body until he disappears completely from view. for a brief second, the two of you exist in the same frame: superimposed and inseparable before the angle breaks, and he’s gone.
no one is watching. no one has their phone shoved in your face demanding answers you can’t even begin to formulate. no one is zooming in on the space between you and him, slowing it down frame by frame, building a narrative out of a glance.
no one knows about this—whatever this is.
the car glides past intersections glazed in white, streetlights streaking across the window in soft, passing lines. it would be so easy to keep it that way. to let this exist only in late-night restaurants and snow-muted sidewalks, in conversations that never leave the air between the two of you.
the night moves like a silent black and white movie. blurry, choppy, muted as you punch in the code to your door.
you shower, slip into pajamas, sink into bed, and scroll, landing on nishimura riki’s page. again.
his latest post was just two hours ago—uploaded while you were juggling ten million side dishes, chopsticks flying, noodles disappearing faster than you realized. the first photo is his dog, curled up in sunlight, then a few casual shots of his outfits, his breakfast, a cup of coffee steaming in the morning light.
and then, you.
the frame catches you mid-laugh on set, a streak of paint smeared across your cheek, sunlight glinting off your hair. your eyes crinkle at the corners, wide and carefree, probably a little too much so.
even through the chaos of crew members, lights, cameras, and cables, every pixel seems to pause on you. the focus is undeniable. the photographer had his intentions.
and you can almost hear the echo of laughter, the soft scrape of your sneakers against the studio floor, everything.
even the way riki’s heart skips a beat at the shutter click.
─────────────────────────
NISHIMURA RIKI DENIES LIKE HIS LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.
okay—maybe not his life. yours.
it’s mostly because he can already imagine it: the screenshots, the headlines, the instagram posts dissecting your accidental like like it was a signed confession. he can picture the way your smile would tighten along with the way your shoulders would lift defensively, the humiliation of being turned into a trending topic for something you didn’t even mean to do.
and the comments—the endless stream of slightly insane netizens making you seem like you’re delusional, crazy, desperate or all of the above.
riki hates it. he especially hates how he can’t reply to these comments themselves and tell them to run off the nearest cliff.
you see, usually, he’d mind his business. let agencies handle it. the managers can draft statements and spin barely believable narratives that won’t hurt as bad as those nasty comments.
after all, that’s what they’re paid for. he’s paid to act, promote, smile, and go home.
so why does it feel entirely different now?
riki’s sitting beside you in a brightly lit studio, ridiculous knit hat perched on his head because the segment demanded “fun accessories”.
the cameras are rolling, the host is laughing, and you’re holding a fairy wand with a plastic crown on your head. comments are streaming up the monitor like a waterfall of chaos, and he keeps looking at you—far more often than necessary.
you’re nervous. riki can see it even if you do it with your right hand instead of your left, further out of everyone’s sight. your fingers press into your thighs beneath the table, nails digging into fabric like you’re trying not to lose your composure at the 20th are-you-dating-eachother question.
your smile flickers half a second too late between questions. you nod a little too eagerly when the host jokes. you don’t do that thing where you clap or slam the table when something’s truly funny, riki notices, because nothing is truly worth the fake joy right now.
“sooo,” the host says brightly, glancing at the screen, “everyone wants to know—after that viral like—are you two actually together?”
and you grit your teeth because you just know from the way the crew behind set start to stare, just a little harder than before, that this is what it’s all been about.
you and riki received the invite on late-notice.
you should’ve known from the first question that this was another stupid interview that they’ll clip out of context, and soon after editing, be uploaded with an absurd thumbnail: faces cropped inches apart, added blush, a few added sweat effects.
oh, and the bold text in neon: CONFESSION?!
“uh…” riki mutters, eyes flickering towards you for just a moment—and it eats at you. the guilt of dragging him into this, the humiliation of him having to answer it at all; and even if he laughs it off, if he distances himself too clearly, if he makes it obvious this is ridiculous… everyone will see it.
riki straightens.
“no,” he says, firm. leaving no room for anyone to pry. “we’re not together.”
“we’re coworkers. we promote together. that’s it,” smiling politely, riki nods, eyes drifting towards you again. “the like was probably an accident. fans are creative.”
you forget you’re on camera. the fake smile you plaster on lags a little too obviously, and still—no one dares to push.
your nails dig into your thighs again under the table. you nod when the camera turns to you. “yes, it was nothing,” you add on, keeping your voice as even and unemotional as you can manage. “now, um—i just remembered my answer to the fifth question!”
nishimura riki knows when you’re acting, and he knows when you’re not. that’s the problem.
it’s months of standing inches apart under hot lights that trained him to catalogue you instinctively—the hitch in your breath before a line, the way your eyes can never stay on his when you’re lying about how much sleep you got, the way you overcompensate with cheerfulness when you’re getting yelled at by an assistant director.
he’s memorized you in ways scripts could never capture.
it’s all because of those late nights running scenes until sunrise, sharing a blanket when the outdoor shoot felt like a freezer. your fingers are threading through his during that confession scene in episode six and all riki can think about is how he wishes this was real—how he silently begs for everyone else to vanish.
or how he pleads, to no one in particular, that you’d be more than what a contract can outline.
though, right now, that’s all you are.
“oh my god,” riki exhales, a short, incredulous laugh slipping out before he can stop it. it isn’t mocking—it’s almost defensive. like he’s trying to shield you from how transparent this is.
he turns toward the host instead of you.
“she’s really competitive about those questions,” riki says lightly. a deliberate attempt at steering it away that just rubs salt in all your little papercuts. “if she thinks she got one wrong, she’ll think about it all day.”
the crew laughs, the host bites. the conversation swerves and riki never looks at you a second time.
─────────────────────────
IT’S JUST A KISS.
you’ve done it before—different co-stars, different sets, different plots with a different set of eyes glued onto you.
and still, the lights are glaring, the chatter is too loud, and the busy shuffle of shoes across the pavement is making you go crazy.
they’re still adjusting the lighting: warm, diffused, just enough to look real under the streetlamp. this corner of the park’s been closed off for filming, instead swarming with staff and management that have no business looking so stressed on a sunday night. air leaves you in a cold exhale, the vapour of your warm breath condensing in the chill.
riki’s sitting on a bench, sipping slowly from a coffee cup that’s become a signature now. there’s a few people talking to him—probably running through the scene again, due to the fact that he has way more lines than you this time—all while he nods, eyes fixated on the ground, or somewhere distant. you don’t know. you can barely see before makeup pulls at your hair.
you blink fast as you try to recalibrate. your reflection in the portable mirror feels foreign.
tonight, you are seri. you’ve always been seri.
and tonight, riki—or haruto—kisses you.
haruto marukami confesses his feelings to han seri after he breaks her heart.
in the script, he chooses ambition over love. he pushes seri away to protect her from the fallout of his scholarship scandal: coaches frown at missed routines, professors shake their heads at distracted focus, his discipline crumbling under the weight of his own heart.
he denies it when confronted—but everyone sees it.
how he wants you more than he wants that coveted spot in the rankings. how he wants you more than anything he could ever need from anyone and anything else.
it’s true—haruto never needed seri.
it’s just that tonight… when the script places seri’s teary face in front of him, haruto has to say what his heart begs him to.
“action!”
you step into the frame like this is who you are—it’s a little odd how you don’t have to try as hard to get the tears to flow. your boots scrape against the concrete, body moving, hitting every beat like this is choreography you’ve memorised to a T.
the cue comes.
riki steps closer, and even in character, the air between you feels thicker. it’s heavy, hanging with the weight of every emotion that seri and haruto’s shared, and even if none of it is real—your heart races and the tears prick your skin.
light snow falls on top of your heads. they fall on riki’s lashes, melting soon after, and he’s blinking like he’s unsure what this all means.
it’s just a kiss. a fake one. that’s what it means.
it’s his eyes that get you. thoughtful, like he can’t stand seeing you cry—they’re lingering, searching for something you’re not quite sure you can let be seen on camera.
you tilt your chin. your pulse is thudding hard, blood rushing everywhere; cars zoom past and the quiet sound of snow crunching underneath the tires makes none of this easier to avoid. you have nowhere to look except him.
every rustle of the crew behind the cameras fades. the world shrinks to the soft glow of the streetlamp and the space between your bodies.
his hand brushes yours—accidentally, or maybe not—before trailing up, fingers cupping your jaw with a softness that feels impossible on a set like this. riki holds you like you’re fragile porcelain, like any more pressure and you might shatter under his touch.
“pause… three, two.”
your breath catches, the countdown fading behind the rush of awareness, the tight coil of something electric between you.
“now.”
his lips press against yours. warmth blooms instantly, a fuzzy, dangerous sweetness crawling through your chest, sinking low into your stomach. it spreads, slow and intoxicating, like poison that seeps into every muscle until you’ve gone numb.
it’s technical. just a kiss. practiced and controlled like he’d run through it thousands of times before.
and then it isn’t.
there’s a tremor in his body, like his knees have just gone weak—it’s subtle when he shifts closer—he’s bringing your frame closer to his, desperate to hold onto you like this is the only time he, or you, won’t get punished for it.
nishimura riki’s hands move down: looping around your waist, keeping you flush against him—and no matter how much he fights to remember the next line and cue, he can’t seem to care.
your own fingers twitch, searching, remembering the last time you shared a touch that wasn’t under a lens. you’re not sure if this counts.
the director’s voice cuts through faintly in the distance, but it doesn’t reach you. the cameras, the lights, the crew—all of it melts away.
and when you pull slightly apart, the air between you is thick with something unspoken.
riki’s eyes meet yours: raw, slightly red from tears that he fought to keep in. your hands are trembling against his skin, and riki can feel every shaky breath that you try to draw.
“cut. fucking perfect.”
neither of you move.
“what are we doing?” riki whispers, low and hesitant, like any louder and he might lose control and take it all back.
your hands stay frozen against him, pulse hammering. your breath hitches, and you feel a lump in your throat beginning to clog every word you can think of saying.
“i don’t know.” you admit, the words bitter on your tongue, tangling with something raw and unspoken between you.
and you wish—desperately—that you could kiss him again. just for a second. without the cameras. without the crew. without every eye dissecting you like you’re a spectacle to be consumed.
without a care that the world is watching.
it feels insane. every celebrity craves that moment of security, that stolen privacy that never comes. you’ve always told yourself you’re the same—that you can navigate the glare, the gossip, the scrutiny.
and yet, here and now, in the middle of it all—you still want to be his. in front of the lights, the cameras, the industry that would personally strangle you both.
“okay.”
he pulls away—ten seconds too late. everyone behind set stares as if he’s lost his mind. his hands fall to his sides. a few steps back and he turns on his feet completely, muttering to the nearest staff member that he needs to get going. family emergency.
she looks at him like he’s gone crazy.
you’re left standing there, cold, the phantom heat of his body still pressing against yours.
“thank you for the hard work everyone,” director kim exclaims, and a burst of applause quick erupts in this corner of the park. “please rest well tonight!”
your eyes flick back to where riki had run off to. he’s nowhere to be seen: disappeared completely with the image of his back turned on you burned into your retinas, like a cruel joke.
it’s only when you get into your car that you realise his is already gone, and even later when you curl up into bed—waiting for a text that never comes.
─────────────────────────
THE WEEKS THAT PASS ARE BLURRY.
initially, filming was slightly less than torturous—everything remained the same, but the two of you never did. every tiny thing felt like it was nudged off its axis, subtle enough that no one else noticed, but sharp enough that you did.
you told this is how it has always been. that this is the chemistry everyone keeps praising in interviews, the spark directors lean forward for behind their monitors. this is what makes the acting believable.
your throat still tightened every time you saw him.
five weeks later and the lights tonight are dim, warm and yellow, softer than the harsh studio glare you’ve been used to the past few months. they cast you in something forgiving, highlighting the careful brushstrokes of makeup the staff spent an hour perfecting. bookcases line the walls, filled with worn spines and quiet color. the space is small. intimate. almost domestic.
when you walked in, you expected a full production: towering cameras, boom mics suspended overhead, assistants darting around with clipboards. you expected a host with a polished grin and rehearsed questions designed to bait headlines—to measure every word, to survive another week of clipped edits and trending speculation that had nothing meaningful to say.
instead, your shoes meet wooden floorboards. there’s a low table. three chairs. two cups of hot tea already waiting. your weight sinks into the chair, the tension in your spine already undoing itself at the lack of glaring lights and busy shuffle behind the cameras.
it’s like you’re the only people here.
the host greets you gently. her voice is steady, unhurried. her eyes don’t linger on you any longer than they do on riki.
“should we get started, then?”
riki sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. he doesn’t look nervous, god, he never does—but his ears perk at your voice, involuntarily attentive to the shift of your weight and the soft ruffle of your clothes against skin.
“please welcome our guests, everyone.”
the first few questions are easy. favorite scenes. hardest shoots. what you learned about yourselves during filming, and what you wish you could’ve redone.
riki’s leaning back into his chair, toying with a tiny dice between his fingers. he answers everything with ease, voice low and steady, that familiar depth settling into the room and making it feel smaller than it is. you can already picture the comments that will flood in later:
how good he looks tonight.
how much quieter he seems when he’s seated next to you.
how his gaze softens every time you start speaking.
how he looks at you like you’ve strung the constellations into place yourself and decided, just for him, to let the world keep spinning.
you try not to look back at him for too long. the camera may be discreet, the setting intimate—but you’re not naive. angles can be manipulated. expressions can still be slowed down. meaning can still be assigned where you never meant to leave it, or where you never intended to reveal.
so you focus on the tea in your hands instead, on the warmth seeping into your palms, on the steady cadence of nishimura riki’s voice as the host nods along to his answers. but even without turning, you hear it—the soft hitch of his breath when you say his name again, and again, and again.
“so,” she speaks. her voice is crisp and clear in the way all talk show hosts somehow are. “how do you both feel, now that it’s over? haruto and seri got their happy ending, but what about you?”
riki’s leg stops bouncing mindlessly on the floor.
“the media’s been talking a lot about your dynamic,” she says gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. “i’ve seen it for myself. what you two have is truly beautiful. i mean, every scene feels like we’re right there witnessing something real. do you think it’ll be difficult to manage after it’s all said and done?”
her hands settle quietly in her lap, a soft, knowing smile resting on her face as she clarifies what she means—though she doesn’t really need to. you and the man beside you understand perfectly.
it’s hard not to, after all this time.
chemistry is a funny thing. it doesn’t announce itself when it arrives. it doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in. it seeps—into glances that last a second too long, into laughter that feels too easy, into silences that don’t need filling.
and most of all, it bleeds.
bleeds, into rehearsals and interviews and late-night dinners, into the spaces between scripted lines until you can’t quite remember which moments were written and which ones weren’t.
it bleeds into your veins when you touch him—when director kim calls “cut” and neither of you pull away just yet, suspended in that fragile space between performance and something almost instinctual.
it bleeds into the way he says your name off-camera, softer than necessary, like it belongs somewhere closer to his chest than paper. like it belongs on his lips.
and now, under these warm yellow lights, with the host waiting patiently and the microphones catching every hesitant, heavy breath: you wonder if it’s bleeding here too.
your shoulders angle toward him without thinking, and the quiet steadiness in his gaze lingers on his hands just before he turns to look at you before answering. just to make sure you’re okay with this, as if the question isn’t something he’s perfectly capable of responding to alone.
riki shifts slightly beside you, the faint sound of the dice clicking once against the wooden table before going still in his palm. when he finally speaks, his voice is even, hushed.
“well,” riki starts, then stops, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly like he’s reconsidering how honest he’s allowed to be. he looks past the cameras, past the glass and into the eyes of the recording crew. “i think we’ll just have to live with it. it’s been an honour to work with someone like her—and i agree, i don’t think i’ve ever felt such excitement for a project before.”
he breathes. draws in a long, full breath like everything he’s saying costs something. “but most times, it’s never just about the project.”
the room stills.
“i’ve worked on good scripts before. i’ve had great co-stars. but . . .”
your throat tightens.
“she challenges me,” riki says more quietly. “she notices things. cares about details no one else pays attention to—and when you work that closely with someone, and you spend that many hours together, it’s hard not to let that affect you.”
you chew at your cheek as if that’d somehow bring some answers to the questions swirling in your mind.
“it’s been wonderful,” you finally exhale, eyes tracing the suddenly interesting wood patterns on the coffee table in front of you. “anyone who works with him is extremely lucky. it’d be hard for me to forget all the memories.”
the look he gives you is what you’d imagine a hole in the heart would feel like. eyes soft, glistening, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly; refusing to speak up as if he knows that’ll only bury you both six feet deeper.
the rest of the show passes on in a blur of tears that refuse to fall, accompanied by the pounding of your heart in your ears—it’s all you can feel.
it’s when the cameras finally stop rolling and the host’s voice fading into polite chatter that you sit back. your hands are resting limply in your lap, and the realization washes over you that the room feels impossibly still.
riki doesn’t move either; he just watches, quiet, every unspoken word hanging heavy between you. outside, the city carries on, oblivious to what’s happening in this tiny studio—but you know. he knows.
here, in this moment, you know you love nishimura riki.
and he knows he loves you, too.
“thank you for today!”
it’s after the lights finally dim and the ‘on-air’ finally shuts off that riki starts packing his belongings and notes into his bag, folding them with methodical care. he glances up at you without much thought, voice casual as you’re putting your coat back on. “you hungry?”
you hesitate, caught off guard by how ordinary the question feels after everything that’s just passed. even so, the answer slips out before you can stop it.
“i am.”
─────────────────────────
THE RESTAURANT IS QUIETER THAN USUAL.
not empty, but rather muted. the dinner rush has passed, leaving behind the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of ceramic against wood. the windows are fogged slightly from the warmth inside, blurring the city lights into soft halos. your eyes extend past the glass and melted-snow-turned-water-droplets, following the crowd of people that refuse to shop during the day.
your gaze lingers on a couple: their fingers are intertwined, and the woman holds a cup of coffee that looks like it’s made with more milk than anything caffeinated. the man next to her holds her purse. she talks his ears off, and he just smiles, listening.
“you okay?”
nishimura riki’s voice makes you jolt. when your head finally turns in his direction, you realise both of you have barely eaten anything out of your bowls.
he looks good tonight, like he always does—infuriatingly so. his hair falls in soft, deliberate strands against his forehead, those black-rimmed glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose. hoodie hanging loose at the collar, secured with small safety pins that glint faintly under the overhead light, the fabric bunching around his neck.
riki’s collarbone catches the yellow glow in sharp relief, broad shoulders sinking back against the cracked leather booth like he’s always belonged there. like you’ve always been meant to sit across from him, watching.
“yeah.”
it’s automatic.
he studies you for half a second longer than necessary before finally picking up his chopsticks at your reassurance—however unconvincing it sounds.
the restaurant feels altered tonight. like it just knows. there’s no music humming through the speakers, no usual crowd filling the corners with noise—even the kitchen sounds muted, distant. the absence of it all only sharpens everything else: the soft drag of ceramic against wood, the faint rustle of his sleeve when he moves, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
in the same way, you’re certain—certain that he can see the way you refuse to meet his eyes and settle for peeks through your eyelashes.
“how have you been?” riki asks, gentle as ever, the sound of his chopsticks clanging against the bowl being the only thing you hear under his voice.
filming ended weeks ago.
it shouldn’t feel like you’ve crossed timelines just to sit across from him again.
“busy,” you answer, twirling noodles you don’t eat. “interviews, some brand meetings. i flew back for a few days.”
riki exhales softly, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. he remembers seeing it on his timeline—purposeful or accidental, he doesn’t know. “i know.”
your head lifts slightly at the offhand way he says it.
“you posted,” riki clarifies, offering a faint shrug—as though it was only incidental, like he hadn’t noticed the exact time it went up. “i saw.”
a quiet thought settles in before you can brush it aside: is this what the two of you are going to be now?
without shared call times and cramped dressing rooms and the convenience of always existing in the same frame—will it just be this?
nishimura riki, keeping up with you the way everyone else does: through posts, through highlights looping endlessly, through moments edited for millions?
will he have to watch you?
across the table, riki finds his mind unravelling in a similar fashion—because how is he supposed to reduce you to something public, when he’s already known you in private? he’s seen the unguarded pauses between takes, the way your expression shifts when you’re concentrating, the small habits no camera has ever captured.
how does he rewrite all of that?
“right,” you say, the word softer than you intend.
a beat passes. the steam between you thins, curling, fading into the warm air above the table.
“you?” you ask, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his.
he holds your gaze for a fraction longer than necessary before leaning back slightly, fingers tapping once against the side of his bowl.
“same,” he says. “work. meetings. a lot more work.”
you hum, unconvinced. “that’s it?”
riki’s smiling at you like you’ve been caught in a lie. “what were you expecting?”
“i don’t know.” you twirl your chopsticks through broth that’s starting to get cold. “something more specific.”
“like?”
like do you think about me, or do you check my page before bed?
like, do you miss it?
alas—you don’t say any of it. you know it’ll only lead to answers that you can’t stomach.
“are you sleeping well?” you settle on instead.
riki’s brow lifts slightly, fingers feeding a tiny piece of seaweed into his mouth. “i sleep.”
“that’s not what i meant, riki.”
“i know.”
the words eat away at you.
he shifts forward again, forearms resting on the table now. close enough to watch the faint crease of worry in your expression.
“i’ve been fine,” riki continues, voice a little more firm if only for the sake of reassuring you—still, there’s something restrained about it. “just adjusting.”
you sigh, finally accepting his answer, though your curiosity doesn’t fail to peek through. “to?”
“not seeing you every day,” riki mumbles, gaze fixed somewhere between the table and your untouched bowl. “i miss it.”
the words don’t echo, but they might as well.
the restaurant is almost empty now. it’s strange—barely midnight, and yet the place feels like it’s already folding in on itself. chairs scrape softly against the floor in the distance. dishes rattle faintly in the kitchen, out of sight, detached from whatever is happening in this booth.
for a split second, you wish you were one of them.
a plate. a bowl. a cup. something ceramic and uncomplicated and non-sentient, able to exist in the same space as him without having to interpret the weight of his voice.
or a tree outside the window—rooted, steady, immune to the way your pulse keeps climbing higher with every passing second. just missing a pulse at all.
or, maybe, that couple from earlier.
you’d be clinging to riki’s arm, laughing because the heels you insisted on wearing don’t quite fit right. you’d stumble, and he’d steady you without thinking. it would be easy. instinctive. unquestioned, missing a million different cameras behind you.
“i miss it too.”
i miss you, you think.
─────────────────────────
THE BILL COMES. neither of you reach for it at the same time this time—there’s an absence of playful bickering and forced normalcy. after a long meal, you both managed to finish up your food, though under much quieter circumstances.
the restaurant door swings open and the cold greets you instantly, sharper than you expected. your breath fogs in front of you. the pavement is still damp from melted snow, reflecting the streetlights in fractured gold streaks—nishimura riki’s fingers twitch as he walks next to you, your pinky brushing against his as you make way for the passerby’s walking in the opposite direction.
it’s a short walk to where your taxi pick-up location is set. your boots scrape against the wet concrete, the dull clunk of its heel the only thing you hear, accompanied by the soft, steady thud of riki’s shoes just behind you.
it’s still snowing. fine flakes drift in the air and disappear the moment they touch the ground.
it’s been a few weeks since you were last here. back then, you ran—or drove away, to be more specific. you remember it all, though it serves no real purpose, because it’s all in the past and nothing can be done now; not when production has wrapped and there’s no real reason to mend, sew, or stitch things back up.
your feet stop at the pick-up point. a bright red pin signals that the driver is ten minutes away.
ten minutes.
you half-expect nishimura to turn on his heel and make his own way home. it would be much easier, cleaner—it would be an unspoken understanding that this was just dinner, and that this is where the night, or you, end.
but you know him, don’t you?
always known him to stay, that is.
the ice-cold air of tonight freezes your lungs—or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s standing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, silent in a way that feels heavier than anything he’s said all evening.
unbeknownst to you, riki is fighting every instinct in him to reach for your hand: to lace his fingers through yours in front of the handful of strangers passing by, to stop pretending this is something casual and temporary. he wants everyone to see that this is how he feels, and god, it can’t change. no matter how much he’s tried.
“ten minutes?” riki asks, glancing over at your screen. his hands stay tucked into the pockets of his brown coat, scarf pulled high enough to cover half his face.
you nod.
ever since the last episode aired, his followers have almost doubled. the numbers climb in ways neither of you can really control anymore. the scarf does its job for you too—hiding, shielding—but it only adds to the distance.
you can’t help but wonder what he looks like right now.
is he biting the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s thinking too hard?
are his lips pursed into that smile you’ve started to forget?
