gf!shoko ieiri and gf!yuki tsukumo love to spoil her younger girlfriend ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
You wandered through the bustling mall with Shoko on your left and Yuki on your right, their hands brushing against yours every few steps, your girlfriends had decided today was for spoiling you rotten.
“Pick whatever you want, baby,” Shoko said, fingers lightly tracing your lower back as you stepped into the first boutique. “We love seeing you in pretty things.”
Yuki grinned beside her. “And we really love taking them off you later.”
You bit your lip, already blushing as they guided you toward the racks. They were so different yet so perfectly in sync when it came to you. Shoko moved calmly, picking out soft sweaters and fitted dresses she thought would hug your body just right. Yuki was bolder, holding up short skirts and low-cut tops with a playful smirk.
You tried on a soft cream-colored sweater first. When you stepped out of the dressing room, both of them were waiting on the little couch outside.
Shoko’s eyes softened immediately. “Come here,” she murmured, reaching out to adjust the collar, her fingers grazing your collarbone. “You look so fucking cute. It makes me want to keep you in my lap all day.”
Yuki leaned back, eyes dragging slowly down your frame. “So cute, your boobs look amazing in it.”
You giggled, twisting a little in front of the mirror. “Stop it…”
But you didn’t want them to stop. Not really.
They kept spoiling you. Dresses, tops, jeans that made your ass look incredible (Yuki’s words). Every time you came out, Shoko would pull you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple or your shoulder while whispering how beautiful you were, Yuki was less subtle. When you tried on a tight black dress that clung to your curves, she let out a low whistle.
“Fuck, princess. Bend over just a little for me? Yeah, like that. God, I need to fuck you in this later.”
Your face burned, but the giggle that escaped you was pure delight. Shoko snorted, rolling a cigarette between her fingers to smoke later. “You’re making our girl nervous, Yuki.”
“Aw nooo,” Yuki fake pouted, raising her hand for you to come between her legs. “Do I make you nervous, doll?” She batted her eyelashes, looking up at you as her hands rested low on your hips.
“N-no,” you answered, looking at her for one second before looking away.
“Don’t lie…” Shoko added with a little smirk.
You clicked your tongue in frustration, now nodding. “A little.” You put your thumb and index finger close to each other, showing Yuki how little she made you nervous.
“A pretty girl like you can’t be shy.” Yuki shook her head, getting up and grabbing your hand. “C’mon, we’re taking it all and we’re going to the makeup store next.”
Shoko dabbed lipstick on your lips with careful fingers. “This shade looks so pretty on you,” she said softly, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Makes me want to kiss it all off.”
Yuki leaned in from the other side, close enough that her breath tickled your ear. “Bet it leaves the prettiest marks on the skin.”
You squirmed in your seat, thighs pressing together, heart racing at how casually they said things like that in public. But they knew exactly how much you loved it.
The lingerie store was the most intense, you felt heat rising to your cheeks the second you stepped inside. “We don’t really have to—”
But they were already choosing sets for you to try on. “This one,” Shoko said, holding a pink lace set up. “You’ll look like an angel in it. Our sweet little angel.”
Yuki immediately grabbed a deep red sheer babydoll. “This one too. I bet your nipples are gonna show right through it.”
They ushered you into the large fitting room together, locking the door behind them. The space was intimate, just the three of you and the warm lighting. You slipped into the pink lace first, hands a little shaky with excitement. When you turned around, both of them went quiet for a second.
Shoko exhaled slowly, stepping closer. Her hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking the bare skin above the panties. “Look at you… so pretty for us.” She kissed your neck gently, then your jaw. “We’re so lucky you’re ours.”
Yuki’s eyes were darker, hungrier. She came up behind you, pressing against your back, hands sliding down to cup your ass. “Jesus, baby. This little set is not lasting all night. I’m gonna eat you out while you’re still wearing it, then fuck you nice and deep till you’re crying my name.”
