꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › satoru’s the luckiest man alive. sfw.
gojo x fem! reader. canon-compliant. tooth-rotting fluff. est rel.
it’s one of those summer afternoons where the air feels thick enough to swim in. tsumiki’s somehow managed to drag a very reluctant megumi to the community pool, leaving you and satoru to melt into the worn leather of your couch together. your head’s resting on his lap, the thin fabric of his shorts doing little to mask the heat radiating off him. a well-loved paperback of pride and prejudice with a creased spine is lying open on your stomach, but the words have started to blur into meaningless black squiggles. you let out a sigh. lifting the book and letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.
“oh?” satoru murmurs. “finally done reading about ‘your darling fitzwilliam’ ?” his hair is slightly damp, a few snowy strands clinging to his forehead. his blindfold’s pushed up and he’s looking down at you with an amused smile playing on his lips.
“don’t call him that,” you mumble, swatting at his knee. “you have to call him mr. darcy. calling him fitzwilliam just ruins his sex appeal.”
“tell me, does fitzwilliam make your heart flutter the way i do ?”
“i don’t have the energy for your nonsense today, satoru” you groan, draping an arm over your eyes to block out the harsh light filtering through the curtains “it’s too hot”
“c’mon, sweets, humor me,” he murmurs, leaning down until his face is merely inches from yours. “i want to play a game with you.”
“what kind of game ?” you ask, your voice muffled by your arm “if it involves getting up from this couch, i’m not interested.”
“no moving required,” he promises, “it’s a naming game. we’ll take turns, ‘kay ?” you raise a brow but you’re too lethargic to question him
“name all the things you like about satoru gojo. see who can name the most. my turn.” he claps his hands together, “everything.” he claps again, looking down at you with an expectant grin.
you can’t help but roll your eyes, “you can’t just say everything” you scoff, “that’s cheating, now i’m obviously not gonna play”
it’s almost comical how quickly his smug grin melts away, replaced by a persistent pout. his lower lip juts out, his eyes widen, and he slumps back against the couch cushions with a wounded sigh. “sometimes it feels like no one appreciates me.” he mumbles
“oh, you’re such a baby,” you sigh. satoru’s genuinely sulking. the strongest sorcerer of the modern age, pouting because you won’t stroke his ego. it’s ridiculous, but it’ll be great practice for your vows
with another sigh, this one more resigned, you prop yourself up on your elbows, facing him. his pout is still in full effect, but his bright blue eyes are watching you, a flicker of hope in their depths. “fine, i’ll humor you” you concede, rolling your eyes. satoru immediately perks up, pout vanishing as if it never existed.
you take a deep breath, humid air filling your lungs. “okay. i like how funny you are. sometimes i think you might genuinely be the funniest person i know. you find humor in things no one else does and you make me laugh even when i want to strangle you. but i think you should know that your pranks aren’t funny in the slightest and you really need to stop messing with ‘gumi and nanami”
“i think my pranks are hilarious” he protests. you hold up a finger to his lips to silence him.
“nope,” you say firmly, though there’s no real heat behind it. “your pranks are cruel and unnecessary. poor megumi just wants to live his life without you constantly trying to give him an aneurysm.”
satoru nips playfully at your finger, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. you yank your hand back with a gasp, swatting at his shoulder.
“i retract my previous statement. you’re not funny, you’re annoying” you grumble, though you can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “quit messing around or i’ll go back to reading.”
“noooo,” he whines, “i’ll behave, i promise. cross my heart and hope to die. well, not really die. that wouldn’t be very fun” you glare at him, but you carry on regardless
“another thing i unfortunately like about you is how caring you are,” you hum, “you try — and fail — to hide it but anyone who truly knows you, knows that you’ve got the biggest heart in the universe.”
you shift, getting more comfortable, your fingers tracing the faint scar that starts at his neck and trails down his torso. he tenses slightly but he doesn’t shrink away. “and how selfless you are” you add softly, “the sorcerer killer was an asshole, but you’re still taking care of his kids. you took them in and gave them a home. you didn’t have to do that ‘toru. no one would’ve blamed you if you didn’t.”
you pause, your fingers still tracing his scar, “you could’ve walked away y’know ? after everything. you could’ve left it all behind and no one would’ve been able to stop you. but you put your own feelings aside and you stayed which leads to my favorite thing about you,” you say, and now your voice is barely a whisper. “the thing i love most about you is that you’re strong.”
you hold up a hand before he can make a remark about how that’s kind of his whole deal “and i’m not saying this because you’re the strongest. i’m not talking about your cursed energy or the six eyes or any of that. i mean you’re strong in here.” you reach out and gently tap his chest, right over his heart.
“you’ve been through so much, ‘toru. you carry the weight of this whole world on your shoulders, you’ve seen so much suffering. you’ve lost so many people. and you never, ever let it crush you. you’ve seen the absolute worst of our world, and yet you keep smiling every single day. you choose to find joy even in the darkest moments. and it makes me feel safe, makes me feel like everything might actually be okay.”
you feel your own eyes start to prickle with tears. “and i love you,” you say, the words feeling huge and overwhelming in the small, hot room. “i love you with my whole heart. every part of you.”
for a moment, he’s just staring at you, his expression unreadable. and then you see it. a shimmer in his eyes. a single, perfect tear escapes, tracing a path through the faint sheen of sweat on his cheek. and then he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and all his weight is pressing into you, pinning you to the old leather couch.
“satoru — get off me — you’re heavy—” you squeal, pushing at his shoulders to no avail. it’s like trying to move a mountain.“it’s like a sauna in here, get off !!!” he’s not listening. he’s burying his face in the crook of your neck, and you can feel the dampness of his tears against your skin as he peppers kisses against your jaw, cheek, and the corner of your mouth.
“i love you,” he’s murmuring between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. “i love you, i love you, i love you.” you’re still squirming, still complaining about the heat and his weight, but your protests are losing their steam. your hands, which were pushing him away, are now pulling him closer. his eyes are shining, and his smile is so wide it looks like it might split his face in half. the summer heat doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore.
synopsis: your father allowed for you and your husband to write one letter each month until the day you get to finally meet each other, after sentencing you two to separate across the Milky Way as your punishment in ignoring your duties during your marriage. Would Gojo able to have you forgive him, or would your marriage crumble by the end of the one year mark?
warnings: suggestive, light? angst, fluff, not proofread
a/n: happy Tanabata! this is so short and rushed but you hope you enjoy <3
art by: @/continuumh
Dear beloved wife,
How are you doing? The heat is becoming unbearable as the hottest month of summer approaches yet I can only wish to have your warmth beside me. I wish you were here beside me to caress my hair and lull me to sleep. I wish you were here to kiss and giggle adorably against my lips like you always do. I miss you so terribly that I feel like my skin is crawling with maggots.
Your Toru
Dear lovely wife,
From the lack of response, I see that you are mad at me. I get it, I truly do.
But who could deny themselves of such sweet delicacy of their wife when met with such tasking labour of life? No one could help themselves if they have your beauty in their arms every morning to tempt them when they wake up. Or when you cook them lunch. Or when you look so tempting under the lamp light.
In resting days? Even more so!
This must be studied, experimented, and researched! Write an essay even. Titled: Why is my wood so hard for my wife every morning, noon and night?
Don’t you agree my love?
Your dearest Toru.
Dear Gojo Satoru,
I told you to beware of your laziness, of my father’s wrath, and yet you decided to ignore my warnings and continued to behave uncouthly that led to this situation.
I am going to hold this grudge for all eternity, and you’re a fool if you think I will forgive you anytime soon with these measley excuses of apologies letters.
This is all that I would like to say.
Worst wishes.
Your divorcing wife.
Dear sexy rude wife,
…So we’re still going to still have fun in the bed when we meet, right? You haven’t denied that our nights were amazing :)
Your beloved-still-going-strong-husband Toru
Dear beautifully pissed off wife,
Okay, please forgive your adorable husband, sweets. I’m sorry!
You’re right, that was very ungentlemanly of me, I can admit that.
Just miss you so much. Again, please forgive me!
Your cutsie husband,
Toru
Dear lovely wife,
Please talk to me.
Your desperate husband,
Satoru
Dear dearest wife,
Another month has gone by without your reply. You must be truly upset.
And the only thing I could possibly say is that… I’m sorry.
For everything.
You are the only thing that I crave every day. I have no appetite for food, no will to sleep without you next to me, no energy to do my labour.
So please. Just write to me. Talk to me about anything.
Sincerely,
Satoru
Dear Satoru,
Both of us had a duty to do. You had to take care of the cows and I had to weave clothes. But we both failed.
Yet instead of facing this truth, you continue to jest and act like you are above this. Above our separation. We are separated because of your laziness and lack of thought throughout only one year of marriage.
Perhaps father was right. I should have never married you.
Satoru ran his thumb across the thin paper of your second and last letter—at the small circular crinkle that he knew was your lovely tear that dropped onto while writing your reply. It smudged the ink of your last sentence, making his heart lurch and eyes sting with his own tears.
Gingerly folding the paper, he pressed it tightly against his chest and laid across your past shared bed. Your smell no longer lingers in the room, your father cruelly punishing him by sending away all your belongings to your own quarters whoever knows where across the Milky Way.
He stared outside, at his cows happily lowering their head to feed onto the lush grass.
He quietly remembers the time when the grass were not as quite green, and the way the cows were weak with sickness. His own doing, being drowned by the intoxicating feeling of you in his arms, nothing stopped him.
And now here he was.
The two of you alone for all eternity, waiting for the one day you get to see each other, dreadfully wondering whether your love will vanish in the next six months that you and Satoru failed to write letters to each other.
He saw you for the first time in twelve months.
You looked so beautiful. So fleeting that for a while, all he could do was just to stare at you and admire everything that he missed about you in the past year.
Satoru called out your name softly, a hand reaching out towards you in silent yearning, eyes soft and he couldn't help the relieved smile that tugged on his lips.
But his shoulders fell, dejected, when you took the slightest step back.
"Hey," he murmured. There was a pause. Then he walked over to you in quick strides and before you could do anything, he embraced you tightly. His nose burrowed into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around your frame.
You froze at his touch, eyes wide and petrified. Too many emotions swirled viciously in your stomach, all the fury, resentment, anger, irritation, love, regret—
"I'm so sorry, love."
He brought his palms to your cheek, making you look up at him. His eyes sparkled under the star light with tears and you watche helplessly as he leaned in. Kissing your temple, nose, jaw. It was slow and tender, and the way he held you like was the way he held water trickling down from a stream—careful to not let you slip away from between his fingers.
Slowly, your walls started to crumble and tears welled up your eyes until finally you let go—of everything—and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning in to press your cheek against his chest.
"I'm sorry too, Toru," you said softly, fickle, yet the way you held onto him told him everything he needed to know. "I don't regret marrying you, Toru. This is all my fault as well, I shouldn't have been carried away—"
"Stop."
Cradling your face, he pulled back slightly to meet your eyes. He smiled, full of love and regret and adoration. "It's my fault. I had to take care of the cows. Feed them, give them water, check on them. Yet I was so excited having you as my wife, I lost myself and… now you have to face the consequences for my foolishness. I'm so sorry, my love. I failed you in every way possible."
"Toru," you whispered, a tear falling your cheek, wiped away by his gentle touch of his thumb.
"I love you, you know that right?"
You nodded, smiling up at him. "I do. I love you too, Toru. So much. I don't blame you for anything, I'm just… I'm just sad."
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
His eyes softened and gingerly, he leaned in to press the softest kiss on your lips. The both of you closed your eyes, savouring each other's warmth and touch—because there would only be one day each year to see, hear, and feel one another for the rest of eternity.
i'm so sorry for the rushed ending, i was trying to get this out by 7/7 :(((
(also side note, gojo calls reader 'rude' because it's disrespectful to write 'I' and/or your name at the top of your letter where it's in the same level as the recipient's name)
fratjo sees shy/nerd reader talking to another guy (who is also a nerd) and gets jealous bc he thinks that would be more of readers type 👀
ouuu shiii yeahhh here ya go babe ;)
frat!gojo jealous of a nerdy guy ?
The bass thumped through the sprawling frat house like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through the sticky wooden floors and into your bones. Red Solo cups littered every surface, the air thick with the mingled scents of cheap beer, sweat, and too-sweet perfume. Lights flashed in erratic patterns from a makeshift DJ booth in the living room, casting everything in shifting hues of neon blue and purple. You’d never been entirely comfortable in places like this—loud, chaotic, overflowing with people who seemed to thrive on the noise—but tonight was different. Tonight, you were here because of him.
Gojo Satoru.
The undisputed king of the fraternity scene on campus. Six-foot-five of pure, infuriating charisma wrapped in a lean, athletic frame that moved like he owned every room he entered. Snow-white hair that somehow stayed perfectly tousled no matter how many hands had run through it, those piercing blue eyes that could pin you in place with a single glance, and a smirk that promised trouble and delivered it in spades. He was everything you weren’t: loud, confident, the center of every story, every party, every scandal. You were the quiet literature major who preferred oversized hoodies and the corner seat in the back of lecture halls. Opposites in every way.
Yet here you were, tangled in whatever this thing between you was. A flirtation that had stretched over weeks—stolen kisses in the shadows of campus libraries, late-night texts that turned filthy without warning, his arm slung possessively around your waist at smaller gatherings while he whispered filthy promises against your ear. Not quite dating. Definitely more than friends. A situationship that left your stomach in knots and your thighs pressed together at the mere thought of him.
You’d been glued to his side for the first hour of the party, his large hand resting low on your back, fingers occasionally dipping just beneath the hem of your short black dress to brush against bare skin. He’d laughed too loud at his brothers’ jokes, pulled you onto his lap on a worn couch, and kissed you deep enough that your head spun. But the room had grown stifling, your throat dry from the heat and the one drink you’d already finished.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you’d murmured against his jaw, lips brushing the sharp line there. He’d hummed, nipped at your earlobe, and let you slip away with a playful swat to your ass that made your cheeks burn.
Now, cup in hand, you lingered near the kitchen island, scanning the crowd. That’s when you spotted him—Kenji, a guy from your Intro to Classics seminar. He was standing awkwardly by the wall, nursing what looked like a warm soda, shoulders hunched in a faded graphic tee and jeans that had seen better days. Thick glasses, messy brown hair, the kind of quiet, bookish energy that felt familiar. Safe. He looked painfully out of place, just like you often felt.
You hesitated only a second before approaching. “Hey, Kenji. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
He blinked up at you, surprised, then offered a shy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, uh… my roommate dragged me. Said I needed to ‘socialize.’ I feel like I’m intruding on an alien ritual or something.” He laughed softly, self-deprecating, pushing his glasses up his nose. “These parties aren’t really my scene. I keep waiting for someone to realize I don’t belong and kick me out.”
You laughed too, the sound gentle and warm in the chaos around you. It felt easy talking to him. No pressure, no overwhelming presence trying to consume you whole. “I get that. I’m kind of the same. My… friend brought me.” You didn’t elaborate on Gojo. It felt too complicated, too raw to label here.
Kenji nodded, relaxing a fraction. “You seem to handle it better than me. At least you’re talking to people. I’ve been standing here debating whether to pretend I’m waiting for someone or just leave quietly.”
The conversation flowed naturally after that—light, comfortable. You teased him gently about his latest essay on Homer that the professor had raved about, and he lit up, gesturing animatedly with his free hand. You found yourself smiling more than you had in the loud press of bodies earlier, leaning a little closer to hear him over the music. He wasn’t trying to impress you or devour you with his eyes. He was just… nice.
You didn’t notice the shift in the air at first. The way the crowd seemed to part slightly, the subtle drop in temperature despite the heat.
Then a presence materialized behind Kenji—tall, imposing, radiating something sharp and electric.
Gojo Satoru.
His white hair caught the flashing lights like a beacon. Those brilliant blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were narrowed into dangerous slits. His jaw was set, the easy smirk gone, replaced by a cold, predatory line. He wore a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to expose toned forearms, the top few buttons undone to reveal the sharp collarbones you’d kissed just hours ago. But there was nothing playful in his stance now. He loomed, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other flexing at his side as if restraining the urge to grab something.
Kenji faltered mid-sentence, sensing the shadow at his back. He turned slightly, eyes widening behind his glasses as he took in Gojo’s full height and the unmistakable aura of barely leashed intensity.
“The fuck is this?” Gojo’s voice cut through the noise, low and edged with venom. He didn’t even look at you at first, gaze locked on the smaller man like he was an insect that had dared crawl too close. “You lost or something, four-eyes? This ain’t the chess club meet-up.”
Kenji stiffened, mouth opening and closing. “I-I was just talking to—”
“To her?” Gojo stepped closer, crowding Kenji’s space without touching him. His height advantage was ridiculous; he towered, forcing the other guy to crane his neck. “Didn’t realize shy little bookworms were crashing frat parties now. What, you think chatting about dead poets is gonna get you somewhere?”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Heat flooded your face—part embarrassment, part anger. “Gojo, what the fuck?” The words burst out sharper than you intended, your shy demeanor cracking under the sudden tension. You set your cup down hard enough that liquid sloshed over the rim. “He’s just a friend from class. We were talking. Why are you being such an asshole?”
Gojo’s eyes finally snapped to you. For a split second, something raw flickered there—jealousy, hot and ugly, mixed with that possessive hunger that always made your knees weak. He masked it quickly, but not before you caught it. His lips curled into a mocking smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Asshole? C’mon, princess. I’m just looking out for you. Guys like this…” He jerked his chin at Kenji, who was now pale and backing up a step. “They play the nice, awkward card. Bet he’s real good at listening to your poetry rants, huh? Real compatible type.”
Kenji swallowed hard, glancing between you two. “Look, man, I didn’t mean anything by it. She just came over—”
“Did I ask you to speak?” Gojo’s tone dropped, dangerously calm. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. The sheer presence of him, the way his broad shoulders filled the space, the icy glare that promised consequences if pushed further—it was intimidation wrapped in velvet threat. His hand came up, not touching Kenji, but close enough that the guy flinched. “Run along, nerd. Go find your Dungeons & Dragons buddies. This conversation’s over.”
The poor guy looked mortified, mumbling a quick “Sorry” in your direction before practically fleeing toward the crowd. You watched him go, chest tight with secondhand humiliation.
You whirled on Gojo the second Kenji disappeared. “What is wrong with you?” Your voice trembled, but not from fear—from the whirlwind of emotions crashing through you. Anger, confusion, and something hotter, deeper, that always stirred when Gojo turned his full attention on you. “He was alone and awkward, just like I get sometimes. I was being nice. You didn’t have to terrorize him like that!”
Gojo’s hand shot out, long fingers wrapping around your wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull you flush against his chest. The party noise faded into a dull roar around you as he backed you toward the quieter edge of the kitchen, away from prying eyes. His body was warm, solid, radiating that familiar mix of expensive cologne and pure masculine heat. Up close, you could see the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils were blown wide beneath those striking eyes.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” His voice was a low growl against your ear, breath hot on your skin. One arm snaked around your waist, pinning you to him while the other tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “That guy? He’s exactly the type you should be with. Quiet. Smart. Won’t drag you into this bullshit frat chaos. Won’t keep you up till 3 AM because I can’t keep my hands off you. He’d be… safe. Comfortable. More like you.”
His words hit like a punch, laced with bitterness he was clearly trying to hide. Gojo Satoru—untouchable, cocky, the guy who laughed off everything—sounded almost vulnerable for a split second. Jealousy burned bright in his eyes, the kind that made his grip tighten, his body press harder against yours until you felt every ridge of muscle, the growing hardness against your stomach.
“But you’re mine,” he continued, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, possessive and searing. “Even if we’re doing this weird dance where I pretend I’m not obsessed with you. You don’t get to laugh with some loser who looks at you like you’re the answer to his sad little fantasies. Not when I’ve had my tongue between your legs and my name on your lips.”
Your breath hitched, thighs clenching instinctively at the memory. The shy girl in you wanted to shrink away from the intensity, but the part of you that craved him—the raw, overwhelming force of Gojo—won out. You shoved at his chest half-heartedly, glaring up at him. “You’re jealous. That’s what this is. You think I’d rather be with him because he’s ‘my type’? Newsflash, Satoru—you’re the one I keep coming back to. Even when you act like a possessive asshole.”
A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. He dipped his head, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle; it was claiming. Teeth nipping at your lower lip, tongue sweeping in to dominate, one hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you impossibly closer. The party raged on around you, but in this stolen corner, it was just heat and friction and the taste of beer and mint on his tongue.
When he pulled back, both of you breathing hard, his forehead rested against yours. “Yeah. I’m jealous as fuck,” he admitted, the words raw and intense, like they cost him something. “Seeing you smile at him like that… made me want to throw him through a wall. You’re too good for this scene, too good for me half the time. But I’m not letting you go. Not tonight. Not ever if I have my way.”
His hand slipped under the hem of your dress again, fingers tracing teasing patterns on your inner thigh, dangerously high. “Come upstairs with me,” he murmured, voice thick with want. “Let me remind you why you put up with my shit. Why you’re wet for me even when I’m being a dick.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. The shy hesitation warred with the ache building low in your belly. You glanced around— no one was paying attention in the chaos—but the risk, the intensity of his stare, the way his body caged you so perfectly… it was intoxicating.
“Fine,” you whispered, fingers curling into his shirt. “But you owe that guy an apology later. And me? You’re going to make this up very thoroughly.”