“you should be heading home too,” you mumble, fingers gripping tighter at your cell. anything to anchor yourself to this moment. “it’s getting late.”
your gaze drifts across the street as the last word slips off your tongue.
two high school students cut through the crowd. the boy looks uncannily like nishimura—dark hair, tall frame, that same absentminded way of walking like the world will move around him. the girl trails half a step behind, fingers hooked into the strap of his bag as they navigate the pavement together.
she trips over a half-hidden tree branch, and he turns immediately.
nishimura riki definitely has his ways of bleeding into your life—even in the form of parallels and what-if’s and should’ve, could’ve, would’ves that won’t leave you alone.
“i really did miss you,” riki says, voice laced with exhaustion—like he’s been carrying the sentence around for weeks, weighing it, rehearsing it, nearly swallowing it down a dozen times before deciding he’d hate himself if he didn’t let it out. “y/n.”
if this is the last time, he can’t let you go like this.
you bite your bottom lip hard enough that the skin breaks before you draw a breath. “i really missed you too.”
cars honk. life moves past you like it’s in a sped-up timelapse, and nishimura and you are the only ones moving in slow motion. the lights are blaring and you can’t help but squint at the vehicles that pass by you two. the soft crunch of ice under the wheels pull you out of it, if only for a moment.
snow gathers briefly on his lashes before melting away. riki exhales slowly, like he’s about to say something reckless—in which he is. very, very reckless.
“remember that time someone asked us if we’d ever date each other?” riki breathes, voice as gentle as the day you met him. he used to bow so low just upon seeing your face.
but now, he just smiles.
your heart stumbles. you remember: the press junket, the flashing cameras, the way you’d both laughed it off like it was the most absurd thing in the world—and to be fairly honest, it was.
“we said no,” you murmur.
“we said it’d ruin the dynamic,” he adds. a faint, self-aware huff leaves him. “that we were just friends. that it’d be unprofessional.”
snow lands on the edge of his scarf. he doesn’t notice, and even if he does, riki only stares on—into the road, at the passing cars that have no idea what his heart is spilling.
“i answered it like it was hypothetical,” he continues, eyes steady on yours. “like it wasn’t something i’d already thought about.”
“but, y/n,” riki pauses before turning to look at you. you don’t realise that you’ve been staring at him, all this time—from the faint glimmer in his eyes and the reflection of seoul’s lights in them, to the sharp bridge of his nose. “i thought about it. i’ve thought about it so much that it’s driven me fucking crazy.”
you swallow. “riki—“
“i wonder if you’re doing okay when i can’t see you,” his voice shakes. “i know i’m being selfish.”
nishimura riki is not exactly sure when he’d fallen so hard. episode one, episode four, episode ten or sixteen—god, it doesn’t matter anymore—he just knows that he can’t crawl back from this, from you, from all the feelings you’ve dug up and run away from.
he’s spent majority of his life under these lights, in this world that’s been so cruel and utterly exhausting to move through—it’s only when you walk in, with bright eyes and hair so perfect it makes him stop breathing—that he finally understands that this normalcy is what he’s been chasing.
and for the very first time in years, what nishimura riki wants isn’t big, or shiny, or polished to perfection with his name inscribed in it.
it’s this.
standing in the cold, waiting for a taxi, worrying about whether you’re warm enough, or anticipating your order because you never stray from what you’re familiar with.
it’s walking someone home. it’s slowing his pace so they don’t stumble, and it’s memorising the way they take their coffee—it’s making sure they’re eating well. it’s making sure they’re sleeping.
it’s you.
“fuck,” he curses, muffled through the woven red fabric. “even now, i don’t care if someone sees us. i don’t care about it at all.”
“ki.” your brows pull together, and this time you don’t miss it—the unmistakable shine at his waterline, the way his lashes clump slightly from the cold and something heavier than snow. “why are you crying?”
and it’s almost instinctual—the way you turn fully toward him, closing the distance without hesitation. your hands come up to his face like they remember the shape of it on their own. your thumb brushes over the small mole beneath his left eye.
his cheeks are warm despite the cold around you.
“tell me you’ll run away again,” his voice breaks under your touch, and your thumb wipes away a tear that slides down his cheek. “tell me that this was just dinner, and i’m just your co-star. tell me that you can’t—“
the weight of your hands resting against his scarf make the fabric sink down. it falls under his chin, tucked under the sharp turn of his jawline, his full face now illuminated by the dim saturday moon.
his breath shudders against your wrist, turning to vapour in the cold—thin, fractured clouds that disappear almost as quickly as they form. he leans into your touch without thinking, like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the wet ground.
“i can’t do this again.”
it took you a little over sixteen episodes to get you here.
sixteen episodes of scripted longing and controlled proximity. sixteen episodes of pretending that the way your heart reacted to nishimura riki was temporary—occupational hazard, emotional bleed-through, something that would dissolve once the cameras stopped.
it did not dissolve.
if anything, it rooted deeper.
you can’t move on from him. not in the clean, professional way you told yourself you would.
and judging by the way he’s trembling under your hands, neither can he.
it’s cold. it’s so, so cold, and your feet hurt from standing so long in these ridiculously expensive yet uncomfortable boots. your scarf itches against your skin, you think, but it’s only an excuse for you to pull it downwards.
the wind brushes against your lips.
“i love you, ki.”
the world seems quieter. it always seems that way when you’re this close to him, noses touching, leaning in to feel your lips press together—and it has yet to sink in that anyone and everyone could snap a picture, and it’d be a media disaster.
it’s unfortunate that you don’t care anymore.
nishimura riki’s hands find your waist without much thought. you’re rising to your tiptoes, chest flush against his as he pulls you in to fill space that doesn’t exist; desperate, like he’s finally found his salvation.
you fit perfectly against him, he notices. it’s not something he wanted to ponder on, in case he sent himself into some crazy, delusional chain of thought that encouraged his already lovesick brain.
but god—you’re made for him.
your height against his chest. your hands fisted into his coat. the way your breath syncs with his after only a few seconds. a little bit like inevitability.
“say it again,” he mumbles between kisses, breath warm and uneven against your lips. his voice is hoarse now, stripped of all composure. his fingers tighten at your waist the longer you hesitate, desperate to hear it one more time. “please.”
you almost laugh through the tears still clinging to your lashes.
“i love you.”
your phone vibrates in the back pocket of your jeans. you forgot when you even shoved it in there, but you don’t bother to reach for it—he could appear in two seconds for all you care. you’d still choose this.
“i love you, too,” riki whispers back.
you’re not sure when you fell this hard.
his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing faintly as the snow continues to fall around you. riki’s grip loosens only slightly, enough to trace his thumb along your side like he’s memorising the shape of you there. as if he doesn’t already know it just by breathing this close to you.
you’re not sure when you fell this hard.
maybe it was gradual. it was definitely inevitable.
or perhaps, it was the first time he turned back to make sure you were okay.
but it’s after a little confrontation and a lot of running—sixteen episodes and five weeks later that you know this for certain:
☆ RIKI WHO BARELY FITS (but god, he wants to make it perfect for you) ౨
inspiration from @ellsblue! <3 ty queen
The fairy lights you strung up last week twinkle softly across the ceiling, turning the whole room into a cozy little bubble. Riki’s got you tucked under him like you’re his favorite secret, his long arms caging you in without ever making you feel trapped. He’s already spent forever kissing every inch of you, neck, shoulders, the ticklish spot under your ribs, until you were squirming and laughing into his mouth.
Now he’s settled between your thighs, eyes sparkling with that boyish excitement he gets whenever you let him take care of you like this. His tip is nudging right there, warm and insistent, but he hasn’t pushed in yet. Just rocking the smallest little motions, letting you feel how thick he is without overwhelming.
“Still my brave girl?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back with the softest touch. His voice is all honey, low and fond.
You nod, biting your lip, cheeks already pink. “Mhm… but you’re—” Another tiny rock and you gasp, fingers curling into his shoulders. “Really big, Riki.”
He chuckles quietly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leans down to peck the tip of your nose. “I know, angel. We’ve got all night though. No rush.” His hand slips down, fingers finding your clit with that perfect, lazy circling he knows makes your toes curl. “Just wanna feel you relax around me first. Can you do that for me?”
The gentle pressure has you melting almost instantly, little sighs slipping out as your hips shift toward his hand. “Feels… nice,” you whisper, voice all shaky and sweet.
“Yeah?” He kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “You’re so cute when you get like this. All soft and whiny for me.” Another slow circle, and your back arches just a bit, he groans softly at how your walls flutter against his tip. “There we go… let me in a little more, baby?”
You nod again, breath hitching as he eases forward, barely an inch, but enough to make your eyes widen and a tiny “oh—” tumble out.
He stills right away, thumb never stopping its soothing rhythm. “Okay? Talk to me, pretty.”
“S’okay… just, full already,” you whimper, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips because even the stretch feels good wrapped in all his care.
Riki’s grin is pure sunshine. “You’re adorable. Look at you, taking me so sweetly.” He dips to kiss you properly this time, slow, deep, tongues lazy like he’s savoring every second. While your mouth is busy with his, he sinks in another careful inch, swallowing the high-pitched whine you let out.
When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are dark with adoration. “Can feel you squeezing… so warm, baby. My favorite place.” His free hand cradles your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “You’re doing amazing. Tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
“More,” you breathe, surprising even yourself. Your legs wrap a little tighter around his waist, pulling him closer on instinct. “Please… wanna feel all of you.”
He exhales shakily, like your words just punched the air out of him. “God, you’re gonna kill me saying stuff like that.” But he listens, slow, steady rolls of his hips, feeding you more inch by inch until he’s buried as deep as your body will let him go right now. The snug fit has you both moaning in unison, yours high and needy, his low and wrecked.
“Fuck… baby, look—” He guides your hand to your lower tummy, pressing gently so you can feel the faint swell. “That’s me. All inside my cute little girlfriend.” His voice cracks with how much he loves it.
You whine louder, squirming happily under him. “Riki… s’deep… feels so good…”
“Yeah?” He starts the tiniest thrusts, barely moving, just enough to drag against every sensitive spot. “Like having me stretch you out like this?” Every roll pulls another sweet, whimpery sound from you, and he can’t stop smiling against your neck. “Love those noises. So pretty when you’re all whiny and happy.”
Your nails skim down his back, not scratching, just holding on as the pleasure builds slow and syrupy. “Closer… want you closer,” you plead, voice tiny.
He shifts immediately, dropping his full weight onto you (carefully, always carefully), chest to chest, foreheads touching. His thrusts stay gentle but deeper now, hips grinding in lazy circles that make stars burst behind your eyes. “Right here, angel. Not going anywhere.”
The rhythm picks up just enough, still sweet, still controlled, but hitting perfect every time. Your moans turn into breathy little chants of his name, thighs shaking, and he’s right there cooing in your ear: “That’s it… my good girl… feel how much I love being inside you?”
When you start fluttering hard around him, he slips a hand between you again, rubbing quick, light circles over your clit. “Come whenever you want, baby. Wanna feel you—”
You do, hard, back bowing, broken whimpers spilling out as you pulse and clench. He follows seconds later with a long, shuddering groan, hips stuttering deep as he fills you up, whispering your name over and over like it’s the only word he remembers.
He doesn’t move for the longest time after, just stays buried inside, kissing your damp forehead, your cheeks, your lips, soft, endless little pecks. “You okay, my everything?” he murmurs eventually, voice all soft and sleepy.
You hum happily, nuzzling into his chest. “Better than okay… you made it perfect.”
He laughs quietly, arms tightening like he’ll never let go. “Good. ‘Cause I’m never letting anyone else make you feel like this.” A kiss to your hair. “Only me, yeah? My adorable baby.”
(And when you finally drift off later, tangled in each other under the fairy lights, he’s still tracing lazy hearts on your back, smiling to himself because nothing in the world feels as right as you wrapped around him like this.)
pussyobsessed!riki who leaves you with a dark pink, raw pussy almost every night.
pussyobsessed!riki who has to be banned every few days from touching, licking, or fucking you. he literally cannot stay away from how warm and wet your folds are otherwise.
pussyobsessed!riki who doesn’t even try to make you cum half of the time. he’s just touching to touch.
pussyobsessed!riki who will have his fingers knuckle deep into your pussy, lazily pumping them in and out while watching a movie. definitely the type to laugh at you when you manage to cum, despite how slow he’s going.
pussyobsessed!riki who LOVES cockwarming. nothing makes him happier than waking up to the warm comfort of you around him.
pussyobsessed!riki who is a certified munch. he’ll wake you up with his head in between your legs. he’ll eat you out from behind after bending you over the kitchen counter. he’ll even lay on the damn floor and won’t get up until you sit on his face.
pussyobsessed!riki who’s obsessed with trying different positions. he wants your pussy from every angle possible.
pussyobsessed!riki who’s worst nightmare is your period. well, was. now he fucks you whether your bleeding or not.
pussyobsessed!riki who your clit HATES to see coming. his hand is literally rubbing on her 90% of the time you’re with him. even casually in the middle of a conversation, his hand will sneak under the waistline of your panties, gently rub onto your folds, and start circling around your clit. all while laughing casually about whatever the two of you are talking about.
pussyobsessed!riki who gets put on pussy ban whenever he overstimulates you to the point where it genuinely hurts the next day.
pussyobsessed!riki who had gotten SO good at aftercare. he’s become completely in tune with what your body needs and how to make you feel as loved as possible. definitely carries you to the bathroom so you can pee (PLEASE PEE AFTER SEX THE UTI IS NOT WORTH IT), orders food, and puts on a movie to help you fall asleep.
pussyobsessed!riki who leaves you with a dark pink, raw pussy almost every night.
pussyobsessed!riki who has to be banned every few days from touching, licking, or fucking you. he literally cannot stay away from how warm and wet your folds are otherwise.
pussyobsessed!riki who doesn’t even try to make you cum half of the time. he’s just touching to touch.
pussyobsessed!riki who will have his fingers knuckle deep into your pussy, lazily pumping them in and out while watching a movie. definitely the type to laugh at you when you manage to cum, despite how slow he’s going.
pussyobsessed!riki who LOVES cockwarming. nothing makes him happier than waking up to the warm comfort of you around him.
pussyobsessed!riki who is a certified munch. he’ll wake you up with his head in between your legs. he’ll eat you out from behind after bending you over the kitchen counter. he’ll even lay on the damn floor and won’t get up until you sit on his face.
pussyobsessed!riki who’s obsessed with trying different positions. he wants your pussy from every angle possible.
pussyobsessed!riki who’s worst nightmare is your period. well, was. now he fucks you whether your bleeding or not.
pussyobsessed!riki who your clit HATES to see coming. his hand is literally rubbing on her 90% of the time you’re with him. even casually in the middle of a conversation, his hand will sneak under the waistline of your panties, gently rub onto your folds, and start circling around your clit. all while laughing casually about whatever the two of you are talking about.
pussyobsessed!riki who gets put on pussy ban whenever he overstimulates you to the point where it genuinely hurts the next day.
pussyobsessed!riki who has gotten SO good at aftercare. he’s become completely in tune with what your body needs and how to make you feel as loved as possible. definitely carries you to the bathroom so you can pee (PLEASE PEE AFTER SEX THE UTI IS NOT WORTH IT), orders food, and puts on a movie to help you fall asleep.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who couldn’t believe you agreed to go on a date with him so he makes an extra amount of effort to make the date perfect. he’s stalking all of your social media accounts to find what kind of food you like, he’s overthinking his outfit, getting ready 2 hours in advance, etc.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who picks you up with a shy smile and roses in his passenger’s seat. he settles for a simple arcade date with dinner after because he kept overthinking it.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who makes you ugly laugh after he gets over his shyness. you discover that once he’s comfortable, jungwon can be a little too charming. if you struggle at a certain game machine, he’s coming up right behind you and putting his hands over yours to help you win.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who gets extremely flirty once he realizes your biting your lip and tightening your grip on your purse every time he stands too close. and now all of a sudden he’s standing to your side with no space between you, his hand on the small of your back.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who leans down and pulls you into his chest whenever you need to tell him something. is it completely unnecessary? yes. is it hot as fuck? yes.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who you never even got to have a dinner date with because you couldn’t help but straddle him as soon as you two got into his car.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who thought he’d be too shy to even kiss you tonight, has you spread open in his passenger’s seat with his head between your thighs.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who was acting like such a gentleman at the arcade, is now giving light smacks to your pussy and whispering about how badly he’s wanted to fuck you since the both of you first met.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who takes you back to his apartment to fuck you properly because according to him, you’re “too special” to have your first time together be in his car.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who despite saying that, can’t keep his hands off of you until you two finally end up in his room. you end up not even being able to kiss him because of how hard he’s smiling at the vision of you in his bed.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who gives the best aftercare😫 he’s cleaning you up, telling you how well you did, rubbing your sore muscles, etc. jungwon also begs you to stay for dinner, which also meant stay for a shower, which turned into staying the night.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who becomes the sweetest boyfriend you could possibly ask for. however, he’s also the filthiest, horniest, and straight up disgusting man you’ve ever been in bed with.
“In which, still haunted by heartbreak, reader tries to clear her mind on a night out—only to cross paths with the same boy she once knew, now grown into a man. A man who just so happens to be her ex’s younger brother.”
fem! reader x ni-ki, ex’s younger brother!ni-ki, mentions of cheating, slight age gap (3 years, but both riki and reader are in the same age range), forced proximity (kinda), reader is described as hot but all my readers are hot i just know it, reader has hair that you can pull into a ponytail (idk if that’s relevant) tatted! riki, blonde mullet riki because why not, jake as a side character (i know my sweet boy would never, take it with a pinch of salt he’s just a name in this fic), mention of other enha members, sexual tension, dirty talk, eventual long smut scene, fingering, oral sex (f. rec), riki is a freak so a bit of rimming, unprotected sex, multiple positions, overstimulation, praising, riki is down bad he’s so sweet but so filthy, aftercare, that’s all i think.
❤︎ word count: 21.9k BUCKLE UP this is long.
❤︎ notes: this took me so long to finish but i’m happy to be back, especially with this fic that helped me get out of my writer’s block, there may be some mistakes so i apologize. this was heavily inspired by Man’s best Friend, especially “When did you get Hot?”
hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !! ❤︎
So long untouched. That’s what you were, and your friends could tell, they knew. They noticed it in the way you brushed off strangers’ stares and the way you smiled but never let it stay, the way you kept your phone face-down on the table with no new messages lighting up the screen.
Usually, you weren’t the type of girl to go out and hook up with random people. You liked connection, slow burns, real heat that didn’t fade once the music stopped. But your breakup with Jake had shaken you. It still made you so angry, it still burnt in your chest. Not pain anymore, just the rage of three years wasted. Three years wrapped around someone who had chosen someone else in the end. A hotel key, a girl you’d always felt insecure about, the look on his face when you cried and told him it was over, it replayed in your mind sometimes, even now. He asked for forgiveness, but you never gave it. You knew your worth and that you were better than coming back to a guy who didn’t hesitate before jumping into bed with other girl.
And time passed. Weeks turned into months. You told yourself you were over him. You were over him.
And yet… finding someone new felt impossible.
Your friends knew better than to let you rot away in your room with Netflix and takeout. So tonight, they tugged you into short dresses and sparkly makeup, heels that clicked on the sidewalk as you made your way into a bar lit in neon pink and blue. It had been some time since you last went out like this, you weren’t exactly a party girl, even before Jake. Sure, you’d tagged along sometimes, but crowds and late nights had never been your thing.
Walking slowly into the night, you let the music curl up your ribs and around your body until you felt warmer. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a random bar downtown where boys crowded around pool tables, shouting over each other, and the barman slid free drinks toward girls with deep necklines. Neon lights bled over everything, turning everything hazy and lighter.
“Four shots of tequila, please!” your friend grinned at the bartender, who didn’t waste any time lining up the glasses, salt shakers clinking against the counter.
Leaning against the bar, you let your red dress whisper against your thighs every time you shifted your weight. The fabric felt louder than you did, and than the thoughts you were trying so hard to quiet. Around you, the room pulsed, people pressed shoulder to shoulder, hands slipping into hands, strangers leaning in close like they had known each other forever. Everyone seemed to belong to someone, orbiting in pairs and trios, their laughter like sparks catching fire.
The tequila was hot against your throat when you swallowed your shot, burning in a way that made your eyes water and your lips curl into a laugh. You pressed the back of your hand against your mouth, making a face that had your friends giggling, and then tilted your head over your shoulder for another sweep of the room, really trying to let the music, the crowd, the neon haze sink into you.
“Let’s make that Jake motherfucker regret losing the hottest girl alive!” one of your friends shouted over the music, clinking her glass against yours when she passed you another shot.
You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing too, warm now from tequila and the glittering push of their energy. Before you could protest, your gorgeous friends grabbed your hands and dragged you towards the dance floor. The bass pulsed through your heels, up your calves, wrapping you in that feeling that made the night blur at the edges.
You let yourself move, the red of your dress flashing under the lights, your hair brushing your bare shoulders. It felt easier than it had in months, to close your eyes and pretend you weren’t carrying the weight of heartbreak anymore. For once, you let yourself glow into that girly bright energy you had lost for months.
Hours passed into each other between clinking glasses, sweaty dances, and loud, slurred jokes with your friends. The sharp ache you’d carried into the night had softened into an almost happy feeling. You weren’t thinking about Jake anymore.
“Touch-up time,” you announced after what felt like your fifth song in a row, your voice light, cheeks flushed from the tequila. Your friends waved you off with lazy smiles, too tangled up in their own partners and laughter to notice much else.
You wobbled slightly on your heels as you made your way across the bar, giggling under your breath at nothing in particular. The bathroom was tucked in the back, next to a neon sign buzzing faintly, but when you pushed the door, it didn’t budge. Locked. A small line had already formed, three girls leaning against the wall with glossy lips and heavy eyeliner, all equally tipsy. You gave them a polite smile, joining the end of the line with your phone in hand.
You unlocked it, thumbs clumsy from the alcohol, and started scrolling through Instagram stories, mutuals at other parties, selfies from girls you barely talked to, same thing as always. The glow of the screen lit your face as you swayed slightly to the muffled bass spilling through the wall.
Every so often, you laughed softly at something on your phone, tucking your hair behind your ear. You weren’t in any rush. The tequila still buzzed warmly in your chest.
Then, a small, almost shy tap on your shoulder.
“I think you can get in now.”
The voice was manly and warm in a way that sank straight through your tipsy haze. You blinked, your lashes heavy with glitter, and lifted your head. Sure enough, the bathroom door was cracked open, empty now. But then you turned around and you felt your heart stammer against your chest.
He stood there, so tall that you had to tilt your chin up just to meet his gaze. A boy—not a boy, a man—whose presence didn’t fit the sticky neon-lit hallway of a random downtown bar. His blonde hair fell messily over his forehead, as though he’d run a hand through it a hundred times, strands glinting under the pink and blue glow. His jaw was sharp, cut clean, his lips plush but unsmiling, and his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, lingering and making you wonder what exactly he saw when he looked at you. But it wasn’t just that, it was the strange feeling, that hit you, a familiar feeling, that you had seen this face before, just different.
For a moment, you just stared. The air felt thick between you. He smelled faintly of something expensive, like clean spice and smoke, a scent that would clung to your skin after someone leaned too close. You scanned his face again, tilting your head slightly, and then you saw the mole on his chin, right below his lower lip.
He couldn’t be, right? There’s no way that this gorgeous man in front of you was…
Ni-ki.
Jake’s younger brother.
The kid who used to hover in the background during family dinners, tall but lanky, soft-spoken, always with headphones slung around his neck or a game console in his hands. The kid you’d barely thought about, because back then he was just that, a kid. Well, not exactly, a teenage boy, almost your same age. But he didn’t looked like this before.
There was nothing boyish left about him.
Your pulse hammered in your ears as you stared, unblinking. The blonde hair, the sharpness of his jaw, the way he filled the space with an easy, grounded confidence that had you suddenly self-conscious in your own skin. He’d grown.
“Y/n?” His voice cut through, and you swore it dipped lower than it used to. There was something playful in it too, like he already knew you were staring too hard.
Back then, Ni-ki had gone abroad to Japan to finish his studies, something to do with fashion, you remembered vaguely, because that was at the very beggining of your relationship with Jake, so you hadn’t paid much attention at the time. He was younger— obviously— quiet, with that awkward teenage air clinging to him. You didn’t hear from him at all during that last year with Jake. Honestly, you barely thought about him.
But now, standing here in the dim glow of the bar, he was impossible to ignore.
This wasn’t the Ni-ki you remembered sneaking sodas from the fridge and making disgusted faces when you kissed Jake in front of him. This Ni-ki towered over you, broad-shouldered and sharp where he used to be lanky, confidence pouring off him in easy waves. His eyes were steady like he’d seen you a hundred times before and was finally letting himself really look.
You smiled, almost too sober for how much tequila you’d had, and laughed under your breath, as if that could disguise how fast your pulse was racing.
“Ni-ki? Oh my God,” you said, the name slipping out in a breathy laugh, like it didn’t quite belong to the man in front of you. It felt too small for him now. “I didn’t recognize you for a moment. How have you been? I haven’t seen you in like—”
“Three years.” He cut in without missing a beat, smirk tugging at his lips. His voice was lower, much deeper than it was before, and the sound of it vibrated through the close space, curling into your skin. “Yeah, I graduated from fashion school. Thought I’d come back home for a little vacation.”