“Yuki!” You let out a soft, giggly whimper, hiding your burning face against Shoko’s shoulder.
Shoko tilted your chin up, kissing you slow and deep, her tongue teasing yours until your knees felt weak. When she pulled back, Yuki turned your head to claim your mouth too, her kiss hotter, more demanding, biting your bottom lip playfully.
“You’re our good girl, right?” Shoko whispered against your ear.
You nodded fast. “The best.”
“Mm, I love to hear that. Don’t you, Sho?” Yuki commented with a grin against your neck.
Shoko hummed in approval, already planning all the things they’re going to do that night to you together, they love so much to team up against you.
put 'em on a leash >_0 !—r.sukuna (based on this req ty xx).
"sukuna please c'mon it'd be so cute!" you said, dangling a hot pink collar before his eyes, the little bell on the end of it jingling with each movement.
"i'd rather be found dead than have that around my neck."
"oh come on, kuna, you're no fun." you pouted, resting the collar at the edge of your bed before snaking your arms around his neck.
"you'd look so pretty when im tugging on it, think about it." you cooed into his ears, watching the flush creep up his neck and his ears before he cleared his throat.
"not a chance."
"you're thinking about it."
"fine."
—
"fuck—sukuna you’re doing so good.”
you were tugging the hot pink collar, watching it leave behind marks on his pretty neck, while he whined into your thigh, trying to hide his flushed face away from your sight, slowly biting into your thigh before you dragged him back to place.
“well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?”
“wasn’t trying to be.” was all he said before his lips latched onto your clit again, the ridiculous little bell ringing while he spread your thighs open.
“scoundrel.” you said, fisting his hair until he whined into you, his tongue now lapping at your folds, his eyes slowly filling with tears.
“fuck—you’re mean.”
“and you’re way too easy to toy with, baby.” the nickname had him almost whimpering, his knees hurting from kneeling before you like a believer on a goddess’ altar, begging for something, anything.
the ridiculous collar stood out on his neck while he looked up at you like a kicked puppy, giving you all the more reason to continue egging him on—
“well, i thought good dogs do their jobs, yeah?”
“you’re on thin fucking ice, doll.”
“and yet you’re complying.” you sneered at him, looking down at him while he ate you out like a man starved, until slick pooled to his chin, slowly moving his hand to thumb at your clit until your vision went blank.
“nngh—doing s—so good, kuna.”
you fisted your sheets, eventually collapsing on on your back while sukuna climbed over, a visible tent in his pants before he ripped his shirt off.
“well, don’t good dogs get rewarded for their behaviour?”
i um tried to get my writing back sorry if its lowk mid asf
you’re partnered with the most popular boy at school, oikawa tooru—who you thought never noticed you—but he turns into a flustered mess every time you’re near.
starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader
wc. 10.6k
author's note: hi guys this is luna (@yukkiji) someone reported my account and got it terminated and this is one the few stories that was on my gdocs so I was able to repost it (╥﹏╥) but for the mean time I'll post my saved fics on my new blog
Oikawa Tooru had been something of a campus celebrity since your very first year—charismatic, loud in the way stars always are, and seemingly untouchable in how easily people gravitated toward him. There was always someone calling his name across the quad or waving at him in the halls, and he never failed to flash that practiced, dazzling smile that somehow managed to look sincere every time. You’d never spoken to him—not directly, not personally—but you’d caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.
You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his shoulders relaxed when he was surrounded by his friends, how he would complain about the cafeteria coffee but still drink it anyway. You’d watched him from the corners of classrooms and in line at campus cafés, never too obvious but never quite able to help yourself. You were down horrendously bad for this man—though you’d die before admitting it aloud. The problem was that you were painfully shy, and despite your not-so-minor crush, you went out of your way to avoid even the possibility of interaction. You’d once pretended to be deeply fascinated by a bulletin board just to avoid making eye contact when he walked past.
You were convinced that he didn’t know you existed.
But he did.