Gojo’s grin returned, sharp and wicked, the familiar cocky mask sliding back into place even as jealousy still simmered beneath. “Deal, princess. I’ll start by getting on my knees.”
vampire!fratjo who was the president of the frat, trying to keep everything in order in his own satoru-like way despite his very pressing secret.
vampire!fratjo who knows being sigma chi’s president was the best possible cover for him, considering his undeniable charm and good looks.
vampire!fratjo who had reluctantly taken each and every girl who’d approached him upstairs into his bedroom, where he’d promised to show them the best night of their lives.
vampire!fratjo who continued this endless cycle until one night at one of his parties, your scent caught his nose.
vampire!fratjo who had quickly averted his eyes from the skinny blonde chatting him up before scanning the crowd for that sweet smell that had him nearly drooling.
vampire!fratjo who spotted you in less than 2 seconds, his eyes zeroing in on your frame.
vampire!fratjo who couldn’t care less about the girl batting her lashes at him. she had been practically pleading for a response from him to keep the conversation going for an hour now.
vampire!fratjo who mumbled a half-assed “sorry” and flashed a bright smile at the blonde in an attempt to soothe her disappointment.
vampire!fratjo who had been ducking and dodging every greeting flying his way, giving an occasional nod of recognition followed by a quick ‘yo!’
vampire!fratjo who followed your scent endlessly through the crowd, getting more frantic by the second.
vampire!fratjo who stopped in his tracks when he saw you leaving through the front door. he couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his hands.
vampire!fratjo who eventually caught up to you outside on his front lawn, red cups littered all over the greenery, tossing and turning with the weight of the wind.
vampire!fratjo who was nearly shaking with eagerness, the only thing keeping him back from pouncing on you being his senses.
vampire!fratjo who knew he couldn’t fuck this up. he’ll play the long game if he has to, considering he might never see you again.
.ᐟ.ᐟ : college AU , swearing , death threats (in a /joke way) , very blunt and kinda rude nerdjo , a bit of fratjo, slowburn , opposites attract, nerdjo HATESSS fraternities & sororities.
a/n: I'm sorry for the incredibly late update LMAO Tumblr fucking crashed on me FIVE TIMES while trying to post this that I crashed out and had to close my eyes for a bit LMFAOAOAO and I've been stumped with assignments all week that I didn't have the energy to write and post anything... BUT I'M BACK NOW (I think), I'll get to the requests ASAP
“streamer! satoru x streamer! yn collab!! please !!" 𓆩♡𓆪
"chat, what the hell are you talking about? rottenyn?" satoru murmured, reading what his chat was sending him as he was streaming his screen, playing penguin heist on steam. he was asking his chat of around 20k viewers to potentially give him ideas on what to play next. rivals? valorant? even league maybe.
streamer! satoru a.k.a. sixeyesatoru was currently the top streamer on kick and twitch, and of course, he hung around his posse of streamer friends like nanaken and cursedsuguru to name a few. he wasn't aware of some "rando" like rottenyn? who the hell was that?
"chat said search her up." suguru snickered, leaning over to hit his vape to which he got smacked in the arm by streamer! satoru—the twitch partner. "chat also said she's been talking about you. ouuuu satoru. i've heard of her, she's chill."
streamer! satoru had his fair share of internet flings and crushes (obviously, it was a joke in his community regarding his type being h/c hair and e/c eyes), but he didn't know what to expect when he searched you up on twitter and instagram.
and no wonder why his chat was going insane with spamming your user... you were exactly his dream girl.
streamer! yn, who streamed herself doing popmart unboxings, occasional commentary on internet stuff and gameplay of the same games he did. she was a rising streamer who had gotten viral on tiktok and instagram. streamer! yn who was exactly his type and was on twitter, clipped saying that streamer! satoru was exactly her type.
"ijbol satoru just malfunctioned. chat shut up." he ended up following her on insta, tiktok, and twitter after the stream and got followed back minutes later—much to the amusement of his fans and yours too.
streamer! satoru, who's been secretly stalking your socials and talking about you to suguru and kento. how you're totally his type and is so talented in valorant and how you're so cool.
"didn't you think she was a rando when chat told you about her?"
"shut up suguru."
streamer! satoru, who got invited to one of streamer!sukuna's multi-streamer collabs and didn't expect for streamer! yn to be there, talking to suguru on one of the couches.
"hey satoru, we were just talking about you!" suguru smiled, standing up and leaving both of you alone. he turned to you, anxiously. you shot him a smile and you looked so cute and you smelled so nice and—was that the sweatshirt you were talking about in a stream of yours?
"i really like your streams! you actually inspired me to start streaming and i'm really happy i'm getting to talk to you!"
streamer! satoru basically internally combusted. he felt as if he would explode right now. "o-oh wow! i'm honored..."
"wanna collab sometime?" - "wanna go out sometime?"
you both blinked at each other, with your face burning and his twisting into a look of horror, all the while, the other streamers like ryokuna, nanaken, and tojilifts were just observing the unfortunately awkward situation you two were in.
"sure!"
"i am so sorry!"
the both of you could only hope that your blushing and awkward face didn't get clipped for the timeline later... but of course it did.
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i wanna write more streamer gojo like actually even tho i don't really watch streamers (except vanilla bc its vanilla and i have the fattest crush on her) but yayayaya
content: smau - satoru crashing out in the chat because of something you did
warnings: kms joke (satoru is dramatic)
note: the way that i had a mini crashout bc of something my cat did while i was writing this...maybe satoru and i have more in common than i realized...
Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar
part 1 here! . part 2 here! . part 3 here!
cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X
Play this.
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By the time you arrived at Choso’s party, his house was already overflowing.
Bodies crowded every room, conversations blurred into laughter, red cups littered every available surface; and the air smelled like cheap perfume, vodka, and the unmistakable sweetness of someone smoking weed by the open door to the garden.
You'd already lost count after your second shot.
Maybe your third.
Shoko was talking to Choso beside you, animated as always, but the alcohol had turned her voice into little more than background noise.
Then the music shifted. The opening beat sent a ripple of cheers through the room. You barely noticed, until the lyrics started.
“I wanna watch you like a movie…”
Your fingers tightened around your cup. Not now.
“I wanna put you on the stage…”
You took another sip. Maybe the burn of the alcohol would be enough to keep that damn video from resurfacing every time the lyrics seemed determined to drag it back.
“I wanna know what you’d do to me…”
Apparently not. The universe had to be fucking with you.
“I wanna put you on the tape…”
The corner of your mouth twitched. Whoever had made the playlist had an awful sense of timing.
“Flashing red light, baby you’re a star…”
You lifted your cup for another drink, your eyes drifting absentmindedly across the room.
“Fuck me all night, show me who you are…”
Your eyes landed on a familiar face, and suddenly the music died.
“No fucking way” you whispered.
Satoru was leaning awkwardly against the far wall, towering over almost everyone around him, looking as though he’d somehow got lost on his way to the library.
A plain white T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, dark jeans hugging long legs that seemed unfairly endless. His white hair was still messy in that unintentionally perfect way, but something was different—
He wasn’t wearing his glasses.
You’d never seen him without them before.
Under the pulsing red and blue lights, his eyes looked impossibly bright, scanning the room with the same restless uncertainty he always seemed to carry outside the safety of a classroom.
God.
The alcohol was making this so much worse.
He looked dangerously handsome.
And completely miserable.
Only then did you notice the blonde girl standing beside him, chatting easily with a small group of friends.
Satoru wasn’t saying much. His shoulders were stiff, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his smile polite but painfully strained. He looked like he was about to jump out of his own skin. Every few seconds his eyes drifted somewhere else, as though he were searching for an escape route.
The sight twisted something ugly inside your chest.
He definitely came here for her.
So why did he look like he wanted to be anywhere else?
“Oh… damn,” Shoko murmured, following your gaze “He cleans up nice.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, your eyes found Choso behind the kitchen counter, busy pouring another round of drinks.
“Choso” You called over the music, nodding toward the living room. “Do you know that guy? The really tall one with white hair?”
Choso glanced over, squinting through the crowd. “Oh, him? Not really” He shrugged “The blonde girl invited him—I think? They’re in the same class or something.”
Your chest tightened painfully. Of course. You’d known it before you’d even asked. He’d come because she invited him. That was why he was here, looking unfairly hot in a party setting he clearly didn’t belong in.
Jealousy burned hot and ugly in your stomach.
“Right” you muttered.
You reached for the nearest cup and downed it in one go. It tasted like fruit punch and regret, but it didn't matter.
Shoko raised an eyebrow “You good?”
“Perfectly” you lied.
An hour later, you were properly drunk. You’d lost Shoko what felt like an eternity ago, and the air downstairs had become too thick—heavy with perfume, sweat, and a bass that hammered relentlessly against your temples.
You needed to get out.
Your feet ached inside heels that had long since become instruments of torture, carrying you away from the madness. You drifted through the crowded house, weaving between strangers with half-empty cups in their hands. Laughter blurred into conversations you couldn't quite make out.
Your head felt pleasantly light.
Or maybe dangerously so.
As you climbed the stairs, the flashing lights faded behind you. The music that had swallowed the house only moments ago softened into a dull pulse, vibrating through the floorboards and echoing faintly against the walls.
The upstairs hallway was almost empty. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the wooden floor, leaving the far end swallowed in shadow.
You blinked once.
Twice.
Letting your eyes adjust.
And then you saw him.
Satoru was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, half-swallowed by the darkness, his phone resting loosely in one hand. The pale glow of the screen washed over his face, tracing the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck.
Somehow, he looked even more beautiful than usual.
For a fleeting second, reality snapped back into focus. The precarious balance on your heels. The dull ache in the arches of your feet. The desperate need to stay upright.
Almost instinctively, your fingers found the hem of your skirt, tugging it down where it had ridden up against the back of your thighs—a clumsy, subconscious attempt to make yourself look at least a little more put together.
He came here for her.
And yet… He was alone. The girl who’d barely left his side downstairs was nowhere to be seen.
Your eyes lingered on the broad shoulders hidden beneath the plain white T-shirt, then drifted to the long fingers loosely curled around his phone before settling on the nervous way he shifted his weight against the wall.
He looked exactly the same as he always did.
Quiet. Awkward. Completely unaware of how beautiful he was.
Your curiosity curled hot in your stomach.
The version of Satoru you knew in daylight and the one you’d watched through a screen felt like two different people.
You were dying to know which one would look back at you if you got close enough.
Before your brain had the chance to catch up, your feet were already moving across the hallway, the sharp click of your heels breaking the silence.
“Hey.”
Satoru startled so badly he nearly dropped his phone.
“Shit—”
He looked up, quickly locking the screen before slipping the phone into his pocket with practiced ease. The movement was almost too quick, too casual—the kind of I’m just standing here composure that would’ve been convincing if his ears hadn’t already started turning pink.
“Oh…” His eyebrows lifted. “Hi.”
A beat.
“…You’re here.”
You took another step toward him. The hallway suddenly felt much narrower.
“Didn’t expect to see you at a party.”
“Yeah, I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t usually come to these.”
“But you came because she invited you.” you countered, the alcohol sharpening your edges
He blinked, visibly caught off guard by the accusation.
“I—”
You didn’t let him answer.
Instead, you tilted your head, your gaze drifting over his face.
“You’re not wearing your glasses.”
You were close enough now to catch his scent—clean soap, something fresh and woody, and something underneath it that was unmistakably him.
His hand flew to his face almost on instinct.
“Oh. Yeah. I... I thought the contacts might be better for a party. Less likely to get knocked off or fogged up or… whatever.” He laughed nervously “I feel weird without them.”
You took another step. The height difference was staggering; he had to look down at you, and the way he did it—soft, shy—made your knees feel weak. You reached out, your fingers ghosting over his jaw, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone.
Satoru went completely still. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating until the icy blue was nearly swallowed by black.
“I like you better with the glasses,” you murmured, your eyes fixed on the place where your fingertips brushed his skin. “They make you look… smart. Cute.”
“You…” His voice cracked, a high, strained sound. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into your touch as if he were trying to memorize the feeling. “You're…” He hesitated, struggling to find his voice. “...really close.”
“Does it bother you?” you challenged, your hand moving to the back of his neck, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. “Or is it that you’d rather be with someone else?”
He shivered, a visible tremor running through his broad shoulders. He looked down at your lips, his own parting slightly.
“N-no” he whispered.
You smiled, the expression a little tipsy and a whole lot dangerous. Your other hand came up, resting flat against his chest. The fabric of his shirt was soft, but the muscle beneath it was hard, and you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your palm. You tilted your head back to meet his gaze, savoring the warmth radiating from him.
“You’re too tall,” you murmured, the words slipping out with a hunger you didn't bother to hide. “Always towering over everyone.”
Satoru swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I know. Sorry—I’m always in the way.” He tried for a light laugh, but it came out as a ragged exhale. His hands remained at his sides, fists clenched until the knuckles turned white, as if he were physically anchoring himself to the wall to keep from touching you. “You’re… you’re drunk, aren’t you?”
The question sounded like a desperate attempt to break whatever had settled between you, to remind himself of the boundaries that were rapidly dissolving.
You didn't answer. Instead, you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his collarbone as you inhaled deeply, letting his scent fill your lungs.
“You smell so good,” you whispered against his skin, almost drunk on it “God, why do you smell so good?”
You didn’t care anymore that you weren’t the girl he thought about when he recorded those videos. The alcohol had burned away every last bit of restraint.
“You’re so soft..” you breathed, dragging your lips slowly along the warm skin of his neck, savoring the feeling.
Without a second thought, you pressed a slow, lingering kiss right where his pulse was jumping wildly beneath your lips.
He let out a soft, broken sound—half whimper, half sigh. It was the exact sound you’d heard a dozen times through your headphones, but hearing it now, feeling it vibrate against your mouth, was a visceral, jolting experience. The hallway felt like it was closing in, and the muffled music from the party below felt miles away.
“You shouldn’t… I mean, you’re drunk, and I—” He whispered the words. But even as he spoke, he betrayed himself by tilting his head slightly, giving you more access to his neck.
You welcomed the invitation.
Your lips trailed lower, moving to the ridge of his collarbone. You dragged your tongue slowly across the bone in one long, teasing lick. Satoru shuddered violently, a pretty, needy moan escaping his throat.
“Fuck—why are you...” His breath hitched “Ahh—why are you doing this to me?”
You could feel him hard against your hip when you pressed closer, the thick outline unmistakable. Yet his hands remained glued to his sides, fists clenched, shaking with restraint.
One of your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his soft white hair. You pulled him down slightly, making the height difference even more obvious, and latched your mouth onto the side of his neck again.
This time you kissed him open-mouthed, sucking gently on his skin. Satoru whimpered, the sound breaking beautifully as you sucked harder, determined to leave a mark.
“Please—” he breathed. “I can’t—”
He still wouldn’t touch you back. His arms stayed rigid at his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was fighting a war with his own instincts.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Satoru’s eyes were half-lidded, lashes fluttering, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink. It finally clicked in your hazy mind: he wasn’t touching you because he knew you were drunk. He was letting you use him however you wanted, but he refused to take advantage.
That realization might have been the hottest thing you had ever experienced in your life.
You leaned in slowly again, the height difference forcing you to stretch. Satoru’s eyes widened the moment your breath brushed his lips, impossibly surprised, almost disbelieving. He stared at you, pupils blown wide with shock and something much darker.
“What are y—”
You kissed him.
It started soft — just a gentle press of lips — but the second you felt the tiny, broken whimper vibrate against your mouth, something inside you snapped. You tilted your head and deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip before pushing inside.
Satoru moaned into your mouth, the sound needy and desperate. His body trembled against yours, but his hands still stayed glued to his sides, shaking.
You kissed him harder, hungrier. Your tongue explored his mouth with lazy confidence, tasting him, teasing him, sucking on his tongue whenever he shyly tried to respond. Every little sound he made — those pretty, broken whimpers you had become addicted to — only made you more relentless.
One of your hands stayed at the back of his neck, fingers tangled in his soft white hair, while the other slowly slid down his chest. You felt every hard line of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, your palm gliding lower and lower until it stopped just above his belt.
You could feel how hard he was.
The thick, heavy length of his cock pressed insistently against your stomach, hot and unmistakable even through his pants. The same pretty cock you touched yourself to while watching him fall apart on camera. The realization made heat flood between your thighs.
The kiss turned wet and messy. Obscene sounds filled the quiet hallway as you devoured his mouth, biting his bottom lip gently before soothing it with your tongue. Satoru was shaking, breathing heavily through his nose, completely lost in the kiss but still refusing to touch you back.
God, he’s really not going to touch me.
He was letting you use his mouth, his body, his neck — whatever you wanted — while he held himself back because you were drunk.
It was infuriatingly respectful. And an absolute torture.
Just then, a voice echoed from downstairs.
“Hun? Are you up here?!”
Shoko.
Your heart jolted. You pulled back sharply, breathing hard, lips still tingling. For a second you just stared at him — at the mess you had made of him — and reality came crashing down like cold water.
Fuck. What did I just do?
Your hands were shaking. Your knees felt weak. The hallway suddenly felt too bright, too quiet. You took a shaky step back, almost losing your balance on your heels.
“I—” you whispered, voice cracking.
You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
You gave him one last frantic look — his messy white hair, swollen glossy lips, and the faint red marks you had left on his neck — before turning around. You walked away quickly, almost stumbling down the hallway, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.
You didn’t look back.
Just as you disappeared down the stairs, Satoru’s head fell back against the wall with a quiet thud, eyes squeezed shut. A second later, his legs gave out and he slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, completely ruined.
He didn’t know what was more pathetic: his trembling hands, the frantic drum of his heart, or the warm, humiliating mess in his pants.
yep. i'm basically torturing everyone: reader, Satoru, you and me.
꒰ 𓏲๋࣭࣪˖🌷.ᐟ Satoru Gojo is the loudest, prettiest boy on campus — and secretly the biggest nerd you've ever met. You make a list of twenty ways to make him yours. It works better than expected. ꒱
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo x reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, mutual pining, 3.4k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/to00fu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
Gojo Satoru did not look like a nerd. That was the first thing you had to get past.
He was six-foot-three, white hair that looked like he'd bleached it out of spite, and a jawline that made underclassmen forget how to walk in straight lines. So the first time you sat next to him in Intro to Theoretical Physics and watched him correct the TA's derivation on the whiteboard— politely, cheerfully, in a way that made the TA visibly reconsider their choice of career— you assumed it was a fluke. A pretty boy who got lucky on one problem set.
It was not a fluke. It happened every single week.
By week four you knew: underneath the sunglasses he wore indoors "for the bit," underneath the easy charm and the way he called everyone "sweetheart" like it cost him nothing, Gojo was the single biggest nerd you had ever met in your life. He annotated his textbooks in four colors. He had a ranked opinion on which university library floor had the best "ambient silence." He once spent twenty minutes explaining the Fermi paradox to a girl at a party who had asked him, literally, where the bathroom was.
And somehow, against every instinct you had about self-preservation, you'd fallen for him anyway.
The problem was that Gojo Satoru was completely, catastrophically oblivious to the fact that you liked him. Not because he was dumb— the man had a 4.0 and could recite pi to sixty digits when he was nervous— but because emotional self-awareness was, apparently, the one subject he'd never taken.
So you did what any reasonable person would do. You made a list.
Not a real list, not at first— just something you texted your roommate at 1 a.m. after he'd walked you back to your dorm and then said "anyway, goodnight, study buddy!" like a golden retriever who'd just learned the word "goodnight." But it grew. Item by item, week by week, you built yourself a plan. A syllabus, if you wanted to be annoying about it. A plan for how to make a nerd— your nerd, if you had anything to say about it– fall for you back.
Here's what the list looked like, three weeks later, mostly executed and slightly out of order:
1. Ask him to explain something you already understand
Not because you need it explained. Because Gojo lights up like a Christmas tree the second someone asks him a real question, and there is nothing in this world cuter than a six-foot-three man drawing a diagram of quantum entanglement on a napkin at 9 p.m. because you asked "wait, but how does that actually work?" He'll talk for eleven minutes straight. You will not understand half of it. You will not care.
2. Bring him coffee exactly the way he takes it, without asking.
Oat milk, two sugars, and— this is important— he needs it slightly too hot, because he likes complaining that it burned his tongue and then drinking it anyway. The first time you showed up to your study session with his order memorized, he stared at the cup for a solid five seconds like you'd handed him a diamond instead of a four-dollar latte.
"You remembered," he said, and for once he didn't sound like he was performing anything.
"It's not that hard, Satoru."
"No," he agreed, still staring at the cup. "I guess it's not."
3. Steal his hoodie and never give it back.
This one is less a strategy and more just theft, but the effect is the same. You took it during a group project when the library air conditioning decided finals week was a personal vendetta, and you simply forgot to return it. He noticed. He did not ask for it back. He instead started "accidentally" leaving other sweaters at your dorm, like he was building a small collection of hostages in reverse.
4. Beat him at something. Anything.
Gojo has never lost gracefully in his life. He is aggressively, hilariously competitive about things that do not matter, like Mario Kart, or who can name more moons of Saturn, or whose flashcards are better organized. Beat him once— just once— and watch a switch flip behind his eyes. He will demand a rematch. He will demand several rematches. He will, three rematches later, forget that he is supposed to be trying to win and just start trying to make you laugh instead.
5. Notice the thing he's insecure about, and don't make a big deal of it.
Underneath the confidence, Gojo has Opinions about his own eyes— the pale blue, the way people stare, the way strangers sometimes ask invasive questions like he's a museum exhibit. You noticed early that the sunglasses weren't entirely a bit. So you never once commented on his eyes unless it was in passing, the same way you'd mention someone's nice handwriting. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Just a fact about him, not a headline.
He clocked that you'd clocked it. He didn't say anything. But he started taking the glasses off around you more.
6. Let him info-dump. Then remember what he said.
Two weeks after the Fermi paradox incident, you asked him— out of nowhere, mid-lecture— "okay but statistically, if the paradox holds, doesn't that actually support the idea that we're early, not alone?" He turned to look at you like you'd grown a second head. A good second head.
"You remembered that?"
"You explained it for twenty minutes to a stranger looking for the bathroom. Of course I remembered."
7. Make him carry something heavy for you.
Not because you need the help. Because there is a specific, devastating satisfaction in watching Gojo Satoru— who could probably bench-press the entire physics department— insist on carrying your grocery bags, your laundry basket, your six textbooks, all at once, while pretending it's nothing, while very obviously flexing about it.