“Wow, congrats,” you managed, words tumbling out too fast. You chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek, pretending the tequila was what made your chest so warm. His laugh, it wasn’t the light, boyish sound you remembered. It was deeper now, velvet-draped and easy.
Ni-ki leaned against the wall beside the bathroom door, casual, folding his arms over his chest. The move was careless, but you noticed the way veins ran down his forearms, the soft flex of muscle even in stillness.
“You look…” His gaze dipped, subtle but unmistakable, trailing down the line of your red dress before flicking back up to your face. He smirked, not bothering to cover it. “…different too.”
Your sighed softly, and gave a soft laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear.
“Yeah, well… three years is a long time.”
“I noticed,” he murmured, and it wasn’t just words, it was the way his eyes held you like he was comparing you to a memory.
A second passed, the hallway humming with silence except for the muffled thump of bass through the walls. You shifted your weight in your heels, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between you.
“So,” you asked, voice lighter than you intended, “vacation, huh? Back here for long?”
Ni-ki tilted his head, blonde strands falling across his forehead, his smirk curving wider.
“Depends.”
You blinked at him, the word catching you off guard.
“Depends on what?”
His gaze dropped for just a second, to your lips, you thought, and then back to your eyes, unwavering.
“On if I find something worth staying for.”
Your stomach flipped, warmth curling low, but you laughed it off quickly, tucking your phone into your clutch like you needed something to do with your hands.
“Well, I hope you do—”
“I heard what happened, by the way. With Jake.”
The words landed stronger than you expected, slicing through the playful atmosphere. You froze, blinking at him. Not because you didn’t think he knew—he was Jake’s brother, of course he knew—but because you didn’t expect him to say it so directly.
Your pulse sparked again, uneven. You let out a small, humorless laugh.
“Oh— I mean, yeah. But it’s fine now. I’m fine—”
“He’s an asshole.”
It came out flat, matter-of-fact, with a heat that lingered under the coolness of his tone. It was almost like it was something you knew he’d been sitting on, waiting to say out loud.
Your lips parted, eyes narrowing slightly as you searched his face. There was no smirk now, no teasing curve. Just honesty. His jaw ticked like the word wasn’t enough, like there were other things he wanted to say but didn’t.
“Ni-ki…” you murmured, your voice softer, almost careful.
He shook his head slowly, leaning one shoulder against the wall, looking down at you with that tall, towering presence that made you feel small and unsteady.
“I don’t get it. But i always thought you were too good for him anyway…” He trailed off, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Yeah. He’s an idiot.”
It was hard to swallow in that moment, and you suddenly felt too hot. The memories came rushing back, threatening to tangle around your ribs, but you brushed them off immediately, forcing another small laugh.
“It really is ok, Ni-ki. I’m much better off without him anyway—”
“You are.”
The words dropped out of him, quiet but so direct and you blinked again, once again caught off guard by his comment and the unfiltered way he seemed to talk.
His smirk returned, lazy and kind of charming. Apparently little Ni-ki had also became much bolder.
Your opened your mouth, but nothing came out right away. Ni-ki didn’t back down, didn’t soften the tone of his voice. He just stood there, broad shoulders loose against the wall, gaze steady in a way that made your pulse hammer harder.
“Weren’t you going to use the bathroom?” he asked at last, the question simple, but his tone made it sound almost like a test, for some reason.
Right. Touch up, and peeing. You had nearly forgotten.
“Oh, yeah—” you started, fumbling for composure.
“I’ll wait here.”
“You don’t need to,” you murmured, shaking your head. “I’m with my girls anyway—”
“There’s a lot of perverts in this bar.”
The reply came quick, blunt, as if it were fact and not opinion. You didn’t respond, instead chuckled softly, a sound meant to cover the strange flutter in your chest. But your laugh felt too light, too thin against the gravity of his presence.
“You keep interrupting me,” you teased finally, tilting your head at him, a smile tugging at your lips even though your pulse was still wild.
Ni-ki’s mouth curved again, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk, something in between. He shifted slightly, leaning a fraction closer, and the dim light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the shadows under his lashes, the mole under his eye.
“Yeah well, maybe i’ve grown. But naughty Ni-ki is still buried deep in me.”
You rolled your eyes, finally turning on your heels and getting inside the bathroom, locking the door behind you.
It took a few seconds before your pulse stopped racing and your lungs remembered how to take in air without catching on the inhale. You leaned against the sink, the cool porcelain under your palms grounding you, and stared at your reflection in the cracked mirror.
What just happened?
Ni-ki. Little Ni-ki. Jake’s younger brother, the awkward teenager that barely said more than a few words before running off to play video games. That Ni-ki was supposed to be gone, tucked away in old memories, safe and familiar.
But the man outside that door wasn’t that boy anymore.
Pressing your lips together, you blinked at your reflection like it might give you answers. Taller, broader, hair bleached golden and falling over his brow like he hadn’t even tried. And his eyes. He didn’t look away when he caught you staring. He didn’t fidget or glance down the hall. He looked at you like he had all the time in the world to watch. And then there was his voice, so deep, carrying an edge of humor, but steady enough to make your stomach twist. Where had that come from?
You laughed softly to yourself, brushing your fingers over your cheek as though that could cool the flush you still felt. This was absurd. You shouldn’t even be thinking like this.
So long untouched, you blamed on it. You shook your head at your reflection once more, as if that could chase the warmth from your chest. Get a grip, you told yourself. Loneliness had a way of sharpening things.
That was all this was. A response. A body reminding you it was still alive. Nothing more.
You sighed, rushing through the necessities, peeing in what had to be a world record time, patting down your dress, pulling out your lip gloss and smoothing a new sheen across your lips. You pressed them together once, twice, like sealing yourself into a plan.
Right. Easy. You’d open that door, smile, tell him it was nice catching up, and then walk right back to your girls. You’d laugh, you’d dance, you’d let this strange little ripple fade into the neon of the night.
Except destiny had other plans.
The second the bathroom door swung open, you barely had time to register Ni-ki’s eyes lifting from his phone. He was still leaning against the wall, golden hair falling into his face. His mouth curved, slowly, like he’d been waiting just for you.
You opened your lips to say something, but then a blur shoved past you.
Your friend stumbled in, half-carried by a tall guy, her babbling a jumble of words before she lurched forward and dropped to her knees in front of the toilet. The sound that followed was enough to snap you out of whatever spell Ni-ki had you under.
“Oh God—” you muttered, crouching down immediately, slipping into caretaker mode. You gathered her hair quickly, pulling it back with one hand, the other rubbing gentle circles on her back. “Shh, it’s okay baby, let it out.”
“She had too many drinks,” the guy said, sounding apologetic.
“It’s fine, I’ve got her,” you said softly but firmly, glancing at him only for a second before focusing back on your friend. You whispered reassurances, your red dress brushing the tiled floor as you stayed by her side.
But faintly, you caught the guy’s voice again, lower this time, directed somewhere behind you.
“Dude, maybe we should take her home.”
Your ears pricked at that dude. You glanced up, confusion knitting your brows, and there he was. Ni-ki. No longer lounging against the wall but standing tall now, broad shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets like he owned the dim hallway.
“Designated driver today,” he said simply. His voice was smooth, calm in contrast to the chaos.
Nice, just what you needed. Turns out your friend’s night fling was Ni-ki’s friend. Slowly, your gaze slid to him. And he was already looking at you. His eyes held yours for a beat too long, something unreadable floating there. The corner of his mouth tugged upward.
You were in so much trouble.
Sunday mornings were sacred to you. A ritual you kept, quiet hours for yourself, cucumber face mask cooling your skin, your favorite playlist softly in the background, sunlight stretching across your little apartment. You’d scrubbed your space clean, the citrus of your floor cleaner still in the air, and now you were padding back to your bed, oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. The TV flickered on, your chosen distraction from the memories clawing at you, memories of last night, of neon lights and laughter and… him.
Ni-ki.
Your ex’s younger brother.
Except not little anymore.
You shook your head and tucked your legs beneath you, reaching for the remote as if volume could drown out the pulse of his smirk in your mind. And then, buzz.
Your phone lit up with your best friend’s name. FaceTime.
You sighed, swiping to accept, and her face appeared, slightly pixelated but still so her: mascara smudged beneath her eyes, hair messy in the way only a wild night could produce.
“Hi, baby. Hungover?” you teased, grinning at the sight of her.
“Ugh, shut up.” She groaned dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead. “That was so embarrassing.”
You chuckled softly, leaning back against your pillows.
“You’ll live.”
A pause, then she perked up, her lips curling in a small smile.
“Mmm, yeah. But Jay took care of me.”
“Jay?” you repeated, brow arching.
“The guy who drove us home, with the other cute guy.” She tried to play it casual, but her tone gave her away. “I like him. He texted me this morning and sent me miso soup.”
Something in your chest sank. Just a little.
“Oh.” You plastered a smile on, soft and encouraging. “Oh, yeah. That’s cute.”
Her eyes narrowed through the screen.
“What’s on your mind?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Everything.
How could you possibly tell her what happened in the hallway? How the air had shifted when Ni-ki’s gaze caught yours, how his smirk got in your veins long after you’d walked away. How you hadn’t slept, tossing under your sheets, replaying the way he looked at you, not like his brother’s ex, not like someone untouchable.
You sighed, peeling the cooling mask from your face, crumbling it in your hands before tossing it into the trash.
“The other cute guy…” your voice faltered for a beat, soft and careful. “That’s Jake’s younger brother. Ni-ki.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Wait. What? Baby Ni-ki?”
You nodded, staring at yourself on your phone screen. The sunlight caught your features, brushed across your bare skin, and you couldn’t shake it, the weight of his eyes, the way last night suddenly didn’t feel so far away.
“Not so baby anymore, apparently,” you murmured.
Your friend practically screamed.
“There’s no way. Oh my God. When did he get hot?”
“Seems like three years in Japan really do change you,” you said, trying for casual but the words came out dreamier.
She gasped so dramatically you couldn’t help but laugh, even as your chest tightened.
“Oh my God! There’s no way that sexy man is baby Ni-ki!”
“I know.” You flopped back against your pillows, staring at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “And the worst part is, I think he was flirting with me.”
Her voice jumped an octave.
“Girl!? What the hell!”
“I know.” The words left you in a sigh.
“Do you think he knows about Jake?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the screen, mascara still smudged.
“Oh, he knows.” You sat up again, your fingers worrying the hem of your oversized T-shirt. “You know what he said to me? He literally looked me in the eye and said, ‘He’s an asshole. You were too good for him.’”
Her jaw dropped again, this time with the kind of giddy shock that made your stomach twist.
“That’s so hot.”
You groaned, throwing an arm over your face to block out both her expression and the morning light.
“It’s not hot! It’s… wrong.”
“Wrong?” she repeated, incredulous. “Girl, that motherfucker cheated on you! More than once! That’s wrong. Who cares if you wanna have a little fun with his much hotter brother?”
“I didn’t say that.” Your voice was muffled against your sleeve, but you knew she caught the waver in it.
She smirked knowingly.
“But are you thinking about it?”
You didn’t respond. Because silence was safer than the truth, that every time you closed your eyes, you saw his smirk, felt the way his gaze had wrapped around you, heavy and impossible to ignore. That maybe, for the first time in a long time, you felt wanted in a way that scared you.
Your friend let the silence stretch for a beat before she grinned at the camera.
“You’re such a whore, oh my God.”
You sat up, scandalized, throwing a pillow at your phone as if she could feel it through the screen.
“Nothing will happen! We just bumped into each other. I will probably never see him again.”
She went quiet then, her mascara-smudged eyes flickering away from the screen.
You narrowed your own eyes.
“…What?”
A nervous chuckle.
“I mean… maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Your stomach dipped.
“What do you mean maybe?” you pressed, leaning closer to your phone.
She bit her lip, trying and failing to hide a grin.
“Jay invited me to a hang out at his house on Friday… and, um—he told me to bring my girls too.”
Your jaw slackened.
“There’s no way I’m going.”
“Why not!?” she whined, bouncing on her bed, excitement dripping from her voice. “They’re cool, and Jay’s so sweet—”
You cut her off with a glare.
“I don’t want to see Ni-ki!”
Her grin turned positively wicked.
“Why? You afraid his sexy little gaze will make you dizzy?”
Your whole body heated, and you buried your face in your hands.
“Oh my God, shut up. I’m not going.”
“Mmhm,” she sang, unconvinced. “We’ll see.”
You groaned, pressing the red button, ending the call before she could say another word.
Then you flopped back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling as your heart thudded unevenly against your ribs. You could still see him in the shadows of your room if you let your mind wander.
There was no way.
You had to avoid him at all costs.
And erase the look in his eyes from your head before it was too late.
Universe had a history of never being on your side. It felt like a cruel little game it liked to play with you. When you were sixteen, it was breaking your leg the night before prom, your dream dress hanging untouched in your closet, your friends sending you pictures you smiled at through gritted teeth. At eighteen, it was the rejection letter from the job you had set your heart on, a single line of polite dismissal that felt like the end of the world. And later, —the biggest blow of all—when your boyfriend of three years, decided to betray you in the most humiliating way possible, in some cheap hotel bed with someone else.
Jake hadn’t been the man of your dreams. But he had been stedy and familiar, at least for a while, and you’d thought he loved you. You’d pictured a future with him, foolishly certain that marriage and forever were waiting at the end of your story. So when he broke you, he didn’t just shatter the relationship, you felt like he’d shattered the entire blueprint you had drawn for your life.
And lately, as much as you tried to resist, you kept thinking about Ni-ki.
It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t the first beautiful man you’d ever seen, there were plenty of those in the world. And it wasn’t just the shock of realizing he’d grown up, taller and broader and more defined. It was his eyes. The way he looked at you like he saw through every defense you had ever built. The way confidence dripped from him like it was something he’d been born with, not earned. He unsettled you.
At 10:30 on a Thursday morning, you were still trying to bury those thoughts. Dressed in a pale pink gym set that hugged every curve, earphones snug over your ears, you pushed through your last set of Bulgarian split squats. The burn in your muscles was delicious, pain was something you could manage, unlike the restless pull of desire that Ni-ki had awoken in you and you didn’t want to admit. Sweat slicked your hairline, some strands loosing around your ponytail, your breath coming in heavy bursts, and for a brief second you let yourself think maybe this was enough, maybe you could drown him out with endorphins and sore thighs.
“You can go lower than that.”
The voice cut through your music, low and smooth. Slowly, you turned your head, one earbud sliding loose.
There he was. Ni-ki.
Standing casually against the machine next to you, tall and effortless in a white tanktop that clung to his frame, blonde hair pushed back just enough to reveal the beauty of his face. His lips curved with the ghost of a smirk, eyes locked on you like he’d been standing there, watching, long enough to memorize the rhythm of your movements.
You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped anyway.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Well,” he leaned more against the machine, casual, but his eyes still on you, “this was the only gym that didn’t require a minimum stay clause. Plus, it’s like ten minutes away from where I’m staying.”
Right. Pretty convenient.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Your voice came out softer than you intended, so you adjusted your grip on the dumbbells.
Silence fell between you. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just there. Tension.
Then his lips curved in the same smirk as ever.
“Guess I’ll change my Thursdays to leg day.”
You couldn’t help it. A chuckle slipped out.
“You wouldn’t survive my routine.”
He raised a brow, his smirk deepening.
“You wanna bet?”
Your answer died in your throat when his gaze swept over you, subtle, almost too quick to catch. His eyes traced your pink set, the way the shorts hugged your thighs, the sheen of sweat on your skin. He didn’t linger long, but you felt it everywhere, like a phantom touch.
You rolled your eyes again, heat crawling up your neck.
“Save 50 dollars then.”
But he only grinned wider, unbothered, and without another word, Ni-ki moved to the bench across from you. He adjusted the weights, lowered himself onto the seat, and started his set.
You went back to yours, or at least pretended to, and you really tried not to look, but he was right across from you, and his reflexion in your visual line.
The muscles in his arms flexed with every motion, cords of strength shifting beneath smooth skin, veins rising and disappearing as if they had a rhythm of their own. His white tank clung tighter the more he moved, darkening slightly with sweat, outlining every curve of his chest and the sharp cut of his shoulders. With each rep, the hem rode up just enough to reveal the ridges of his abs, the faint V-line disappearing beneath his waistband.
Ni-ki’s jaw was tight with focus, lips parting as he exhaled controlled breaths, sounds that came close to groans, restrained and edged at the same time. The way his throat worked when he swallowed, the damp strands of hair that clung to his temple, the way his body was nothing but power and precision, made your heart went even higher.
Your chest grew tight, pulse uneven, your fingers twitching against the weights in your hands.
When he finally sat up, sweat tracing a glimmer down his jaw and dripping to the floor, he caught the edge of his tank and dragged it across his face. For just a second, the fabric lifted high enough to expose his full stomach, taut, carved lines, the dip of his hips. You caught the tattoo on his ribs, big enough that it touched the beginning of his hips. And in that second, the air felt so much hotter.
Then his eyes met yours in the mirror.
He wasn’t panting or flustered. He was calm—almost lazy—with that half-smirk curling at his lips.
You quickly looked away, finishing your set with all the strength you had left, feeling the pain on your muscles and ignoring the heat pooling on your lower stomach.
You felt like a teenager again, this was ridiculous. You dropped the weights onto the mat a little harder than intended, shaking out your arms.
When you turned, he was still there. Still smirking.
You cleared your throat, reaching for your bottle, anything to distract from the heat in your face.
“I’m going to get a protein shake.”
His answer came instantly:
“I’ll come with you.”
You blinked at him, hesitating. But refusing felt almost impossible with the way his eyes stayed on your face, and you didn’t want to be rude.
So you nodded.
“Okay.”
The walk across the gym was quiet at first, the only sound the faint thud of music through the speakers. The space between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t empty either.
“So… have you talked to him?” Ni-ki broke the silence.
You laughed softly, incredulously.
“Jake?”
He raised an eyebrow like he already knew the answer.
“Oh God, no,” you said, shaking your head. “We broke up, and it was over for me.”
“I see.” His voice was low, almost thoughtful. Then a small smile tugged at his mouth. “That’s good.”
“And you?” You glanced at him, curiosity pricking despite yourself.
“Sometimes,” he said with a shrug. “When I went abroad, we barely talked. But to be fair, we barely did it back then. Jake has always had trouble focusing on anything else but himself.”
“Mhm. Right.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, almost to himself.
“We didn’t really talk back then either.”
Your brows knit.
“Me and you?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, what could we talk about? You were awkward and always avoiding human contact.”
That made him laugh, and the sound startled you more than the words. It had warmth in. You found yourself laughing too.
Then silence again. It stretched long enough that when he spoke again, it slid under your skin.
“It’s weird though,” Ni-ki said. “Now that I’ve seen you again, I don’t think of you as my brother’s ex-girlfriend.”
Your steps slowed.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that.” His eyes met yours. “Time has passed. And since we never really had any kind of relationship, it feels like you’re just a stranger to me now.”
Something about his tone left you unsettled. Because he wasn’t wrong, it did feel that way. When he left, you were only a couple of months into your relationship with Jake, so he wasn’t around that much on the three years you spent with him. And now it had been almost six months since your breakup with Jake, so yeah, Ni-ki did feel like a stranger.
He let the silence breathe again before adding, with that same lazy smirk:
“But that’s good though. Don’t you think?”
The question hung between you, playful but heavy with something else.
“I guess,” you murmured, eyes flicking away.
At the counter, you ordered quickly, reaching for your card, grateful for the distraction. But before you could tap it, his hand slid forward with infuriating ease, his own card already down. The cashier took it without question.
“Ni-ki—” you started, but it was already too late. The shake was being made. You exhaled sharply. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He turned toward you, leaning his elbow on the counter, looking down at you with that same unhurried smirk. His voice dropped lower.
“Don’t act like you don’t like to be taken care of.”
Your heart stuttered. His words landed softer than they should have, curling in your chest. For a moment, you forgot how to reply.
If you thought about it logically, it wasn’t appropriate. He shouldn’t be standing here now, looking at you like that. He shouldn’t be saying things like this. But for some reason, it didn’t annoy you. It didn’t spark the outrage you should’ve felt. It pulled at you. His words, they were like a challenge, a confession, a dare, all wrapped in that quiet smirk that made you wonder what else he could say, what else he could do if you let him.
You swallowed hard, your lips parting like you might answer, like you might tell him he was wrong, that you didn’t like it, that you didn’t feel anything at all. But the words stuck, dissolving before they even reached your tongue. Because maybe he was right. Maybe you did like it.
“Are you coming tomorrow, then?”
You blinked a couple of times, lifting your eyes from your shake.
“Tomorrow?”
“Jay’s hangout.” His gaze didn’t waver, his friend’s name falling from his lips with practiced ease, though his eyes made it feel like the question was only about you and him.
Of course, you almost forgot about that.
Your fingers tightened around the cup, the straw resting against your lips.
“I don’t think so, I have work to do—”
“I’d like to see you there.” The interruption was smooth and confident, not a bit of hesitation or shame.
“Why?” The question slipped out stronger than you meant it, but he didn’t say anything.
His mouth curved into that quiet half-smile.
“I don’t know… familiar face.”
It was a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t, but it sounded like one. A flimsy excuse, almost laughable, except for the way he said it, the low timbre of his voice, the slight tilt of his head. Then his eyes moved just to skim over you, down the line of your frame and back up again so subtly you almost wondered if you imagined it.
Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it, so you rolled your eyes and took a long sip of your shake, hiding behind the motion.
“I don’t know, Ni-ki.”
He didn’t say anything, but on his face was that same infuriating, knowing smirk.
The silence stretched, humming with unspoken things, until the scene broke apart naturally. You turned toward the door, shake in hand, pretending your pulse wasn’t racing, while Ni-ki lingered behind with his calm stride.
You had learned in your years of life that you couldn’t trust yourself. Because you tried. You really tried to not go that night. You’d sworn to yourself you’d stay in, put on a movie, maybe even fall asleep early. But then… somehow, you were standing in front of your mirror, subconsciously choosing one of your best outfits. Not too much. Not too little. Something that made you feel good, made your skin glow under the soft light of your lamp. Something that made you bite your lip once when you caught sight of yourself turned just so.
Your hands shook when you did your makeup, liner tugging uneven across your lids. You blamed the wine you sipped while waiting for your friend’s texts, though you knew it wasn’t that.
You told yourself you were only going so your friend wouldn’t be alone. That Jay was still a stranger and she needed backup. That was the reason. A reasonable reason.
But Ni-ki wasn’t a stranger.
Or maybe he was.
Because the boy you used to remember was gone. And the man from the hallway, with blonde hair and broad shoulders, the one whose smirk had lived rent-free in your mind for days now… that man felt like someone new.
And that’s how you found yourself here. Standing in front of the heavy door of an apartment complex, your friend buzzing with excitement at your side.
“Relax,” she grinned, nudging you with her shoulder. “It’s just a hangout. You look hot, by the way.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, smoothing a hand over your dress. The night was warm against your skin, voices carried faintly down the hallway, laughter spilling under the door.
You pressed your palms against your clutch, grounding yourself, whispering under your breath:
You’re just here for her. You’ll smile. You’ll drink. You’ll leave. Easy.
The door opened with a soft creek and a tall black haired guy smiled at you two, Jay, of course. Your friend greeted him clearly excited to see him, and you did the same politely and a bit shy, entering the living room.
A group of guys were sprawled across the couches, talking over each other, laughter ringing in the air. A couple of girls perched near the kitchen counter, drinks in hand.
Jay’s hand lingered lightly at your friend’s back as he led her in, his grin wide and boyish.
You exhaled softly, adjusting your clutch in your hand. You weren’t sure where to stand, where to place yourself. You weren’t one of them, you were a guest of a guest, floating at the edges.
And, of course, he was there.
Leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, like he didn’t need to step into the light to be noticed. Blonde hair, messy but intentional, catching the glow. A black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders, draped casual but doing nothing to soften the sharpness of his frame. He wasn’t laughing with the others, not talking loud or making a scene. Just watching. Ni-ki had that same unreadable, slow-burning look from the hallway.
Your throat went dry.
“Guys, this is Y/N and…” Jay slipped an arm comfortably around your friend’s waist, grinning wide, “my girl.”
Your friend giggled, rolling her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks gave her away.
Jay motioned toward the cluster of boys on the couch.
“That’s Sunghoon, don’t let him fool you, he looks cold but he’s actually the softest.”
Sunghoon barely lifted his chin in greeting, sipping from his glass, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips confirmed Jay’s teasing.
“And that’s Heeseung,” Jay continued, pointing at the tall boy sprawled across half the couch, who gave you a friendly wave, “the life of the party, obviously.”
Heeseung grinned.
“Nice to meet you. Jay never brings friends, so you must be special.”