He noticed you—had been noticing you since the second week of that painfully early GE class you shared. At first, it was idle curiosity. Then, fascination. And now, borderline obsession. You sat two rows in front of him, usually by the window, and he could barely concentrate half the time. Your handwriting, the way you sometimes doodled in the margins of your notes, the tiny way you tilted your head when you were confused—he knew it all. You'd lean forward just slightly when something interested you, and he would forget entirely what the professor was talking about. Once, you dropped your pen and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to reach it at the same time.
“God, he’s doing it again,” Matsukawa muttered, nudging Hanamaki with his elbow as they all slumped in their usual booth at the library café.
Hanamaki didn’t even look up from his phone. “What? Spacing out and pretending he’s not heart-eyes over mystery girl?”
“She’s not a mystery,” Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. “I know her name.”
Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. “Congratulations. Next, you’ll be telling us you know her blood type.”
“I don’t, obviously,” Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “...It’s probably B.”
Hanamaki snorted. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”
Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. “I did not! Why would I—okay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.”
“Research,” Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. “On her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?”
Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. “You guys are the worst.”
“You’re worse,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “You're literally a disaster every time she’s within a ten-foot radius.”
“She’s so pretty,” Oikawa mumbled into his arms.
“And you get so stupid,” Hanamaki added.
“You almost walked into a door last week,” Matsukawa said. “We saw it. The entire hallway saw it.”
“I was distracted!”
“By her existing,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “Just talk to her, dumbass.”
“I can’t just talk to her,” Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. “She’s—she’s quiet. What if I scare her?”
“You scare everyone,” Hanamaki said. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”
“But she’s not everyone,” Oikawa said softly.
They didn’t say anything to that—not because they didn’t have anything to tease him with, but because the way he said it was too honest, too transparent in a way that caught them slightly off guard.
Matsukawa was the one who broke the silence. “You’ve got it bad, man.”
“Like, ‘write her name in your notebook and practice your married signature’ bad,” Hanamaki added.
Oikawa let out a long, suffering groan and buried his face back into the crook of his elbow.
And from a few tables over, completely unaware, you sipped your coffee and tried not to look directly at him. He was loud and bright and effortlessly charming—and you were convinced you’d melt into the floor if he ever so much as glanced in your direction.
He did.
A lot.
And every time he did, his heart stuttered—like he was the one with the hopeless crush.
It was almost ridiculous how the universe seemed to toy with both of you. A few weeks into the semester, your professor for one of your GE classes stood at the front of the lecture hall, a list of randomly assigned project partners in his hand. You weren't expecting much. In fact, you were already mentally preparing yourself to carry the entire project, as usual.
But then, your name was called—and immediately after, his.
Oikawa Tooru.
Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didn’t even look back at him, too busy calculating how quickly you could get up and ask to be re-assigned. Surely the professor would understand. It wasn’t about Oikawa specifically—it was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.
But before you could move, you heard his voice—bright, eager, and just a little too loud.
“Cool!”
You froze.
He was already making his way toward you, that signature easy grin on his face, his brown hair bouncing slightly with each step. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for.
And then he tripped.
It happened so fast. One second he was gliding down the steps of the tiered seating like it was a runway, the next he caught the edge of his shoe on a stair and went sprawling—face-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possible—onto the floor right in front of you.
The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.
“Oh my god—Tooru! Are you okay?”
Your voice cracked slightly at the end, halfway between concern and panic. You were already halfway out of your seat, your hands hovering, unsure whether to help him up or pretend you hadn't just witnessed your crush crash and burn like a baby deer on ice.
Oikawa froze on the ground. Not because he was hurt—but because you said his name.
You. Knew. His. Name.
He looked up at you, ears burning bright red, and despite the throbbing pain in his knee and the bruised ego, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body and ascend.
“I—uh. Yep! Totally fine. That was…just gravity testing me.”
“Gravity's a bitch,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, but he heard it anyway. He laughed. You winced.
From the back row, Iwaizumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s malfunctioning again.”