8. Show up to his study group uninvited and stay anyway.
He runs a Tuesday night study group that is, allegedly, "for anyone who wants to come," but somehow the same three terrified freshmen show up every week and leave within the hour because Gojo cannot resist turning every session into a TED talk. You started showing up too. You did not leave within the hour. By the third week, he'd started saving you a seat next to him without being asked— the one by the outlet, because he'd noticed your laptop charger was fraying.
9. Text him something dumb at 2 a.m. and let him overthink his reply.
You know this one works because your roommate is somehow also friends with his roommate, and the intel came back within the hour: Gojo spent eleven minutes composing a response to your "ok but if a vending machine gains sentience is it a philosophical zombie or just annoying" text. Eleven minutes. For a joke. He sent back four different drafts before landing on one, and it was still unhinged.
10. Compliment his handwriting, not his face
He gets told he's hot approximately nine times a day, by everyone, including strangers on the bus. It means nothing to him anymore— it's just weather. But tell him his lecture notes are genuinely, freakishly beautiful— every equation boxed, every margin annotated in four colors like he's illuminating a medieval manuscript— and watch him go quiet in a way he never does when someone calls him pretty.
11. Let him see you fail at something.
Gojo doesn't actually want a girl who has it together 100% of the time— he wants someone real, though it took you a while to realize that. The night you completely bombed a presentation and cried a little in the stairwell after, he didn't try to fix it or hype you up with empty noise. He just sat down on the concrete step next to you in his very expensive jeans and said, "okay, worst professor you've ever had, go," and let you complain until you'd laughed the tears away.
12. Ask about his family. Actually listen.
He deflects hard whenever anyone brings up the Gojo name, the money, the expectations. Most people either fawn over it or pretend it doesn't exist. You did neither— you just asked, once, gently, "is it heavy? Carrying all that?" and let the silence sit instead of filling it. He didn't answer for a full minute. Then he told you more than he'd told anyone all semester. He told you about his twin.
13. Give him a nickname that isn't about how he looks.
Everyone calls him "Six Eyes" as some ironic school-wide joke about how much he supposedly sees. You started calling him "Professor" instead, low and teasing, every time he got insufferable about a fact nobody asked for. He complained about it constantly. He also, notably, never asked you to stop.
14. Show up to his dumb extracurricular thing
He's in the university's astronomy club, which meets on the roof of the science building at ungodly hours to look at things you cannot see because of light pollution. You went once, mostly out of curiosity, and ended up going every month after, wrapped in his stolen hoodie (see: item 3), while he pointed at smudges in the sky and insisted, with total conviction, that one of them was definitely Saturn.
"That's a plane, Satoru."
"It's Saturn, and I won't be taking questions."
15. Get jealous. Badly. On purpose.
You are not proud of this one, but it worked, so it's staying on the list. A guy from your seminar started sitting suspiciously close to you during group work, and Gojo— usually the most chill, unbothered person alive— suddenly developed a burning need to sit in on your seminar "for fun." He is not enrolled in your seminar. He does not need to be there. He was there anyway, arms crossed, radiating an aura your professor mistook for academic passion.
16. Take care of him when he forgets to take care of himself.
For someone so smart, Gojo is disastrous at remembering to eat during midterms. You started leaving snacks in his backpack without telling him— protein bars, the specific brand of gum he chews when he's anxious, a note sometimes. He never mentioned it directly. He just started leaving you snacks back, an unspoken little economy of care neither of you would put a name to yet.
17. Let him walk you home even when you don't need it.
It's fifteen minutes out of his way. He does it every time anyway, sunglasses off, hands in his pockets, talking the entire walk about nothing and everything, and you've started timing your goodnights to be a little longer than they need to be.
18. Catch him staring, and don't look away first.
It happened in the library, over a stack of shared notes— you looked up and he was already looking, not at your notes, at you, and for once in his entire dramatic life he didn't have a single word ready. You didn't look away. Neither did he. Somebody's highlighter rolled off the table and neither of you moved to catch it.
19. Tell him, out loud, that you like the nerd version of him best.
Not the flirt. Not the golden retriever performing for a crowd. The version that gets quiet and intense over a whiteboard, that memorizes the digits of pi when he's anxious, that lit up over a napkin diagram because someone finally asked him a real question. You told him this on the roof, under his fake Saturn, and he went so still you thought you'd broken him.
20. Kiss him first.
Because he will never, ever make the first move— not out of fear, but because some small, stupid, sincere part of him doesn't believe someone like you would actually want someone like him, underneath all the noise. So you have to be the one. You kiss him on the roof, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, his ridiculous fake constellation still glowing faintly behind him, and he makes a sound against your mouth like every ounce of composure he's ever performed just short-circuited at once.
When you pull back he's staring at you the way he stares at a problem he's finally solved— stunned, delighted, a little smug that he got there at all.
"Say something smart, Professor," you tell him, breathless.
"Give me a second," he says. "You broke my working memory."
In a world bound by oaths and ruled by duty, you were assigned to protect Satoru Gojo, a reckless, arrogant prince whose carelessness is a walking death sentence. As a lady knight, the court expects you to fail. Satoru expects you to be like all the rest: easily charmed, easily broken, and easily forgotten.But proximity is a dangerous thing. What begins as mutual contempt soon erodes into a forbidden, unspoken devotion that threatens to burn both of your lives to the ground. And when the crown finally forces the truth into the open, bridges will have to burn. Because the true legend was never the throne, it was the devastating price you were both willing to pay for the one thing neither of you was ever allowed: a choice of your own.
pairing: prince/king!gojo x knight!reader
warnings: 18+ (mdni!!), explicit sexual content, afab!reader, fantasy kingdom au, knight!reader, prince/king!gojo, heavy angst, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, secret relationship, forbidden love, extreme power imbalance, systemic sexism and internalized misogyny, classism, toxic family dynamics, self-sacrificial reader, emotional repression, graphic depictions of violence, war themes, blood and gore, grief/character death (secondary characters), mutual pining, mutual stubbornness, both are bad at feelings, eventual bittersweet happy ending
more tags to be added!
word count: 11k+
masterlist | crossposted on ao3!
fic masterpost | previous chapter | next chapter
The last fourteen days had been, in every measurable sense, your own personal hell.
It seemed the prince had lost whatever remaining sense of self-preservation he possessed during that explosive fight in his chambers — a fight neither of you had spoken of since. In truth, you didn't speak at all anymore. Not beyond murderous glances and the occasional patronizing scoff from the man himself. Your communication had entirely reverted to you acting as his silent tail. You were too cautious — perhaps even too scared of striking the match again — to open your mouth, while he remained visibly agitated by any minuscule change in the quiet choreography the two of you had learned over your months of service.
Instead of addressing the silence, the prince lashed out at anyone, at any bloody given time.
A morning breakfast with his mother: he sent away three trembling attendants simply because they failed to deliver a perfectly boiled egg. A fencing spar in the courtyard with one of the king's knights: he dislocated the man's shoulder with a brutal, uncalled-for strike that had absolutely nothing to do with training. A tutoring session with the deputy of education: he threw a heavy, leather-bound encyclopedia right past the poor man's head, the spine cracking against the stone wall, making everyone in the room flinch except the person who'd thrown it.
This was the shape of the chill between you. The cruelty dialed up to a suffocating degree — an ugly displacement of anger going everywhere and nowhere. The prince visibly lost, his pride still not fully recovered, unable to process what had happened between you, unable to process anything. And you were forced to stand there, jaw locked, acting as the silent witness to all of it.
Which brought you to tonight. Or rather, this morning.
The corridor outside the court lady's chambers was freezing in the particular, settling way stone gets when the night has overstayed its welcome. You had been standing in the dark for hours. Again. Quite frequently lately — to the point that the nightly babysitting had to be partly redelegated to a few trusted soldiers who were used to guarding his chambers on the nights you had the courtesy of actually sleeping.
The torches had burned down to spitting embers, and a pale, unforgiving grey was beginning to creep through the narrow window at the far end of the hall. Dawn.
He usually left before the sun rose. The fact that he hadn't was a deviation from the pattern — a pattern he hated but still abided by. It made you nervous, a paranoia that had nothing to do with exhaustion, or perhaps it had everything to do with it. You tried to think about his demeanors and endeavors less than strictly necessary. He was a steady path toward an early grave and you were running out of patience for the journey.
You waited another ten minutes, watching the light shift against the dust motes. Nothing. No movement. No sound from beyond the oak.
You stepped forward, the leather of your boots loud in the empty corridor, and raised your hand.
Your knuckles struck the wood. Three sharp raps. The sound felt absurdly loud at this ungodly hour, a violent intrusion into whatever he was doing, but you were past caring about that. If he was dead, you needed to know.
A long moment passed.
The latch finally clicked. The door swung inward just a fraction, but it wasn't the prince who answered it.
The court lady stood in the narrow gap, clutching a sheer silk sheet to her chest. Her hair was a tangled mess, her skin flushed in the specific, heated way that confirmed the prince was certainly not asleep. She blinked at you — fully armed, exhausted, and silently furious — caught completely off guard by the sight of you waiting outside her apartment. Definitely not an expected development in her delightful evening, pardon, morning.
"Is he alive?" you asked. Flat. Devoid of any polite preamble or tact.
She stammered, her flush deepening rapidly down her neck. "He is — yes. He is very vigorous, actually. We were just resting. In between—"
"Good," you said, cutting off whatever intimate detail she was about to spill. These people were apparently far too comfortable sharing their explicit thoughts here and there — and you'd always thought it was just the prince who lacked any ounce of dignity.
You turned around, presenting your back to the door, and resumed your post.
The door clicked shut behind you. Hurried. Embarrassed.
When he finally emerged a half hour later, his eyes found you immediately. His expression went entirely blank — not the lazy contempt you'd become fluent in, something flatter than that, something that had stopped bothering to perform. He didn't speak. You didn't speak. Just as you were both newly used to.
He made a quiet, dismissive sound in the back of his throat and stepped out into the corridor. You fell into step behind him, watching the back of his unbuttoned shirt — keeping your distance, this time walking perhaps a little further back than required, perhaps out of pettiness, or perhaps because you could feel the trailing scent of the court lady's rose perfume drifting off him.
The day had only just begun.
And it always followed the same shape. Him moving through the castle like something with a low-grade fever — present in body, absent in every other sense. Deliberately, maybe. You had stopped caring about the reason. It was the restlessness of someone who had too much energy and nowhere clean to put it.
The silence between you had settled into something almost structural by now, like a wall neither of you had officially agreed to build but both of you were maintaining with quiet, stubborn diligence.
He was invited everywhere. And more so after the argument — as if fate had a cruel idea of how to punish you even further. It was the particular cruelty of his position: the court kept extending its invitations regardless of whether he deserved them, regardless of what he'd done to the last room he'd been placed in, because he was the heir, and the heir's presence at your gathering meant proximity to the crown. It meant social optics.
You attended everything he attended. You stood behind every chair he sat in. You watched every room recalibrate itself around him, feeling the secondhand embarrassment of his ruthless, childish behavior — behavior he had oh so enjoyed displaying ever since you'd closed that door behind you. But you had to stand through all of it. You weren't regretting the fight. You were regretting losing your composure. Regretting that the prince had lost his. And this was the outcome — a chasm wide between you, further from each other than you had ever been, no acknowledgment from either side. Petulant, both of you. In your own specific, stubborn ways.
You said nothing. You couldn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't. You only filed everything, and the drawer's wood had stopped splintering and started simply — giving.
You accompanied the prince to Lord Geto's gathering. A small thing, by the court's standards. A private affair in Geto's receiving rooms. Twenty people, perhaps less, the kind of number that suggested intimacy rather than spectacle.
You'd stood your post near the door as the room filled, keeping your distance out of particular distaste rather than duty, watching the usual choreography of courtiers arranging themselves into their preferred proximities, noting exits, noting faces, noting the way people danced around each other.
He'd been fine for the first hour. Relatively. Fine, in his current definition of the word, which meant he was drinking at a pace that concerned you mildly rather than acutely, and directing his restlessness at Lord Geto's wine collection rather than at any specific person in the room. You'd watched him work through two glasses and then a third, his high-neck tie getting progressively looser, the stiffness in his shoulders disappearing by degrees, the performed ease of the early evening giving way to something less managed and more genuine — genuine in the way he was always genuine, which was to say that it stopped being a performance and started being a problem.
Somewhere around the fourth glass, the room had gotten warm.
The courtiers had been inside perhaps too long, the air becoming a bit suffocating, the candles adding their own heat to the press of bodies and conversation, someone eventually gravitating toward the tall glass doors at the far end of the room and pushing one open.
The cold air came in like a relief. And the prince gravitated toward the open door like a moth to a lamp.
The balcony was narrow and stone-flagged and entirely unfit for a late autumn evening, the kind of outdoor space that existed more as architectural detail than functional use once the season turned. The cold hit immediately. Three or four men had drifted out with him, enough to constitute a small audience, not enough to constitute a crowd. Someone had thought to bring their wine. Someone else had not thought to bring a coat. The prince on the loose, and his garments apparently on the loose too — the neck tie long forgotten, his jerkin abandoned somewhere inside Lord Geto's apartment.
He was leaning against the railing.
Not thinking about the physics of his own body, one elbow hooked over the stone, his weight distributed with the careless confidence of someone in thoroughly mindless spirits. The courtiers around him were laughing at something, the easy performed laughter in the presence of the heir. He was not particularly cold, or if he was, he had decided not to be — which with him amounted to the same thing.
You were cold. Very cold. Your ensemble had not accounted for possible outdoor outings — a short pourpoint being entirely insufficient for this particular brand of late autumn cruelty. For this bloody weather, you would have done anything for a cloak like the wiser gentlemen around you.
The autumn air found every gap in your garment as if it had been waiting for the opportunity.
The prince, apparently, took the opportunity as well — leaning further over the railing, as though whatever he was watching on the ground below would become much much clearer the closer he got to it. The courtiers hadn't noticed. Why would they, when the prince was onto his average shenanigans. They were laughing still, someone making a comment about the view, the capital visible in the grey-gold late afternoon light below the castle walls.
"Your Highness." Low. You had to — even if you had no desire to speak to him right now. The warning register, the one that under normal circumstances at least made him slow down.
He didn't look at you. Of course he didn't.
"Your Highness." Slightly sharper.
Nothing. His back, the set of his shoulders, he heard you perfectly clear and decided that your voice was not, at this moment, something he was going to acknowledge. The same ignoring he'd been deploying for two weeks, except now there was a railing between him and a significant drop, and the wine had been doing its lazy work for the better part of an hour.
Not only did he choose to ignore you — he deliberately leaned further, shouting something to the other men, launching into what seemed to be a tale about one of his recent late-night endeavours. During the very detailed and very obscene explanation, the prince decided that merely leaning on the railing wouldn't suffice, and hopped up to sit on it instead — apparently unbothered by the four floors of open air between him and the cobblestoned ground below.
You tracked every micromovement. Things were about to go sideways. Or more accurately, down.
The prince was swaying, leaning back as he laughed and depicted his crude story. Then a particularly unfriendly gust of cold wind swept across the balcony — his wine glass slipping from his grip, disappearing over the edge with a faint, distant shatter! below — and his balance went with it. He grabbed for the railing, missed the angle, his weight tipping the wrong direction.
You were already moving.
Your hands found him — one gripping his arm, the other catching the fabric at his back, pulling, your whole weight redirecting his, which proved quite a task given his height and weight, all while attempting to look even remotely dignified about it.
He stumbled off the railing and into you rather than over it, the momentum of the intervention leaving him closer than either of you had planned, his shoulder against yours, his face turned toward yours for one disorienting second as he found his footing.
The rose perfume hit you right in your face.
Still on him. From this morning, or last night, from whenever it had been — the court lady's particular scent, warm and floral and entirely wrong for a cold stone balcony in late autumn, drifting off his skin in the small space between you. You almost skidded to a halt — from the inexplicable shock of it, perhaps, or the involuntary intimacy of your hands on him, his body against yours, the cold and the balcony and the near-miss all happening at once.
You stepped back. Restored the distance.
His face — you caught it in the half-second before he arranged it into something else. Something unguarded there. Something that sat closer to surprise than anything else, and underneath the surprise something else entirely — something that landed in your peripheral vision before you could look at it directly, something that made the air between you feel less like unwanted cold and more like something unwantedly warmer.
He looked away. The courtiers were watching now — all of them, the easy laughter suspended, the audience that had been performing enjoyment of his company now performing something closer to genuine attention.
He smiled. The particular smile that had nothing warm in it — the one he reached for when he needed to reframe something quickly.
"Careful," he said — to you, to the courtiers, to the balcony, to no one specifically — gesturing vaguely in your direction. "She gets protective. Can't have me enjoying myself too close to a ledge." A beat. The smile sharpening. "Although—" his eyes moving to you briefly, having decided to say something he knew would land badly, "—perhaps she just wanted an excuse to put her hands on me. Can't say I blame her, really. Must be rather dull, all that watching and nothing more."
The men went quiet. Then a small wave of the laughter that had started to build dying somewhere in the middle of itself, two or three people exchanging the uncomfortable glances of those who had watched something cross a line.
You stood frozen to the spot, your mouth with it. The cold was very present again. A different cold. The stone very solid under your feet. The rose perfume still faintly in the air between where he was standing and where you were standing, which was further than it had been mere seconds ago.
Your face did something.
You felt it happen, felt it slip almost — the involuntary expression arriving before the discipline caught it. Not hurt, not anger — something without a clean name, something that lasted perhaps one second, unexplained but present, before your conscious mind smoothed it over.
The joke hung in the cold air a moment longer. Then one of the courtiers said something, redirecting, and the gathering reconstituted around the new conversation.
You stood in it. The heir stood in it. The world stilled weirdly, and your ears were ringing. The disrespect — the sheer disrespect. The prince had never dared to go this far. Yes, he had been crude in your presence, calling you prudish when no one was listening. But this was the first time he had made you into a joke like this. A public spectacle. Reduced to something worse than discardable. Worse than the ladies he fancied to spend his time with. The women he dragged into his bed at least knew what transaction they were making. You had sworn an oath of steel and blood, only to be turned into a cheap parlor joke for an audience full of men who hadn't earned a fraction of your discipline.
The prince only tsked and marched back inside, determined, it seemed, to make you regret even thinking about touching him with your practically peasant hands. He drank, and drank, and drank — until he couldn't remember how he got back to his chambers. He suspected, of course, it was your doing. But the mere thought of you made him so angry that he didn't dwell on it.
It was around dawn when he woke — if he had slept at all. His head was trying to split open, and he mildly regretted the damage he'd done to Lord Geto's outstanding wine collection. Though he was glad he'd slept at all, because the prince hadn't been sleeping well anymore.
Which was quite new. Or not new exactly, in that sense. He had never been particularly devoted to sleep, had always treated it as a mere interruption rather than a necessity, the nights too useful for other things to be spent unconscious. But this was different from that.
He got up before the sun had risen. The guards in front of his chambers were dozing in a deep corner alcove on the other side of the hallway, and he almost chuckled. You were really the only one who took the job seriously — but then he immediately found that thought insolent, since thinking about you was proving particularly irritating.
He tiptoed through the corridors. The training yard was empty at this hour, which was the point. Nobody to perform for, just the cold stone under his boots and the air swallowed by the dense, blue-grey mist of the late night bleeding to the early morning. He enjoyed being alone when the castle was still asleep, when he could be simply Satoru and not the prince.
He was three sets in when his mind circled back to the balcony.
Not consciously — not with any intention, as far as he knew. The thought arrived uninvited and specific, bypassing whatever he usually deemed worth thinking about. The unexplainable feeling of your eyes on him. He'd gotten used to it, or at least thought he had — but not really, not yet. It was unsettling and somehow comforting at once, which was extremely confusing, and you were the only person who had ever managed to do both simultaneously. Even when he was angry, upset, reckless, acting downright stupid, you were always right there. And the thought of it made him angrier still.
Your hands on him. The grip of them, more certain than he'd expected, yet cautious — almost careful. Womanly, in a way he hadn't anticipated and hadn't had time to process before you'd stepped back and restored the correct distance.
He'd been about to think something — the word forming somewhere in the back of his throat — and the word had been old.
It didn't arrive.
He stopped mid-form. Stood there with the practice sword lowered, staring at nothing. Stood there a moment longer than made any sense, and he hated it. The prince never hesitated. The prince never thought of others.
Then he resumed the form. Faster than before. More aggressive. Harder. The blade cutting arcs through the cold air, striking the practice post with a crack that echoed off the high stone walls.
It was supposed to feel good. He'd come out to the freezing cold — the mornings getting already unforgivably chilly — to clear his head. Instead he felt more frustrated, more irritated. That was supposed to be the rule of it, the established architecture of his entire life: someone stepped out of line, he put them back in it, and the resulting rush of arrogant satisfaction smoothed over whatever irritation had provoked him in the first place.
It hadn't worked. The satisfaction hadn't arrived. The lazy dismissals, the pulled rank, the public humiliation — none of it was landing the way it was supposed to. Instead, he was simply left with the grating, suffocating feeling of swinging at empty air.
He struck the post again. The shock of the impact traveled up his forearms, biting into his wrists.
It didn't mean anything. He was tired. He hadn't slept properly in two weeks, and his mind was doing the inconvenient things it sometimes did when left without enough rest.
He stopped. Wrists burning from the brute force of it.
The castle remained quiet. The sky above the walls was the particular dark blue of almost-dawn, not quite committed to becoming morning yet, the first birds somewhere distant and unconvincing. His breath made small clouds in the cold.
Why did he care.
You had been out of line. The loop began to run, familiar and defensive, keeping time with his footwork. You had put your hands on him. You had embarrassed him at the dinner in front of his father. You had lectured him in his own chambers like he was a child who needed redirecting. The fight was your fault. The chill was your fault. Him thinking about you was your fault. Everything, yet nothing.
He spun, driving the blunt point of the sword into the padded wood.
The loop failed. It just — stopped catching.