You chuckled politely, smoothing your dress as Jay’s finger flicked toward the last boy, who was perched on the armrest.
“That’s Sunoo, don’t challenge him to any games, he’ll wipe the floor with you.”
“Only because I’m good at everything,” Sunoo shot back, tossing his hair dramatically, which sent laughter rippling through the group.
The introductions eased some of the stiffness in your shoulders, the warmth of their energy making you feel less like an outsider. You smiled, bowing your head a little.
“Nice to meet you all.”
Jay clapped his hands together, then gestured lazily towards the one person who hadn’t moved or said a word.
“And Ni-ki, of course. But you already know him.”
Your heart stuttered.
“W-What?” The word slipped out too quickly, before you could disguise it.
Jay only raised an eyebrow at your reaction, a little amused.
“Designated driver. Took you and this naughty girl home that night.” He flicked his chin toward your friend, who giggled sheepishly.
Oh. Yeah. Sure. He meant that.
You laughed lightly, covering it with a smile that felt fragile even on your own lips.
“Right. Of course. Thanks for that, by the way.”
When you turned to Ni-ki, his gaze was already on you, his eyes dragged, burned, until the sound of Jay joking about something else faded into a faraway hum.
The hangout was nice, nicer than you expected. The boys were funny, their energy loud and easy, it wasn’t even like you had stepped into a circle that had already known each other for years. Sunghoon was in the middle of telling a story, acting it out with his hands, and laughter filled the living room, spilling into the night air through the half-open windows.
Your friend was already on Jay’s lap, his arm slung casually around her waist, her head resting against his shoulder. She looked comfortable and happy. You caught her eye once and she only winked, a smile tugging at her lips before she turned back to Jay.
You tried to focus on the story, tried to laugh when everyone else did, but your attention kept snagging across the room.
Because Ni-ki was there, sitting opposite you, too casual and composed. Long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the couch, a drink balanced effortlessly in his other hand. His gaze found you like it always did, steady, until you had no choice but to look back.
Every time, it was the same: that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, subtle, as though he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
You curled your fingers against your knee, willing yourself to pay attention, but then he lifted his brows at you. A tiny movement that was quick, teasing. More like a question.
Your pulse sparked, and you tilted your head just slightly, pretending not to understand. Pretending you weren’t burning under his stare.
But he only looked more amused.
Slowly, and casually, he lifted his hand. Two fingers moving in the smallest of gestures, so subtle no one else could have noticed. Come here.
The sound of Sunghoon’s voice dulled around you, the laughter became a blur. All you could hear was your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the rush of air leaving your lungs.
He didn’t drop his gaze. Didn’t fidget. He just waited, certain, like he had all the time in the world for you to decide.
You glanced at your friend, safe and settled on Jay’s lap, smiling into his chest.
After all, self-control had never been your strongest trait.
So you rose slowly, smoothing your hands over your dress. Everyone else was too caught up in Sunghoon’s dramatic gestures, laughter bubbling around the room, to notice the quiet steps you took across the carpet.
Ni-ki’s gaze flickered away just as you reached him, like he wanted to pretend he hadn’t been waiting for you. The couch dipped beneath your weight, the subtle warmth of his presence immediately crowding in on you. He stretched his arm casually along the back of the couch, fingers hanging loose until they nearly brushed your bare shoulder. He was laughing at something Sunghoon had just said, but the curve of his mouth was wrong, satisfaction laced into it, smugness bleeding through.
Then, almost absently, his fingertips ghosted over your skin, playing idly with the strap of your dress. A touch so light it could have been an accident, but you both knew it wasn’t. You forced yourself to ignore the way it sparked, to keep your eyes fixed forward.
He turned then, finally, shoulder nudging yours with just enough weight to feel intimate.
“You looked lonely there,” he murmured, voice pitched lower, meant only for you.
You let out a soft chuckle, nerves bubbling up like champagne.
“I was just listening to his story.”
“Right,” Ni-ki drawled, as though he didn’t believe you for a second. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip before he caught it between his teeth, the smallest tug. “I’m glad you came.”
And then there it was again, that look. The one that left your stomach in knots, that same unreadable fire you had seen in the hallway days ago and at the gym.
It was impossible to reconcile this Ni-ki with the boy you remembered from two years ago. The quiet shadow who used to linger at the edges of Jake’s chaos. He wasn’t that anymore. This version of him carried himself differently, with a quiet certainty, a hunter’s stillness. And it seemed to be that you were the prey.
You tried to anchor yourself in Sunghoon’s voice. He was animated, hands flying as he delivered the climax of his story, the whole group hanging on his every word. Your friend was laughing so hard on Jay’s lap she had to wipe her eyes, and for a moment, you almost let yourself melt into the warmth of their noise, the comfort of being just another face in the circle.
But then Ni-ki’s hand moved again.
It was nothing, barely a shift of his fingers where they rested on the back of the couch. A ghost of pressure against your bare shoulder, so faint you might’ve imagined it.
Your pulse leapt. You tried to swallow it down, tried to remind yourself that he wasn’t looking at you, that his gaze was trained forward like he was really invested in Sunghoon’s story. But his fingers were saying something else entirely. They traced absent, slow patterns against your skin, tugging once more at the strap of your dress as if it was his own private game.
The strap slipped a fraction lower. You should’ve fixed it. Should’ve pulled away, said something, done something. Instead, you sat frozen, your breath caught high in your chest, fighting the shiver that wanted to betray you.
You let out a laugh at the wrong part of Sunghoon’s story, and prayed no one noticed.
Ni-ki did. His pinky brushed your thigh, featherlight, as if to say calm down. Or maybe, I know exactly what I’m doing to you.
Heat licked up your neck, into your cheeks. You turned slightly, desperate to catch him in the act, to call his bluff. But when you looked, he was stone-calm, smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth like the entire thing amused him.
The room was loud with laughter, but between you and him, it was quiet. Like you were both wrapped inside a glass bubble where only your shallow breaths, only the brush of his fingers, existed.
Your body betrayed you. Your thighs pressed together and your hand tightened around your clutch, and you leaned, just slightly, enough for your shoulder to graze his.
And he noticed, because then his fingers dipped lower, deliberately skimming the inside of your arm now, dragging the slowest, laziest line of touch down towards your elbow. Not bold enough for anyone else to see, but enough to make you dizzy.
You bit your lip, staring hard at the coffee table, at the way the lamplight reflected off glass, anything to keep from gasping when his pinky brushed the bare skin of your thigh again, closer this time to where you ached.
It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. He was Jake’s younger brother. He was off-limits. Even if Jake wasn’t worthy of your respect.
And yet, sitting there, with the sound of your friends’ laughter around you and his hand just barely teasing you into madness, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this wanted. This undone just by one touch.
Ni-ki finally leaned in, his shoulder pressing firm against yours, his breath warm near your temple as he pretended to be listening.
Sunghoon’s story rolled on, another wave of laughter spilling through the room, your friend’s giggles muffled against Jay’s shoulder. The noise was distant to you now, because every nerve in your body was tuned to one thing only, Ni-ki’s hand.
His fingers drifted down your arm with maddening patience, tracing the inside of your elbow, brushing against the softest skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. And then—like he was daring you to notice—his pinky grazed the hem of your dress where it rested high on your thigh.
Your breathing shook obvious. You crossed your legs, pretending it was just a shift to get comfortable, but that only trapped his hand closer, the heat of his knuckles brushing against bare skin.
Ni-ki didn’t look at you. He just leaned back into the couch like he was the most relaxed person in the room, laughter low in his chest at Sunghoon’s punchline. But his hand…was telling another story.
It moved, so subtly no one else could see, fingertips pressing just barely beneath the fabric of your dress. It made your entire body pulse with heat.
You swallowed hard, heart battering your ribs.
This was insane. He was insane.
But it was worse that you didn’t stop him.
Your hand tightened around your clutch, your teeth sank into your lip, but you didn’t push him away. You let him test the edge of your dress, let his knuckles skim higher, closer, closer, until the air itself felt thick with the secret you were both weaving.
Your thighs pressed tighter together, but Ni-ki only smirked, barely tugging at the corner of his mouth, and shifted his pinky higher, pressing into the warm space between your thighs like he was staking a silent claim.
Your lungs burned. You were sure if you opened your mouth, a gasp would betray you.
The conversation around you blurred into static. And there was his hand on your thigh, too high, too dangerous, hidden from everyone but the two of you.
And you knew, in that dizzy, unbearable moment, that you’d crossed into something you couldn’t undo.
The laughter around you swelled again, Jay saying something to your friend that made her throw her head back against his chest, but you barely heard it.
Because Ni-ki’s hand wasn’t still anymore.
It slid further up your thigh, teasing and testing. The slow drag of his fingertips along your skin made your muscles tighten, made your breath catch so quietly you prayed no one else could hear.
You bit down on your lip, eyes fixed on Sunghoon like if you concentrated hard enough on his story, you could pretend Ni-ki wasn’t touching you. But you felt it, every shift of his knuckles, every lazy, perverted inch he stole beneath your dress.
And then, the worst part.
His fingers brushed the inside of your thigh.
Heat shot through your veins so fast your knees nearly buckled together. Your dress had ridden up slightly, the hem caught on his hand, and you were too terrified to tug it back down, too terrified to move at all. Because moving might draw attention.
Ni-ki leaned back further into the couch, the picture of casual, his gaze glued to Sunghoon like he was the most fascinating man alive. His lips curved the faintest bit, that insufferable smirk that told you he knew. He knew what he was doing, knew how soaked in tension you already were, knew you wouldn’t stop him.
Your thighs pressed together tighter. He didn’t mind. He simply slid his fingers into the space between, nudging them apart just barely, enough to own it, enough to make your breath stutter.
It was obscene. It was reckless. It was so good.
The pads of his fingers ghosted higher, dangerously close, and every nerve in your body screamed. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was sit there, smile frozen on your lips, praying no one looked too closely while Ni-ki touched you like he’d been waiting years for this moment.
Your nails dug into your clutch, your pulse thrummed in your throat, and your lips parted on a silent inhale when his fingertips traced the very edge of your panties.
You turned your head slightly, finally, unable to resist, and found him already watching you from the corner of his eye. His lashes lowered, his smirk cruel and knowing, his body so still it was maddening.
He mouthed one word.
Shhh.
But then as his pinky grabbed the lace of your panties, he pulled away and got up, the same satisfied smile on his lips.
You stayed there, still in shock, still buzzing. And worst of all, soaking wet.
The night was thinning, laughter trailing into softer tones, the glow of the lamps making everything feel hazy. Jay and your friend were still curled together in the living room, her giggles against his shoulder, while the rest of the guys debated rides home, yawns punctuating the chatter.
You chose the kitchen as your escape. The clatter of cans into the recycling, the hum of the faucet, the sting of cool water against your skin. Sunghoon was retelling some antic while lazily wiping down the counter, and Sunoo hummed along to a song only he seemed to know as he stacked plates.
You tried to keep your thoughts silent, and ignored what happened earlier. But it wasn’t easy, because Ni-ki walked into the kitchen.
You didn’t need to turn. The air shifted, heavy and aware. He moved through the doorway with that slow, unhurried pace that was somehow louder than footsteps, the sound of his voice slipping easily into Sunoo’s conversation. You kept scrubbing a glass, gripping it too tightly, like if you focused hard enough, you wouldn’t notice the way your body already knew where he was.
He passed behind you, and in that narrow strip of space, his body brushed yours, not accidental, clearly. His hand found your waist. Large, practically swallowing it, spanning more of you than it should. His thumb pressed the faintest curve against your hipbone and it stole your breath.
The kitchen wasn’t small enough to force the touch. He chose it.
You froze, every nerve alive, water running over your fingers, dish soap clouding the sink. The laugh you’d been faking with Sunghoon earlier caught in your throat, leaving only silence and the pounding of your heart.
“Sorry,” he murmured, so soft only you caught it, his breath grazing the shell of your ear, his deep voice. The word was harmless, but the way his hand lingered, fingertips trailing as he pulled away, was anything but.
You tried to exhale slowly, but your reflection in the dark window above the sink betrayed you, flushed cheeks, parted lips, the dazed look of someone unraveling.
Behind you, he was laughing again, sliding into Sunoo’s rhythm like nothing had happened.
Sunghoon yawned, tossing the rag aside.
“Alright, I’m out. Too tired.” He clapped Sunoo on the shoulder before wandering back toward the living room.
“Yeah, I’ll crash too,” Sunoo said, following after, leaving the bottles half-stacked, the counters only half-clean.
The silence that followed was instant.
It was just you and him now.
You kept your hands in the sink, as if the act of cleaning could protect you, but the truth was, you could feel him behind you, his quiet, his stillness, his eyes.
Then movement. His reflection shifted in the window. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching you.
“How long has it been since a man last touched you?”
Your heart stuttered violently in your chest. For a second, you thought you misheard him. Your lips parted, but nothing came out except the rush of breath that gave you in. Who did he think he was? The audacity almost made you laugh. But the shame crawled faster, hot and suffocating, because you knew, he was right. Months, nearly a year. So long that sometimes you forgot the shape of it, the weight of it, how it felt to be wanted like that.
But you weren’t about to say that.
“Excuse me?” you managed, coating the words in offense.
It only made him smirk deeper.
“I asked,” he said deliberately, “how long has it been since a man last touched you?”
Your fingers clenched around the rim of the sink, nails digging against porcelain. Silence wrapped tight around your throat. He could see it, he didn’t need your answer.
“Must’ve been some time,” he drawled, head tilting, eyes tracing over you lazily, “if a couple of touches get you this restless.”
You spun towards him, chin high, breath shaky but your voice firm.
“You’re crossing a line.”
His chuckle was deep, curling in your stomach.
“What line?” he asked, pushing himself off the counter with unhurried grace. “I’m just asking.”
Your silence was louder than any protest. It invited him closer.
He took his time, sauntering a step forward, his shadow falling over yours.
“I bet you crave it,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost gentle, except for the wicked gleam in his eyes. “Someone who knows how to treat you right. Make you feel good. Better than anyone before.”
Your throat tightened.
“Stop talking,” you snapped, though it came out weak, breathy. “This is inappropriate. You’re Jake’s brother—”
That made him laugh. A cruel, amused sound that cut right through you.
“Is that what concerns you? Jake?” His smirk sharpened as he leaned in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. “Last time I checked, my brother didn’t think twice before fucking a girl in a hotel room where you found him.”
The words were a blade, twisting in your gut. Because he was right. Jake hadn’t respected you. Jake hadn’t thought twice. So why were you still clinging to rules that no one else honored?
You swallowed hard, shame battling hunger in your chest.
“You’re younger than me—”
He stepped closer, until your back brushed the counter edge, until you could feel the heat of him radiating into your skin.
“For like three years,” he whispered, his tone dripping with certainty. “And that won’t stop me from giving you what you need.”
Your laugh was humorless, desperate, the last flimsy weapon you had.
“And what do I need, Ni-ki? Enlighten me.” You tilted your chin, pretending strength, though your pulse betrayed you in the hollow of your throat. “You grew up, and now you think you know everything?”
His smirk softened like he finally saw through all of it. His gaze fell to your mouth, lingered.
“I know that I want you.”
The air between you burned, thick with something unspoken. His words hung there, heavier than the quiet hum of the fridge, heavier than your own ragged breath. And when your eyes met his again, there was no mistaking it, the want, the danger, the inevitability.
“And I know that you want me,” he murmured finally, so low it felt like it slid right under your skin. “Even if you try to deny it.”
He spoke with a maddening certainty, almost as if he was just stating facts. It made you feel so small.
Your chest rose sharply.
“Ni-ki—”
But then his hand moved, knuckles brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse betrayed you, frantic and unsteady. The touch was so subtle it could have been an accident. You knew it wasn’t.
“Are you wet right now?” he whispered, right against your ear, making you shiver.
The words cracked the air open. Heat shot through you so violently you thought your knees might give. Your lips parted, but your voice caught somewhere between outrage and confession.
“Oh my God, Ni-ki, I swear to God—”
“I know you are.” His tone deepened, rich and sure.
You tried to pull your hand back, but he caught your wrist in his. The faint scrape of his thumb against your skin had your breath faltering.
“I don’t give a fuck about my brother,” he said, his voice so close it felt like it belonged inside your head. He leaned in, lips brushing the edge of your ear without touching. “He didn’t take care of you. I bet he didn’t even see you.”
Your throat tightened. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that this wasn’t fair, but the way your body hummed, the way your lungs struggled for air, betrayed you.
His other hand lifted, slow, until his fingertips skimmed the hem of your dress.
“You’ve been starving,” he said, his voice dark silk, each word dragging against your spine. “I can feel it. The way you flinch every time I brush against you. The way you breathe like I’ve got my hand already between your legs.”
Your back hit the fridge door without you realizing you’d stepped into it. His presence filled the tiny kitchen, his body towering just close enough to trap you there.
“You deserve better,” he went on, his hand drifting higher, then retreating a fraction like he wanted to torture you with absence. “You deserve to be touched right. Kissed right. To feel good without having to beg for it.”
You shivered. You wanted to move, to push him away, to say no. But your body was frozen in the gravity of him, your pulse giving you away, your thighs pressed just a little too close together.
He tilted his head, watching you, his expression unreadable but his eyes burning dangerous. Then he leaned closer, the faintest brush of his mouth against your temple, not quite a kiss. His breath slid warm down your cheek.
“I could make you forget his name,” he whispered, so soft it almost wasn’t real. His fingertips traced the side of your thigh in a lazy circle. “All you’d remember is me.”
The kitchen was silent. There was only the electric press of air between his lips and your skin, the forbidden ache in your chest, the terrifying truth that he was right, your body was already answering him.
His hand lingered just above your thigh, a whisper of heat teasing your senses. He leaned in closer, and your eyes fluttered shut instinctively, heart hammering against your ribs. The space between your lips and his shrunk to a mere breath, a fraction of a second from shattering every restraint you had.
You could feel the warmth of his body, the faint brush of his lips against your temple, the subtle press of his chest inches from yours. Every nerve was alive, buzzing, whispering for you to close the gap.
But then the moment was interrupted by your friend’s voice from the hallway.
“Y/n! You still alive in there?!”
Your eyes snapped open. Ni-ki froze too, the tension breaking instantly. In a blink, he stepped back, his hand dropping to his side as if nothing had happened, groaning softly in annoyance.
You were shaking, caught between frustration, embarrassment, and an undeniable ache where his fingers had ghosted along your skin.
Ni-ki placed a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh, and his eyes sparkled with that mischievous glint that made your chest twist in both desire and exasperation.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low, amused but intimate.
“I—I’m fine,” you stammered, tugging your dress down slightly, wishing the world would swallow you whole.
He didn’t release his gaze, the smirk tugging at his lips, teasing, knowing, as if he’d enjoyed watching your reaction as much as you’d been feeling it.
Jay’s laughter echoed again from the hallway, snapping you back fully to reality. You sighed, heart still racing, cheeks warm, trying to regain composure.
Ni-ki tilted his head, clearly fighting amusement, his hand finally dropping from his mouth.
“We’ll pick up where we left off… later,” he whispered, the promise heavier than anything he’d said before, before finally letting you step away.
Turns out, your friend’s thing with Jay wasn’t a one time thing. He was clearly interested in her for more than a one night thing, and he clearly liked her. She liked him too, and you were happy for her. The thing is, now you were stuck hanging out all times with his friend group, and Ni-ki.
It wasn’t just that he was impossibly handsome. It wasn’t just the way his broad shoulders seemed to command the room or how the strands of his hair fell carelessly over his forehead, effortless, confident, brushing past you with just enough closeness that the warmth of him stayed longer than it should. Every laugh, low and rich, vibrated through the space between you, making your chest tighten. Every whisper near your ear—“You look… perfect tonight”—sent shivers crawling down your spine. His fingers would graze your thigh as he passed, igniting a fire you couldn’t contain.
And yet, every glance, every touch, every smirk carried the impossible reminder: he was Jake’s younger brother. The same boy whose baby face you’d once teased was now a tall, dangerously alluring man, and suddenly the line you’d sworn to respect felt maddeningly thin. You knew you shouldn’t want him. But, you did.
Your body betrayed you with every encounter, your pulse spiking, your stomach fluttering, your fingers lingering on the spots his hands had brushed. He was a storm wrapped in a smile, and you had no idea how long you could resist before giving in entirely.
These thoughts consumed you as you laid on your bed, TV flickering faintly in the background. You weren’t even watching it; the colors just washed over the room in dull, restless waves. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to will the heat from your body to go away.
Then your phone buzzed. Unknown number. Your chest tightened before you even answered.
“Hello?” you said softly.
“Good evening.”
Ni-ki.
You sat up, heart hammering.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your cute friend,” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice.
Your stomach dropped. You were going to kill her.
“Not happy that I called?”
You sighed, pushing a hand through your hair.
“Not exactly.”
Silence. A faint shift of breath on the other end. Then a little sound, half a chuckle, half a hum.
“Still thinking about what I told you?” he asked.
You swallowed.
“I don’t think about you at all,” you managed, but your voice lacked conviction.
“Lies.”
You closed your eyes, your pulse a slow, deep drumbeat in your ears.
Another moment of silence stretched, thick enough to choke on. Then his voice dropped, shameless.
“I do think about you. All the time. About what will happen if you let me have you to myself. What I’d do to you.”
Your fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles white. His words crawled under your skin like heat.
“Ni-ki…” your voice trembled. “I’m going to hang up.”
“I want you, y/n.”
It wasn’t just what he said, it was the way he said it. Low, velvety, with no hesitation at all. Like a truth he’d been holding in his mouth for too long.
“I want you,” he repeated, softer, slower this time. “I want to feel you shiver. I want to see your eyes roll back. I want to taste every inch of you until you’re begging me not to stop.”
Your breathing was weak, eyes staring at the TV screen but seeing nothing. You could almost feel his breath against your ear even though he was only a voice on the line.
“Stop…” you whispered.
He hummed again, a sound that melted right down your spine.
“Tell me you don’t want it,” he murmured. “Tell me you don’t lie awake thinking about me the way I think about you.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
His voice dropped even lower, intimate, like he was leaning in through the phone, brushing his lips across your ear.
“I want to feel your skin under my hands. Every curve, every soft inch. I want to make you forget everything else, make you lose your mind for me.”
You shivered involuntarily, biting your lip, heart hammering in your chest.
“Ni-ki…” you whispered, trembling, trying to sound firm but failing miserably.
“Shh,” he murmured, soft but commanding. “I know you want it. I can hear it in your voice. The way you’re already wet for me, just thinking about it. You’ve been so good, holding yourself back...”
Your fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them as though they could ground you. Every word he spoke was fire, crawling through your veins, igniting every nerve ending.
“I’d kiss you,” he said, almost reverently, “slow, deep, until you’re dizzy. I’d trail my hands down your body, teasing, leaving marks only I get to see. You’d beg me without even meaning to, and I’d… give you exactly what you need. Better than anyone ever has.”
Your breath hitched audibly. You wanted to protest, to remind him — you, the ex of his brother — this was wrong. But your body betrayed you, betraying all the control you thought you had.
“I want to taste you,” he continued, low, deliberate. “I want to hear you whimper, to feel your legs tighten around me, to make you mine in every way you’ve been craving, in every way you deserve.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse a staccato drum in your ears. You could feel the heat pooling, your body responding despite your mind screaming no.
“Stop…” you whispered again, barely audible.
He hummed, a deep, satisfied sound.
“Not yet. Not until you tell me that you want it too, even if just for a little while. You don’t have to think about anyone else. Not Jake, not anyone. Just me. You and me.”
Your lips parted, breath shaky. You could feel your own longing clawing through, raw and desperate.
“Ni-ki…”
“Yes, baby?” His voice was silk and steel at once. “Say it. Tell me you’ve been thinking about this… about me.”
Your body trembled, your thoughts a tangled mess of desire and disbelief.
“I… I can’t…”
“You can.” His tone softened but stayed sure, a whisper that stroked down your spine. “I know you want it.”
You stayed silent, nails dragging unconsciously over the fabric of your sheets, eyes staring at nothing. He didn’t fill the quiet with empty words; he just breathed on the line.
Then he spoke again, softer still, like he was giving you a secret:
“Tomorrow. Go back home with me after Jay’s party. No games, no tricks. If you feel wrong at any point, if you confirm you don’t want it…” A pause, a faint exhale. “I’ll leave you alone. I’ll go back to being just a memory in the back of your mind.”
You closed your eyes, the ceiling spinning slowly above you. That offer — the way he said it — it wasn’t a threat. It was an invitation.
He continued, his voice sliding lower, wrapping itself around you:
“But if you let me, y/n…” Another pause. You could almost hear him smile. “I’ll treat you just right. Like the princess you are. I’ll make you feel so good, I’ll focus on nothing but you. On what you truly deserve.”