“Dude’s gone,” Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. “Absolutely fried.”
Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear her? She said his name. That’s it. We’ve lost him.”
“I’m not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,” Iwaizumi added.
Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.
But he didn’t care.
Because you knew his name.
And you were worried about him.
God help him, he was doomed.
Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, were still internally spiraling over what had just happened—not even a full minute had passed since Oikawa tripped in front of you and practically crashed face-first into the pavement like a poorly written slapstick scene. You didn’t even understand how it unfolded. One moment, he was confidently walking your way, and the next, gravity had betrayed him in the most theatrical way possible. Now he was crouched down, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces as if that somehow explained the catastrophe, but the real chaos was happening in your head—because you had said his name.
Again.
“Tooru.”
It slipped out before you could stop yourself, soft and uncertain, and the moment it left your lips, you saw it hit him like a second blow. If his brain had short-circuited the first time, this one sent him into a full shutdown-restart sequence. You couldn’t tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiraling—and you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you might’ve made things.
Still, you did the only thing you could think of—you extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. “Uhm—I’ll help you up, Tooru.”
That did not help.
Oikawa looked up at you as if your voice alone could kill him, a stunned expression frozen on his face. You had just offered him your hand—and said his name—again. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.
“Yeah—yeah, sure,” he managed to say, but it came out breathless, like the words had to push past a malfunctioning system just to make it to the surface.
Then, without thinking, he took your hand.
You jolted at the contact, visibly startled, and you couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warm—too warm—and the feel of it against your palm made your heart spike wildly in your chest. You could feel your entire body heating up like your blood had turned to steam. He held on longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath hitch, and when you finally looked at his face, he was already staring at you like you had just fallen from the sky and cracked his sanity open.
Several steps behind, the rest of the team had come to a halt, observing the entire scene unfold like front-row spectators to the most awkward yet painfully romantic moment they’d ever seen in real time. Iwaizumi stood with arms crossed, clearly trying to suppress the urge to groan into the sky. Matsukawa had one brow lifted so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline, and Hanamaki, bless him, had the most smug grin stretching across his face.
“Who needs a cinema when I’m watching this?” Hanamaki muttered under his breath, elbowing Matsukawa lightly.
None of them blinked. None of them moved. Because somehow, despite how ridiculous it all started, they knew—this was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.
“Uhm… when do you want to start?” you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside you—too close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.
You didn’t dare look at him. Not directly. Not when your heart was pounding this loud and your palms were too clammy to be normal. Your eyes focused anywhere else—the desk, your notebook, the way the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against your arm like it had no concept of personal space. Everything about him was overwhelming, even in silence.
Oikawa shifted slightly, one leg crossed over the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie as he tried not to stare too obviously at your profile. You looked nervous—but soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.
“Later?” he offered, trying to sound casual.
You gave a small smile—barely there, but real—and shook your head gently. “I have another class though,” you said, almost apologetically, and that little touch of laughter at the end of your sentence slipped out before you could catch it.
And just like that, Oikawa was gone.
To anyone else, it would’ve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing he’d heard all day—maybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said it—he wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.
“Oh—uh, right—of course,” he stammered, already fumbling his words. “That totally makes sense, I—I mean, obviously you’d have class, because, uh, we’re in school—yeah.”
You couldn’t help it. You laughed again, this time hiding your smile behind your hand.
Oikawa stiffened. He had to look away, cheeks visibly flushing, as if he had been caught in the act of thinking something he shouldn’t be.
From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like he’d just won a bet. Iwaizumi, arms crossed and expression flat, looked like he was moments away from dragging Oikawa out by the collar if he fumbled one more time.
Eventually, the awkward air gave way to something lighter, easier—like the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.
“How about this weekend?” you offered softly. “There’s a café across from the school. It’s usually quiet.”
Oikawa’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. “Yes. Yes—Saturday? That works. Saturday’s great.”
You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Saturday, then.”
The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfort—but in uncertainty. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to just leave it at that. So you hesitated, fingers brushing against the edge of your phone.