Because Satoru knew the institutional channels of the castle better than he pretended to. He knew exactly what was building somewhere behind these walls, in some office, behind some closed door. He knew the reprimand was coming. And worse — he knew exactly what was on the list.
His failures. Every single one of them. And you were going to have to stand there and absorb the consequences for them, because the system would never demand that he pay for his own mess. Because that was apparently what you deserved, for the crime of intertwining your oath with the heir's recklessness.
He dropped the sword. It clattered against the stone.
So why did he fucking care. Why did it suddenly feel so wrong — someone being punished for the shit he'd done. Something that had never particularly bothered him before arriving as a specific, named wrongness in his chest, with no category to shove it, hide it, in.
He dragged a hand through his hair, chest heaving, the cold air burning his lungs. The image of your face on the balcony surfaced uninvited — the way the mask had slipped for one fraction of a second, revealing something raw and unnamed, before smoothing back into the perfect, impenetrable composure he found so infuriating. And behind that image, the ghost of the fight in his chambers. The freezing deadness in your voice. He couldn't locate what he felt about that coldness, or why he felt anything about it at all. And the inability to locate it — the sheer lack of a category for what was happening in his own chest — was infinitely more infuriating than the fight itself.
The trailing scent of rose perfume caught in his memory. Or was it peony, or jasmine? It didn't matter. Floral things, under his nose almost nightly.
It felt hollow. The encounters had all felt hollow lately. He was chasing the same warmth he always had, but the bodies moving in the dark had started to feel thin, useless — like he was trying to warm his hands over a painted fire.
He didn't know why.
He picked the wooden sword back up. Squared his shoulders. And swung it against the muddy stone wall instead until it splintered, splintered.
He stood in the wreckage of it. The broken wood scattered across the packed earth, the freezing air settling back into the yard now that the violent movement had stopped, his chest heaving with exertion. The sky was committing, finally, to early morning. The dark blue giving way to an unforgiving, pale grey that suggested the castle would be waking soon.
Why did he care?
He felt hollow. That was new. Or not new, exactly—but newly undeniable. He was chasing something. He had always been chasing something. He just hadn't particularly examined what it was, or why the chase had started feeling like it was leading him to rooms he had already emptied.
The shape of an answer hovered at the edge of that thought. He didn't follow it. Didn't dare to—
Somewhere above the walls, a bird called. Then another. The specific sounds of a castle beginning to move drifted down into the courtyard—a heavy iron door shutting somewhere, the distant echo of footsteps, voices greeting each other, the tranquil silence breaking as the world started demanding things of him again.
He dropped the broken hilt of the sword into the mud. He would have to go back inside. He would have to put the mask back on and be the prince again. He would have to walk past your post. You would be there. The question would come with him, because it had nowhere else to go.
He came back the way he'd left — through the servants' corridor, the one that avoided the main hall, the one he'd been using since he was twelve. Mud was on his boots, trailing behind him like an unwanted witness.
He passed a few early-rising servants on his way back, though none of them found it odd. Or rather, no one dared to question the heir stalking through passages forbidden to him.
He turned the final corner to his wing and stopped.
You were there. Coming from the opposite direction, arriving in the early morning gloom to resume your post, ready to shadow him through another day.
The alcove at the far end of the corridor was visible between you. The night guards were folded into their corner—deeply, peacefully asleep. Their vigil apparently concluded sometime around the third hour and not resumed since.
He watched your eyes find them. Mild, annoyed amusement threatened his features. He wanted to say something—something purposefully aggravating, something to rile you up this early in the morning just to watch your jaw tighten as you produced one of your careful, infuriating deflections.
Your Highness, something something, always something. How he hated hearing it. All the bloody time, that title, sitting in your mouth like something you'd decided he deserved rather than something you actually meant. Hated the insincerity laced in your tone.
He turned his head when you turned to look at him. You were annoyed, tired — but too prideful, perhaps, to call the prince out on his secret late-night, or early-morning, outing. You noticed the mud trailing from his boots and didn't press further. Was he in one piece, standing in front of you? Then that was enough.
His expression did nothing. Or he kept it doing nothing.
He reached his door first, while you were preoccupied waking the guards and delivering what he imagined would be a very quiet, very venomous lecture. The door closed between you. The cold morning resumed.
An attendant ran him a bath. He dressed. Breakfast arrived. He sat with it, not particularly eating, the tea doing far more work than the food. It was an unassuming, ordinary morning—the exact shape of thousands that had come before it. Lonely. Cold. Irritating, and not even in the way mornings usually were.
"Your Highness." The king's secretary, at the door. “His Majesty requested your presence once breakfast was concluded.”
Satoru gestured vaguely, signaling he wouldn't be finishing the meal anyway. The attendant whisked the barely-touched plate away.
His father wanted to see him. This did not happen often—or rather, it happened more frequently lately, perhaps because he was finally of age, or perhaps simply because of his recent behavior. He had stopped caring which. At least the King was carving out precious time for his precious son.
When he opened the door, you were waiting. You fell into step behind him without a single word, and the secretary led you both down the winding corridors toward the royal wing.
The King's private study. Satoru could hear it before they even reached the doors. Shouting. Arguing. The King's voice, raised in fury. A council member’s frantic stammer. The Queen Consort's icy interjections. Satoru felt a cold spike of dread lodge itself in his throat.
Beside him, he felt you go rigid. You hadn't heard the King so riled up before, and the sheer volume of the hostility bleeding through the wood made the sudden halt in front of the doors almost a relief for you. The secretary gestured for you to take your post outside in the hall.
Satoru stared at the handle for one second longer than necessary—registering the temperature of the room beyond it, frantically beginning to assemble whatever "fine" version of himself was going to walk through it.
He pushed the door open, leaving you behind in the quiet corridor, and stepped into a morning that was apparently faaar from finished.
The king was standing. And his father almost never stood during these conversations. He was standing now, one hand planted on the mahogany table, a piece of parchment in the other.
The council member—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Satoru noted—was positioned near the window with the body language of someone who had been trying to make himself smaller for the past several minutes and hadn't quite managed it.
His mother, the Queen, stood slightly apart from both of them. Watching.
The king turned the moment the door opened.
The anger redirected instantly, locking onto its actual target with a physical force that made the air in the room feel suffocatingly thin.
"There he is," the king said. His voice was a whip-crack in the quiet. He threw the parchment onto the table. It slid across the polished wood, stopping inches from Gojo. "Written, formal documentation of your profound, unmitigated stupidity."
Gojo looked at the letter. It carried a broken foreign seal, dark green threaded with gold. Oh. He didn't pick it up. Didn’t dare to.
His eyebrows furrowed as he scanned the folded parchment. His father leaned over the other side of the table, every pair of eyes in the room studying his incoming reaction. For a fraction of a second, the prince was profoundly confused.
"Father?"
"Do you have any concept of what you have done?" the king demanded, stepping around the table, his usual exhaustion finally burning away into barely contained rage. "This isn't a tavern brawl, Satoru. This is the fragile architecture of a peace treaty that took decades to build. And you treat it like a theater put on for your personal amusement. You treat the crown like a toy. You never learn!"
"It was a dinner," Gojo defended, his voice arriving light, attempting to grasp the familiar rhythm of deflection. "The man was insulting the integrity of our—"
"The man was testing us, and you failed." The king cut the air with his hand, silencing him. "You let your bruised pride dictate state policy. You let a bruised ego push us toward something we cannot afford."
The king stopped. He looked at his son, and the anger suddenly grew older, heavier, dragging a ghost into the room between them.
"How much more blood must this crown spend to subsidize your arrogance?" the king asked, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. "We have already buried countless people because of your inability to look past your own entertainment. Must I bury a kingdom along with them?"
"That’s absolutely, entirely beside the point. That—"
The breath caught in Gojo’s throat.
The reference was unnamed, brief, and entirely devastating. It hit the raw, still-unprocessed wound buried at the very bottom of Gojo’s chest, striking it with such precision that the lazy smile completely shattered off his face.
"You insolent child! You are of age. You should be ready to take over state matters, yet you treat absolutely nothing as important!" his father continued, the volume rising again. He lifted the letter briefly before slamming it back down on the table with more force than the gesture required. "They wrote it down. Formally. Diplomatically worded, which is its own specific insult. They were polite enough to make clear exactly how displeased they are without giving us anything to formally object to. Do you understand what that means? It means we have to respond in kind. It means we have to craft a diplomatic reply to a diplomatic complaint about my son's behavior at a dinner that was supposed to demonstrate that this kingdom takes its alliances seriously."
"I do take it seriously!" Gojo fired back, his voice cracking with a defensive, desperate petulance he hadn't intended to show. "But forgive me if I refuse to look past the fact that some lowly delegate from their stagnant kingdom allowed himself to openly disrespect the heir! That hardly screams taking an alliance seriously—"
"That is quite enough."
The Queen Consort stepped forward from the shadows of the hearth. The violent heat of the king’s fury was instantly snuffed out by her intervention. She did not step in to protect her son and Satoru knew it, that’s why goosebumps risen under his garments. She stepped in because the emotional display was no longer operationally useful.
"The courier leaves for the North-east at noon," she said, her voice a steady, rhythmic metronome of damage control, addressing the trembling minister. "You will draft a formal response. You will express the crown’s profound regret for the misunderstanding. You will not apologize for the prince directly—that admits fault."
She paused, her gaze flicking to the broken seal on the table.
"You will instead assure them that the personnel outside the royal family will be remanded for formal disciplinary action. It offers the delegation their pound of flesh without compromising the crown's dignity. Frame the remainder of the incident as an unfortunate translation of provincial humor. Include a concession on the silver tariffs they requested last quarter. That will placate them."
"Y-yes, Your Grace," the minister stammered, bowing frantically, clutching his ledgers to his chest. "Immediately."
The temperature in the room plummeted. The prince stood rigid near the table, taking his mother’s orders in. The dread—was it even dread? Perhaps just a sickening, hollow anticipation—that had been pooling in his stomach all morning finally crystallized into something hard and sharp.
They were going to punish you. For the one thing that had stopped the dinner from devolving into a full-scale catastrophe, for the very intervention his own father had silently authorized. And they were doing it simply because it was politically convenient.
He tried to perform "fine." He tried to summon his usual uncaring arrogance because it was all he knew, but his gut was telling him to halt. Something was warning him that this was far from over. The realization that you were going to get the short end of the stick felt like ash in his throat. You deserved it, he tried to tell himself. You had embarrassed him. You had overstepped. Yet, you didn't deserve this, and the prince couldn't have been more confused by his own sickening revulsion.
Satoru looked at his father, breathing heavily by the table, jaw locked. He looked at his mother, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves, her face a mask of perfect composure.
They did not look at each other.
They had not spoken to each other warmly, or even directly, since he had walked in. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time they ever did. Their distinct registers were always aimed at the same problem, at their only son, but neither of them looked at Gojo as a person.
It was a loveless architecture. A household built on necessity and maintained through separate quarters. He was the only child, a singular miracle achieved only because they had endured each other just long enough to secure the succession, and never touched each other again.
The Queen Consort turned slightly, her eyes sweeping over the scattered papers on the wide table.
"Furthermore, his public standing requires a permanent anchor," she said. She floated the words into the space between them, an aside addressed to the institution rather than to the king or her son. "This volatility is a liability we can no longer afford to spin as youthful charm. The delegation’s letter makes that painfully clear. It is time we revisited the Western correspondence, husband."
Gojo stopped breathing. His throat involuntarily tightened, his eyes fixing blindly on the map spread across the center of his father’s table.
"A formal arrangement there," his mother continued, casually sorting a stack of ledgers with her precise, manicured fingers, "will signal immediate stability to the border lords. It will prove he is finally bound to his duties in a way he cannot simply walk away from. I will begin drafting the preliminary inquiries soon."
She didn't ask. Why would she, anyway? She made the bartering of his entire future sound like a practical solution to a minor tax deficit.
Gojo went entirely quiet. He stared at the broken green wax on the table. He didn't argue, nor did he scoff. The quiet was its own damning non-response, a complete failure of the rebellious prince who usually fought any attempt to cage him.
His mother took the silence as non-resistance—a small, surprising, fight-less win—and moved on.
"You are dismissed, Minister," the king said, turning his back to the room to face the window.
The foreign minister bowed low and fled, pulling the door open with desperate speed. The prince turned on his heel, moving to follow the man out, suffocating in the sterile air of the study.
"Stay." Command from his father froze him in place. The door clicked shut behind the minister.
The family reality of it sat in the deafening silence. Three people, bound by blood and a crown, but never love.
The rest of the day passed. Then the morning of the next.
Satoru carried the knowledge in his chest like a swallowed stone. He watched you resume your post outside his doors, fall into step behind him, and perform your duty the way you always did, the way you were expected.
The sick, hollow feeling in his gut only metastasized.
The summons finally arrived mid-afternoon. He was in the lower archives, supposedly reviewing a regional treaty as a punishment his father had handed down, while actually doing nothing but staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes. You were standing by the doors.
Footsteps echoed on the flagstones. A courier from the militia arrived, flanked by a young, broad-shouldered knight wearing the crest of the royal guard.
The courier stopped in front of you, offering a sharp, procedural salute.
"My lady," he said, his voice loud across the quiet archives. "Your presence is requested by the Commander in his primary office. Immediately. This knight will assume the prince's detail until your return."
You measured him, a flicker of confusion carefully suppressed before you nodded. The Commander rarely requested your presence, let alone in his private office. Usually, he spoke to you in fleeting corridor passes, or at gatherings where you felt confident enough that the prince wouldn’t face any imposed or self-imposed danger in your brief absence.
"Understood."
At the archive table, Satoru went completely still. The replacement knight stepped forward, ready to take your place by the door.
Satoru looked at the substitute guard, and a violent, irrational surge of territorial irritation flared over the sickening dread in his stomach. He wasn't going to sit in this dusty room with a stranger while you were dragged off to the slaughterhouse his mother had built for you.
But it wasn't just guilt that made him stand up. It was a darker, uglier impulse—a sick, petty anticipation churning beneath the guilt. He wanted to see it. He hated himself for the morbid curiosity, but he couldn't look away. He had spent months trying to crack your perfect, stupid composure and failed.
Now, the full weight of the crown and the militia was about to come crashing down on your head. Would you finally break? Would you scream? Would you beg? He wanted to see what happened when the unshakeable knight was finally forced to bleed.
Satoru snapped the treaty book shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"I fear there is no need," the prince sang out as he strolled towards you. "I'm finished here. And I believe I'll take a walk to the militia wing myself. I'd hate to be left out, seeing as whatever you want with my knight undoubtedly concerns me."
The courier hesitated, exchanging an uncertain glance with the other man. "Your Highness, the Commander requested a private audience with—"
"I don't particularly care what the Commander requested," Satoru interrupted, a saccharine grin plastered across his face as he stepped past them into the corridor. He didn't look at you. "Come along, knight. Let's not keep my father's attack dogs waiting."
You didn't argue. Beneath the faint embarrassment and creeping nerves, a small, treacherous part of you was almost thankful for the prince’s relentless nosiness into matters he clearly had no business dealing with.
The walk to the militia wing was suffocating. The silence between you was loud with the phantom weight of the impending reprimand.
Satoru kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He tried to look aloof, amused even, looking like this was some silly game to play, yet he could feel the familiar, rigid presence of you trailing at his back. He knew exactly what was on the list sitting on the Commander's desk, and what was lodged like broken glass in his own throat.
His failures. Wearing your name.
You arrived at the doors of the Commander’s office. The guards stationed outside pulled them open immediately, expecting you, but visibly faltered when the heir strolled in first.
Satoru didn't ask for permission to enter. The Commander, sitting behind a massive desk stacked with ledgers, paused. He looked at Satoru, then at you, clearly displeased by the prince's uninvited presence but lacking the political authority to order the heir out of the room.
"Your Highness," the Commander faltered as the prince stopped by the edge of his table, one hand on his hip, deploying a very sweet, very fake smile. An immovable spectator.
"Commander. I assume this was terribly important, dragging my knight all the way to your private office?"
You stepped up to the center of the room. You stood at perfect attention, your chin high, your hands clasped loosely behind your back, watching the exchange confused. Both men knew exactly what was about to unfold. You were the only one in the room stepping blindly onto the block.
"This is an internal disciplinary matter, Your Highness," the Commander said, his voice stiff.
"And she is my guard," Satoru replied, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Proceed."
The Commander didn't argue. He didn't rise to the bait — he knew the prince and his antics, after all. The sheer lack of emotion on the older man's face did exactly what Satoru's father's anger had done earlier that week. It sucked the oxygen straight out of the room.
You stood dead still in the center of the office, your hands clasped so tightly behind your back that the leather of your gauntlets creaked.
The Commander folded his hands on the desk. "Do you have even a remote understanding of why you were summoned here?"
You kept your chin perfectly level, though the question sent a cold spike of uncertainty through your chest. "No, sir," you answered, your voice crisp and completely steady. "I believe I was withheld that information."
"Clearly," the Commander murmured.
His gaze shifted briefly to the prince, who was now openly watching him as though daring him to stop. Satoru hated himself for even thinking about, let alone committing to, coming here with you. Why hadn't he stayed in the archives, reading that maddening document until his eyes bled? It would surely hurt less than this. He couldn't bring himself to look at you — he didn't even know what his own face was doing, whether it would betray horror or the sick, petulant satisfaction he'd been chasing earlier.
The older man took his sweet time. He reached for the vellum folder resting at the center of his desk, unspooling the string tying it closed. The scratch of stiff paper was the only sound in the suffocating silence.
"You were summoned because there were... some concerns," he droned.
You scowled, the first visible crack in your armor. "Pardon—"
"A disciplinary hearing has been convened under the direct authorization of the Crown," the Commander interrupted, his voice flat, dropping the first anvil into the room.
Satoru's confidence, his presumed upper hand, evaporated. The Crown. His mother did really push on, committing to her exceptional constitutional cruelty. This wasn't a militia squabble he could bully his way out of. This was a royal decree.
He could feel your eyes searching his, yet he couldn't bring himself to meet them. Were you composed? Were you pleading?
You felt your heart drop straight into your stomach. Disciplinary hearing? The Commander opened the folder. He didn't look at you with pity, or even with contempt. The sympathetic look, he spared you, from the oath-taking long gone.
"For the past several months, you were granted a position of unprecedented privilege for a lesser-house... lady," the Commander said, deliberately pausing before the title, stripping the word 'knight' from the room completely. "It was the expectation of the council that you would manage the physical and political security of the heir. Yet, you have failed."
Satoru ground his teeth. Both of them knew that you were far from failing. You did everything more diligently than anyone in this bloody castle even managed to think about. Sleepless nights, frantic chasing, tolerating everyone's insolence with nerves of steel. This was far from failing, and no matter how much the prince could dislike you, despise you and your icy composure, he could never call you incompetent. He would rather let himself be called a fool.
"Watch your bloody mouth, Commander," Satoru snapped, his voice ringing sharp and dangerous in the small office. He pushed off the table, stepping forward. "She’s still my knight and I don’t condone to—"
"And here we have the crux of the issue," the Commander interrupted smoothly.
He didn't look at the prince. He looked directly at you.
"See?" He gestured vaguely in Satoru's direction without taking his eyes off your face. "His temper. His lack of discipline. His blatant disregard for protocol in a formal hearing. This is exactly what you were appointed to manage, and your utter mismanagement is playing out in real time, making a mockery of this office."
Satoru froze mid-step.
"Every time he lashes out," the Commander continued, a mercifully even drone of destruction, "he simply provides further evidence of your incompetence."
Satoru's jaw snapped shut. His throat seized.
The trap sprang closed around him, barbed and absolute. He couldn't speak. If he shouted, if he threw his weight around, if he demanded this to stop—he was only feeding the set argument. He was the evidence of your supposed failure. His arrogance wasn't a shield anymore. It was the weapon they were using to execute you.
The color drained from your face.
For the first time in his entire privileged life, the prince was utterly, structurally paralyzed. He stepped back, the sick, hollow feeling consuming him entirely.
Satisfied with the sudden, dead silence from the heir, the Commander looked down at the parchment again.
And he started naming, listing each of the oversteps, each of the failures you supposedly caused—deliberately or by mistake, no one really asked. Dismissing your months of agonizing effort with a single wave of his hand.
"Your tenure thus far has been a profound, continuous embarrassment to this institution. You have failed to manage the physical security of the heir, and worse, you have actively mismanaged the crown's diplomatic standing."
Satoru’s jaw clenched. Mismanaged. You were the only one managing anything at all.
"Consequently, the consequence will be aimed at the only thing you lesser-house appointments seem to understand," the Commander continued, his eyes cold and flat. "The invitation previously extended to your family for the upcoming Winter Gala is officially revoked. They will not be granted access to the palace."
The air vanished from your lungs. The Winter Gala. One of the four seasonal events your parents had access to the lower court for. The thing your family had sacrificed everything to secure.
"Furthermore," the Commander leaned forward, far from stopping,"consider this your sole warning. If you appear before my desk for a disciplinary hearing again, your family will be permanently barred from the royal court. Your bloodline will be sent back to the provincial garrison, in disgrace, forever."
The room went dead silent. The stone floor felt as though it had dropped out from beneath your boots.
"To formally mark this citation," the Commander said, his voice cruelly bureaucratic and nothing more, "you will kneel. You will surrender your sword to this desk until tomorrow morning as a warning."
Your sword. Your pride, your right hand. Gone, for a day, just to serve a point. This was deeply humiliating. Deeply unsettling. Deeply cruel.
The shadows violently shifted.
"Don't you dare," Satoru snarled. The arrogant prince was gone — the voice that cracked through the room was lethal, his boots hitting the stone as he closed the distance. "She is a sworn knight. You will not make her—"
"Take one more step, Your Highness," the Commander warned, tone icy calm, "and I will summon the guards and mandate the lash. Right here. Right now."
Satoru froze.
"Intervene again, Your Highness, and you will be the reason she bleeds for it."