You weren’t sure if it was the word princess or the way he said deserve that undid you. Your throat was dry. You had no idea how long you’d been holding your breath. The idea of it — of him — filled every inch of you, a heady, terrifying ache.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated, this time almost a whisper. “Let me show you. Let me make you feel good. Just… come home with me.”
You pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes, a half‑sob, half‑laugh catching in your throat.
“Ni‑ki…”
“Mm?”
“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered.
He exhaled, a low hum that vibrated through the line.
“You don’t have to decide now. Just think about it. Think about me. I’ll be waiting.”
He didn’t hang up right away. He stayed on the line, silent, breathing with you, until you finally clicked the call off. And then you were alone again, your room still, your body trembling, but your mind already painting the next night, the next possibility, in vivid, dangerous color.
The next night came sooner than you expected and than you preferred. You were still thinking about the conversation with Ni-ki, still deciding if you wanted to lean into your desires or into your rational side. But you decided you weren’t about to look like you were struggling. So you slipped into a cute silky dress, into your favorite heels, and put your hair on a perfect high ponytail before steppin outside by your friend’s arm, suddenly thinking that this was the most you’d went outside these times in a row.
Your heels clicked against the pavement. You adjusted the strap of your dress, the silky fabric sliding over your skin, and tried to remind yourself this was just another night out with your friend.
But every step toward the apartment made your pulse spike. You could almost feel him before you even entered, the memory of his gaze pressing against your chest, that impossible mix of confidence and danger curling low in your stomach. Your friend laughed beside you, looping her arm through yours, but her voice was distant, background noise to the thoughts spiraling through your mind.
The door opened, and the warm scent of cologne, laughter, and alcohol washed over you. Jay waved at your friend, a grin lighting up his face as he held out a drink. She slid onto his lap without hesitation, giggling, and your heart squeezed at the domesticity of it, at how natural it all seemed. You forced a polite smile and nodded, stepping inside, trying to ground yourself in the simple act of walking forward.
Ni‑ki was standing by counter, broad shoulders relaxed, the faint outline of his jaw highlighted by the soft glow of the room. His hair fell perfectly, and his dark eyes caught yours in that way that made the room melt around you.
He gave a small nod, but your stomach dropped. He wasn’t doing anything overt, wasn’t even looking your way fully, yet the weight of his presence pressed against you. That gesture, was like him saying “It’s ok, i’m giving you space to think” and it only made you melt even more.
So you wandered towards the snack table, your hands busy with a drink you barely sipped, trying to distract yourself. But your thoughts kept going in circles. You remembered the feel of his hands, the whisper of his voice, the way he had looked at you like he already knew exactly what you wanted. Heat pooled low in your stomach, a delicious ache that made your fingers clench the cup a little too tightly.
The rational side of your mind flickered on. He’s Jake’s brother. It’s wrong. Don’t. Resist. And yet… the thought only made your pulse spike higher. Because this wasn’t Jake. This was Ni‑ki. The boy who had grown into a man that made your body ache in ways you didn’t know were possible.
Every subtle glance he threw your way, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk, the way he leaned slightly when someone spoke, letting that space between you curl tighter, it was maddening. You were caught between panic and anticipation, wanting to pull back and simultaneously throw yourself into the heat of it.
Your mind wandered further, imagining what it would feel like to give in. To let him touch you, tease you, claim you in ways you hadn’t allowed yourself in months. To feel his lips, his hands, the warmth of his body against yours. Your breath caught with a soft shiver running down your spine.
You thought about Jake, about the ugly breakup, the bitterness still stuck in your chest. You remembered the cheap hotel sheets, the way he had looked at you when you caught him. How small and unwanted you had felt. How he made you question everything, your worth, your desirability, the years you had wasted on someone who never cherished you. How he asked for forgiveness days later and you denied it with the little dignity you had left.
And then came Ni-ki, slipping into those thoughts like he always did. His face, his voice, those eyes that never wavered. Eyes that burned with hunger, with certainty, with a kind of want that made your pulse trip over itself. He didn’t hesitate when he said it: I want you. Not a second of doubt, not a trace of shame. Just truth, laid bare.
And maybe that was why he unsettled you so much. Because he saw you in ways Jake never did. Because every stolen glance, every brush of his hand against your thigh, every whispered word pulled you back into yourself, reminding you that you were wanted. Desired. That you weren’t broken, you were just starving.
And you realized… you were ready.
Ready to stop apologizing for what you wanted. Ready to stop protecting everyone else’s feelings while yours rotted in silence. Ready to put yourself first, even if it was reckless, even if it was dangerous. Even if it was just your desire. So as your eyes found Ni-ki’s across the room again, catching that impossible smirk, you knew the decision had been made for you. Tonight, you were going to go home with him. Not because it was easy, but because you wanted it. Because for the first time in a long time, you were choosing yourself in a selfish, raw way.
Your pulse thundered in your ears as the thought curled around your senses. You could almost feel him moving closer without even trying, could almost hear the low timbre of his voice whispering your name. And a thrill ran through you, delicious and terrifying, as you realized that you were already lost.
At the end of the night, your heart was pulsing heavy against your chest as Jay talked to his friends about who could take your friend home. Their voices blurred, and you didn’t even realize you were dissociating, on everything you were trying so hard to ignore.
“Y/n? You coming with me?”
Her voice pulled you back down.
Before you could answer, your eyes found Ni-ki. He was standing outside, leaning against his car looking so relaxed. His hands were in his pockets, his expression unreadable, no smirk teasing his lips this time. He hadn’t said a word to you all night, hadn’t cornered you, hadn’t whispered anything dangerous in your ear. He gave you space, just like he’d promised. But his gaze said it all anyways.
You swallowed, your throat tight, and turned back to your friend with a soft smile that felt like both a lie and a truth.
“It’s okay, baby. Ni-ki offered me a ride.”
She nodded easily, still caught up in Jay’s orbit, stealing another kiss from his lips before letting Sunghoon guide her towards his car. You watched her go, her laughter trailing in the cool night air.
And when you looked back at him, Ni-ki’s gaze lit up. Not cocky or smug. Satisfaction, yes, but threaded through with want and the dangerous promise of what the night could become.
Your pulse kicked hard against your ribs. You weren’t sure if it was fear, or excitement, or the dizzying blend of both. But your feet moved anyway, step by step towards him, towards the very thing you’d been telling yourself to resist.
“You sure?” was the only thing he said to you. There was no edge to his voice, just a genuine question, a genuine request for your approval.
You met his eyes, heart hammering against your chest, and nodded. A small, sweet smile slipped onto your lips, as you let out a long sigh.
“I am.”
The corner of his mouth curved and he simply dipped his head in a quiet nod and stepped forward, opening the passenger door for you. His hand lingered against the frame until you slid inside.
Once the door clicked shut, the world outside dulled. The air inside his car was more intimate. You smoothed your dress against your thighs as he rounded the hood, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine. The sound filled the silence, but didn’t break it. The atmosphere stretched between you, the silence that buzzing electric and undeniable.
Ni-ki drove with one hand resting on the wheel, the other relaxed on his thigh. Every now and then, his arm brushed yours as he shifted gears, casual touches that sent a shiver across your skin no matter how small. You tried to focus on the lights outside, the blur of passing streets, but your gaze kept dragging back to him, the way his profile looked under the passing glow of streetlamps, the calm in his expression that made your own pulse feel frantic.
You were shaking with anticipation, though you hid it well, palms pressed together in your lap.
“You look beautiful tonight. I forgot to tell you.”
Your let out a shaky breath and turned to him, though his eyes stayed on the road, the sincerity in his tone tangled something in your chest.
“Thank you,” you murmured, softer than you meant to.
Silence fell again, but it was different.
Then his hand moved and he laid it on your thigh, his fingers splaying just enough to make you feel the weight of it. Heat seared through the thin fabric of your dress, crawling up your skin, your heart racing as if you’d been caught doing something forbidden.
He didn’t look at you. He kept driving, calm, composed, his thumb brushing once, so subtle.
“I could do so much to you right now,” he said finally, his voice so deep and low. Then, after a beat, a quiet chuckle. “But patience.”
Inside of you, your chest was blazing, your stomach twisting, your pulse begging.
And you loved the thrill of it.
So long untouched, that’s what you were. And that’s what you confirmed yourself that night. Because the moment you and Ni-ki stepped a foot inside his place, you tried to convince yourself it would be him who crossed the line first. But no, it was you. It was your body that moved before thought, your lips finding his in a hungry, desperate clash.
The kiss was an eruption, clumsy and perfect. You could feel his smirk against your mouth at your impatience, but he kissed you back harder, his tongue sliding against yours with a heat that made your knees weak. Your hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer until you couldn’t breathe. He groaned low before your back hit the wall with a soft thud. The world tilted as his hands caught under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, with so much ease, aa if you were light as a feather. You wrapped yourself around him instinctively, heart racing, breath breaking between kisses. The keys slipped from his grip and clattered somewhere across the living room, forgotten, his deep laugh against your lips sending shivers straight through you.
“Couldn’t even wait,” he teased, breathless, his mouth brushing yours. His words made your stomach twist, but the teasing only fueled your fire.
“Shut up,” you whispered, though your voice went soft, needy, trembling.
And Ni-ki seemed to loved it. He loved the way you tried to sound defiant when you were melting in his arms. His lips left yours only to find the delicate line of your jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your throat. Each drag of his tongue, each graze of his teeth, had you gasping and holding tighter onto him.
The wall was cool against your back, but every inch of him was fire. His hips pressed flush between your legs, the hard line of his body grinding into you just enough to make your breath hitch. He moved slowly, you almost forgot how good it felt to be held like this and wanted like this.
You were dizzy, not just from the kiss, but from the way he looked at you every time he pulled back to breathe. His gaze was dark and wanting, like he couldn’t believe you were really in his arms. It made the whole moment feel surreal.
His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, fingers splaying possessively, and you shivered under his touch. He kissed you again, softer this time, a slow, wet pull at your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. The shift made your stomach twist with longing, a silent statement that he could take his time, or ruin you in an instant.
And you let yourself think, in that dizzy haze of lips and teeth and tongue, that maybe you didn’t care how reckless this was. Maybe you just wanted to feel this alive again.
But your brain shut down the moment his grip adjusted under. Ni-ki carried you down the hallway, his lips still stealing yours, your head spinning too much to notice where you were going until the sound of a door opening filled the blur of your senses. The next thing you felt was the soft press of sheets beneath your back, the mattress catching you while he leaned over, caging you in.
There, he just looked at you, breath heavy, lips swollen, eyes dark with intent. Then, with one sharp tug, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.
He was all lean muscle, sculpted like he was carved out of heat and shadows, every line defined. His chest rose and fell with quiet restraint, and your gaze went lower watching the ink sprawling across his ribs, the bold tattoo that stretched with every breath, black against skin glistening faintly with sweat. It made him look untouchable, dangerous, but so beautiful it was unfair. There was no doubt that this wasn’t the same Ni-ki you once met.
His smirk deepened at your reaction, but there was something else in it too, satisfaction, hunger, something that said he’d been waiting for this. His thumb brushed your jaw as he leaned closer, his voice low and rough.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to have you like this,” he murmured, his words grazing over your skin like fire. “Spread out beneath me, looking at me like that.”
Your heart stuttered, and you felt your thighs press together on instinct, trying to contain the ache pooling low in your stomach. But Ni-ki noticed and the corner of his mouth twitched, a quiet smile that made you tremble.
He lowered himself, his bare chest brushing yours, and you swore you could drown in the warmth of him. Your fingers itched to trace his body, to memorize every curve of muscle, every edge of ink. You were practically drooling, lost between awe and want, every inch of him screaming gorgeous, sinful, untouchable.
“I want to make you feel so good,” he whispered, his lips grazing your throat as he kissed down the delicate line of your neck, his breath hot, his voice roughened with desire. His hands tightened against your sides, like touching you was the only thing keeping him sane. “Want to make you forget everything that made you feel like you’re not wanted. Because you are. I want you so bad, Y/n.”
The words tore through you. Not just lust, it was almost like he could see through every crack, every scar, and wanted them anyway. His mouth moved against your collarbone, kisses melting into bites, into lingering trails of heat that made your spine arch helplessly beneath him.
Then he pulled back just enough to catch your eyes, his own burning low, voice breaking softer this time.
“Will you let me?”
“Yes,” you breathed, no hesitation, no doubts.
Ni-ki gave a slow, wicked smile. Straightening, he slid his hands to your waist, pulling you upright with him until you were kneeling, the mattress dipping beneath your knees. His gaze never left yours as he shifted back against the headboard, his body stretching out like temptation itself. Then, with a firm tug, he guided you onto his lap, turning you until your chest pressed against his thighs, your face inches from where his heat and hardness strained beneath his pants.
“Come here, babygirl” he murmured, not a command, but an invitation that made your pulse throb in your ears.
Your hands trembled slightly as you steadied yourself against his legs, the muscles taut and warm under your palms. You could feel his eyes on you.
Your cheek pressed into the sheets, cool fabric against overheated skin, your body stretched out belly-down, still fully dressed except for your heels, that he had slipped out of you you didn’t noticed when, as his weight hovered behind you. His hand traced the dip of your spine first, slow, deliberate, until goosebumps lifted on your arms. He took his time wanting to memorize the way you shivered just from his fingertips.
“God, look at you,” Ni-ki murmured, voice low filled with something that made your chest ache and your stomach twist. His fingers slid down, pooling your dressed up until the fabric was bunched around your waist, ghosting over the curve of your ass, where he gave a couple of squeezes before pulling your panties to the side, which made you hiss at the contact of your bare intimacy against the air. He didn’t rush, instead he teased, dragging the pad of his finger along your damp folds until you whimpered into the mattress.
“Already soaked,” he whispered, almost in awe. “All for me.”
The first press of his fingers inside you made your whole body jolt. You gasped, clutching the sheets, trying to steady yourself as he pushed deeper, curling just right, your pussy walls clenching around his digits, a small pain from all the months you spent without being stretched like this, drawing a broken sound from your throat.
“That’s it,” Ni-ki soothed, his other hand bracing your hip, keeping you grounded as you squirmed. His voice carried that dangerous mix of filth and worship, every word sinking straight into your chest. “This is how you deserve to be touched. Taken care of.”
His fingers worked you open, slow at first, then deeper, until your legs trembled with every curl of his hand. You tried to bury your sounds into the pillow, but his chest pressed into your back now, lips brushing your ear.
“Don’t hide from me,” he breathed. “I want to hear you.”
The pace shifted, harder now, his thumb circling your clit with devastating precision. You were still on your dress, not even naked yet. But the air was already thick with heat, with the wet sound of his fingers moving inside you, stretching you so good, until you were almost dripping on his hand, with the stutter of your gasps.
“You feel that?” he groaned against your ear. “That’s what you’ve been craving.”
You were feeling a mix of shame and arousal, and your body moved on its own, rocking back against his hand, chasing every stroke. Your thighs shook, your toes curled, your voice spilling little pleas you couldn’t control.
“Yeah, just like that. Fuck— you’re so wet, squeezing me so tight. You love this, don’t you? My fingers fucking you open, making a mess out of you. Say it.”
You whimpered, incoherent, but he didn’t let up. He kissed down your shoulder, biting lightly before speaking again.
“Say it, baby. Say you love it.”
“I— I love it,” you finally gasped, trembling, the words torn out of you.
“Good girl,” he groaned, curling his fingers harder, faster, his thumb relentless on your clit. “That’s my girl. You’re perfect. I’ll make you cum so hard you forget every asshole who ever made you feel unwanted. All you’ll think about is me.”
Your body melted into the sheets, but he wasn’t letting you rest there. With a firm grip on your waist, Ni-ki lifted you, pulling you closer to his lap. The shift made your stomach flip, your thighs weak as he settled you down, chest pressed completely to his thighs, your ass tilted up enough for him to keep playing with you. His other arm wrapped easily around your middle, caging you there.
Your cheek pressed into his thigh, the warmth of him grounding you while his fingers slid back inside, deeper this time. The angle was devastating, pumping over and over again against your g-spot. You cried out, your hands clawing at his leg, clutching the muscle under his jeans as if you could hold yourself together.
“Mhm” he hummed, lips brushing your temple now. “Right there, mh? This is what I wanted to see. You falling apart on me.”
His thumb found your clit again, circling lazily, cruelly slow compared to the deep thrust of his fingers. You squirmed, gasping, whining into his thigh.
“Ni-ki, please—”
“Yes, baby?” he murmured. “You want me to stop? You want me to keep going until you can’t even remember your own name?”
Your answer was a broken moan, your hips rolling helplessly against his hand.
“That’s it,” he growled, curling his fingers so hard your vision blurred. “Chase it, c’mon. You deserve it.”
He held you tighter when your legs trembled, your body jerking against him. His chest pressed against your back, his mouth tracing fire along your neck as his pace turned ruthless, dragging you straight to the edge.
“Fuck, you’re so tight around my fingers.” He hissed, his words hot in your ear. “You love it, don’t you? Dripping all over my lap. Say it.”
Your voice cracked, muffled against his thigh.
“I— I love it.”
“Louder, baby, c’mon, you don’t need to hold back with me.”
“I love it,” you cried, your body convulsing with the force of it, every nerve exploding under his touch.
“That’s my girl,” he praised, kissing your jaw even as his fingers worked you harder, faster. “Cum for me, baby. Cum on my lap. Show me how good I can make you feel.”
You were sure in that moment, that this was the fastest orgasm of your life. The wave crashed so violently you nearly collapsed forward, your whole body trembling as he kept milking it out of you. He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, his hand soaked, his other arm keeping you pinned to him as you rode the high until you were limp, breathless, a shaking mess sprawled against his legs.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips pressing soft against your damp temple.
Ni-ki slipped his fingers out of you with agonizing care, and you shuddered, your body twitching at the loss, your chest heaving against him. The air felt thin, too hot, but he didn’t let you drift too far. His hands were steady, guiding, shifting you with the kind of strength that didn’t need to ask permission. Then he laid you back on the mattress like you were something fragile.
The sheets clung to your damp skin, cool and grounding, while his shadow loomed above you. Your brain was still syrupy, melted from the orgasm he’d just dragged you through, but you could feel need pooling all over again, slick and messy and insistent.
His fingers grazed your jaw, tilting your face towards him.
“Do you even know what you do to me?” he whispered, the faintest rasp clinging to his throat. He bent, pressing kisses down your cheek, your neck, your collarbone, each one like a slow burn. “You’re so beautiful. So fucking hot.”
You whimpered, dazed, and his chuckle was soft but wrecked.
One hand slipped down, gathering the hem of your dress. He peeled it up inch by inch, his knuckles dragging over your stomach, your ribs, until the fabric cleared your arms, your chest, your nipples hardening as the cold air of the room touched them. He tossed it aside without looking, like nothing in the room mattered but your body. His lips parted when his eyes roamed over you, drinking you in.
“God, Y/N,” he groaned, running his thumb over your bare skin, reverent and filthy all at once. “How could he ever let you go? Fucking idiot. If you were mine…” His teeth grazed his bottom lip as his hand squeezed your waist, greedy. “If you were mine, I’d never stop touching you. Never stop making you feel like this.”
Your brain was still mush, your body still humming, but his words had you arching up into him, needy in a way that embarrassed you if you thought too much about it. He didn’t let you hide. His hands skimmed over your chest, over the soft swell of your breasts, his touch making your breath stutter when he squeezed them just right.
“I’ve been dying to see you like this. To have you spread out, messy, begging—” his mouth grazed the top of your breast, his teeth scraping lightly, “—and now that I do, I don’t think I’ll ever let you stop.”
You gasped when his mouth closed around your nipple, and your fingers tangled into his hair. He kept going down, kissing your stomach, your hips. Then Ni-ki spread your thighs wider with his palms, settling lower on the bed. He kissed the inside of your knee, then dragged his lips higher, until his breath was ghosting over your heat.
Your hips twitched toward him, showing just how desperate you were, and his smirk returned for only a second before disappearing into something darker. Then his mouth finally met you, hot, wet and greedy.
The first swipe of his tongue had you moaning, your fingers immediately tangling in his hair, and Ni-ki groaned against you like he’d been starving.
“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, already messy, his lips sliding everywhere. “You taste so fucking good.”
He flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your folds, circling your clit until your back arched. His hands gripped your hips firmly, keeping you spread wide for him, keeping you from wriggling away.
“That’s it,” he praised between licks, his voice vibrating against you.
Your thighs trembled around his head as he sucked your clit into his mouth, obscene and loud, until you were whimpering shamelessly. Every sound only pushed him deeper. He pulled back just far enough to speak, his lips glistening with you, pupils blown wide with lust.
“Look at you… dripping for me. You like it, don’t you? Having me ruin you with my mouth.”
Before you could reply, his tongue dipped lower. His hands grabbed your thighs, pulling them against your chest and leaving you even more exposed. He teased past your entrance, licked down further, and you gasped when you realized where he was going, but you couldn’t protest, you couldn’t say no one had ever done that to you before, the pleasure was bigger when he pressed his tongue against your other hole, wet and hot, groaning as though he’d just tasted something forbidden.
The noise you let out was half a whine, half a plea.
“Oh my god—“ you sobbed
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice wrecked with hunger, “you like that. You want it. Don’t hide it from me.” His thumb brushed circles over your clit as his tongue worked lower, filthy and relentless. “Every part of you deserves to be touched. Every inch deserves to be mine.”
Your hips rocked helplessly against him, shame and desire twisting until you couldn’t tell the difference. Ni-ki’s mouth was everywhere at once, alternating between your clit, your slick, and that daring, dirty pressure lower. Each pass of his tongue had your body jerking, tears brimming in your lashes from how good it felt.
“Good girl,” he whispered into you, his tone equal parts praise and filth. “So fucking good for me. You’re gonna cum so hard, baby. I’ll make sure of it.”
Ni-ki worked his tongue in sinful rhythm, sliding two fingers inside your soaked heat at the same time, curling them until you were crying out his name. The combination was too much, dizzying, overwhelming.
“Cum for me, again, pretty. Right on my tongue. I wanna taste it, want you dripping all over me,” he urged, voice rough, lips never leaving you. “Don’t hold back. Give it to me.”
Your body gave in, shaking apart as you broke on his mouth. He didn’t let go, kept licking, kept murmuring filth and praise, drinking in every shudder and every cry until you collapsed against the sheets, ruined and trembling, his name still on your lips.
You were left shaking, legs weak and chest heaving, when Ni-ki finally pulled back. His lips were swollen and slick, his jaw glistening, his eyes practically glowing. He didn’t move far, just enough to drag his mouth back up your body, kissing a trail along your stomach, your ribs, until he reached the corner of your lips.
“You’re unreal,” he whispered against your mouth, voice hoarse but so full of awe it nearly broke you. “So perfect. So beautiful when you let go for me.”
You could still feel the aftershocks rolling through you, your body twitching against the sheets as he pressed slow, reverent kisses to your cheeks, your nose, your damp temple. His hands never stopped moving, palms smoothing over your thighs, your waist, your stomach.
“Baby…” his voice cracked into a murmur as he kissed your forehead, your jaw, down your throat. “I want you to remember this. You deserve this. You deserve to be wanted. To be worshipped.”
The tenderness in his tone made your eyes sting, but before you could even gather the words to reply, he shifted back on his knees. You watched, breathless, as his hands went to the hem of his pants, tugging them down with unhurried ease.
Piece by piece, he revealed himself to you, smooth skin stretching over perfect muscle. He pulled down his boxers in one movement and kicked the last of his clothes aside, standing bare before you. Every inch of him was carved, he was made to be looked at, touched, devoured. His cock was thick and glistening, red right on the swollen tip, hard against his lower abs, a thick vein on the side.
Your mouth parted, lips trembling, and Ni-ki caught the way your eyes roamed him, but he didn’t look cocky this time. He leaned down, bracing himself above you again, his bare skin brushing yours now with nothing left in the way. Heat rolled off him, dizzying, overwhelming. His lips found yours again, and you tasted yourself on his mouth, slower this time but just as consuming, his hand cupping your jaw while the other stroked your hip.
“Tell me you want this too,” he murmured against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours as if he needed your answer more than air. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you,” you breathed. No hesitation, no mask left, just the truth, spilling out of you. You weren’t fooling yourself anymore; you were too far gone, your body already arching into his touch like it belonged there.
Ni-ki’s eyes darkened at your words. His hands slid down to your hips, strong fingers digging in just enough to make you feel how much he was holding himself back.
“Face down for me, princess,” he said, voice rough velvet. “Can you do that?”
The nickname sent a tremor straight through you. Even if your legs were already sore, and you weren’t even sure you could move, you nodded, dazed, and he guided you with slow hands, turning you, easing you forward until your chest met the sheets and your knees dug into the mattress. You felt his palms trace the backs of your thighs, spreading them wider, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as if molding you into position. Ass lifted, completely his.
“That’s it…” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “So perfect like this.”
Ni-ki bent forward, lips finding the curve of your back, laying open-mouthed kisses down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, his tongue tracing lazy circles before his teeth grazed you just enough to make you shiver. When he reached the small of your back, he lingered there, pressing one last kiss.