Then, voice even quieter than before, you glanced up from beneath your lashes and said, “By the way… should I give you my number? To contact me?”
Oikawa stared.
If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft again—so soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselves—give you my number—sent him into another emotional tailspin.
“Yes!” he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “I mean—yeah. That’d be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.”
You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock it—twice—before finally managing to hand it over. You typed in your number slowly, trying not to think too hard about how his eyes were definitely on you the whole time. You even added a small emoji next to your name—out of habit, not flirtation—but when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.
You didn’t realize it, but he smiled for the rest of the day.
When you handed your phone to him so he could type in his number, Oikawa took it like it was made of glass. His fingers hovered for a second, then typed carefully—nervously—as if each letter had the power to make or break fate. He pressed save only after checking twice, cheeks flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to say something more before he let it go.
You bid him goodbye with that soft smile and your usual light step, not noticing how long he stayed there even after you disappeared into the crowd.
Oikawa was still staring at your contact info, frozen in place like time stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Your name—your name—was now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.
And then his phone buzzed.
[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ
His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didn’t know how else to react.
“That’s new,” Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawa’s shoulder. “So you finally won the lottery.”
“I should’ve placed bets,” Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. “All it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.”
Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.
“Even though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,” he muttered.
Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weight—his grin gave him away. He clutched his phone like it was a secret he never wanted to lose, still looking at your message like he couldn’t quite believe it existed.
Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. But none of that mattered now.
The rest of the week passed in a blur, lectures blending into each other, and practices running longer than they should. But Oikawa didn’t mind. Saturday kept inching closer, and he welcomed the distraction of waiting.
By the time it finally arrived, Oikawa was practically vibrating with energy.
Living off-campus was a mutual decision between the four of them—him, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki—something about shared space, independence, and how splitting rent outside campus was barely any more expensive. Their rented house had four bedrooms, and despite their differences, it worked.
Kind of.
Especially when Oikawa started his morning by knocking on every single one of their doors for the third time.
“Iwa, Iwaaa—how’s this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,” he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumi’s door, fully dressed in layered neutrals: a cream turtleneck under a deep brown blazer, tailored slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, and his favorite loafers. Very old money. Very Tooru.
The door flung open with force. Iwaizumi glared at him, hair still tousled from sleep.
“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.
“That was rude, Iwa!” Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.
Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. “Mattsun?” he said, knocking rhythmically. “Don’t ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.”
A muffled groan. Then: “Too early for fashion shows, Tooru.”
Finally, he knocked on the last door. “Makkiiii~ You’ll tell me I look hot, right?”
The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. “You’re obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.”
Oikawa beamed. “That’s the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!”
Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last time—adjusting the collar of his coat, fixing the cuffs, making sure his glasses sat just right.
Then his phone buzzed.
[you]: good morning tooru see you later (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)
Oikawa froze. Stared. Then dramatically collapsed backward onto his bed, clutching his phone to his chest and covering his mouth like he was trying to trap a scream.
“She texted,” he whispered to no one. “She texted first. Oh my god—she’s so cute—what does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe this—wait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.”
He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet into the mattress like a teenager high on the idea of love.
Then his phone vibrated again. He jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted.
[you]: I'll eat breakfast first then I'll let you know when I'm on the way
[you]: you should also eat too tooru (๑´ڡ`๑)
Oikawa screamed.
Like, actually screamed.
He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.
“She cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomoji—what does that even mean?!” He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”
There was a sharp knock on his wall—probably from Iwaizumi’s room. “SHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”
Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “I’M HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.”
Then, quieter, to himself, “I can’t eat now… how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?”
Still, he sat up. Smoothed his clothes again. Slipped off his glasses just to clean them even though they were spotless. Checked the time. Checked it again two seconds later.
And with one last look at his reflection, he whispered, “Don’t mess this up, Tooru.”
You, on the other hand, were already red just by sending the message to him.