Satoru's breath caught in his throat. The trap was absolute. If he fought, you paid the physical price.
With shaking hands you unbuckled your scabbard without looking up, your eyes fixed on the ground. The leather groaned in the suffocating quiet. You stepped forward, placed the steel on the Commander's desk, and stepped right back.
And then, with your jaw locked so tight it trembled, you sank to your knees on the cold stone floor.
"I accept the censure of this office," you recited, forcing the words past the glass in your throat, refusing to beg. "I swear on my title, on my oath, these failures will not be repeated." Your voice was a hollow, broken rasp. Your fists tightened on your knees.
The Commander sat back, visibly satisfied with the private humiliation, a faint gleam in his eyes as he looked down at your sword on his desk.
What is a knight without her sword?
You asked yourself the same question — and perhaps that was why a single tear spilled over your lower lash line. It tracked silently down your cheek, catching the light from the window. You didn't wipe it away. You just willed it to slip down quickly, before anyone noticed.
Satoru stared at you. The gap between his own uselessness and what the system did to you effortlessly felt awful, devastating. Yet he had achieved exactly what he wanted, hadn't he? The system had finally done what he hadn't been able to for so long, breaking you. And break you did — silently weeping on the cold stone, right in front of the Commander, stripped of your pride, of your sword.
After a few suffocating seconds, satisfied, he dismissed you. You pushed yourself off the floor. Your knees ached from the stone. The desk looked impossibly wide, your sword sitting across it like a dead thing.
"The guard outside will escort His Highness back to his wing," the Commander said, shuffling the vellum folder away. He didn't look at you. "You are dismissed for the day. Plenty of time to amend your mistakes in your chambers."
You didn't answer. You turned and walked out of the office after the prince.
And the walk back to the royal wing was a different kind of suffocating. The knight trailed awkwardly behind the prince, his armor clanking lightly, a replacement piece slotted into a machine that didn't care whose face was under the helmet. You walked three paces behind him. Unarmed. Disgraced. Restless. Even if dismissed, the prince was still yours—your responsibility, your oath. You wouldn’t trust him with someone else, let alone a stranger who did not carry the weight of your duty.
When you reached the prince's chambers, the guard moved to take the primary position by the frame.
You stepped directly into his space.
"My lady," he started, confused. "The Commander said—"
"I don't care what the Commander said," you interrupted. Your voice shaky, yet entirely dead, devoid of inflection, devoid of anything at all. "My oath was sworn to the prince. Not to a piece of steel. Step aside."
The knight faltered, looking toward the heir for an order.
Satoru stood by the open door, frozen. He looked at the other man—a polished, functioning cog in the very machine that had just auctioned away his future and stripped you of your pride. The sight of the man made Satoru physically sick. He was surprised you stood your ground, and perhaps, buried beneath the sickness, he felt relieved.
"Get out of my sight," Satoru said softly, almost inaudibly. "Before I have you stationed at the northernmost border by nightfall."
The knight bowed frantically and hurried down the corridor.
Satoru looked at you. You were staring straight ahead at the wood of the door, your eyes hollow, tear-streaked cheeks faintly flushed, your hands empty, your jaw still locked in that agonizing, trembling discipline. It was a marvelous, yet suffocating sight. Seeing your face transformed into something so raw and unfamiliar ripped a hole straight through his chest.
He couldn't speak. There were no words in any language that could bridge the chasm of what he had just watched happen to you. He felt sick, exhausted, and foremost confused. Threatening to feel something he didn’t want to feel, not now, not ever.
He stepped into his chambers and shut the door, leaving you standing guard outside in the cold.
Satoru stood in the center of his massive, lavishly appointed room. He was alone. The silence wasn't angry anymore. It was absolute — the deafening, crushing silence of a cage snapping shut.
He decided, in a rare, fleeting moment of quiet concession, that he would not leave these rooms again today. He would spare you the humiliation of trailing behind him without your blade. He would give you the grace of simply standing by a closed door.
He stripped off his doublet, tossing it carelessly over the back of a velvet armchair. He walked to his desk. He sat down. He pulled a thick volume of regional histories toward himself — an attempt at normalcy, an attempt to force his brain into the familiar, detached rhythm of ignoring his problems.
But the room wouldn't let him.
The afternoon light bleeding through the tall, arched windows was a bruised, sickly grey. The fire crackling in the stone hearth felt entirely too hot, the heat pressing against his skin like a physical weight. He stared at the open pages of the book, but the ink blurred into meaningless shapes — not out of inattention, but rather a complete inability to anchor himself to reality.
The silence began to stretch, pulling taut like a wire in his skull.
He stood up. He walked to the window. He looked out at the courtyard, then turned his back to it. He paced to the far corner of the room, running a hand over the bookshelf spines. Nothing anchored him — he felt like he was floating, but the wrong kind of floating. The air felt stagnant, recycled. Wrong. All of it was wrong.
It hit him slowly at first, and then all at once. The avalanche he had spent a lifetime outrunning finally caught him in the center of his own bedroom.
His eyes fell on the scattered correspondence on his desk, and the image of his parents surfaced. Two people standing in the same room — his, theirs, anywhere, everywhere — refusing to look at each other, never looking at each other, bartering away his entire future in a transaction far more costly than they pretended. They were conditioning him for a lifetime trapped in the same freezing, loveless structure he had grown up in.
He dragged a hand through his hair, his chest beginning to heave. He paced toward the fireplace, but the warmth only brought the phantom scent of rose perfume drifting back into his mind. The bodies moving in the dark, the skin, the heated whispers. He had spent years chasing that warmth, desperately searching for any connection that wasn't strictly conditional. Yet nobody stayed. Nobody cared.
The walls of the chamber were shrinking. The velvet tapestries felt as though they were closing in on his throat. The panic rose, hot and blinding.
Another ghost walked into the room. The first knight — his first one. The man who had essentially raised him. The crackle of the fireplace suddenly sounded exactly like a body hitting the dirt. Blood pooling on the ground because of Satoru's own childish recklessness. The king's voice echoing in his skull: Must I bury a kingdom along with them? Over and over and over.
And in the center of it all — silencing everything yet amplifying it inexplicably — your face. The first flush, from the oath-taking, the one he had caused — the knight being sworn into his service, the crest embroidered at the hem of that forsaken cape-skirt, the flush creeping up your neck while you knelt on cold stone and meant every word, eyes hopeful when everyone looked at you will amused contempt, him included. And then the second one, today, different — knees hitting the Commander's stone floor, your sword surrendered across his desk, the flush this time from humiliation and fury and the effort of not breaking, your tear-streaked cheeks. And you were standing right outside his door. Unarmed. Disgraced. Because of him.
He felt guilty. He shouldn't feel guilty — so why did he? Guilt, anger, devastation — emotions stirring, pulling at him under his skin, crawling and ticklish like ants.
His chest caved in. His vision blurred. He couldn't breathe. The air simply wouldn't go into his lungs. He couldn't outrun it anymore. The dissociation, the lazy arrogance, the cruel jokes, the mask he hid behind — all of it was gone, stripped away, leaving nothing but raw, bleeding terror.
He was the prince. He was the heir. His life should be easy. He wasn't supposed to care about anything; he was supposed to indulge himself until he couldn't anymore. So why was this happening?
He stumbled backward, colliding violently with the edge of his side table. His hand scrambled blindly for purchase and closed around the carved crystal decanter of amber liquor.
The suffocation peaked. He couldn't scream, his fingers clawing at his own collar. The bile gathering in his throat tasted like iron and venom.
Instead he hurled the decanter with everything he had. It hit the stone wall next to the hearth with a deafening, explosive crash, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces — the sharp violence of breaking glass tearing through the silence, each shard catching the firelight like a different, exposing fragment of his own failure.
Satoru collapsed against the rattling furniture and slid down to the cold floor, burying his hands in his hair as his lungs dragged in ragged, starving gasps. Air finally went in. He stared at the broken crystal and the splashed amber liquid staining the expensive carpet.
The evidence of his shortcoming was glaring and humiliating.
No. No, no, no. This was a showcase of weakness, and the prince did not show weakness, nor remorse. It was a sign of incompetence, and incompetence was only punished. Laughed at. Executed. Never taken seriously. Only obsolete, only reckless, only and always a child — yet someone who was supposed to take over the throne. How. How could he. How would he. How should he.
He scrambled forward onto his hands and knees, crawling toward the broken glass, frantically trying to erase the evidence before anyone could see him shatter.
Outside the heavy oak doors, the explosion of glass sounded like a gunshot in the dead quiet.
Sickness violently twisted your stomach. You didn't think to knock, to ask for permission through the barrier. There was no time for hesitation. You didn't even remember that your hip was terrifyingly light, stripped of the steel you had carried every day.
Muscle memory and paranoia hijacked your nervous system. You threw your weight against the heavy wood, bursting into the chambers, your gloved hands raising instinctively, fully prepared to tear out the throat of whatever assassin had finally slipped past the perimeter.
You scanned the massive room in a fraction of a second. The window. The shadows. The hearth.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
Then your eyes dropped to the floor.
The adrenaline hit a brick wall. You froze, the breath catching in your throat.
There was no assassin. There was only the prince.
The untouchable, cruel, arrogant heir was on his hands and knees in the center of a ruin. He was frantically sweeping his bare hands through the jagged shards of crystal, his breath coming in ragged, ugly, broken gasps that he was desperately trying to swallow. Blood was already welling on his palms, mixing with the spilled amber liquor, but he didn't stop. He was shivering violently, trying to hide the mess, trying to clean up his own shattered pieces before the world could see them.
The sight of it broke something in you. Something fundamental shifted and took place in the room.
You stood there staring at the boy who had ruined you. The boy who had kept pushing until he finally achieved what he, and everyone else, had probably always wanted.
You should have felt vindicated. You should have felt a sick sense of poetic justice, seeing him reduced to the exact same pathetic, kneeling position he had finally forced you into just an hour ago.
But you didn't. The anger and the humiliation evaporated entirely, leaving nothing but a cold, sharp clarity. You didn't see the crown prince. You just saw a boy who was drowning. You had sworn your life to him, hopeful and determined. And after all, no dog likes to see their master kneeling.
The rigid discipline that had locked your jaw all day finally gave way.
"Your Highness—" The words arrived automatically, though this time much softer. Cautious. Almost silent.
He looked up.
His face — you had catalogued all of his expressions, had built an entire internal library of his registers, his performances, his tells. You knew all of them. This wasn't any of them. This was something you had no entry for. Something raw and unmanaged and completely, utterly unperformed. His eyes were too bright, his breathing ragged. He looked impossibly small and scared, entirely stripped of the regal, imposing bearing he normally wore like armor.
You stepped forward, the crunch of glass under your boots the only sound in the room, and dropped to your knees beside him in the spilled liquor.
He didn't stop. He was trapped in the loop of his own panic, his shaking fingers sweeping blindly through the jagged shards.
"Please, stop," you said, your voice barely a guarded whisper but carrying the unmistakable edge of a command.
He didn't hear you. He was reaching for another sharp piece of crystal.
You looked at his hands. The royal blood — the blood you had sworn an oath to protect at the cost of your own — was welling on his palms, mixing with the amber liquor. And you were sitting there fully armored, your hands shielded by thick leather.
If the master bleeds, the hound bleeds tenfold. A knight does not wear armor when her prince is bare and shattering. If he was going to bleed on this floor, then you were going to bare your skin to the exact same glass. Out of codex, out of training, out of something older than either.
Without a second thought, you raised your hands to your mouth. You caught the fingertips of your right glove between your teeth and yanked it off, tossing the heavy leather aside. You repeated the motion with your left, tearing the armor away entirely.
You lowered your bare hands toward the scattered crystal and started to help him clean it up.
Your fingers closed around a jagged piece. You set it aside. You reached for another. The burning amber liquor soaked into your calluses.
Satoru's frantic, hyperventilating breaths began to stutter.
He didn't stop moving, but his peripheral vision caught you. He watched you sideways as his shaking hands continued to sweep the floor. Stripped of your sword, stripped of your pride, now stripping your own armor to kneel in the dirt and quietly clean up his mess.
You reached for a particularly sharp sliver of the decanter's neck. The edge bit into the pad of your thumb. A thin ribbon of crimson bloomed across your skin.
Satoru stared at the drop of your blood falling into the stained carpet. The sight of it made him sick.
You both reached for the broken base of the crystal carafe at the exact same moment.
Your bare hands collided.
His skin was freezing, slick with blood and stained with his shame. Yours was warm. Your blood smeared against his, mixing with the liquor and the cuts on his own palm — a physical manifestation of your intertwined fates. He was ruining you, and you were bleeding for it without a single complaint. It was so dumbly poetic he might have laughed, if he could have reached his senses.
He didn't pull away though. Instead, as if acting on some desperate, subconscious instinct, Satoru turned his hand inward. His long, trembling fingers slid hesitantly against yours and intertwined with them, his grip closing around your hand with crushing, aching desperation.
He caught you — finally anchoring himself to the warmth of your calloused palm like a man pulling himself out of a grave. For the first time in so, so long, he finally felt the ground fully beneath him. A touch that cost him nothing, a touch that required nothing in return. Yet one that broke something neither of you would be able to build back up.
You froze. The sharp glass was completely forgotten.
Satoru's head dropped forward, his forehead coming to rest heavily against your knuckles.
The dam finally gave way. The arrogant, stupid mask shattered. A wretched, broken sob tore its way out of his throat, his shoulders trembling violently as he wept into the space between your connected, bleeding hands.
You kept entirely silent, your own heart hammering as you felt the heat of his tears against your palm. And perhaps it was the warmth you hadn't felt in so, so long. Perhaps it was everything finally pressing your shoulders down to the ground as you stopped resisting. And perhaps it was the sight of the broken boy beside you. The tears came again — yours this time — and you sobbed silently over his hunched form, staring into the only thing still moving in the room: the uninviting warmth of the fire in front of you.
You knew you should pull away. You knew you should keep your distance, stay angry at him, let him stay angry at you. You should have clung to the bitter reality of your parents paying the price for a trap his own family had built in the first place. Yet you didn't recite protocol. You didn't tell him what everyone else probably would have—to get it together, to pull himself up, to be the prince. You just stayed on your knees in the wreckage and let him hold you.
The storm of everything mixing, everything culminating into devastating, ego-shattering thunder, plunged into your back over and over.
But even the storm eventually ran out of oxygen.
The jarring trembling in Satoru’s shoulders gradually subsided into an exhausted stillness. The ragged gasps smoothed out into slow and silent hiccups. The fire crackled in the hearth, reclaiming the silence of the room.
You didn't move. You let him hold you, your calloused thumbs resting lightly against the pulse of his wrists, feeling the frantic beat of his heart slowly begin to steady.
And then, his conscious mind caught up to his body.
Satoru’s breath hitched sharply. The realization of what he was doing—of who he was holding, of how entirely, pathetically he had just laid himself bare—hit him like a bucket of very icy water. He had never been this exposed in his entire life. And the inviting, gentle warmth of your hands felt like a fire he didn't know how to stand near without burning alive.
He flinched. Satoru yanked his hands out of your grip as if your skin had physically scorched him.
He scrambled backward, the remaining glass crunching loudly under his boots as he put a foot of distance between you. He pulled his knees up, instantly turning his face away so you couldn't see his bloodshot eyes. His chest was heaving again, not with panic this time, but with a terrifying shame.
He raised his shaking hands to his face, clumsily trying to wipe the tears from his cheeks. But his palms were still coated in amber liquor and his own blood, and all he managed to do was smear a streak of crimson across his pale cheekbone.
He looked pathetic. He looked tragic. He looked like a boy trying desperately to rebuild a shattered fortress out of thin air.
"Don't," he choked out. His voice was a harsh, raspy fraction of its usual arrogant self, aimed at the floor rather than at you. "Just... don't look at me."
You were left kneeling in the spilled bitter liquor. Your hands were frozen in the empty air where his had just been, your bare skin still carrying the warmth of his grip and the stain of his blood. The absence of his touch felt suddenly, inexplicably freezing.
You blinked at him, not entirely understanding why you felt so hollow, left confused and more exposed than you had before. But as you eyed his blood-smeared cheek and the tremble in his hands, you lowered your gaze to your own. They were trembling, too, smeared with crimson that belonged to both of you.
You didn't push him. You simply reached out and quietly resumed picking up the jagged pieces of glass.
"Thank you," he managed to mutter.
And as you set the last piece of glass aside, you stood, pulling your gloves back on—one, then the other. The leather settled back into place over your bloodied hands, like each agonizing increment of your resolve getting built back up.
You walked to the door without saying anything, without answering him. More words would have been costly tonight, and not in their usual currency. You grabbed the handle to take your post in the freezing corridor. Bare. And without your sword.
── Dividers from pxrce-lain and seulzitos and pixopix!
Tropes~ One sided love, she fell first, he fell harder, forced relationship?
Synopsis~ The Honoured One crashes into the Pacific, Satoru is captured. Day and night he is tormented. The line between reality is blurred as he dreams of a girl and the stars of home. As the War ends he is sent back but home isn't quite home anymore. But there is you.
Previous Part
Tw/Cw~ War, WW2, period typical attitudes, dark themes, death, Pow camp, sexism, internalized misogyny.
Author's Note~ Gojo fights for the allies.
Divider by @/saradika-graphics
Mable’s officer died in the last few months of the war. It made her a widow, giving her a natural respect. In stores her purchases are already paid for, mysteriously, by the time she makes it to the counter. Old men and little boys trip over themselves to open doors for her. They had done it before, but now they did it with a frantic zeal. It’s disgusting really, what has Mable done but sit prettily at home?
For years you have worked in a factory but what credit do you - You stopped yourself. There was no use going down that route. You owed everything to Mable’s family.
Your aunt said your name, her accent dripping with honey. “Mable isn’t feeling well. Could you make her some chicken and dumplings?” Her cherry red lips were stretched into a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. You gave her the little girl smile she liked you to wear, all gums and wide eyes. And you nodded saying, “Yes ma’am.”
You had been at the factory since four in the morning, you got off at six, took the bus and walked part of the way, only to get home at six-forty. But Mable, beautiful Mable came first. The chicken and dumplings would just be for her. Your aunt’s supper consisted of a bowl of broth and a cigarette unless there was company. There rarely was since Mable’s husband’s death. Heavy black drapery covered the windows and the furniture in the company parlor. You made your way to the kitchen, every step heavier than the last.
You made the dough for the dumplings first, rolling it out, and cutting it in thick strips. Then you made the broth. There was no actual chicken left, but you did have some bones and canned stock. You chopped celery, each movement of the knife landing with a satisfying thwack. Your feet ached and you longed for a bath. To sink into the hot water, to wash away the grime and sweat of the day.
When it was done, you put it in a bowl on a tray to carry up to Mable. Your knees ached as you went up the winding staircase to Mable’s room on the second floor. You found her curled up in bed. She sat up when you reached the edge of her bed. She blinked, the whites of her eyes were a horrible reddish colour.
“Just set it on the vanity,” she drawled out, her voice slightly hoarse.
“Alright.” You didn’t look at her. You saw the perfume bottles and makeup canisters lined up on her vanity, the vases overflowing with flowers. If I sat home all day and entertained bored soldiers, I’d have that too. But you had never been called beautiful, or graceful, or stunning, like Mable had been since girlhood. Only pretty. Pretty is common, slightly above average, comfortable. Pretty isn’t the face men think of before they die or go off to war. Pretty is the girl men marry when they can’t achieve beautiful. Pretty is in the eyes of the beholder, while beautiful will always be universal.
She says your name. Something about the way she says your name feels like boney white hands around your neck. “Why do you hate me?”
You stopped, the tray clenched in your fingers. “Why would you say that?” You don’t recognize the voice leaving your body.
She laughs, false and beautiful. “The way you look at me.” She pauses and you can hear her shifting in the sheets. “Like you want to wear my skin.”
“Not everything is about you, Mable.”
You placed the tray on the vanity with a heavy thud. You walked to the door, still not looking at perfect Mable.
That night you sank into a bath that you had made, Amelia, the maid, had already gone home, so you had to pump the water and carry it upstairs yourself. You had rinsed and wiped off the visible dirt downstairs, so the bath would just clean what that hadn’t gotten. The water was warm. It would have been wise to use cold water, but you have never been able to do that. The day the city finally got air conditioning would be a relief. But the war had paused the manufacturing of air conditioners.
The water felt good. The soap you had made a few months before scented the air like magnolias. Combined with the scent of the old house and the damp city air, it brought you back to your younger days. You could remember being a teenager, in Mable’s hand me downs, following just outside the group while Mable and Satoru Gojo mesmerized the group of teenagers.
Satoru Gojo. You thought of him, his shockingly white hair, as white as snow. You had only seen snow once, when your uncle took the family skiing up North. Eyes as blue as a clear sky. He lived in your memory like a wintery northern god. You hoped he was still alive. But if he had been captured, you hoped he had died quickly. You had heard what they had done to those captured pilots. You winced. You couldn’t believe that he was alive. He burned too brightly to live a long life. Surely Satoru Gojo was dead at the bottom of the ocean.
A few months before, somewhere in the Pacific.
It had been a day like any other, the day Satoru Gojo crashed. He had been briefed with the other pilots and he was ready to engage the enemy. He remembered Gunny, his air gunner, a buck-toothed kid from the footheels of the Tennessee mountains, swaggering over to him. “You ready to take our lady dancing?” He said grinning. His accent always reminded Satoru of peanut brittle, sweet, bumpy, with a touch of coarseness.
“She’s been getting a lot of dancing,” Gojo responds, glancing up at his girl. The Honoured One, in all her caustic beauty glared down at him. God, she was beautiful. Painted on her side was a leggy woman sitting seductively. The woman looked suspiciously like the female version of Gojo. When the ground crew showed him the painting, grinning and snickering, he had laughed. He rather liked the rendition of himself on The Honoured One.