A low hiss left his throat and you felt him then, hard and hot, sliding against the soft inside of your thighs before dragging slowly up to your entrance. He didn’t push in yet. He just rubbed himself along your slick, dragging the tip over your pussy folds in lazy strokes, teasing, coating himself in you. Every pass made your hips jerk back involuntarily.
“Feel that?” His voice was a low rasp now, right above your ear. “That’s how bad I’ve wanted you.” Another slow drag over your clit, making you gasp. “This is exactly what you’ve been needing.”
His fingers spread over your hips, holding you open as he rocked against you again, not entering, just rubbing, his cock sliding in slick, wet circles that made you whimper into the sheets.
“You’re still so wet…” He groaned softly, his restraint hanging by a thread. “I could bury myself inside you right now. But I want you squirming for it. I want you begging.”
He lowered his mouth to the base of your neck, biting lightly as he whispered filth straight into your ear, each word a dark caress:
“Tell me how it feels. Tell me you’re ready to be filled. To be ruined.”
His hips rocked once more, the head of his cock pressing against you, that your back arch higher.
He pressed at your entrance, making your thighs tremble against the sheets. Your body ached to give in, your chest heaving as you buried your face in the pillow.
“Ni-ki…” you gasped, voice breaking.
“Yes, baby?” His tone dripped with patience, his lips grazing your jaw. “Say it.”
Your throat closed on the words, but your hips moved without permission, pushing back just slightly, desperate for more.
“Please,” you whispered, finally crumbling. “I want it. I want you inside me.”
He groaned like he’d been holding his breath for hours, forehead pressing into your shoulder.
“That’s my girl.”
Slowly, painfully slow. He slid inside, stretching you inch by inch, his grip on your hips turning bruising as if restraining himself from losing control. You gasped at the fullness, at the way your body fought to adjust, at the burn that melted into bliss. He was so thick, so perfect inside of you, filling every inch that needed him right there.
“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice breaking, “you feel unreal. So warm, so tight… fuck, you’re perfect.”
You clenched around him, your hands fisting in the sheets, overwhelmed by every new inch filling you.
“Breathe for me, babygirl” he coaxed, kissing the slope of your shoulder as he sank deeper, until there was no space left between your bodies. “That’s it. You’re taking me so well.”
Tears pricked your eyes from the intensity, your jaw slack as a whimper fell free. He chuckled low, the sound thick with smugness even through his ragged breaths.
“Bet he never made you feel like this.” His hips rolled shallowly, testing, drawing another broken moan from your lips. “Bet my brother never had you dripping, begging like this.”
“Ni-ki…”
Your voice was fragile, trembling, but it only spurred him on. He kissed your cheek, your damp temple, and whispered against your skin.
“Say my name. Say it so you don’t forget who’s inside you.” He drew back slow, almost all the way, and then eased forward again, the drag maddening, every ridge and vein of him lighting sparks inside you. He wanted you to feel it, to memorize it. “Only me,” he murmured, his tone dipping into reverence. “From now on, only me.”
His hands slid up your waist, smoothing over your curves, down again to grip the swell of your ass, guiding your body into his rhythm. The patience in him was ruthless, each thrust unhurried but devastating, forcing you to savor it, forcing you to break apart one slow breath at a time.
“You’re shaking for me,” he whispered, almost tender now, his lips brushing along your spine. “Look at you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”
A sob broke from you, half from the pleasure, half from the way his words wrapped around your chest like chains and silk all at once.
“Don’t hold back,” he urged, voice dark and rough now. “Let me hear you. Let me feel all of it.”
He angled his hips, thrusting just a bit deeper, finding the spot that made you cry out. The sound tore a groan from his throat, his hands tightening as if he couldn’t believe he was inside you.
“This—” his breath was hot against your ear, broken with every roll of his hips “—this is how you deserve to be fucked. Worshipped. Filled. Loved.”
Ni-ki’s body curved over yours like he was trying to mold you into himself, his chest damp against your back, the raw heat of his breath skating down your spine as he moved inside you. Every slow drag of his cock had started as deliberate torture, making you feel every inch, making you fall apart from just the stretch alone.
You asked for more.
“Ni-ki… please, harder—”
And he shattered, every bit of self control seemed to leave his body.
“Whatever you want, baby,” he groaned, voice fraying at the edges. His fingers tightened on your hips and pulled you back into him with a force that had you crying. “I’ll give you the world if you ask. But this—fuck—this is mine. You’re mine.”
The rhythm changed, harder, faster, messy now, the slap of skin against skin echoing into the dim-lit room. You buried your face into the sheets, the fabric muffling your moans as he drove into you like he was chasing something he’d never let go of. Your body burned with every thrust, nerves sizzling like stars under your skin, but your brain was already too hazy to process anything except him.
“That’s it,” Ni-ki breathed, one hand sliding up the length of your spine to tangle in your ponytail, which was already loose. He tugged gently until your back arched for him, and he leaned down to growl in your ear, hips never faltering. “Messy girl… don’t even know your own name right now, do you? All you can think about is how deep I am. How good I make you feel. Tell me. Tell me I’m better than him.”
A broken whimper left you, more a sound than a word, and he laughed low in his throat, the sound rough with pleasure.
“Can’t even speak… fuck, that’s perfect. I’ll say it for you. I’m better. I’m the one who knows how to touch you, how to make you cry like this.”
Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, your body showing every hidden thought, and he groaned at the feel of it, his lips brushing hot and sweet against your shoulder.
“Good girl,” he praised, filthy and tender all at once, each word sinking into your fogged-up mind like it was gospel. “God, you’re perfect. The way you take me, the way you melt for me—fuck, I could live inside you.”
The mattress creaked under the force of him, the room hazy with the smell of sweat and heat and sex, the world shrinking until all you knew was Ni-ki’s voice spilling filth into your ear and the relentless pace of his hips. Your body floated somewhere between pain and bliss, every nerve lit, every thought gone, until there was nothing left but the weight of him claiming you.
Your arms gave out before your voice did, forehead pressed to the sheets, hands fisting the fabric as Ni-ki kept you in place, driving into you with a rhythm that had gone past steady into wild, messy territory. The sound of it, skin, breath, the low, ragged sounds he made, wrapped around you like heat.
You tried to lift your head but it just lolled to the side, a moan breaking loose.
“I—Ni-ki, I can’t,” you gasped, your voice cracked and wet with tears you hadn’t noticed, hips still rocking back into him on instinct.
He bent over you immediately, his palm sliding over your stomach, holding you down but petting you as if you were something precious. His mouth found your ear again, hot and rough and sweet all at once.
“You can, baby,” he whispered, voice low, coaxing, dangerous. “One more. C’mon, you deserve it.”
His fingers dipped lower, finding the swollen bundle of nerves he’d been teasing all night, circling it in time with his thrusts. The sudden extra touch had you crying out, your whole body jerking, your knees sliding wider on the sheets.
“That’s it,” he murmured, breath coming in hard, uneven bursts against your damp skin. “Take it. Take all of it. You’re so good for me. Fuck, you’re perfect like this.” He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, then another, wet and open-mouthed. “Breathe, sweet girl. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go until you fall apart for me.”
Your body trembled, the world blurring at the edges. All you could hear was his voice, low and urgent, sliding between filth and worship.
“Look at you… dripping all over me… tighter every second. You know you’re mine like this, don’t you?”
Something cracked open in your chest, heat, sound, feeling, and you gave a broken sob, pussy walls clenching around him. He hissed, fingers digging into your hips, but he didn’t stop.
“There it is,” he groaned, fingers still circling your clit as his thrusts slowed just enough to draw it out. “Give it to me. Come for me, baby, come on my cock. Show me.”
Your whole body went rigid, then soft, a shudder running through you from your scalp to your toes as you came again, helpless and shaking, your thighs quivering under his hands. He kept whispering through it, filth laced with praise, words that sounded like a prayer.
“That’s my girl,” Ni-ki whispered against your ear, slowing his hips to long, deep strokes that pushed you through the aftershocks.
You barely had time to catch your breath before Ni-ki’s hands slid under your body, hauling you up with ease. You let out a startled whimper, weak protests dissolving into a broken moan as he flipped you onto your back, too spent, too tired already, but somehow not wanting it to end. Your legs felt like jelly, trembling, but he spread them wide with his palms and settled between them like he belonged there.
“Okay, baby?” he asked, though his grin was sharp, his chest shining with sweat as he pushed your knees up and over his broad shoulders.
You tried to nod your head, but it came out as a shiver, a needy whine leaving your throat. It was silly to say yes, but you felt insatiable. Too drunk on him, his body, his voice, his cock.
“Yes, don’t stop—”
That was all he needed. His hips surged forward, burying himself back into you in one deep stroke that had your back arching off the sheets, your cry muffled when he covered your mouth with his own. The angle was brutal, every thrust striking deep, forcing you open, making your vision blur again. Your hands flew uselessly over his forearms, clinging without strength. You were just limbs now, body slack but pliant as he moved you exactly how he wanted, his hands gripping under your thighs to keep you high against him.
“You’re perfect” he growled against your lips, his thrusts snapping sharper, faster. “Can’t even hold yourself up anymore. Just letting me take what I want—” His teeth grazed your jaw, then he pulled back, eyes blown wide, wrecked. “You love it, don’t you, baby? Love being mine like this.”
Your answer came out strangled, desperate.
“Yes—yes, Ni-ki, I love it—”
That tore a groan from his chest, his hips driving harder, rougher, until you were gasping with every stroke. You felt him everywhere inside of you, so deep, so perfect. The room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, your broken moans, his deep curses spilling unfiltered.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he panted, forehead pressing to yours, his pace turning erratic, ragged. “You’re gonna take it, right? Gonna let me make you mine?”
“Yes—” you sobbed, clutching at his shoulders, your nails dragging down his damp skin. “Please, Ni-ki—”
He kissed you again, panting in your mouth, his thrusts becoming erratic and sloppy, just fucking and fucking.
“Okay— Fuckfuck, baby–”
It didn’t take much until Ni-ki’s body shuddered, his rhythm stuttering as he buried himself deep, holding you pinned with your legs trembling over his shoulders. His moan broke against your mouth, low and guttural, as he spilled inside you, thick and hot and all you could ever dream for, his hips jerking in messy, desperate thrusts until he was spent.
For a long moment, there was nothing but heat and heartbeat and his heavy breath mingling with yours. He didn’t let your legs drop, his palms smoothing down the trembling muscles as if to soothe them, pressing slow kisses along your shins, your knees, until your body melted against the sheets.
“Fuck,” he whispered finally, his voice raw and wrecked, lips brushing the tender inside of your thigh. His hips lingered against you, one last drag, before he finally slipped out. The absence made you whimper, your body clenching around nothing as it spilled out his seed, and he caught the sound with a soft, almost guilty groan.
You were gone, practically brainless, a puddle of limbs and overstretched nerves. Every breath was shaky, every blink heavy, as if your body didn’t know how to recover from being unraveled so completely.
But it was ok, because Ni-ki didn’t let you alone. He leaned forward, scooping you into his arms like you weighed nothing, tucking you into his chest. His skin was still hot, damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. But his touch was nothing but careful, his hand smoothing slow circles over your spine, his mouth pressing kisses into your hairline.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, voice husky but impossibly soft. “That’s exactly how good I wanted you to feel.” His thumb brushed along your jaw, coaxing your heavy eyes to meet his. “I’ve got you. Don’t even try to move.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” you breathed, your laugh weak, dazed, collapsing back against him.
He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“Good. Then don’t. Just let me hold you.”
You barely noticed him reaching for a towel, his movements efficient but unhurried as he cleaned you up with gentle care, whispering between touches.
“Beautiful….”
“How are you the most perfect woman alive?”
“Should’ve been treated like this all along.”
Each word was half praise, half confession, soaking into your hazy mind as he tucked you back beneath the sheets. When he finally slipped in beside you, he pulled you close again, molding you into his side like he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance.
His lips traced the curve of your temple, your cheek, the slope of your shoulder, like he was memorizing you in soft worship.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Your eyes fluttered shut, his warmth cocooning you, your body still humming with aftershocks but your heart oddly steady, safe. Something you hadn’t felt in so long.
A soft hand was tracing idle caresses through your now completely loose hair, threading gently as if he didn’t want to wake you. A warm body laid beneath your cheek, his chest rising and falling under your ear, a heartbeat thrumming like a lullaby. You didn’t even remember falling asleep, but waking felt like drifting up through water.
When you finally blinked your eyes open, your lashes heavy, you saw Ni-ki’s frame still wrapped protectively around you. His long arm stretched across the pillow as he scrolled through his phone with the other hand, his attention casual, unbothered.
Your voice came out weak, husky with sleep.
“What time is it?”
He startled just slightly, as if he hadn’t noticed you stirring, and the phone slipped instantly from his hand onto the sheets. Without hesitation, he gathered you closer, one arm pulling you flush to his chest again. His voice was low, softened by the hour.
“4:33. Am”
You sighed and closed your eyes again, content to sink back into him as his fingers returned to your hair, absent-mindedly twirling strands, brushing down the back of your head.
Then you felt the corner of his lips curve against your temple.
“Tired?” he murmured, the teasing threaded with care.
A lazy smile tugged at your lips.
“Spent.”
“I bet,” he chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath you.
You couldn’t help but laugh softly, weak and muffled against his skin, and he laughed too, low and warm, his hand splaying wide across your back like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of you. Your cheek rose and fell with the rhythm of his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. His hand never stilled, tracing lazy lines into your skin. His sweet scent lingered in the pillow, a faint warmth of sweat and cologne, and the world outside felt impossibly far away.
For a long while, you both floated in that silence. Only the faint rustle of sheets, the air conditioning humming softly, the sound of your mingled breathing.
You broke it with a whisper.
“Tell me the truth, are you still close with him?”
The strokes of his fingers slowed. He glanced down at you, brow drawn ever so slightly.
“With Jake?”
“Mhm.” Your hum barely lifted off your throat, your lips brushing his skin.
Ni-ki exhaled through his nose, thoughtful, eyes wandering to the ceiling, searching for the right words.
“Not really,” he admitted. His thumb swept idly across your bare shoulder. “When I left, we didn’t keep much in touch. He’s never been exactly a close older brother. Or a good brother in general. He came to visit me a couple weeks ago, after I came back. But it was… awkward. Distant.”
You traced invisible shapes against his chest with your fingertip, letting the silence hang before murmuring:
“Is that why you went after me?”
His hand slid up the slope of your back, fingertips grazing your hairline.
“No.”
The word was soft, but it held weight.
You sighed, letting your eyes flutter shut again, melting into his warmth as his palm moved slow across you.
“I’m not planning revenge on my idiot older brother,” he added after a pause.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Still.” His voice carried a gentle stubbornness, it made you want to smile. “I’m clarifying. Everything I’ve said is true. I always thought you were too good for him. Not even just physically. I just… knew. He couldn’t handle a woman like you.”
Something in your chest ached. Your throat tightened. You dared to whisper:
“How did you find out?”
“About the cheating?”
“Mhm.”
He sighed, his touch never leaving you. His hand wandered slowly down your spine, then back up, as if soothing the memory away from you.
“I think it was Sunghoon. Or maybe Jay. They found out because of the girl’s side.” His jaw tightened, you could feel it where your temple pressed against him.
You said nothing, letting the silence swallow the ugly truth.
“I was so angry,” he confessed, voice breaking just enough to sound real. “And it would’ve been like that even if it wasn’t you. I’ve always thought cheaters are coward assholes who deserve nothing but bad karma. But it… it infuriated me that he would do that to you, of all people.”
Finally, Ni-ki tilted his head to catch your gaze, his eyes dark, unwavering.
“I swear, y/n. If you were my girl, I wouldn’t even dare to look at another woman. Ever.”
Your lips parted, but no words came. Only the sound of his heart, the weight of his vow.
“You really have grown,” you whispered eventually, trying to lighten the knot in your chest.
His mouth curled into that boyish grin you remembered.
“You talk like a grandma.”
“I’m just saying! I was surprised when we bumped into each other in that hallway. My memory of you was just this awkward teenager who had a FIFA addiction.”
“I still kind of do, you know?” he chuckled, brushing his nose against your hair. “Ask Jay, I beat his ass two days ago.”
You couldn’t help it, you laughed, soft and small, the sound vibrating against his chest. He laughed too, his chest shaking beneath you, the sound easing the heaviness of everything. You tilted up to press a kiss to his jaw, gentle, a thank-you without words.
“Mhm. Still,” you breathed against his skin, “I think you are a very sexy man now.”
His smirk deepened, teasing, cocky in that sweet boy way.
“Yeah, I guess you’re not the first one to tell me that. You should’ve seen my old classmate’s face—”
You swatted lightly at his chest and he broke into real laughter, catching your wrist with his hand.
“But,” he said, tugging your hand up to kiss your knuckles softly, his gaze never leaving yours, “you’re the only one who I want to tell me that.”
The quiet settled again, thicker this time. You swallowed, your voice barely audible.
“It’s just… after Jake, I’ve been feeling like there’s something wrong with me. Like I wasn’t enough. Like no matter how much I gave, I wasn’t wanted.”
He shifted so he could see you better, the movement careful, protective. His thumb brushed against your lower lip, his eyes searching yours.
“Hey.” His voice was soft but firm. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
You blinked, trying to fight back the burn in your eyes, but his smile, gentle and teasing, was a balm.
“He’s an idiot. A selfish idiot. That’s on him, not you. You’re… God, y/n, you’re everything. If he didn’t see that, it’s because he’s blind. Or a coward. Or both.”
Your throat ached, and you pressed your forehead to his shoulder to hide it. He kissed your temple, his breath fanning over your hair.
“You deserve someone who’s obsessed with you,” he whispered into the dim quiet. “Someone who shows up. Someone who touches you like you’re the only thing they’ll ever need.”
His hand splayed warm against your back, keeping you close. Then, softer still, boyish and honest:
“Let me be that, even if it’s just tonight. Let me show you.”
Your chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t pain, it was something that made you dizzy, something dangerously close to hope.
So long untouched. But since that night, you knew you weren’t going to be for at least, a decent amount of time. No heartbreak this time. You were safe now, in the arms of the boy who once was that, but not anymore. Now he was the man that kissed your emotional scars away.
this fic marks my return to tumblr after some time away, i started writing it weeks ago and, while i was writing, suddenly felt that spark coming back, so this is a personal favorite now, i feel so happy to be back and excited for you to read it, please let me know if you guys enjoyed it <3
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who couldn’t believe you agreed to go on a date with him so he makes an extra amount of effort to make the date perfect. he’s stalking all of your social media accounts to find what kind of food you like, he’s overthinking his outfit, getting ready 2 hours in advance, etc.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who picks you up with a shy smile and roses in his passenger’s seat. he settles for a simple arcade date with dinner after because he kept overthinking it.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who makes you ugly laugh after he gets over his shyness. you discover that once he’s comfortable, jungwon can be a little too charming. if you struggle at a certain game machine, he’s coming up right behind you and putting his hands over yours to help you win.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who gets extremely flirty once he realizes you’re biting your lip and tightening your grip on your purse every time he stands too close. and now all of a sudden he’s standing to your side with no space between you, his hand on the small of your back.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who leans down and pulls you into his chest whenever you need to tell him something. is it completely unnecessary? yes. is it hot as fuck? yes.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who you never even got to have a dinner date with because you couldn’t help but straddle him as soon as you two got into his car.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who thought he’d be too shy to even kiss you tonight, has you spread open in his passenger’s seat with his head between your thighs.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who was acting like such a gentleman at the arcade, is now giving light smacks to your pussy and whispering about how badly he’s wanted to fuck you since the both of you first met.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who takes you back to his apartment to fuck you properly because according to him, you’re “too special” to have your first time together be in his car.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who despite saying that, can’t keep his hands off of you until you two finally end up in his room. you end up not even being able to kiss him because of how hard he’s smiling at the vision of you in his bed.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who gives the best aftercare😫 he’s cleaning you up, telling you how well you did, rubbing your sore muscles, etc. jungwon also begs you to stay for dinner, which also meant stay for a shower, which turned into staying the night.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who becomes the sweetest boyfriend you could possibly ask for. however, he’s also the filthiest, horniest, and straight up disgusting man you’ve ever been in bed with.
warnings: idol!ni-ki x older-childhood friend-inexperienced-fem! reader. porn with plot, 11k, ni-ki’s irl family mentioned, usage of y/n and riki, reader know japanese and korean, virginity loss, fingering, oral (f.rec), dacryphillia, nipple play. p in v, unprotected sex (don’t!), missionary, cowgirl, overstimulation, mutual consent (do!), lots of love 🥳
a/n: this was a request from my dms! it took a lot longer, i’m sorry for that 🥺 i hope this was worth the wait!
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You grew up with the soundtrack of Nishimura Riki’s life playing in the background of your own.
Your families were close, his older sister your age was your best friend. That made Riki the unavoidable, scrawny shadow, always a few steps behind, his big eyes watching your every move with a devotion that was equal parts flattering and, frankly, a little annoying when you were fifteen and he was twelve.
You remember the summer you turned sixteen, when your focus was on learning to drive and the senior who worked at the record store. Riki, all limbs and awkward energy, had presented you with a clumsily wrapped birthday gift. It was a mixed CD, the tracklist handwritten in his earnest, blocky script.
“I noticed you like this kind of music,” he’d mumbled, his ears turning red.
You’d ruffled his hair, the way you always did. “Aww, thanks, kiddo. You’re sweet.”
You didn’t miss the way his face fell at the word “kiddo,” but you were sixteen, and the affections of a twelve-year-old boy were as meaningful as a passing cloud. You were kind, but you never took him seriously. How could you? He was the boy who still had Pokémon t-shirts and SHINee posters on his wall, who’d trip over his own feet trying to keep up with you and his sister.
Then life happened. Your family moved away. The friendship with his sister became one sustained through occasional texts and birthday posts on social media. You’d see the occasional post about Riki—he’d become Ni-ki, a trainee, then a member of ENHYPEN. It was abstract, a fact you knew but didn’t truly process. To you, he was frozen in time: the lanky kid with the hopeful smile.
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The reunion happened at his sister’s wedding.
You felt a little out of place, a ghost from a past life. The venue was buzzing, filled with people you barely recognized. You were sipping a glass of champagne, leaning against a pillar and scanning the crowd, when your eyes landed on him.
And your brain simply short circuited. The boy was gone. In his place stood a man. When did he get so hot?
He was taller, for one thing. Significantly so. The lanky frame had filled out with a solid, powerful musculature that was evident even through the elegant cut of his suit. His shoulders were broad, straining the dark fabric, and his posture was no longer a slouch but a confident, easy stance. His face had lost all its baby fat, revealing a sharp, defined jawline and a stronger nose. His hair was styled, but a dark lock fell over his forehead in a way that was artful, not messy.
He was laughing at something his group member, Sunoo, was saying, and the sound; deeper, richer than you remembered, carried across the room and vibrated right through you. This was not the kid you’d pat on the head. This was a man who commanded the space he occupied.
He must have felt your stare. His head turned, his laughter dying on his lips as his eyes found yours. For a long, suspended moment, the wedding crowd, the music, everything just faded into a blur. His gaze was the same; that same intense, dark focus, but the context was entirely new. It was no longer the admiring gaze of a child, but the arrested, appreciative stare of a man.
He excused himself from his group and started walking toward you. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs, a frantic, stupid rhythm. You gripped your champagne flute a little tighter, suddenly hyper aware of your own dress, your makeup, the way you were standing.
“Noona,” he said, stopping in front of you. The honorific, once a casual term for an older female, now felt loaded, intimate. His voice was a low baritone that you felt in your bones.
“Riki,” you managed, your own voice sounding breathy and strange. “You… you look…” Devastatingly handsome? Like a walking dream? “…All grown up.”
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. It was a smile you’d never seen on him before; confident, a little bit dangerous. It completely transformed his face.
“It’s been so long,” he said, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep from your eyes down to your lips, then back up. The appraisal was so blatant it stole the air from your lungs. “You look exactly how I remembered. Beautiful.”
The compliment landed with the force of a physical blow. He wasn’t a kid reciting a line; he was a man stating a fact. You felt a hot flush creep up your neck.
“Thank you,” you stammered. “You… your music is amazing. I hear it everywhere.” It was a lame, safe thing to say, and you cringed internally.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Do you have a favorite song?”
You were trapped. You could name one, but you were terrified he’d ask you to name a lyric and your mind had gone completely blank, filled only with the startling reality of his presence.
Seeing your flustered state, his smile softened. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer.” He took a half step closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne; something clean and woody, with a hint of spice. It was nothing like the sugary adolescent scents of his youth. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked, his gaze dropping to your nearly empty glass.
The simple offer felt like the most sophisticated thing in the world. This wasn’t the boy fetching you a soda to earn a smile. This was a man, an idol, offering to take care of you.