They take flight and he can feel his blood pumping. Earth passes away as he enters the heavens. He always feels alone until they fulfill the mission, even though he knows his crew is around him. Alone on earth, alone in the sky. But when has he not been alone? Even since he was a child, he has known he was different, that he wasn’t like the others. That heaven had mandated him a separate path.
It doesn’t take long before the enemy swarms upon him. Then the first engine goes out, then his tail is shot off. He can hear Gunny, he can hear the cussing, the roar of his engine. Then he is falling and all he can think about is Lucifer falling from Heaven. How did it go? Like lightning from heaven? Why couldn’t he remember it? Why did it matter? He was going to die - he was going to die?
The water cuts into his bones. He hears screaming - no, he is screaming. Something is wrong, his legs he thinks, they must be broken. Artillery hits the water. The bastards are still shooting at them, he realizes. A few minutes later, the shooting stops. The other airmen must have chased away the enemy fighter pilots. But then water is on fire - no, it's the spilled engine oil. And he hears more screaming, except this time it's not coming from him.
Only three of them are alive. Gunny died. Gunny is dead, he thinks numbly. The kid was heading back home in June. Happy goodnatured Gunny is dead. Gunny who had never looked at him differently because of his race. Gunny who had looked up to him. Three out of ten men are alive.
The inflatable boat they rest on does little to keep the water out. But it’s better than being in the water. They can see the sharks circling, feasting on their dead crewmates. They blister in the sun, dying of thirst. Hakari breaks down sobbing and drinks the salt water, Satoru and Whit try to stop him. He died two days later. Then it was only Whit and Satoru.
He does not remember what happened in the ensuing days. Maybe he cannot or will not face it. But he does remember her - the girl who gave him the stars. She sits at the edge of the boat too, so really there is three of them still.
When the enemy navy picks them up, it almost seems like heaven had sent them. It hadn't.
For a year he is formed again. His captors molding and breaking parts of Satoru he didn’t know existed. They were going to kill him two days after the war ended for an escape attempt. But by grace he is saved by the war ending.
It takes a few months for him to get home. He is about to leave the bus, when the driver, an older soldier (probably reserves) stops him. He stands ramrod straight, raising his hand in a sharp salute. Gojo copies his motion and salutes.
The old soldier breathes in smiling. “Welcome home, airman,” he says.
Something wet presses at the corner of Gojo's eyes. He nods. The lump in his throat won't allow him to speak.
He walks the streets, passing reuniting couples and families. The city is celebrating together. He distantly thinks of his great uncle. But he moves through the city alone. He stops at a few bars, his drinks are paid for, girls grin up at him. But he doesn't care. Nothing matters. Even if Star Girl herself walked up to him he wouldn't care.
Star Girl. That was her. He recognized her moving through the crowd. He pushes through the bodies until he reaches her.
He grins down at her. He couldn't let her see the man he's become. He has to be the hero she expects him to be.
“Long time no see.”
She gapes up at him. Good. He sees it now. He won’t be alone. He’ll have her. Satoru doesn’t care if she’s married or doesn’t remember him. She’s his.
The air smells like victory or piss and heady perfume the day you see Satoru Gojo alive. You had crept out of the house alone. Your aunt was too busy consoling Mable, and Mable was too grief stricken to join the city's celebration, and your uncle was all the way up North on a business trip. So you stand alone as you face him.He’s thinner but just as handsome as he had been before.
He says your name. “It’s me, I’m Satoru, I’ve come home.”
You give him a shy smile. What are you supposed to do? You aren’t Mable, you don’t know what to do with men. Satoru smiles back, but something in his smile makes you back away. Something in his eyes changes and you see a different man standing before you.
ಇ.content & warnings:꒰Fluff! & a bit of Crack! ⋮⋮ canon au ⋮⋮ slice of life? ⋮⋮ you both have sanrio plushies (cinnamoroll & my melody) ⋮⋮ oral fem. rec and satoru rec. ⋮⋮ p in v ⋮⋮ c-pied ⋮⋮ kissing꒱
ಇ.author's note: I wrote this for my follower milestone i just hit, i'm so grateful for everyone of you that make up the 4k+ that follow me currently and i hope to keep writing and improving, i just appreciate every interaction i get and i love all my fellow writers/mutuals, trully am honoured sharing this platform with you all!
You’re kicking off your shoes when you hear it — Satoru’s voice calling from the couch with lazy curiosity:
“Hey, sweetheart. That a new keychain?”
You glance down at the little plush bouncing from your bag’s zipper — the round, fluffy face and floppy ears unmistakable. A soft blue bow. That sleepy, smug little smile.
You grin. “Yeah. I picked it up today.”
He leans up just enough to get a proper look, squinting like he’s trying to analyze it. “...Wait a minute.”
You watch the realization dawn on his face.
“That’s me,” he says, pointing like it’s obvious. “That’s literally me.”
You bite back a laugh. “It’s Cinnamoroll.”
“Exactly!” he cries. “White hair, smug smile, floating through life? It’s me in keychain form.”
You raise a brow, walking closer. “So you’re saying you’re small, round, and baby?”
He blinks. “Well, not small. Or round. But I am baby.”
You snort. “You’re something, alright.”
He reaches for your hand, tugging you down into his lap with a dramatic groan. “You bought it because it reminded you of me, didn’t you?”
Your cheeks flush a little, and your lips twitch. “...Maybe.”
“Oh my god.” He cradles his chest. “You missed me while you were out and bought a tiny emotional support version of me to keep you company.”
You bury your face against his shoulder. “It was cute!”
“I’m cute.” He kisses the top of your head. “Admit it.”
You laugh into his shirt. “Fine. You’re my emotionally chaotic sky-dog boyfriend.”
He grins, smug and warm. “Put me on your keys next.”
You’re still curled up in his lap when he lifts the little Cinnamoroll keychain and holds it eye-level with absurd seriousness.
“We have to name him.”
You blink. “Satoru. It already has a name. It’s Cinnamoroll.”
“No,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s its government name. I mean a personal name. For our keychain Satoru.”
“Our keychain Satoru?”
He grins. “Yes. Because he’s emotionally attached to you and slightly smug. It’s canon now.”
You sigh, lips twitching. “Fine. What’s the name?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Tinytoru.”
You snort so hard it turns into a full laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Too late. He’s got a whole backstory now. He’s your guardian charm. You rub his ears for luck.”
“Okay, now you’re projecting.”
He lifts Tinytoru dramatically into the air. “Long live Tinytoru!”
Later that week…
You hear the front door click open and his voice sing out: “I brought us something!”
You turn the corner and freeze when you see what he’s holding.
A giant My Melody plush. Pastel pink ears, huge eyes, a soft little flower tucked on one side.
You blink. “You bought… My Melody?”
He shrugs. “Felt like the right match. Chaos but kind. Slightly gremlin. Deep emotional attachment issues. It’s you.”
You stare.
Then: “So now we both have Sanrio soulmates?”
“We do.” He plops the plush down beside the couch, patting her head. “Meet Tiny You. Her name is—”
“Don’t say it—”
“Melome.”
You drop your face into your hands. “Satoru.”
He’s grinning like a menace. “Now we’re even. Tinytoru and Melome. Partners in crime.”
You shake your head, laughing as he walks over to kiss your cheek. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
You’re already tucked into bed when he pads in from the bathroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting just enough light to see the two plushies he’s lined up on your nightstand.
Tinytoru stands proud, slightly crooked thanks to the keychain loop. Melome slouches dramatically next to him, her ears flopped like she’s seen too much.
Satoru climbs into bed beside you, sliding an arm around your waist. “Alright,” he says, in a tone far too serious for someone about to speak utter nonsense. “Previously on Melome’s Heartache…”
You snort. “I can’t believe you made it a series.”
He ignores you, shifting to his best narrator voice. “After Tinytoru came home late from Cursed Energy Pilates, Melome was devastated. She waited by the door for three hours.”
You laugh into the pillow. “Pilates?”
“He’s got a tight core,” Satoru says with a wink. “Anyway. He came home and she was like, ‘Where were you?!’ And he was like, ‘I was manifesting stability, babe!’ But she wasn’t having it.”
You’re giggling helplessly now, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.
“And then,” he continues, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “Melome packed her little plush suitcase and threatened to move to the living room.”
“She’s too dramatic,” you murmur, still laughing.
“She’s you,” he reminds you smugly. “And Tinytoru begged. Got on his tiny little knees. Said, ‘Don’t leave me, Mello. You’re the only one who understands my duality.’”
“His what?”
Satoru kisses your forehead, utterly pleased with himself. “His duality. You know strong but soft. Goofy but profound. Small, yet emotionally overwhelming.”
You bury your face in his chest, breathless with laughter.
“And then,” he finishes, pulling you closer, “they snuggled on their tiny couch and agreed to be weird and codependent together forever. The end.”
You hum, warm and happy. “That’s a good ending.”
He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “I like ours better.”
The laughter fades into soft hums, your head tucked under his chin, your bodies tangled in that perfect way you only find after years of knowing where the other belongs. His fingers stroke slow lines along your arm, down your side, soothing and easy.
You shift slightly, nose brushing against his collarbone and then you bite him. Just a little.
Not hard. Just enough to make him jolt and suck in a breath.
“Hey!” he yelps, clearly not expecting it. “Did you just bite me?”
You smile against his skin, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe.”
He stares down at you, faux betrayed. “You animal. You’re lucky I’m into that.”
“You like when I get feisty.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m already half asleep or this would’ve turned into a full-on revenge arc.”
“Empty threats,” you murmur, snuggling closer.
“Empty arms, more like.” He wraps both arms around you tighter, holding you like you’re the last thing keeping him grounded. “I should file a report. Bitten in my own bed.”
You yawn against him. “File it with Melome. She’ll take your side. She’s soft.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
You tilt your face up just enough to kiss his jaw. “You’re lucky I love you.”
His expression softens instantly, and his voice drops, so low it’s barely a whisper:
“I know. I really, really know.”
Then he kisses your forehead, slow and lingering, lovingly like he’s sealing every ounce of the moment right into your skin.
And finally, in the hush that follows, he murmurs:
“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
And you do, in his arms where you've always belonged.
The first light of dawn filters through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. You stir slowly, nestled in the curve of Satoru’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath a quiet lullaby.
Your fingers trace lazy patterns along his collarbone, and he sighs contentedly, tightening his hold without waking fully.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
You smile against his skin. “Morning.”
He nuzzles your hair, then his eyes flutter open, locking with yours. “You know,” he says, voice playful despite the dawn haze, “Tinytoru tried to sneak out this morning.”
You lift your head, intrigued. “Oh? How?”
“He said he was going to ‘manifest some energy’ to protect you while you slept, but all he did was get tangled in the charger cord and caused a minor blackout.”
You laugh quietly. “Typical.”
“Right? Then Melome staged a rescue mission — armed with a hair tie and a tiny plush first-aid kit.”
You nudge him playfully. “She’s really prepared.”
“Melome’s always prepared. She’s the brains of the operation. Tinytoru’s just... well, emotional chaos wrapped in fluff.”
You close your eyes and sigh happily, feeling perfectly at home. “I like their partnership.”
Satoru kisses your temple softly. “Just like us.”
You curl closer, his arms a fortress around you. “Ready for another adventure today?”
He grins, eyes sparkling. “Always.”
The sun climbs a little higher, warming the room with gentle light. You stay nestled against Satoru, your breath mingling with his, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest.
He hums softly, a contented sound that vibrates through his body and settles in your bones. You lift your head just enough to catch his eye, and he smiles, a lazy, half-awake smile that feels like home.
“Think we should get up soon?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and affection.
You shake your head, settling back into his arms. “Not yet. Let’s just... stay here a little longer.”
He nods, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Best plan I’ve heard all day.”
Minutes stretch, filled with soft touches and quiet breaths. Your legs tangle together, your hands find his, fingers lacing naturally.
In this slow, perfect moment, the world feels distant, and all that matters is the steady warmth of him holding you close.
You stretch slowly against him, the sheets slipping a little lower on your back. Satoru’s hand's resting just above your hip, his grip tightens slightly, thumb stroking absentminded circles against your bare skin.
You murmur, eyes still closed, “We should probably get up.”
He hums, low and lazy. “Probably.”
Neither of you moves.
A beat passes, and he shifts, pulling you a little closer, his nose brushing the side of your neck. “But I’m so comfortable,” he mumbles. “Trapped. By this very soft, very warm, very irresistible person.”
You smile into the pillow. “You’re using me as an excuse.”
“Obviously,” he says, lips ghosting over your skin. “I’m incredibly weak-willed in the morning.”
His hand skims lower, fingers grazing just beneath the sheet now, tracing the dip of your spine. You shiver, barely breathing.
“You’re not playing fair,” you whisper.
He laughs softly. “Never claimed to.”
Then his voice dips, rougher now, right at your ear. “Still sore from yesterday?”
You nod against him, cheeks flushing.
“Good,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, his hand settling at your waist, just hovering there. “Because I’m about to make that worse.”
You tilt your head back, breath catching, as his lips trail lower slowly, teasing kisses down your throat, his voice a sinful promise against your skin.
“Who needs breakfast,” he murmurs, “when you’re already in my mouth?”
His lips trail lower, warm and deliberate, as the sheets fall away, exposing the softness of your thighs still warm from sleep. Satoru shifts, dragging his mouth along the curve of your hip with reverence, hands anchoring you gently in place.
But then, his movement halts.
“...They’re watching us.”
You blink, breath caught. “What?”
He lifts his head, trying to keep a straight face. “Them.” He tilts his chin toward the nightstand. “Tinytoru and Melome. Tiny plush perverts.”
Sure enough, they sit exactly where they were last night — slouched upright, positioned almost too perfectly. Watching.
You groan, grabbing a pillow and chucking it in their general direction. “Out. No Foursomes in this house unless they contribute to rent.”
Satoru howls with laughter. “Melome’s scandalized. Tinytoru’s taking notes.”
“Throw em' out,” you insist, tugging the covers up again, but not enough to hide your flushed smile.
He scoops them both up dramatically. “Sorry, guys. You’re being evicted from the horny zone.” He tosses them into the hallway like exiled royalty, then shuts the door with a mock bow.
Then his eyes return to you, glinting with a different heat now. “Now, where were we…”
You don’t get a chance to answer.
Because in the next breath, he’s guiding you gently upward, his hands sliding around your thighs, coaxing you to straddle his face, his breath stirs against your folds as he presses a reverent kiss to your inner thigh. “God, you’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, hands steady on your hips. “All soft and wet for me already…”
You shiver, bracing yourself against the headboard, heart thudding as his mouth finds you, it's slow and languid, so much worship in the way his tongue traces every inch of you.
He groans against your skin when you grind just slightly, hips twitching forward, and his hands flex, keeping you close.
“Let me take my time,” he breathes. “I want to taste everything.”
And he does.
Satoru settles back against the pillows, eyes gleaming as he gently tugs you upward, guiding your knees to either side of his head. The soft drag of bed-warmed skin against his chest sends a ripple of anticipation through both of you.
“You sure?” you murmur, a little breathless already, you're still laughing from the plushie interruption, still flushed from his teasing.
His hands squeeze your thighs, grounding you. “Always,” he says, voice low, reverent. “Now sit, baby. I want to feel how good you taste.”
And let him.
Your legs tremble slightly as you lower yourself onto him, his mouth is hot and eager beneath you, tongue sliding up to meet your folds with a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt. He groans at the first taste like it’s been days, like he’s been starving for this.
“Satoru—” you gasp, hands gripping the headboard as his tongue flicks up again, swirling just around your clit before dipping down to lap at your entrance. His nose nudges against you with each motion, and he keeps you low, pressing you to him like you’re something sacred.
You're wet, still warm from sleep, slick and swollen and aching — and he’s devouring you like he wants to memorize every second.
The drag of his tongue turns firmer, more purposeful, and when he locks his lips around your clit and sucks slowly and deep, your hips jerk forward instinctively.
He groans again, like your reaction feeds him, like he wants you messier and louder and more undone.
You start to move, your hips rolling gently in rhythm with his mouth. He lets you, hands staying on your thighs but loose now, only anchoring you when your rhythm falters. You ride him slow, grinding against his mouth, every pass of his tongue sending a spark racing down your spine.
“Satoru— fuck, you feel so good—”
He pulls back just long enough to whisper, lips swollen, voice husky, “You’re soaked, baby. All for me, huh?”
And then he dives back in, tongue teasing, tasting, exploring like he can’t get enough. The wet sounds between your thighs, the quiet moans he hums into you, the helpless gasps you give — it’s all wrapped in the soft morning light and the scent of clean skin, floral detergent, and the faint sweetness of your lotion.
Your thighs start to tremble, your whole body tightening, and his hands slide up, fingertips digging into your hips to hold you there, keep you close, as his mouth works you harder.
And when you finally break, hips bucking, thighs shaking, breath shattered, he groans like he’s the one unravelling. You ride the aftershocks with your forehead pressed to the headboard, body twitching and flushed, while he keeps kissing you, licking up every drop, slower now, like he’s soothing you.
“Good girl,” he whispers against you, voice hoarse. “You’re so fucking good for me.”
You collapse forward into the pillows, legs still trembling, and he pulls you gently down onto his chest, arms wrapping around your waist. His lips trail up your thigh, then your hip, then to your ribs, murmuring praise between every kiss.
And then—
From the hallway: a soft thump.
You both freeze. Then you groan. “Don’t tell me you didn’t close the door.”
Satoru bites back a grin. “Maybe they rolled back.”
You swat his chest, breathless. “Tinytoru’s relentless.”
He laughs, kissing the top of your head. “He’s just proud.”
You slump onto his chest with a breathless sigh, your thighs still trembling and your skin flushed with heat. The world feels hazy and golden, like you’ve been pulled out of time, suspended in that perfect place between bliss and breath.
Satoru holds you close, one arm looping snugly around your waist, the other lazily brushing fingers up and down your spine. “Still alive?” he murmurs, voice deep and a little smug.
You give a weak, dazed laugh. “Barely.”
He grins, shifting so he can kiss your temple, then the soft space just beneath your jaw. “You’re welcome.”
You hum, not quite able to glare at him with your face pressed into his chest. “So cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrects, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you again — slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with lazy affection. You melt into it, your fingers curling into his hair, your body still humming from everything he gave you.
And then, without warning, he shifts downward.
“Satoru—” you protest, squirming as he starts kissing along your stomach, toward your hips. “I’m sensitive.”
“I know,” he says, wicked and fond, mouthing at the crease of your thigh. “That’s why it’s fun.”
You yelp as he kisses the inside of your thigh — too gently, too teasing — lips dragging across skin still throbbing with aftershocks. “You’re such a menace.”
He kisses higher. “But you love it.”
Another kiss, this time paired with a playful bite that makes you squeal and twist in his arms. “Stop!”
He pulls back just enough to grin up at you. “Never. You’re adorable when you’re squirmy.”
And then, another kiss. This one slower. Sweeter. Right where your thigh meets your hip, right over the part of you he just worshipped.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing warm against your skin. “All soft and messy and mine.”
You breathe in shakily, caught between a laugh and a sigh. “You gonna let me recover, or are you trying to kill me?”
“I’m reviving you with affection,” he says solemnly, kissing your thigh again. “It’s a healing technique.”
You giggle helplessly now, dragging a hand over your face as he curls back up beside you, grinning like a smug cat.
“You’re the worst,” you mumble.
He kisses your shoulder. “I’m the best.”
And when he tucks you under the covers again, pressing your back to his chest and wrapping his arms around you like you’re the only thing that matters and he doesn’t need to say it again.
You know.
You stay wrapped in his arms for a while, tucked into the comfort of the bed and his body. His fingers trace soft shapes over your stomach, his breathing steady against the back of your neck.
It’s peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Because soon enough, the ache begins to return — not the soreness, not the afterglow, but that low pull of want. The way your thighs still feel sticky, the way your body still remembers the way he tasted you, the way he looked up at you like you were everything.
You press your thighs together with a subtle shift, but Satoru notices immediately.
“Oh?” he murmurs, voice low and knowing. “What’s this little wiggle?”
You bury your face in the pillow. “Nothing.”
He kisses the back of your shoulder, then again, slower. “You sure?”
You turn your face toward him, cheeks flushed, breath catching. “I… I want you again.”
His hand stills on your stomach.
Then, slowly, he lifts his head to look at you. “Yeah?”
You nod, shy but honest. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The way you made me feel. The way you kissed me. I just—” You exhale, voice small but certain. “I need you again, Satoru.”
His eyes darken, that sleepy smile twisting into something deeper, hungrier. “Fuck.”
You press your palm against his thigh, trailing upward, eyes flicking toward him as your fingers brush along the front of his briefs. “Are you hard?”
He breathes out a laugh, low and ragged. “I am now.”
You bite your lip, shifting to press closer, your thigh brushing against the growing heat between his legs. He groans as your hand curls around him, even through the fabric, already thick and twitching against your palm.
“You’re so easy,” you tease softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
His voice drops, rough and reverent. “I’m easy for you.”
And when he rolls you gently onto your back, kissing you deep, hand sliding between your thighs to feel how soaked you already are again and you know exactly what’s coming.
Just as he shifts over you, his weight warm, his mouth already descending toward your neck and you press your palm to his chest.
He pauses instantly, eyes searching your face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you whisper, voice low and sure. “I just… I want to take care of you this time.”
He blinks, surprised. “Yeah?”
You nod, biting your lip as your fingers slide down his chest, over his stomach, tracing the lines of muscle still faintly damp with heat. “You always do so much. I want to go slow. Make you feel good.”
His expression melts, that playful edge softening into something wide-eyed and aching. “Shit,” he breathes, already halfway gone. “Okay, baby. I’m all yours.”
You guide him back with gentle insistence, pushing him to lean against the pillows. His hair’s a mess, his lips kiss-bitten, and there’s the faintest flush on his cheeks as he watches you crawl down between his legs.
You hook your fingers in the waistband of his briefs and slide them down slow. He lifts his hips to help, already half-hard and thick, twitching at the first brush of air.
“God, you’re pretty,” you murmur, kneeling between his thighs now, hands stroking over them slowly. “I never get tired of looking at you.”
He groans softly and wrecked even before you touch him, head tipping back against the pillow. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You hum, trailing kisses along the inside of his thigh, lips dragging over sensitive skin as your hand wraps around the base of his cock— already hardening fully under your touch. You stroke him slowly, reverently, watching the way he twitches, the way his hips shift just slightly toward your hand.
“So big,” you murmur, eyes locked on him. “So beautiful.”
He swears, low and shaky, as you drag your tongue up the length of him, slow and teasing, just a taste before your lips close around the head. He hisses through his teeth, hand flying to your hair, not to guide — just to hold, like he needs the anchor.
You take your time.
Each stroke of your tongue is deliberate, slow and sensual, curling along the underside, circling the tip, humming when you feel him throb. Your hand moves in tandem with your mouth, wet and steady, and every now and then you look up through your lashes, his expression utterly ruined already, lips parted, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger.
“Fuck, you’re good,” he pants, hips twitching again. “So fucking good at this.”
You smile, taking him deeper, savoring the way his breath catches, then pulling back just enough to speak, your voice warm and low against his flushed skin.
“I love your cock,” you whisper. “Love the way you taste. Love how hard you get for me.”
He groans loudly, head tipping back again, one arm flung over his face as his other hand tightens in your hair. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby.”
“That’s the plan,” you breathe, before taking him deeper again, slow and full, your lips stretching around him as he groans helplessly beneath you.
He’s gasping now.
Gone is the teasing, cocky Satoru who always has a snarky quip on his lips and what’s left is just him, undone and trembling under your touch, hand still fisted in your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
Your tongue drags in slow circles around the head of his cock, then glides down the thick vein beneath, savoring the heat, the pulse, the way he twitches helplessly against your tongue. You hum around him again, just enough to make his thighs jump.
“F-fuck,” he stammers, his voice wrecked. “You’re— baby— you’re too good.”
You ease off with a wet pop, stroking him slowly with one hand while you kiss along his length. “You like that?”
He makes a desperate sound, somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “I love it. I love you.” His head drops back again, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me come if you keep going like that.”
You smile, brushing your lips over the tip, letting your tongue tease at the sensitive slit. “Maybe I want to.”
He shudders and his grip in your hair tightens just a little, but he still doesn’t try to control you. He just watches you, his expression so soft and wrecked, like he can barely believe it’s real.
“I want to come in your mouth,” he breathes, almost reverently. “Please.”
That word 'please' leaves his mouth so quietly, so earnestly, that it shoots straight through you. There’s no demand, no teasing, just need.
“Yeah?” you murmur, looking up at him as you take him into your mouth again, slow and deep.
He gasps, his hand clenching, his back arching just slightly. “Fuck, yes— please. Let me— let me, baby, I’m so close—”
You hum again, suck a little harder, and feel him tremble. He’s holding on by a thread now, his voice falling to broken whispers:
“So warm… so good… you feel so fucking good, baby, I’m gonna— please, let me—”
You don’t stop. You just hold him there, taking every inch he gives you, one hand steady at the base, the other pressed to his thigh as it twitches beneath your palm. And when he comes hard, low and moaning your name like a confession, you take every drop of it, swallowing slowly, never looking away.
He’s panting by the end, flushed and dazed, fingers brushing gently through your hair now.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs, pulling you up and into his arms like he never wants to let go. “You’re unreal.”
You curl against his chest, smug and soft all at once, and he kisses your forehead like a man in love with everything you are.
You’re curled against him now, his chest still rising and falling a little fast, his fingers lazily stroking your back. He’s smiling like he’s floating, half out of breath, half in love.
And then your gaze drops, just for a second.
There, at the very tip of him, still flushed and twitching faintly, just a small bit left. A silvery sheen he must have missed in the haze.
You press a kiss to his cheek, then sit up slightly, your voice warm and sweet in his ear. “Hang on,” you murmur. “Missed a spot.”
He blinks, already flushed, already trying to recover and then he watches as you ease back down between his legs again.
“Wait, you don’t have t—” he starts, breath catching.
But your mouth is already there, tongue flicking gently over the slit, just the lightest, slowest sweep. His entire body jolts, breath leaving him in a startled groan.
You hum softly, savoring him, and then press a lingering kiss to the very tip.
“Perfect,” you whisper against him, lips warm and tender. “Didn’t want to waste any of you.”
He covers his face with his hands, like he can’t handle it, like he’s already half-hard again just from that. “You’re too much,” he moans, laughing breathlessly. “I’m gonna die.”
You nuzzle his hip, smiling smug and soft. “Worth it?”
He peeks through his fingers, eyes blown and dazed. “Absolutely worth it.”
And when you crawl back up into his arms, he kisses you like he’s still tasting himself on your tongue, slow and sweet, hand cupping your cheek.
“You spoil me,” he murmurs.
You just smile. “Only you.”
He’s still dazed, arms loose around your waist as you settle on top of him again, cheek resting against his shoulder. His heart’s finally started to calm until he tilts his head to look at you and grins that crooked, post-bliss grin.
“You really went back for one last lick?” he teases, voice still hoarse, still wrecked. “You that obsessed with me, huh?”
You hum, fingers idly tracing lines across his chest. “Mm. Maybe.”
He raises a brow. “Maybe? That was dangerously thorough, sweetheart. Starting to think you’re addicted.”
You lift your head and meet his eyes. No smile, no smirk, just soft honesty that knocks the breath right out of him.
“I just… love all of you,” you say quietly.
It silences him.
Just like that, the cocky grin falters, and something deep and real flickers in his expression. His mouth parts slightly, but no words come right away.
You go on, voice tender. “Every part. Even the messy ones. Even the stupid, smug, ridiculous ones.”
His throat works around a swallow. “Shit,” he breathes. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, brushing a thumb over his cheek.
“Like you mean it,” he says, almost a whisper. “Like you’re gonna break me in half with kindness.”
You smile now, leaning in until your noses bump. “Better that than the other way around.”
He pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck, voice muffled but warm. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“You’d die happy.”
He laughs quietly, breathless, full of love. “Yeah. I really would.”
His hands wander restlessly and familiar. One traces along your spine, the other slipping down to your hip as he shifts beneath you with a low groan, starting to lean in again.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck. “I’ve got enough in me. Let me make you feel good now.”
But you press your hand gently to his chest, just like earlier, the same soft insistence, same steady eyes.
“Not right now,” you whisper.
He blinks. “What do you mean? You sure?”
You nod. “I just want to be here. With you. For you.”
He’s quiet, watching you.
You push a few strands of silver hair from his face, fingers threading through them with delicate care. “You’re always taking care of me,” you murmur. “Always strong, always focused on everyone else. This morning… I don’t want anything from you. I just want to admire you.”
His brows twitch upward, like the tenderness surprises him, stuns him, maybe. His lips part again, but no clever remark comes out.
“I mean it,” you add softly, brushing your fingertips down the slope of his neck, over the line of his collarbone. “You’re beautiful when you’re soft like this. I want to hold you. Kiss you. Touch your hair and see you breathe. That’s all.”
His heart stutters under your palm.
And then he exhales, like he’s finally letting himself melt. Like something in him gives permission to rest. “You’re not real,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers stroke through his hair again. “Nobody’s this gentle.”
“You are,” you say, kissing his temple. “And you deserve the same.”
You stay like that, curled together in tangled sheets and golden morning light, your hand in his hair, your lips against his skin. His muscles relax, his breathing slows, and for once, he lets himself be loved without needing to give anything back.
Not yet.
Just this.
His breathing is slow beneath you now, one arm looped loosely around your waist, the other tucked under his head. The light outside has turned honey-warm, casting soft shadows across the sheets, across the edges of his face.
Your fingertips move slowly over his chest, mapping out the faint scars, the curve of muscle, the shape you’ve grown to know as intimately as your own. He stays quiet, just watching you, lips parted, eyes half-lidded like he’s halfway between dozing and dreaming.
You let your fingers wander to a mark near his ribs. “How’d you get this one?” you ask softly.
He glances down without moving. “Cursed spirit. I was fifteen. Didn’t listen to someone wiser than me.”
You smile a little, still tracing. “And now you’re the wiser one?”
“I try,” he murmurs. “Still reckless, though.”
You hum in response, then shift slightly to prop yourself up on your elbow, your hand smoothing over his shoulder, his collarbone. “I used to trace clouds when I couldn’t sleep,” you say, voice quiet and far away. “On my ceiling. I’d pretend they were soft places to land. I think I still do that sometimes.”
He looks at you... really looks, a faint crease between his brows. “I didn’t know that.”
You shrug lightly. “Never came up. But… I think that’s why I like touching you like this. You’re… steady. You feel like somewhere to land.”
His jaw flexes, and for a moment he can’t find any words at all.
You keep talking, not expecting an answer, your fingers moving over his sternum. “I used to think I had to be useful. That if I wasn’t strong, I wasn’t anything. And now you look at me like I’m enough just as I am. I don’t always know what to do with that.”
“You are enough,” he says, firm but quiet. “More than.”
You glance at him, his voice broke just a little at the end there. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m trying to believe it like you do.”
He exhales slowly, then lifts a hand to brush your hair behind your ear, eyes gentle and open. “Then I’ll keep showing you. Every day. Every way I know how.”
You smile softly and press a kiss to the center of his chest, right where his heart beats beneath your mouth.
“And I’ll keep landing here,” you murmur. “If that’s okay.”
His arms tighten around you, breath catching like you’ve undone him all over again.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Always.”
Your cheek rests against his chest again, one hand still tracing thoughtless patterns along his skin. The silence between you is warm, comfortable, but you feel something shift beneath your fingers. Not tension exactly, just… weight. Thought.
His hand smooths up your back. Then, after a pause:
“I used to fake sleep when I was little,” he says, voice rough and low. “When the elders talked about me. I’d listen through the walls.”
You blink, lifting your head slightly to glance at him. “What did they say?”
He’s staring at the ceiling now, face unreadable. “That I was too much. Too strong. That I was dangerous. A problem they’d have to manage, not a kid they could raise.”
Your heart pulls tight.
“And I was strong,” he says, mouth twisting like he’s trying not to smile bitterly. “But I didn’t know what to do with it. I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to be good.”
You press your fingers to his chest again, grounding him. He looks at you, eyes clearer than you expected, no shields.
“But then I met Suguru,” he continues quietly. “And for a while, I didn’t feel like a freak. I felt like… a person. Someone with purpose.”
Your breath catches.
He swallows hard. “And when that was gone— when he was gone — I just started pretending again. Not like when I was a kid. Not fake-sleeping. Just…” He trails off, brow furrowing. “Faking like I was okay. Like I was confident. Like none of it touched me.”
You shift closer, hand finding his cheek this time. “But it did.”
He nods, barely. “Still does.”
The silence hums again, soft but heavy. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your hand brushing back through his hair.
“I see you,” you whisper. “Not the strongest. Not the six eyes. You.”
He closes his eyes, lashes trembling faintly.
“I love you,” you add, voice barely a breath. “Not because you’re powerful. Not in spite of it, either. Just… all of you.”
His arms come around you again, tighter this time. Fierce, but trembling. And when he kisses you, it’s not lust or even comfort. It’s gratitude. It’s reverence.
You kiss him once more, softly, slowly and feel the quiet shift between you. Not a spark catching, but a low ember glowing warmer. His fingers spread along your spine like he’s relearning the shape of you, like he wants to memorize it again just to be sure it’s real.
And when he kisses you this time, it’s deeper. No urgency, just a slow, aching pour of everything he couldn’t say.
You shift over him, thighs bracketing his hips, and his hands come to settle gently at your waist. He looks up at you with something raw in his gaze, like he’s still that boy hearing himself called dangerous through the walls, unsure he’s worthy of love this quiet.
You lean down, pressing your forehead to his again.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper.
His hands slide up, one cradling the back of your head, the other brushing reverently down your back. “I know,” he says, like it’s still a miracle.
You rock your hips forward, the softest brush of connection sparking a shared breath between you. His eyes flutter, his mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak. He just watches you like you’re something holy.
You take your time.
Your hands on his chest, his waist, his cheek. Your lips across his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. You move with care, with purpose. Not worshiping his power just worshiping him. His sighs. His softness. His need.
When you sink down onto him at last, it’s a slow alignment, like slipping into something that was always waiting to be filled. He gasps, fingers tightening on your hips, and you still him with a touch, a kiss to his temple.
“Let me,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”
And he does.
He lets you guide the rhythm, slow and rolling. Lets you kiss every sharp breath from his mouth. Lets you murmur little nothings, soft praise and quiet love while you ride him with aching sweetness.
He looks at you like he might break from it. From being seen. From being wanted like this.
And when he cums, it’s with your name on his lips, his hands tangled in yours, his eyes open and shining.
You don’t move right away.
Neither of you does.
You’re still straddling him, tucked close, your cheek resting against his shoulder, your fingers drawing idle circles over the sweat-slick line of his collarbone. His arms stay around you like instinct, like if he lets go, even for a second, you might vanish.
He’s warm beneath you. Still inside you. Still breathing a little unevenly.
You tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “You okay?”
He hums, voice hoarse. “More than.”
You shift to look at him, nudging his hair back from his forehead. “You looked like you were gonna cry for a second.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, just a breath, almost embarrassed. “That obvious?”
You nod, smiling gently. “A little.”
He turns his head, nuzzling into your wrist as it rests against his cheek. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me.”
“Loving you,” you murmur.
He shuts his eyes, lets out a slow breath, and you feel his whole body soften again beneath you.
You trace along his jaw with your thumb, watching him. “Did it feel different?” you ask after a moment.
He nods faintly. “Yeah. You didn’t… just want me. You saw me. The parts I don’t even like.”
You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I do want you. All of you. Even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts.”
He opens his eyes again, just enough to meet yours. “You’re the first person I’ve ever believed when they said that.”
That makes your chest ache, in the best, most tender way.
You settle in closer, cheek against his chest again. “I’m staying right here,” you whisper. “If you want me.”
“I do,” he says, immediately. “Always.”
You let the quiet take over again for a while its just warmth and breath and lazy fingers drifting across skin. He shifts only to kiss the crown of your head, murmuring something you don’t quite catch. But the way he holds you tighter afterward tells you it doesn’t need to be repeated.
Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar
part 1 here!
cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X
By the time you reached the lecture hall—having arrived a full half-hour early just to avoid the possibility of walking past him—your nerves were completely frayed. You slipped into your seat, keeping your eyes glued to your coffee, the dark liquid swirling like your chaotic thoughts.
You felt his presence before you even saw him. He slid into his usual front-row seat. He was wearing it. It looked exactly the same as it had on screen, but now the white fabric was bunching around his broad shoulders as he leaned forward to set his bag down. You could almost see the phantom imprint of his skin beneath the cotton, the memory of his palm wrapped around his own heat flashing behind your eyelids with vivid, sickening clarity.
Before he finished settling in, he scanned the room until his eyes locked onto yours. When he realized you were staring, his eyes went wide, and he spun around with a flustered haste, quickly tucking himself into his seat.
Your face burned with embarrassment. Great. He caught me staring. But you couldn’t stop. Your mind kept betraying you, flashing back to last night. That pretty pink cock — the most beautiful and filthy thing you had ever seen. So long and thick, with a flushed rosy tip that glistened with precum, veins standing out as he stroked himself. The way it twitched in his hand, the way it looked so obscenely perfect when he came… It was burned into your memory.
The professor began to speak, but you couldn't focus on chemistry. Your gaze moved to his hands, a traitorous shiver running down your spine as you imagined those same hands, currently holding a pen, doing something much dirtier.
Then your eyes drifted to his lap. Underneath those cute jeans, you knew exactly what he was packing. You remembered the way his skin had looked, the way his veins had throbbed, and the way his whimpers sounded so filthy on your ears. A wave of heat rushed through you, so intense it felt like a fever. You shifted in your chair, thighs pressing together, trying to stifle the sudden, aching throb between them.
The rest of the class dragged on painfully. You tried to take notes, but your handwriting was messy and distracted. You were just painfully aware of him the entire time.
A few minutes before class ended, you noticed the blonde girl beside him trying to strike up a conversation. She leaned in with a bright smile, clearly interested, and said something you couldn’t quite hear.
Satoru, however, looked visibly uncomfortable. He gave her a small, awkward nod, rubbing the back of his neck while barely making eye contact. It was obvious he had no idea how to handle the attention.
No one would ever guess what this boy does in his free time, you thought, biting the inside of your cheek.
And yet, the girls were always drawn to him. They’d approach him after class with sweet voices — “Toru, would you explain this to me?”, “Do you want to pair up for the next project?” — looking up at him with obvious interest, drawn in by his height, his pretty face, and that unintentionally charming shyness.
He was painfully awkward every single time... and somehow, that only made him more attractive. Completely unintentionally. He had absolutely no idea.
The professor clapped her hands, snapping you out of your thoughts.
“Alright everyone, before you leave — we’re starting a major paired project today. It’ll count for thirty percent of your final grade. You’ll be working together on research and a final presentation.”
She began listing the pairs. With every name, your heartbeat grew louder. Then she said it.
Your name.
Followed immediately by his.
You froze. And across the room, Satoru — who had been quietly packing up his things — went completely still too.
“That's all for today,” the professor said before leaving the lecture hall. Around you, conversations resumed as students packed their bags and slowly filtered into the hallway. You stayed in your seat until only a handful of students remained. Then, after taking a deep breath, you stood and walked toward him.
You approached from behind his seat and stopped right in front of his desk. Satoru had only just gone back to packing his bag when he noticed you approaching. He looked up at you, his blue eyes widening slightly in surprise.
“Oh…hi,” he said softly “So… we’re partners.”
“Yeah,” you replied, trying to sound as casual as possible even though your mind was still flooded with images you definitely shouldn’t be remembering right now. “Looks like it.”
There was a short, awkward silence. Satoru still couldn’t hold your gaze for more than a couple of seconds.
“If you want… I can handle most of the research,” he offered carefully. “Or whatever you prefer. I don’t want to bother you too much.” He paused, then added quickly, “Or I can ask the professor to pair you with someone else, if you'd rather.”
You looked at him for a moment. This tall, broad-shouldered boy with the soft voice — the same one who had been moaning and stroking that pretty pink cock on camera just last night — was now offering you an easy way out because he didn’t want to “bother”. It made you want to scream.
“It’s okay,” you said with a small smile. “If you don’t mind, we can work together.”
“No—I don’t mind at all,” he replied quickly, almost tripping over his words, a faint blush coloring his cheeks “I'd... like to work with you.”
“We could meet at the library” you suggested. “Does Friday at 5pm work for you?”
“Friday at 5 is perfect” he said, nodding a little too eagerly.
Another brief silence fell between you. Satoru gripped the strap of his bag tightly, as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Then… I’ll see you on Friday” you said.
As you turned to leave, you could feel his eyes following you for a few seconds longer than necessary. Your heart was racing, and the warmth between your thighs still hadn’t faded.
This is going to be a big problem.
—
Later that night, you were back in your dorm room, sitting cross-legged on your couch with your phone in hand. Your thumb hovered over the “Subscribe” button on his page for what felt like the hundredth time.
You knew you shouldn't. You'd spent the entire day telling yourself you wouldn't. But after seeing him today — hearing his voice, watching him blush, remembering exactly what that voice sounded like when it cracked in pleasure — your self-control was hanging by a thread.
With a quiet curse under your breath, you tapped the button.
Thank you for subscribing!
The page refreshed, unlocking the full profile.
Dozens of videos filled the screen, none of them showing his face. There were audio posts too, some of them nothing but long, breathy whimpers and moans that made your thighs press together instinctively. Subscribers could leave requests for specific kinks or scenarios, and judging by his uploads, he seemed to take at least some of them into account.
But what really caught your attention were the Q&A posts.
Especially one from a month ago.
“Do you ever think about someone specific when you record?”
“Yes… there’s this girl in my chem class. She’s so smart and pretty. I wish I could talk to her properly, but every time I try I just get awkward and stupid. She’d never look at someone like me that way anyway. Especially if she knew I’m doing this while thinking about her… Why am I like this?”
Your mind immediately went to the blonde girl who'd been talking to him before class ended. Is it her? That would explain why he'd looked so uncomfortable around her today.
You kept scrolling. Hundreds of comments called him pretty boy, good boy, needy prince, and much filthier things. Some were surprisingly sweet, others shamelessly explicit. He'd replied to almost every single one with shy thank-yous, always sounding just a little embarrassed.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed a question in the Q&A box:
“I watched one of your videos where there’s a hoodie in the background. I keep wondering… What molecule is that?”
You hit send.
Then immediately locked your phone and threw yourself back onto the couch, covering your face with both hands.
You hadn't even finished thinking, What the hell am I doing? when your phone buzzed.
Frowning, you grabbed it again.
“oh? It’s vancomycin! It looks terrifying, but isn’t it cool?!”
You couldn’t help but smile.
Vancomycin.
You shook your head, laughing quietly to yourself.
Somehow, he'd managed to make you forget why you'd subscribed in the first place, and suddenly, Friday felt a lot closer.
notes: AFTER MONTHS the final part is finally here! honestly i was planning on not finishing this but the love you guys have shown for it and the fact that people still wanted the final part gave me motivation to finish it 😭 thank you for all the love and i hope you guys enjoy!! time to work on other projects
part 2 here!
satoru opened the door almost immediately after you knocked, his white hair sticking up from every direction, clearly showing he was a mess at the moment.
“it was open,” he spoke flatly, leaning against the doorframe as he quickly looked you up and down.
“what do you want?”
you simply stared at him, eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t dissect as his eyes narrowed. his expression shifted from unamused to something you could label as concern.
“y/n?”
you brushed past him without saying a word, your shoulder bumping into his as you entered his apartment. he closed the door behind you, all thoughts of his previous anger pushed aside for the time being. he watched as you stopped in the middle of the room, your back facing him.