As he led you toward the bar, his hand found the small of your back. It was a light, guiding touch, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. It was possessive, assured.
You looked at his profile, at the sharp line of his jaw, and the last vestiges of the “kiddo” you once knew evaporated into thin air. The boy you’d never taken seriously was gone. And in his place stood a man you couldn’t possibly ignore. The past had collided with the present, and you were left reeling, realizing that the childhood adoration in his eyes had not vanished. It had simply matured, deepening into something far more potent, and you were no longer immune.
Your childhood in Okayama was painted in the warm, familiar hues of your own culture at home, and the vibrant, new colors of Japan outside. Your family’s import business had strong ties to Korea, which meant summers in Seoul and a household where your parents insisted you become fluent in Korean. You became a bridge between worlds, a fact that fascinated the Nishimura family next door, especially their middle child, Riki.
Even at twelve, Riki was already spellbound by K-pop. The moment he discovered you were fluent, his big, earnest eyes lit up with a new kind of determination.
“Noona, teach me?” he’d ask, clutching a notebook, already filled with clumsily written Hangul. “Please?”
It became your routine. You’d sit on the floor of his sister’s room, textbooks scattered around, and you’d drill him on phrases. “Annyeonghaseyo.” “Kamsahamnida.” In reality, the lessons were as much an excuse for him to be near you as they were about language. He’d watch your mouth form the words with an intensity that went beyond academic interest, his cheeks flushing when you caught him staring. You’d laugh and ruffle his hair. “Pay attention, Riki-kun!”
As the years passed, his Korean improved remarkably. He began insisting you only speak to him in Korean. “We both need to practice, noona,” he’d say, his accent softening, his sentences becoming more complex. It became your secret language, a private bubble in the noisy world of adolescence. You’d gossip about your classmates, complain about homework, and he’d tell you about his dreams of dancing on a big stage; all in the language of a country that felt like a shared, distant dream. You never, not for a second, imagined that the boy tripping over his own feet in his backyard would one day be Ni-ki of ENHYPEN. To you, he was just Riki, the sweet, persistent kid next door.
Now, standing at the bar in the wedding venue, that same language falls from his lips, but the voice is entirely new.
“Honestly, I didn’t know you would be here.” His Korean is flawless, the cadence natural and smooth, a far cry from the stilted sentences of his youth.
The sound of it, so intimate and familiar in this formal setting, sends a shiver through you. You answered in kind, the old habit returning effortlessly. “Your sister insisted I come. I even complained that she contacted me so late.”
He laughed, the sound deep and warm. “Of course. She was always obsessed with marriage. Remember? Even when we were in middle school, she only looked at wedding magazines.”
The memory hit you with a wave of nostalgia. “And I was always just studying.”
“And I was always just dancing,” he said, his gaze intensifying, holding yours, “Probably, no one at school saw me. I was always in the practice room.”
You remember that, too. The empty classrooms, the missed school festivals. He was a ghost in the hallways, his life happening in studios to a soundtrack only he could hear. You’d worried about him then. Now, you see where that single minded passion led.
Just then, a ripple of energy announced the arrival of his members. Jungwon and Sunoo approached, their curiosity evident.
“Ni-ki-yah, who’s this?” Jungwon asked, his eyes flickering to you with polite interest.
Ni-ki didn’t miss a beat. He straightened up, his posture shifting subtly into something more protective.
“This is Y/N,” he said, his voice laced with a pride that made your heart stutter. “We grew up next door to each other in Okayama.”
Sunoo’s eyes widened in recognition. “Ah! This is the noona!” He grins, looking between the two of you. “The one you practiced Korean with!” he said, bouncing on his feet a little. “He used to talk about you sometimes when we were trainees. When people asked how his Korean was so good already, he’d just say, ‘A noona I respect very much taught me.’”
The air left your lungs. He talked about you, to his members, during his rookie days, he’d used the word “respect.”
Ni-ki looked down, a faint blush dusting his cheeks, looking more like the boy you once knew than the global star he is. But when he lifted his gaze back to you, there was no boyish shyness left. There was only the unwavering certainty of a man who has carried a piece of you with him all this time.
The members, sensing the charged history, excused themselves with knowing smiles. You were left alone with him again, the sounds of the wedding reception fading once more.
“See?” he says, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “You were always a part of my story, noona. Even when you weren’t here.”
At that moment, the last wall crumbled. This wasn’t just a reunion. It was a convergence. The bridge you built between languages and cultures in a childhood bedroom had led you here, to this man who never forgot the girl who taught him more than just words.
The gentle hum of the reception was cut by the first chords of the processional. A hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes, along with a flurry of camera phones and professional lenses, turned toward the entrance. You instinctively took a step back, melting into the periphery as Ni-ki, with a last, lingering glance in your direction, moved forward with his members to stand near the platform.
This was his world now. The flash of cameras became a constant strobe, illuminating his profile as he watched his older sister walk down the aisle. You saw the soft, genuine smile on his face, the proud younger brother, but you also saw the practiced ease with which he held himself under the relentless gaze. You knew, with a strange, sinking feeling, that images of him at this wedding and by extension, a blurred figure of you in the background, would be dissected by millions online within the hour. The private boy from Okayama was now public property.
After the beautiful ceremony, as the reception kicked into full swing, you finally got a moment with the bride. Ni-ki’s sister, Konon, pulled you into a tight hug, her wedding dress rustling.
“I’m so glad you came!” she gushed, holding you at arm’s length. “Look at you! You look incredible.”
“Says the breathtaking bride,” you laughed, the familiar comfort of her presence easing some of the strangeness of the day.
As you were catching up, a younger voice chirped beside you. “Oi!”
You turned to see Ni-ki’s youngest sister, Misora, who you remembered as a giggling elementary schooler. Now, she was a stylish teenager, but the mischievous glint in her eyes was the same. “You’re so pretty!” she said, her voice sincere. “You look like a star.”
The compliment was sweet, but it came just as you felt a presence on your shoulder. Ni-ki had approached, drawn back into the family circle now that the formalities were over.
Misora, without missing a beat, grinned and poked her older brother sharply in the side. “Doesn’t she, Ni-chan?”
The gesture was so loaded with childhood familiarity and unspoken knowledge that your cheeks flamed. You looked from Misora’s knowing smirk to Konon’s subtle, amused smile, and the truth settled over you: they all knew. The entire Nishimura family had likely been aware of Riki’s childhood crush. It had probably been dinner table conversation. The realization was simultaneously embarrassing and incredibly endearing.
You braced for the awkward, flustered boy from your memories to resurface. But the man beside you simply placed a steadying hand on Misora’s head, giving her a gentle, brotherly shake. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t blush. A slow, confident smile played on his lips as his eyes met yours.
“She’s always been pretty,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, as if stating the sky was blue.
His nonchalance was more disarming than any stammered compliment could have been. He was completely aware of the effect he was having on you, and he was in control of it. You tried to grasp the persona of the cool, older ‘noona’ you used to be, to ruffle his hair and call him ‘kiddo’ to break the tension. But the words died in your throat. The dynamic had irrevocably shifted.
Later, as the party began to wind down, you found a quiet moment on a secluded balcony overlooking the garden. The cool night air was a relief against your warm skin. You were leaning against the railing, lost in thought, when the sliding door opened and closed behind you.
You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You could feel him. He came to stand beside you, his arms resting on the railing, his shoulder just inches from yours. The sounds of the fading party were a distant murmur.
“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” he asked softly, back in the comforting cadence of Korean.
“A little,” you admitted, finally looking at him. The fairy lights from the garden cast soft shadows on his face. “It’s a lot to process. The wedding… and all of this.” You gestured vaguely, encompassing everything he had become.
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “When I’m with them,” he said, nodding back toward the venue where his family and members were, “it feels a little like the old days. But it’s not, is it?”
“No,” you whispered. “It’s not.”
He turned fully to face you then, his body blocking out the rest of the world. The confident idol was gone, replaced by someone more earnest, more real.
“Noona,” he began, his voice low and intent. “That CD I gave you… for your sixteenth birthday. Have you ever listened to it?”
The question was so unexpected it took you a moment to place it. The clumsily wrapped CD from a lifetime ago. A pang of guilt shot through you. You had thanked him, you’d been kind, but you couldn’t honestly remember if you’d ever played it more than once.
Seeing the answer on your face, he gave a small, wistful smile. “It’s okay. I was just a kid.” He took a small step closer. “But I’m not that kid anymore. And I’m not asking you to see me as one.”
His gaze was unwavering, full of a question he’d been waiting years to ask.
“The song I put as track number one,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was about having a crush on an older girl who only saw you as a child.”
The air left your lungs. The pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity. The mixed CD hadn’t just been a collection of songs he thought you’d like. It had been a confession, written in a language only he understood at the time. And you had missed it completely.
Before you could form a response, the sliding door opened again. Jungwon poked his head out. “Ni-ki-yah, they’re doing the final group photos. They need you.”
The moment shattered. Ni-ki held your gaze for a second longer, a promise hanging in the air between you. Then, the professional mask slid back into place. “I have to go,” he said.
He turned and followed Jungwon back inside, leaving you alone on the balcony with the echo of his words and the ghost of a childhood confession you were only now beginning to understand. The wedding was ending, but something new, something terrifyingly real, had just begun.
The grand send off for Konon and her new husband was a blur of laughter, tears, and tossed flower petals. You stood with the crowd, clapping and smiling as the car pulled away, carrying your childhood friend into her new life. A bittersweet feeling settled in your chest; happiness for her, but also the end of an era.
As the guests began to scatter, you found yourself momentarily alone, adjusting the scarf around your shoulders in the cool evening air. It was then that Mr. and Mrs. Nishimura found you, their faces warm and familiar, though lined with a few more years than you remembered.
“Y/N-chan,” Mrs. Nishimura said, her voice thick with emotion. She pulled you into a gentle hug that smelled of perfume and wedding cake. “Thank you for coming all this way. It meant so much to Konon. And to us.”
“It was a beautiful wedding,” you replied sincerely, returning her hug. “And she was a stunning bride.”
Your eyes drifted over her shoulder to where ENHYPEN was gathered, a tight knit group of young men in elegant suits, looking both out of place and perfectly at home. They were laughing about something, a bubble of youthful energy amidst the departing older relatives. Your gaze, as it so often did that day, found Ni-ki. He was listening to Heeseung, a soft smile on his face, but his posture was relaxed in a way you hadn't seen all day, now that the official duties were over.
Mr. Nishimura followed your gaze. A fond, slightly sad smile touched his lips. “We miss him,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. “The house is too quiet without Riki’s music and dancing. We are proud, of course. But we miss our son.”
Your heart ached for them. You remembered the chaotic, loving noise of their home, contrasting to the silent, empty rooms they must live in now.
Mrs. Nishimura squeezed your arm. “We always loved having you over, Y/N-chan. You and Konon causing mischief, and you,” she looked at you with deep affection, “trying to teach our Riki Korean. You were all so cute together. You made our home feel so full.”
A wave of gratitude washed over you. “Thank you for saying that,” you said, your voice thick. “You have no idea how much your family meant to me. Moving to a new country as a girl… your home always felt like a sanctuary. You made me feel like I belonged here in Okayama.”
Mr. Nishimura nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course. We always saw you as one of our own daughters.” There was a beat of comfortable silence, filled with the chirping of evening crickets. Then, he looked directly at you, his gaze flicking to his son across the garden and then back to you.
“You know,” he said, his tone conversational yet loaded, “you would be very good for Riki.”
You froze. Your breath hitched audibly. He continued, undeterred by your sudden flush. “We know you. We know your heart. We know your family. In this life he leads now… full of strangers and cameras… to have someone from his real life, someone we trust completely…” He shrugged, as if the logic was undeniable. “It would be a comfort to us.”
You were utterly, completely flustered. Your mind raced, scrambling for a response. “I… Mr. Nishimura, that’s… he’s… a global star. And I’m just…”
“You are Y/N,” Mrs. Nishimura finished for you, her voice gentle but firm. “The girl he made a mixed CD for. The girl he practiced Korean with for hours just to impress. Some things are more important than being a star.”
Before you could form a coherent reply, a voice, laced with a mixture of curiosity and concern, cut through the tension.
“Everything okay over here?”
Ni-ki had approached, his members lingering a polite distance away, giving the family space but clearly waiting for him. His sharp eyes took in the scene: your deeply flushed cheeks, his mother’s knowing smile, his father’s satisfied expression.
“We were just telling Y/N-chan how wonderful it was to see her,” Mrs. Nishimura said smoothly, though her eyes twinkled with mischief.
Ni-ki’s gaze locked with yours, and you saw the question in them. He knew his parents. He could probably guess the direction their conversation had taken. A faint blush touched his own cheeks, but he held his composure.
“What did they say to you?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.
You looked up at him, the words of his father echoing in your mind. ‘You would be very good for Riki.’ The childhood crush, the shared language, the proud introduction to his members, the confession about the CD—it all coalesced into a single, terrifying, and exhilarating realization. You couldn’t tell him. Not here, with his team waiting. So you just gave him a small, shaky smile. “They just… reminded me of home.”
He searched your face for a long moment, as if trying to decipher a complex code. He seemed to understand that there was more, but he didn’t press.
The venue was emptying now, and as you offered your final congratulations, Mrs. Nishimura placed a hand on your arm, her grip surprisingly firm. Ni-ki glanced at the both of you.
"Y/N-chan, you cannot go to a hotel," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "The house is too quiet now. With Konon gone…" Her voice wavered slightly, and she glanced at her younger daughter, Misora, who was in the other corner of the room, looking brave with her older sister now away; seemed suddenly very small. "Please. Stay with us tonight. It would mean so much to have a familiar presence. It would feel like old times."
Your mind raced. Your meticulously booked hotel room, the quiet anonymity it offered; it felt like a necessary escape hatch from the emotional whirlwind of the day. But looking at their faces; the quiet sorrow in Mr. Nishimura's eyes, the raw hope in his wife's, the silent plea in Misora’s, your resolve crumbled. They weren't just being polite; they were clinging to a piece of the past, and you were that piece.
"I… of course," you heard yourself say, the words feeling both right and terrifying. "I'd be honored. Thank you for having me."
"Riki," his mother said, turning the same hopeful gaze on him. "You should come home tonight too. Just for a little while. Your room is just as you left it."
You saw the immediate, visceral longing that flashed across his face. It was there and gone in an instant, replaced by a weary professionalism. He shook his head, a gesture of genuine regret.
"I can't, mom. The manager hyung… we have an early flight for a schedule. They need us all together at the hotel." He gestured faintly towards the waiting vans, the unspoken rules of his new life forming an invisible wall between him and his family.
He looked at you then, and the complexity of emotions in his eyes stole your breath. There was gratitude that you would be there for his family, a deep, aching envy that you would be walking through the halls of his childhood home without him, and a profound sense of displacement. He was the son, the brother, but he was the one who couldn't come home.
His parents nodded, accepting the reality they had become accustomed to. But Ni-ki’s gaze remained locked with yours.
"You'll see Bisco for me?" he asked, his voice low, referring to the family dog he’d adored as a boy.
"Of course," you whispered.
"And… my room?" A faint, almost shy smile touched his lips. "Is it still a disaster?"
You managed a small smile back. "I'll do a full inspection."
He gave a short, quiet laugh, but his eyes were serious. He needed to do something. He couldn't just let you walk back into the most intimate space of his past while he was ushered into another sterile hotel room.
As his family began to gather their things, he stepped slightly away, pulling out his own phone. “I’ll call you,” he said. It wasn’t a question or a hope; it was a statement of fact. You looked at him, puzzled. He didn’t have your phone number, nor did he ask for it. He gave you a promising look, and walked away. You kept your eyes on Misora as she made her way to her parents and you.
A moment later, your own phone, tucked away in your clutch, buzzed softly. You discreetly pulled it out.
Unknown Number:
it’s riki. konon just gave me your number
A pause, then another message came through.
when you see my room… don’t laugh too much. and take a picture of bisco for me
i’ll call you tomorrow. don’t stay up too late with misora
You looked up from your phone to see him climbing into the vehicle. He didn't look back, but the message was his anchor, his way of inserting himself into the narrative of your evening at his home, ensuring that while his body was being driven away, a part of him was coming home with you.
The Nishimura house was a beautiful time capsule. Bisco, the family dog, white and gentle, had wagged his tail so hard his entire body wriggled when you petted him. Misora had dragged you to her room to show you her latest projects, the chatter a comforting, familiar sound. But the most poignant moment was when Mrs. Nishimura quietly opened the door to Ni-ki’s room.
It was exactly as he’d left it. A few faded SHINee posters were still tacked to the wall, alongside more sophisticated prints of dancers and athletes. A shelf held a collection of trophies from local dance competitions. The desk was neat, but you could imagine a younger Riki hunched over it, painstakingly writing Hangul in the notebook you’d helped him with. The air smelled faintly of dust and nostalgia. It felt sacred, and a profound sense of tenderness for the boy he was, and the man he’d become, washed over you.
You fell asleep in the quiet guest room, surrounded by the ghosts of a happy past. The ringing of your phone felt like it was tearing through the fabric of a deep dream. You fumbled for it in the dark, the screen blinding you.
Riki. Your heart leapt into your throat. You swiped to answer, your voice a sleep roughened croak. “Hello?”
“You’re still asleep.” His voice, low and amused, came down the line. There was no ‘good morning.’ He knew.
You tried to sit up, clearing your throat. “No, I’m… I’m awake.”
He chuckled, a soft, intimate sound in the quiet room. “Liar. I have a car. I’m outside. Get ready. I have until tonight.”
The suddenness of it left you dizzy. “What? Right now? Where are we going?”
“Anywhere we won’t be recognized. Just… be with me. Please, noona.”
The ‘noona’ did it. The honorific, once a barrier, now felt like a secret endearment. “Give me twenty minutes,” you whispered.
You moved in a frantic, quiet whirlwind. When you emerged, dressed and hastily put together, you found his parents in the kitchen. “I… I’m meeting Riki for the day,” you explained, feeling a blush creep up your neck.
Mr. and Mrs. Nishimura exchanged a single, profound, knowing glance. It was a look that held decades of shared understanding. Mrs. Nishimura simply smiled, a soft, hopeful thing. “Be careful,” she said, and you knew she didn’t mean just with traffic.
The black sedan was idling discreetly down the street. You slipped into the backseat, and there he was. He’d changed out of his suit into dark jeans, a black hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low, but there was no hiding the sharp, handsome lines of his face. The car pulled away, and you were alone in the moving bubble of the backseat.
The day was a blur of hidden corners of Okayama; a private tea room in an old neighborhood, a drive along the less populated waterfront. And through it all, he teased you.
“Remember that guy, Kenji from down the street?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips as he stirred his matcha. “He asked you to the summer festival and you told him you had to reorganize your bookshelf by color.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “My parents would have never let me go!”
“That’s what you said about everything,” he laughed, his eyes crinkling. “You were so focused on being the perfect, studious daughter. Meanwhile, I was skipping class to practice in a studio that smelled like old wood.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, tell me the truth. With all that studying and no rebelling… you probably still don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”
He had hit the bullseye with unnerving accuracy. You didn’t want to admit it, to lay that particular vulnerability at his feet. You had boyfriends of course, just not currently. But the truth was plain on your flustered face. He leaned back, looking unbearably pleased with himself. Fine. Two could play this game.
“Well,” you shot back, crossing your arms, “at least I never had a poster of a girl group on my ceiling that I kissed goodnight.”
It was a weak, childish retort, but it was all you had. He just laughed, a full, unreserved sound that made the driver’s shoulders jump slightly.
“That’s the best you can do?” he challenged, his eyes dancing. “You can’t tease me, noona. I’m flawless.”
But the teasing was a thin veil for the tension that was coiling tightly in the small space between you. Every laugh, every shared memory, every lingering glance added another layer. He looked at you across the small table, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and the heat in his look was unmistakable.
As the car wound through the city, he’d point out a place.
“See that alley? I filmed a music video there. It was raining and we had to do the same move twenty seven times. My muscles were screaming.” He said it with a wry smile, but you heard the undertone of exhaustion.
Later, as you walked along a nearly deserted pier, the wind whipping at your hair, the conversation drifted into deeper waters. The playful glint in his eyes faded, replaced by a weary honesty that made him look his age for the first time all day.
“It’s… a lot,” he confessed, his voice barely above the sound of the waves and the wind. He wasn’t looking at you, but out at the grey, churning water. “The schedules, the cameras, the eyes. Everyone has an opinion. You have to be perfect, all the time. It’s… stressful. I’m so tired, noona.”
The confession was a gift, a raw piece of the man behind the idol. You didn’t offer empty platitudes. You just listened, your silence a sanctuary for his words.
The topic, inevitably, turned to relationships. His smile was bitter now. “It’s impossible. Or it feels that way. Before anything even starts, there’s a contract, a clause, a ‘hyung’ telling you it’s a bad idea. Or the person only sees ENHYPEN’s Ni-ki, not me.” He shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. “So it’s mostly… nothing. Unserious things. Flings that don’t mean anything. And it just leaves you feeling… empty afterwards. More alone than before.”
Your heart ached for him. You understood the isolation in his words, the longing for something real amidst the glittering artifice. You wanted to offer comfort, to share something of your own, but your own history was a vast, empty landscape in comparison. You had no tales of heartbreak or fleeting romances to reciprocate with. Your struggles were academic, professional, familial; not the surreal loneliness of global fame.
He must have sensed your silence was different. He turned to you, his gaze searching. “What about you, noona? With all that focusing on your studies… there must have been someone. At least… a hookup? Something?”
The question hung in the salty air. He was expecting a story, a confession, something to balance the scales. All you could do was offer a sad, small smile and shake your head. “No, Riki. There wasn’t.”
The simplicity of your answer seemed to stun him. His teasing had been a guess; the confirmation was something else entirely. The ‘flawless’ idol who had just confessed his flings, was now looking at a woman whose life had been so different, so… pure, for lack of a better word. The curiosity in his eyes was no longer playful, but profound. He wasn’t pitying you; he was seeing you, truly seeing the weight of your own choices and circumstances, for the first time.
Before he could form another question, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, his expression hardening as he read the message. “It’s the manager. We have to go. I need to get to the airport.”
The ride back to the Nishimuras’ was silent, but it was a different silence from the morning. The tension was still there, a thick, live wire between you, but it was now layered with a newfound vulnerability and a deep, resonant understanding. He wasn’t just the handsome idol and you weren’t the flustered childhood friend. You were two people from the same past who had walked wildly different paths, each carrying their own unique loneliness, and in that, you were more alike than either of you had realized.
The car pulled up a block from the house. There was no grand farewell possible.
“I have to go,” he said, his voice thick with a frustration that had nothing to do with traffic.
“I know,” you whispered.
His hand found yours in the space between the seats. He didn’t lace his fingers through yours, just held it, a firm, warm pressure that seared itself into your skin. It was a promise. A plea. A goodbye.
“I’ll call you,” he said, the same words from the wedding, but now imbued with a desperate urgency.
Then he let go. You slipped out of the car without looking back, the door closing with a soft, final thud. You walked to the house, feeling the weight of his gaze until the car turned the corner and disappeared.
Inside, the quiet of the Nishimura home felt suffocating. You climbed the stairs and, without thinking, found yourself standing in the doorway of his room again. The posters, the trophies, the faint scent of him trapped in time. He was on his way to an airport, to a flight, to a stage, to a life of screaming fans. And you were here, in the shrine of his boyhood, holding the devastating knowledge that the man he had become was just as lonely as you were, and that for one fleeting day, you had been each other’s sanctuary. The space he left behind was no longer just in this room; it was in you.
The call came long after midnight, your time. You were already in your hotel room in Seoul, the city lights a sprawling, silent tapestry outside your window. His voice was laced with a different kind of exhaustion, the kind that came from the relentless machinery of fame.
“I’m sorry it’s so late,” he began, the connection crisp and clear, bridging the distance between your hotel and his dorm. “The moment I landed, it was hair, makeup, rehearsal, a meeting… I forgot how to think for a few hours.”
“It’s okay,” you whispered into the phone, curled on the bed. “I understand.”
And you did. The wedding, the day in Okayama had been a beautiful, stolen dream. This; the late night call, the fatigue in his voice, was his reality.
“Are you back home?” he asked.
“No,” you said, your heart thudding against your ribs. “I’m in Seoul. My company… They needed me for a project. I just landed a few hours ago.”
The silence on the other end was profound. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, the calculations of schedules and risks.
“Where are you staying?” His voice was suddenly sharp, alert. You told him the district.
“There’s a park. Not far from you. It has a secluded garden, behind the main pavilion. No one goes there at this hour. Can you meet me? In thirty minutes?”
There was no hesitation. “Yes.”
The park was a dark, sleeping beast. You found the garden he described, a small, hidden enclave of manicured bushes and a single, ancient tree, lit only by a sliver of moon and the distant orange glow of the city. The air was cold, and you pulled your coat tighter.
He emerged from the shadows like a phantom, dressed all in black, a mask pulled up over his nose and a beanie low over his brow. Only his eyes were visible, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He didn’t speak. He just walked towards you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“This is it,” he said, his voice low and rough, gesturing vaguely at the secluded space around you. “This is what it takes. Hidden corners and the dead of night. This is why it’s impossible.”
You finally understood, not just intellectually, but viscerally. The secrecy wasn’t romantic; it was a cage. The need to hide a simple meeting felt like a violation.
“Riki…” you started, but words failed you.
That was all it took. The few inches between you vanished. His hands came up to cradle your face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the frantic energy coursing through him. He lowered his mask slowly and your eyes dropped to his plump lips. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and then his lips were on yours.
It wasn’t a gentle, exploratory kiss. It was a dam breaking. It was weeks of yearning, years of unspoken history, and a lifetime of loneliness pouring out from both of you. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against the hard, unyielding planes of his body, and you melted into him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his jacket, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. The kiss was desperate, deep, and tasting of a bittersweet truth you were both finally acknowledging.
And then, abruptly, he was the one who pulled away. He tore his mouth from yours, his breath coming in ragged, visible puffs in the cold air. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, his body trembling with the effort of his control.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. I… I can’t.”
“Why?” you breathed, your own heart hammering, your lips still tingling from his. And you hated yourself for asking him, as if you were naked before him and he rejected you. You felt like asking him the reason he stopped kissing you was like begging him to fuck you. Because it’s been so long since you were with someone, that even a kiss from a childhood friend felt like something deeper.
“Because if I don’t stop now,” he said, his voice raw with a pain that had nothing to do with physical desire, “I won’t be able to. I’ll want everything. And I’m so afraid, noona. I’m afraid of this life hurting you. Of the headlines, the rumors, the hate you’d get.” He opened his eyes, and the vulnerability in them was devastating. “And I’m afraid… I’m terrified that when you look at me like this, you still see that scrawny kid from Okayama. That you’re just caught up in the moment, in the fantasy of it all.”
His confession laid him bare. This wasn’t just about the idol and the fan. This was about the man and the woman, and the ghost of a boy who stood between them.
You reached up, your hand cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you. The stubble under your palm was a stark reminder of the man he is, and his acne scars of the boy he was.
“Riki,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “The boy I knew was brave and stubborn and followed his dreams no matter what. The man I’m looking at right now is all of that, and so much more. I don’t see a fantasy, I see you. The real you; the one who’s tired, and stressed, and who feels empty because he wants something .” You took a shaky breath. “And I want you, not the idol; you.”
A shudder ran through him. The fear in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it was joined by a flicker of desperate, hopeful belief. “This is real for me,” you whispered into the small space between your lips. “Is it real for you?”
He didn’t answer with words. He let out a sound that was half sob, half sigh of relief, and captured your lips again. This kiss was different. It was slower, deeper, filled with a profound, aching tenderness that promised this was more than a stolen moment in a dark park. It was a beginning, fraught with difficulty and danger, but a beginning nonetheless. In the cold, hidden garden, with the world sleeping around you, you both silently agreed to fight for it.
The kiss left you both breathless, your foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air in the cold, dark garden. Getting courage from the raw confession and the feel of him, you took his hand and began to pull him gently, leading the way back toward the lights of the city, toward your hotel.
He stopped. His feet planted firmly, his hand holding yours but not moving. A hot wave of embarrassment and rejection washed over you again. You’d misread the moment. Of course, he couldn’t. He was an idol. This was too risky. You started to pull your hand away, your face burning.
But he tightened his grip. He tugged you back, not toward the hotel, but closer to him, until your bodies were aligned again. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he breathed, the words a hot promise against your skin. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy. But I’m not doing this with you in a hotel room.”
Your breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze unbearably soft and serious. “It shouldn’t happen in some hotel. It would be disrespectful for you. It should be somewhere safer, it should be special.”
He knew. He had pieced it together from your silence at the pier, from your lack of history, from the way you kissed him with a fervent, untrained passion. And instead of being deterred, he was treating that knowledge with a reverence that made your knees weak.
“Then where?” you whispered, the word barely audible.
A determined look crossed his face. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen with a practiced urgency. “We’re going to my dorm.” He looked up, his eyes meeting yours. “It’s the only place I can be sure we’re safe. The only chance we have.”
He was texting the members on his floor. You couldn’t see the words, but you could imagine the tone; firm, pleading, leaving no room for argument. Hyung, I need a huge favor. Can you all go to the other unit for a few hours? Don’t come back until I text you. It’s important.
The reality of his world crashed in again, but this time, it was working in your favor. He was creating a sanctuary for you, using the intricate rules of his life to shield yours.
The journey to the dorm was a blur of nervous tension. He led you through a maze of back entrances and private parking garages, his body a protective shield around you. When the elevator doors opened onto his floor, the silence was absolute. He keyed in a code, pushed the door open, and ushered you inside.
The dorm was surprisingly tidy, but lived-in. A gaming setup in one corner, jackets thrown over a chair, the faint, clean scent of men’s perfume and laundry detergent. And it was empty. Just the two of you.
His heart was hammering against his ribs. This was it. She was here, in his space. The girl from his childhood, the one he’d written off as an impossible dream, was standing in his dorm, looking at him with wide, trusting eyes. She was older, but in this, she was inexperienced.
The weight of that responsibility settled on him, not as a burden, but as the greatest honor of his life. He couldn’t rush this. He wouldn’t. With others, it had been about release, about scratching an itch. This was different. This was about connection. He wanted to worship her. He wanted to make her feel so good, so safe, so cherished that she would never regret giving this part of herself to him.
Her first time. The thought made him feel dizzy with a potent mix of desire, protectiveness, and a fierce, burning love. His own pleasure was secondary; her feeling the best she possibly could was everything.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” he asked, his voice softer now, the public persona completely shed. He moved to the kitchen, opening the fridge. “We have water, juice… I think Jay hyung bought some fruit.”
It was so domestic, so sweetly considerate, that it eased the last of your nerves. He wasn’t a predatory idol; he was Riki, the boy who used to share his snacks with you, making sure you were well fed.
“Water is fine,” you said, your voice a little shaky.
He poured two glasses and brought them over, sitting beside you on the couch, leaving a respectful few inches between you. He wasn’t pushing. He was letting you acclimate, letting the reality of your aloneness sink in.
“You okay?” he asked, his dark eyes searching your face.
You nodded, taking a sip of water. “It’s just… a lot.”
“I know,” he said, a gentle smile touching his lips. “For me, too.”
He reached out and took your free hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His hand was so much larger, nails short and taken care of, but his grip was gentle. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Ever. You know that, right?”
The assurance was your final undoing. The last barrier of fear and uncertainty crumbled. You looked at him; at the man who had fought through the chaos of his life to create this quiet, safe space for you, who was treating your inexperience not as a liability but as a treasure, and you knew, with every fiber of your being, that you were exactly where you were meant to be.
You set your glass down on the table. Then, with a courage you didn’t know you possessed, you leaned forward and closed the distance between you, capturing his lips in a kiss that was all the answer he needed.
This time, when the kiss deepened, there was no pulling away. There was only the slow, tender, and breathtaking journey from the couch to his room, a journey guided by whispered reassurances, reverent touches, and a love that had been years in the making.
The air in Ni-ki's room was thick with a new kind of silence, charged not just with desire, but with a profound, shared understanding.
You had been with others before; kisses that turned hungry in backseats, hands that wandered under clothes in dimly lit apartments. There had been moments of heat, of friction, of fumbling in the dark that always, always, ended with you putting on the brakes. A whispered "I'm not ready," a pulled away hand, a sudden, cold wave of self consciousness. They never made you feel safe enough to quiet the voice in your head that told you to be careful, to protect yourself.
But with Riki, it was different. He could feel it, too. He could feel the absence of that familiar tension in your body, the way you melted into his touch instead of bracing against it.
He didn't lunge. He didn't treat your presence in his bed as a foregone conclusion. He didn’t even fuck anyone in his bed beforez That was why he refused to go your hotel, because hotels meant something quick, it was about his urges and the need to release his energy after concerts.
After that first, soul searing kiss on the couch, he had simply stood, taken your hand, and led you to his room. Now, he stood before you, his gaze soft, his hands coming up to frame your face.
"Tell me what you like," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "And tell me what you don't. Your word is law here. Okay?"
It was the first anchor in the swirling sea of your nerves. Your word is law. You nodded, your throat too tight for words.
He smiled, that same boyish smile, but now it was layered with a man's intensity. He leaned in and kissed you again, slow and deep, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him. It was a kiss that tasted of patience. His hands slid from your face, down your neck, over your shoulders, mapping you through the fabric of your shirt. Every movement was deliberate, giving you time to feel, to process, to accept.
When his fingers found the hem of your shirt, he paused the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
"Can I?"
Another choice. Another anchor.
"Yes," you breathed.
He lifted the shirt over your head with a quiet reverence, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you in your simple bra. But he didn't immediately touch. He just looked, his gaze a physical caress. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, the words sounding like a prayer. "I've imagined this for so long."
He made you feel beautiful, not just desired. He guided you to sit on the edge of the bed and knelt before you, his hands on your waist. He pressed a soft, open mouthed kiss to your stomach, just above the button of your jeans. You flinched, a gasp escaping you, and his hands immediately stilled.
"Is this okay?" he asked, looking up at you, his eyes full of concern.
"Y-yes," you stammered, your skin buzzing. "It's just... a lot."
He understood. He didn't push. Instead, he moved his hands to your calves and the back of your knees, his thumbs massaging the muscles in a way that was so unexpectedly intimate and soothing it made tears prick your eyes. He was taking care of you. He was dismantling your defenses not with force, but with tenderness. You put your hand on top of his head, fingers trailing down his hair. He was so different from the Riki you left, he grew up so well. And you could still see the younger boy in his face, the one that never left him.
He worked his way back up, his kisses and touches a slow, meticulous exploration. He unbuttoned your jeans and slid them down your legs, his palms skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. When he reached your underwear, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and looked up for one more silent question. You nodded, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
As the last barrier was removed, you expected a wave of shyness. You pressed your legs together and put your hands on your lap. But the way he looked at you; with pure, unadulterated awe, chased it away. He leaned in and pulled your legs apart slowly, and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, so high up it made you jolt.
"You're shaking," he murmured against your skin.
"I'm nervous," you admitted, the confession torn from you. You slid your hand to his hair again, the way his lips moved on your skin made you impossibly wet that you needed something to hold onto. He lifted his head, his expression heartbreakingly sincere.
"Me too." He crawled up the bed until he was hovering over you, caging you in with his arms. "But we're nervous together. Yeah?"
He wasn't a practiced seducer; he was Riki, just as vulnerable in this moment as you were. You reached up and pulled him down into a kiss, pouring all your trust, all your longing, into it.
He took that trust and honored it with every touch. His hands were confident but never demanding. His hand dipped under you and unhooked your bra, peeling it off your skin and dropping it on the floor. Your hands immediately found his arms for emotional support, and he just looked at your fully bare form under him. He exhaled a shaky breath, closed his eyes, and raised them to yours.
“You have no idea what you do to me.” he whispered, he couldn’t raise his voice because he knew it would crack. It was as if he forgot everything he did, the hookups he had on all familiar hotel rooms, his own first, his inexperience. It was as if he was giving you his first and not the other way around.
You tugged on his hoodie, and he immediately obliged, pulling it over his head to throw it somewhere. His tensing muscles, his broad shoulders caging you in, and the way his abs dipped down to his pants. He saw you looking at him, and he smirked, the teasing look coming back to his face.
“You like what you see?” he said, low and deep. And you immediately clapped your hands on your face, which made your breasts squish together and the view immediately dropped to his guts. You could’ve seen how big and hard he was if he wasn't wearing his signature baggy pants.
He learned your body like it was a sacred text, finding the spots that made you arch off the mattress with a soft cry, and melt deeper into the sheets. His fingers attached to your nipple while you still covered your face, and the way his index and thumb pulled the peaks made you squeal. The look on his face was enough for you to clench into nothing, he was so dazed by you, by the plumpness you created by pushing your arms together, that he could come into his pants just by playing with your breasts.
He squeezed the mass of them, jiggled just to see them move. And when he dipped his head to one of them you held your breath. He licked a wide stripe, and then flicked your nipple with quick strokes. His plump lips latched onto it and sucked, teeth grazing it from time to time. And you moaned loud, not expecting any of it, grateful that there weren't any members around.
When he latched onto your other nipple, his hand slid down and down, his fingers finally, carefully, slipped between your folds, you were wet and aching for him, your body thrumming with a need you'd never felt before.
He stilled and looked up, his eyes searching yours. "You're sure?"
There were no more doubts. No voice of caution. There was only him, and the safe, loving world he had built for you in this room.
"I'm sure, Riki. Please."
He leaned back on his knees and pulled his zipper down, and got rid of his pants. His Chrome Hearts boxer was packing, he was poking through the black fabric and he hissed as he removed the last piece. His cock hit against his belly button, tip angry red just like his plump lips, and oh, he was big. You could see the reason behind his confidence.
He watched you watch him again, you didn’t even realize you’d licked your lips but he smiled upon seeing your reaction. He’d never thought you’d see him like this, the man that he wanted to become. And he was about to fuck you, he was about to give you your first orgasm from a dick and not by your own fingers. Hell, even imagining you fucking yourself with your delicate hands made him twitch onto his abs, precum already leaking from his tip.
“Are you okay?” he asked you again, and you nodded, pulling him closer from his nape for a kiss. He moaned into your lips as he aligned with your wet pussy, using your slickness as lube. Holding your legs open, he pushed in a bit and you moaned back, the blunt pressure was a lot, he was definitely thicker than your fingers. You tried to relax around him, and the moment he entered you was a revelation.
There was a sharp, fleeting sting, a tightness that made you gasp. He froze immediately, his body rigid with the effort of holding still.
"Breathe, noona," he coaxed, his voice thick with strain. You were so tight that he felt like he could cum in seconds. "Just breathe. I've got you."
You focused on his eyes, on the love and concern shining in them, and you breathed.
The discomfort faded, replaced by a feeling of fullness. Of completion. You felt stretched, filled, but in a way that felt utterly right. You were wrapped around him, and he was buried inside you, and the childhood crush, the years of separation, the teasing, the tension; it all coalesced into this single, perfect point of connection.
He began to move, a slow, deep, rocking rhythm that was less about passion and more about fusion. His eyes never left yours. He whispered to you in a mix of Korean and Japanese, a stream of praise and affection. "You feel so good... You're taking me so well…”
And hearing him reassure you like this made you cling to him harder. This was all he could wish for, he’d go back in time and proudly brag to his younger self about this. He smothered you with kisses, your neck was filled with his marks, he sucked and kissed and licked your skin that burned your every single cell on fire. “Riki…” you moaned and he twitched inside you.
“I love you... I've always loved you." he confessed. And you held him closer, moans spilled from your lips and a tear slid down your eyes down to your ears. He kissed your tears away, your chests pressed together as he molded into you.
“I love you Riki.” you said back and he kissed all of your face as he thrusted. And he attached to your lips, sucked your bottom lip slowly as you opened your mouth wider to let your tongues meet.
It wasn't a frantic race to a finish line. It was a shared journey. He watched your face, learning what you liked, adjusting his pace and angle until he found the spot that made you see stars. He was so attuned to you, so focused on your pleasure, that when your orgasm finally broke over you, it was with a force that left you sobbing his name, your nails digging into his back as waves of pleasure wracked your body.
“I’m coming, Riki!”
He’d refused to come earlier than you, so when you were coming down from your high, he pressed his hips to yours hard and buried himself in your core. With a guttural groan that was pure, unvarnished emotion, he followed you over the edge, his own release a shuddering, helpless surrender. He’d been holding for too long that he kept coming for a while, moaning endlessly as you jerked under him, leaking his cum.
For a long time, he just held himself above you, both of you breathing heavily, his forehead damp against yours. Then, he carefully rolled, pulling you with him so you were sprawled on top of him, your head on his chest, listening to the frantic, slowing beat of his heart.
His arms came around you, holding you close. He pressed a kiss to your hair.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice raspy.
You nodded against his chest, too overwhelmed for words. More than okay. With Riki, it had been different. Because with Riki, it wasn't just physical. It was the feeling of finally, after a lifetime of carefulness, coming home.
The world slowly pieced itself back together in the quiet dim of Ni-ki’s room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, and your bodies were slick and tangled in his sheets. A profound, humming silence settled between you, broken only by the ragged sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal. His arms were wrapped around you, one hand gently stroking your damp back.
You felt boneless, utterly spent, and yet… a low, persistent ember still glowed deep within you. You still pulsed around his cum in you, leaking and tickling your inner thighs, pooling on his bed. The initial, overwhelming shock of pleasure had passed, leaving in its wake a curious, aching hunger to feel that connection again, to explore the new language your bodies had just started to learn.
You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on an elbow to look down at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were kiss swollen, and his eyes, heavy lidded and dark, held a look of such satiated awe that it made your heart clench.
Before he could ask if you were okay, you leaned down and kissed him. It was a slow, deep, purposeful kiss, different from the frantic ones before. You felt him stir against your thigh, a soft groan vibrating in his chest.
“Again?” he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with surprise and desire.
“Again,” you confirmed, your own voice a husky whisper you barely recognized.
A slow, wondrous smile spread across his face. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”
He moved with you, guiding you until you were straddling his hips. The new position made you feel powerful, in control, and incredibly exposed. His hands settled on your waist, his thumbs stroking your hip bones as he looked up at you with unwavering devotion.
“Your pace, noona,” he reminded you, his voice thick with promise. “Always your pace.”
You began to move, slowly at first, rediscovering the rhythm that had shattered you moments before. His hardening cock was in between your outer lips, his tip kept hitting your hard and aching clit, and you could feel yourself getting wetter and ready for another round. The sensation was even more intense this time, every nerve ending alight. As he hardened fully you got up, and he aligned himself with you again, and you slowly took him in, his white cum leaked down his cock and shaped a ring around him as you bottomed out, creamy and sticky.
You rode him, your head falling back, lost in the feeling of him filling you, the sight of his rapt expression beneath you. His hands moved you in different shapes, and every time he hit a different part of you that pulled moans out of both your mouths. His low purrs and growls made you clench harder and he moaned even louder. He watched you, the filthy scene before him, and he already knew nothing could beat this moment. He closed his eyes in pleasure when you squeezed him with a high, pornographic moan.
The muscles in your thighs, already trembling from the emotional and physical exertion of the night, began to protest. A slow burn turned into a shaky tremble, your rhythm faltering as your legs threatened to give out.
A soft, frustrated sound escaped you. Ni-ki’s eyes, which had been closed, snapped open. He saw the strain on your face, the way your body was beginning to quiver with exhaustion.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing balm.
He pulled you down to himself, and as you laid on his chest with your head in the crook of his neck, he held your hips firmly, taking over the rhythm. You kissed his neck and felt him shiver as if you weren’t doing the nastiest thing, and a small neck kiss was enough to unravel him. You held yourself up to be able to look at him, and he still held your hips in place. His eyes dropped to your breasts jiggling with your new position, and you scooted up, earning a loud moan from him.
He immediately took one nipple into his mouth. “Just feel, noona” he whispered, with his teeth still on your nipple as he moved, each deep, deliberate thrust hitting a spot that made you see stars. “Let me take care of you.”
This was different. This was him, no longer holding back, his own control fraying at the edges as he poured all his love, his longing, his protectiveness into every movement. You clung to him, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, and pulling his hair as you searched for something to hold onto; your cries muffled against his shoulder as a second, even more powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you gasping and shaking beneath him.
He followed you over the edge with a guttural cry of your name, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside you. His cock was coated in milky white cum, previous release sticking to his balls and your ass, slowing your pace with wet noises filling the room.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared, panting breaths. He rubbed your back, soothing your lower back with his warm palms. But he wasn’t finished. He gently withdrew, his eyes dark and impossibly soft. He kissed his way down your body as he laid you down, his hands soothing your trembling thighs.
“One more time,” he whispered, his breath hot against your reddened inner thighs. “Just for you.”
Before you could process his words, his mouth was on you, his tongue and fingers working in a gentle, insistent rhythm from your overstimulated body.
“Riki— what’re you doing?” you moaned as he pushed his cum inside you, the slickness making it easy to slide inside. Middle finger first, ring followed by, you were loose from the girth of his cock so taking his fingers was easier, but you were still so sore, so full of him that you would cry again and this time it’d be physical.
“You can do it, noona. Please.” He stuck his tongue out and flicked your clit, tasting his own cum and yours. He never did this with anyone, he was too compulsive for it. So he just wanted to do this, an instinct told him to and he obeyed. As he fingered you, rubbing a spot and pulling it out of you, you felt the tie in your belly tighter.
It was a different kind of release; deeper, wetter, a surrendering so complete you felt yourself let go, a warm gush of release soaking his hand and the sheets beneath you. You couldn’t even tell him you were going to squirt, you were just doing it. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, every muscle seizing before going completely lax. You were utterly, completely ruined. He let you, fingers still fucking you senseless as you washed over him. His chest was wet, a small part of his chin, the bedsheets, but he didn’t stop until every last drop of you flushed out.
Ni-ki moved up your body, his expression one of pure, male satisfaction and overwhelming tenderness. He didn’t say a word. He simply gathered you into his arms, your damp, spent body molding against his. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your eyelids, then your lips. He never saw you like this before, and he’d never thought he would someday. Your orgasmic expressions, your fucked out state, every piece of you was so breathtakingly beautiful that he needed to calm himself down.
He slipped out of bed, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He wanted to wash you up properly, but he made the members wait long enough. With a reverence that brought fresh tears to your eyes, he gently cleaned you, wiping away all your releases from your thighs and stomach. He was meticulous and gentle, his touch devoid of any sexual intent, focused only on your comfort.
He fetched a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and held it to your lips, helping you take small, slow sips. He pulled a clean, soft t-shirt, one of his, over your head and found a pair of his sweatpants for you to wear, bundling you up in the comforting scent of him. He carried you to the couch in his room and quickly changed the sheets, even the pillow cases. The fresh laundry detergent smell filled the room, getting rid of the sex smell.
He cleaned himself up quickly and carried you back to bed before slipping next to you, pulling the comforter over both of you. He drew you into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, his arms creating a safe, warm cocoon around you.
“Everything’s okay?” he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and emotion.
“Mhm.” you mumbled, nuzzling closer, your body humming with a deep, soul level satisfaction. You were sore, exhausted, and emotionally raw, but you had never felt more cherished, more seen, or more loved in your entire life. In the quiet darkness of his dorm, with the world locked out, you weren’t a childhood crush or a fan. You were simply his. And he, with his unwavering care and fierce tenderness, was unquestionably yours.
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☆彡 @lilidiors @sungheeke @kookiesnkim
let me know if you want to be added to my permanent taglist!
nothing is hotter than a man who’s so quiet and calm until he slips his dick inside you. sunghoon’s sweating and his fingers tremble against your bare skin when he buries himself into you. his moans are loud, and if you listen close enough, you’ll be able to hear the shaky breaths that escape him every time your walls clench onto his throbbing cock. the sweet, calm, and put together man the public sees is folding you in half, your legs reaching your ears, and he’s pounding into you at a pace you struggle to keep up with. “baby r-relax, too- fuuuck. too f-fast.” “please baby, just a little longer, please. shit, you feel so good.” and then sunghoon turns you over to put your face in a mattress so you can’t complain anymore😞
nothing is hotter than a man who’s so quiet and calm until he slips his dick inside you. sunghoon’s sweating and his fingers tremble against your bare skin when he buries himself into you. his moans are loud, and if you listen close enough, you’ll be able to hear the shaky breaths that escape him every time your walls clench onto his throbbing cock. the sweet, calm, and put together man the public sees is folding you in half, your legs reaching your ears, and he’s pounding into you at a pace you struggle to keep up with. “baby r-relax, too- fuuuck. too f-fast.” “please baby, just a little longer, please. shit, you feel so good.” and then sunghoon turns you over to put your face in a mattress so you can’t complain anymore😞
riki LOVES heavy eye contact. if the two of you are in missionary, he likes to fuck you real slow with your faces close and your lips almost touching. his eyes never leave yours.
riki makes love to you like it’ll be his last time. your eyes will be rolled back, body completely limp and completely unable to move, lips partially open while his hand comes up to tap your cheek. “you still with me, baby?” “cmon pretty girl, wake up”
riki “get on your knees” nishimura has you sucking his dick anywhere, anytime. in the morning? duh. restaurant bathroom? of course. parent’s house? unfortunately there too.
riki hates men almost as much as you do. their gazes at you has riki stood as close as possible, with an arm around your waist to claim you as his lady. the same men gaze on while riki slips a hand underneath your dress on the dance floor to rub at your clit, discrete enough to just give the 3 creeps a show.
riki laughs so sexy while giving your pussy light smacks after making you cum. “there you go, baby” “always listening to me so well” he’s not talking to you btw.