“y/n. the hell is up with you?”
you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.
your hand was still wrapped around your phone, gojo’s messages sitting open on the screen. you’d read them so many times on the walk over to his apartment complex that the words started to blur, but they still made your stomach turn.
“y/n—“
“i talked to your brother.”
somehow a room that was already silent reached a silence that was just deafening. and it only lingered as moments passed without a response.
you slowly turned around to face him, and as you did, you saw his gaze drop to the phone in your hand before slowly lifting back to your face. for a moment, neither of you spoke.
then he let out a scoff. one that was dry and nearly mocking.
“of course you did.”
your stomach dropped, eyebrows furrowing as you tried to make sense of what such a vague yet targeted sentence could mean.
“what is that supposed to mean?”
“it means exactly what it sounds like. i told you so many fucking times not to talk to him and you still—“ he cut himself off with a sigh, rubbing his hand across his face as he let out another scoff, shaking his head.
“so what? he tell you everything then?” he asked, his eyes landing back on you. “you got what you wanted. are you happy now?”
"is that really what you think this is about?" you rebutted, your brows furrowed in irritation at his assumption.
satoru looked away, letting out another dry laugh as he dragged a hand through his hair. "what else am i supposed to think?" he muttered. "you wanted to know why i wouldn't let you near him. i wouldn't tell you, so you ran to the one fucking person i asked you not to go around." he shook his head. "guess i shouldn't be surprised."
“why do you keep acting like i even knew about him at all? like i did all this to spite you? regardless, i didn't come here because of him."
he scoffed, “because why else would you be so hung up on this shit? and you literally just told me you talked to him."
"i don’t care about him, satoru! i came here because of you."
his jaw tightened. “don’t."
"don’t what?! i’m being serious."
"i said don't."
he finally looked back at you, blue eyes carrying something you couldn't quite place. it wasn't anger anymore. if anything, it looked closer to humiliation. “i don’t need you feeling sorry for me."
your expression immediately softened. “satoru, that's not—"
"you know now." he cut you off before you could finish, the words coming out quieter this time. “you know why i never introduced you. you know why i kept shutting the conversation down every time you brought him up. you know why i let you think i was just being an asshole instead of telling you the truth.” he let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.
"i thought if you hated me for being overprotective..." he continued, avoiding your eyes again, "...that'd be easier to deal with than watching you look at me like this."
"like what?"
"like i’m pathetic for all this shit."
the apartment fell silent. he laughed under his breath before continuing. “i mean, come on." he shrugged, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes. "my own brother."
your chest tightened.
"i couldn't even keep my own girlfriend."
"satoru."
"i wasn't gonna let it happen again."
his voice cracked so subtly that you almost missed it.
"i love you."
your eyes widened at his sudden words. the confession came so naturally that it sounded like he'd forgotten he was saying it out loud. you wondered if he had even meant to let those words leave his mouth.
"i loved you enough that i’d rather have you mad at me than risk introducing the two of you and spending every day wondering if history was about to repeat itself."
you stood there, unable to move. every argument. every excuse. every time he'd refused to answer your questions. it had never been because he didn't trust you. it was because he'd been terrified.
"satoru."
“you got your confirmation. that’s all we need to talk about—“
“jesus fucking christ, satoru! let me talk!” you suddenly snapped. his eyes widened as his jolted upwards to look at you. “i don’t care. i don’t care about any of that. i really, really don’t. the only thing i care about is why you never told me. why you thought this would somehow change how i see you,” you spoke through the slight tremors in your voice, forcing your emotions down.
“do you really think that low of me?” you asked him in a quieter voice, slightly cracking.
his eyes widened at your words, at your voice, thoughts running at a million miles an hour. you didn’t care about any of this, but you thought you were the issue this whole time?
his body moved on their own before he could even stop himself, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled your head into his chest, his hand cupping the back of your head. he could feel the tremble from your body despite how much you tried to hold it in.
“fuck—i’m sorry, baby. you know i’m not good with this shit. i don’t see you like that, never would,” he spoke, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “just… just got insecure. you don’t deserve to deal with this shit. never wanted you to get mixed up in it. that’s why i did it.”
after a long moment, he pulled back, cupping your face in his large hands as he brushed a thumb underneath your eye. he looked at you, a hint of desperation that he would never show anyone else overtaking his gaze.
“i was insecure too, satoru. you think your frat sweetheart never made me feel like shit?” you spoke quietly, your eyes on his.
his eyebrow twitched at the mention of her, his head dropping as he let out a breath. “i know, baby. i know. and i’m so fucking sorry. she doesn’t mean shit to me, swear to god. i’m telling you the truth when i say we only talk for frat shit. i can’t stand her.”
you looked at him, eyes blinking away tears as you stifled a laugh, “you shouldn’t say that about people.”
his eyes widened at your small crack, a small smile growing on his face as he pulled you in again. “yeah, well it’s true. she’s annoying as fuck. nothing you have to worry about.”
you stayed quiet for a moment, swallowing your emotions before letting out a breath against him.
“he did tell me everything…” you started, “but it only changed how i see him. i don’t see you any differently. and satoru,” you pulled back and looked up at him, “you don’t have to worry about losing me. not to him. not to anyone but yourself.”
“i love you and only you. i swear.”
he looked at you for a long moment, one where silence stretched.
“satoru—?”
he cut you off, pulling you in for a kiss that you had never experienced with him before. one filled with emotion and longing you didn’t even know he had.
pulling back, he rested his forehead against yours, his hands rested on your nape, “i love you. so fucking much,” he let go of you, his hands falling to interlock with yours. “i’ve been such a fucking idiot. and i’m sorry.”
you looked up at him, a small smile cracking, “i’m still mad…” his expression fell for a moment, “but i love you regardless.”
he let out a shaky, breathy laugh, wrapping his arms around you lazily as he swung back and forth. “yeah, you get to do that, baby. lemme make it up to you though, yeah?”
“how?”
“that matcha spot you love that just opened. how about all your drinks on me for the rest of the semester?
“so your daddy’s bank account is making it up to me?”
The things you did for views. Or rather, the things you did because you were bored, had a front row seat to the strongest sorcerer alive, and possessed zero survival instincts.
You set up your phone on the bathroom counter, propping it against the soap dispenser. The camera was angled perfectly to catch the door and your face. You hit record, took a deep breath, and summoned every ounce of acting talent you possessed.
"Okay," you whispered to the camera. "my boyfriend, is in the living room playing video games. I am going to convince him that my tampon is stuck and I can’t get it out. He has literally no idea how anatomy works, so let’s see what happens."
You took another deep breath, forced your face into a mask of pure, unadulterated panic, and let out a sharp, choked gasp.
"Satoru!" you wailed, making your voice tremble. "Satoru, please come here right now!"
For a second, there was silence. Then, a massive crash from the living room, the unmistakable sound of a gaming controller being hurled onto a coffee table, followed by heavy, frantic footsteps.
The bathroom door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.
Gojo Satoru stood in the doorway, looking ready to dismantle a special grade curse with his bare hands. His shoulders were tense, his hands already twitching toward a cursed technique.
"What?! What is it? Is there a curse? Did someone break in? Are you bleeding?!" He paused, his head tilting. "Wait, your cursed energy is normal. Why are you crying?"
You were huddled over the sink, clutching your stomach, squeezing out a couple of real, genuine tears of stress. "Satoru... I have a really, really big problem. You can't laugh at me. Promise me you won't laugh."
"Okay, babe, you're crying a river here, you're genuinely terrifying me" he said, stepping into the small bathroom. He slid his blindfold up just enough for his striking, bright blue eyes to lock onto yours. The absolute gravity on his face was comical, but you held it together. "What's wrong? Did you drop your phone in the toilet again?"
"No," you sniffled, burying your face in your hands. "It's... it's my tampon."
Gojo blinked. The intense, battle-ready aura instantly evaporated, replaced by a look of profound, childlike confusion. "Your... what?"
"My tampon, Satoru! It's stuck!" you cried, letting out a pathetic little squeak. "The string broke! It’s trapped inside me! I can’t get it out and I think it’s going to infect my blood and I'm going to get toxic shock syndrome and die!"
Gojo stood frozen. The six eyes, capable of perceiving the literal atomic structure of the universe and tracking the flow of cursed energy down to the molecule, were currently staring at you in absolute, catastrophic overload.
"Wait. Hold on. Rewind," he said, holding up his hands like a referee calling a timeout. A grin suddenly broke across his face, that classic, arrogant, I-know-everything smirk. "Is this a bit? Are you doing a bit? Because if the string broke, just... call it back? Like a yo yo?"
"It doesn't work like a yo yo, Satoru!" you shrieked, stamping your foot. "It's stuck! I tried to reach it and I can't! It’s lost!"
His smirk vanished. The reality of your "panic" was setting in, and Gojo Satoru, the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery, was rapidly losing his mind.
"What do you mean it's lost?!" he barked, his voice rising an octave. He gripped his own hair. "How does it get lost?! Is there an echo in there?! Is it a cave?! Where did it go?!"
"I don't know! It's up there!"
"Okay, okay, don't panic. The strongest is here." He took a deep, dramatic breath, puffing out his chest, trying to regain his cool. He slapped his hands together. "Alright, logically. Can I use Blue to create a micro vacuum and just... shloop it out?"
You stared at him, genuinely horrified for a split second. "Are you insane?! You'll pull my organs out!"
"Okay, no blue! No blue!" he yelled, waving his hands frantically. "What about limitless? Can I slide my hand in with limitless active so I don't touch anything sensitive, and just grab it? Wait, no, if I use Limitless I won't actually be touching it, so I can't pull it. Damn it!!"
He began pacing the tiny bathroom, a blur of black clothing and white hair, muttering to himself like a mad scientist.
"Think, Satoru, think. You've killed hundreds of curses. You can handle a cotton cylinder." He stopped and pointed a finger at you. "Can you cough? Like, really hard? If you sneeze, does it shoot out like a cannonball?"
"No!" you sobbed, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact that you were starting to violently shake from holding in your laughter.
“Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. I’ve got this. I’m the strongest, right? Tampon retrieval is just a smaller scale domain expansion. Infinite void but for… feminine hygiene products.” He snaps his fingers. “I’ll call Shoko. No—wait, she’ll laugh at me. Or worse, lecture me on consent and boundaries. I’ll handle it myself. I’m very hands on.”
“Satoru,” you whine, clutching your stomach for effect, “it hurts a little and I feel it but I can’t—”
He’s back in your space instantly, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes wide and sparkling with a terrifying combination of panic and mischief. “Shhh, shhh. Daddy’s here.” (He says it completely unironically, like it’s a normal pet name.)
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding—unless you’re into that today, in which case we can circle back.” He winks, then his face goes comically serious again.
“Alright, mission parameters: get the evil cotton intruder out of my girlfriend’s sacred temple. First, we need better lighting. And maybe music. Something empowering. Doja Cat? doja cat can do it, i'm sure”
then he starts rummaging through the cabinets like a man on a quest. “Where’s the lube? We need to reduce friction.” He finds the bottle and waves it triumphantly.
“Satoru, I don’t think—”
“Trust the process, baby.” He’s kneeling again, hands on your knees, looking up at you with those devastating eyes. The dramatic flair drops for a split second and you catch the real layer underneath, the observant, emotionally intelligent one who actually cares.
“Hey. For real, you okay? If it actually hurts I’ll stop being a clown and we’ll go to the doctor right now. No jokes. I hate when you’re in pain.”
Your heart does a stupid little flip.
“It’s just stuck...”
"Okay, look at me" Gojo said, his voice suddenly dropping into a ridiculously soft, dramatic 'doctor' tone. He knelt down in front of you, putting his hands on your knees. His blue eyes were wide, intensely serious. "I'm going to have to look. I'll use the six eyes. I will scan you. I will find the rogue cotton."
"Satoru, you can't see a tampon with the six eyes, it doesn't have cursed energy!"
"Everything has a structural mass! I can see the lack of space where it shouldn't be!" He practically cheered, looking incredibly proud of his own brain. "Yes! I'll do a structural scan of your pelvis! Hold still!"
He leaned in, his face getting way too close to your hip bone, squinting like he was trying to read a very small menu.
"I see... bones. I see blood flow. I see... wait, is that a half-digested chicken nugget? Babe, your metabolism is crazy. Hold on, let me look deeper—"
He actually starts putting on gloves. Medical gloves. Where the hell did he even get those?
“Gojo, what are you—”
“Safety first, princess! I’m a professional. Well, not really, but I watched one tiktok about it once.” He snaps the glove dramatically.
"Satoru, stop!" You pushed his forehead away, your chest heaving. You couldn't do it anymore. The mental image of Gojo Satoru x raying your pelvic floor to find a phantom tampon was too much.
You burst out laughing.
Gojo froze, still on his knees. He looked up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as your frantic sobs turned into loud, snorting giggles. He slowly stood up, towering over you, crossing his arms.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked, his voice dangerously level. "Are you experiencing hysterical madness from the toxic shock? Do I need to carry you to Shoko? I will jump across the city rooftops right now, I swear to God—"
You pointed a shaking hand toward the soap dispenser.
Gojo slowly turned his head. He looked at the phone. He looked at the screen, which clearly showed a red recording dot and of him kneeling on the bathroom floor looking for a tampon with god like vision.
The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.
Then, Gojo’s face underwent a magnificent transformation. The panic gave way to utter disbelief, which immediately morphed into the most dramatic, offended pout known to mankind.
"A prank?" he whispered, clenching his fists. He looked at the camera, then back at you. "A TIK TOK PRANK?!"
"You—you asked if it shot out like a cannonball!" you gasped, tears of actual laughter streaming down your face now. You slumped against the counter, clutching your ribs. "You wanted to use Blue!"
"I was trying to save your life!" Gojo yelled, though a massive, ridiculous grin was breaking through his fake anger. He lunged forward, grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you effortlessly over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"I was prepared to fight the concept of biology for you! I was going to call Shoko and say 'Hey, my girlfriend's internal yo yo broke, send backup!'"
“Mwah—traitor. Mwah—menace. Mwah—love of my ridiculous life.”
You’re wheezing, pushing at his chest but not really trying. “You were so ready to go in there with lube and a flashlight!”
“Because I’m a supportive boyfriend!” he declares, voice booming. “I support you through curses, through bad takeout, and through tampon tragedies! I was about to make that cotton bastard my bitch for you!”
“Say you’re sorry! Say your big strong boyfriend is the best tampon rescuer in the world even though it was fake!”
“I’m not sorry!” you gasp between laughs. “It was hilarious! You called it a ‘cotton cylinder’!”
Gojo gasps in mock offense, clutching his chest. “I was being poetic! Romantic, even! That could’ve been our meet cute in an alternate universe where I’m a sexy gynecologist and you’re my damsel in period distress.”
He suddenly grabs your phone from where you dropped it, flipping the camera to selfie mode. “Hey everyone, it’s Gojo Satoru. My girlfriend just tried to murder me emotionally with the world’s most committed prank. Say hi to the future mother of my six kids who is also a professional liar.”
You wave at the camera, face flushed and tear streaked from laughing.
He turns and plants a big sloppy kiss on your cheek for the video. “If any of you try pranking your partners like this, make sure they’re as hot and capable as me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have revenge to plan.”
He ends the recording, tosses the phone aside.
You thread your fingers through his hair, still giggling. “You’re such a dramatic idiot.”
“Your dramatic idiot” he corrects, tilting his head up to give you that signature cocky smirk. “Now. About that lube…”
You smack his shoulder and he just laughs, that loud, bright, infectious sound that fills the whole room.
satoru's attempt to get back at you for the prank...
part 2 of, this.
...
satoru x reader
...
The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds in warm, lazy golden stripes, painting the living room in a cozy, post nap haze. It had been a perfect day. You two had spent the morning walking through the city, eating way too many street snacks, and literally laughing until your stomachs hurt. When you got back, you’d crashed into bed for a glorious, heavy afternoon nap, tangled up in the sheets and the comforting, radiating warmth of him.
you woke up, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and shuffled into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You were still half asleep, your hair a bird’s nest, completely at peace.
Until you walked back into the living room.
Standing by the window, backlit by the dramatic evening sun, was a figure. He was wearing Satoru’s clothes, the oversized black hoodie and sweatpants, but everything else was horribly, catastrophically wrong. The glorious, fluffy, gravity defying white hair that you loved to run your fingers through?
Gone.
In its place was a smooth, reflective, blindingly flesh toned dome.
He looked like a giant, pale, incredibly muscular thumb. Or a very buff, very tall hard boiled egg.
You froze. The water glass slipped from your hand, shattering on the hardwood floor with a dramatic splash.
The figure turned around. His bright blue eyes blinked at you. He looked completely, utterly bald.
"Oh, hey babe, you're awake" he said, his voice entirely casual, though his chest was secretly shaking with suppressed laughter. "I, uh... I think I had an allergic reaction to that shampoo."
Your brain didn't just short circuit, it blew a fuse, caught fire, and exploded. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the image before you overrode all logic. You let out a ancestral shriek that echoed off the walls.
"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" you screamed, turning on your heel and sprinting away, your socks sliding wildly on the hardwood. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! SATORU! SATORU, THERE'S A GIANT EGG IN THE LIVING ROOM! SATORU, HELP!"
"Nooo, it's meee!" Satoru cried, chasing after you, his massive steps easily catching up as you tried to barricade yourself behind the kitchen island. "Babe, shut up, it's literally me! Look at the eyes!"
"NO WAY! NO WAY!" you wailed, covering your face, your voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear.
"Satoru has hair! You look like a Lex Luthor action figure! Don't look at me with those eyes, you stole his eyes!"
"I didn't steal my own eyes!" Satoru yelped, though he was already beginning to break, a massive, obnoxious, shirtless-anime-villain giggle escaping his throat. He touched his smooth head, rubbing it in a circle. "I don't know what this shit is, honestly! I woke up and it was just... like this! But... I mean, come on, do I still look good? Be honest. Do I have a good head shape? Is it aerodynamic?"
"OMG. WTF!" You were practically hyperventilating, tears of pure, unhinged terror leaking from your eyes. You started pacing the kitchen, gripping your hair. "This is a curse. A special grade curse did this! Oh my god, we're gonna die! You've lost your powers! You're just a very tall, vulnerable thumb!"
"Baby, baby, hey, look at me—" Satoru took a step toward the kitchen, arms open. "Don't cry, it's okay, let me hug you—"
"DON'T COME CLOSER!" you shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at him, backing away into the living room.
Satoru was going all out now, desperately trying to console you while holding back tears of laughter. "Babe, look at my face! It's Satoru! I'm the Strongest! Please stop crying!"
Suddenly, you stopped pacing. Your entire demeanor changed. The frantic, crying girlfriend evaporated.
Your face went completely, terrifyingly stiff. Your mouth snapped open wide, stretching into a unnatural, gaping, hollow void, and your eyes went completely wild, unblinking, and vacant. It was a look ripped straight out of a psychological horror movie.
You stood up completely straight, your posture snapping like a twig. You abruptly stepped toward him, and Satoru actually flinched back, startled by the sheer velocity of your movement and the demonic expression on your face.
"No. no, no, no, no," you muttered loudly, staring right through his soul with those wide, unhinged eyes.
"What?" Satoru asked, his blue eyes widening in genuine confusion. The laughter in his throat died a quick death.
"Don't do that!" you snapped, your voice bursting with raw, theatrical horror, your stiff face never wavering. "Don't do that!"
"What?! Sit down, please, please sit down, you're scaring me," Satoru pleaded. Your pure horror tone and that wide mouthed, dead eyed stare were so realistic it was actually starting to creep him out. He held his hands up like he was dealing with a bomb.
"Why are you looking at me like that? Seriously, sit down!"
"I thought we were having a nice day!!" you shouted, eyes wide, shaking your head with him in focus, your face still completely wild as you stomped around the coffee table. "I thought we were having a nice day!!!"
"We are! Baby, we are, we are, we are!" he chanted, completely thrown off his game, flinching back like a, bald, worried puppy.
"I thought. we were having. A NICE DAY!!" you roared again, facing him, your mouth stretching even wider, your eyes practically popping out of your head.
"IT'S A PRANK! IT'S A PRANK!" Satoru screamed, now officially scared shitless by your oscar level psychological breakdown. He reached up to his temple, caught the edge of the latex cap, and violently ripped it backward.
His glorious, thick, snowy white hair instantly cascaded down, exploding out in all its fluffy, messy perfection. He threw the bald cap onto the floor like it was radioactive and lunged forward, wrapping his long arms around you to comfort you, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Look! Hair! It's hair! It's a prank! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't have a psychotic break! I'm not a thumb!!"
The moment his arms locked around you, your frantic breathing instantly stopped. Your stiff, horrifying face relaxed into a smug grin.
You let out a long, casual, deeply frustrated sigh. You wiped the fake tears from your eyes with the back of your hand and patted his back.
"Yeah, I kind of knew you were pranking me" you said, your voice completely flat and normal.
Satoru froze. He slowly pulled back, staring down at you, his white hair messy and his blue eyes absolutely blown wide with shock. "...Really?"
"Duh" you scoffed, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. "You think I didn't see the liquid latex wrapper in the bathroom trash earlier? Also, you look like a giant hard boiled egg."
Satoru stood there, completely dumbfounded, his brain trying to process the absolute whiplash. Then, his face twisted into an offended pout.
"Wait. If you knew... then what the hell was that?! 'Don't do that! I thought we were having a nice day!' Your face! Your mouth was open so wide I thought a curse was crawling out of your throat! You literally looked like you were going to skin me alive and wear my face! You looked like that crazy chick from that movie!!"
You let out a loud, chaotic laugh.
"I was matching your freak, Satoru! You wanna do a movie grade prank? I'm gonna give you a movie grade reaction. Admit it, you were scared shitless!"
"I thought you'd kill me, this aint far from it though."
"You wouldn't shave your hair anyway, you love yourself too much" you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck.
"Wouldn't I?" Satoru teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Seriously, how did you make your eyes go that wide?"