Your phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the bed with a soft thud as you froze in place, hands hovering midair like you were afraid to touch reality.
"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, watching the way your face turned even redder. "Do you have a fever?"
You whipped your head toward her, eyes wide. "What? No! I'm—I'm fine!" you lied, voice three octaves higher than usual.
She frowned, standing up to approach you with her hand outstretched. "You're sweating. You definitely look like you have a fever—"
"I'm fine!" you insisted, grabbing a pillow to hide your face. "It's just... I sent a stupid text, okay?"
That caught her attention.
She stopped in her tracks, grin forming instantly. "To Oikawa?" she asked, voice laced with teasing.
You groaned into the pillow.
"Why did I put a kaomoji?!" you cried into the fabric. "Who even does that?! What am I, twelve?! He’s gonna think I’m weird."
Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."
“I should’ve deleted it. I should’ve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.”
"And yet," she sipped her coffee again, eyes sparkling, "you didn't."
You dramatically collapsed backward onto the mattress, hands flung out like you were on stage.
“I’m never texting anyone again.”
Your phone buzzed.
You shrieked.
[tooru]: see you later also ♡
You stared at your phone.
Oh god.
Why did he send a heart.
Without even thinking, you launched yourself face-first into your pillow and let out a muffled scream.
Your feet kicked at the mattress. You writhed like a bug on its back. The pillow smothered both your voice and your rising panic, but the damage was done. Your brain was spiraling.
You didn’t even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.
“You good?” she asked, one brow raised and very much not concerned.
You lifted your head just enough for her to see your wide-eyed expression and the sheer panic painted across your face.
“He sent a heart,” you croaked out. “Tooru. Oikawa. He—he sent a heart.”
Your roommate paused for a moment… and then snorted.
“Oh my god,” she said with a grin. “You’re totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.”
“I am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! That’s like—barely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!”
“Maybe…” she drawled, her grin widening, “he likes you too?”
Your brain short-circuited.
Your entire body glitched.
Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.
“D-Don’t say that!” you stammered, clutching your pillow like it was a life preserver.
She laughed as she sat at the edge of your bed, watching you squirm with far too much amusement. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered. This is the most I’ve seen you lose it over a guy.”
You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. “Because he’s not just a guy! He’s Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like that’s a normal thing to do!”
“Well,” she teased, “good luck being normal when you see him later.”
You arrived at the café first.
The place was cozy, bright with warm light, and filled with the low hum of morning chatter. You chose a table near the window, trying to look casual as you sat down—but your fingers kept betraying you. You brushed imaginary dust off your dress for the third time, then tugged at your sleeves like they were too tight. They weren’t. You were just… nervous.
You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. You’d already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didn’t.)
Then the soft chime of the door rang.
Your head turned instinctively.
Oikawa Tooru stepped inside, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a tote bag over his shoulder, and that same casual, effortless charm he always carried like second nature. His eyes scanned the café for a second—and then found you.
He lit up immediately.
He waved at you like he’d been waiting for this all week.
Your eyes met his—and just as quickly, you dropped your gaze, flustered. You looked down at your lap like your nails suddenly became very interesting.
Meanwhile, Oikawa?
He was dying.
His heart thudded against his ribs so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it. You looked so adorable it physically hurt. The ribbon in your hair, the way you were dressed just a little more than usual, the way your gaze flitted away shyly when you caught him staring—
He was done for.
He moved toward your table too fast, too giddy—and immediately bumped into the edge of a nearby table.
A sharp, clumsy thud echoed.
A few people turned. He winced. One hand clutched his hip dramatically.
You looked up in surprise. “Oh my god—are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. “That table clearly came out of nowhere.”
You tried to hold in your laugh as he finally reached your table and slid into the seat across from you, rubbing at his hip like he was wounded in battle.
“You really okay?”
“I’ve had worse injuries in volleyball,” he replied with a wink. “But I’ll probably need emotional support now.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “But you’re smiling now, so… mission accomplished.”
You looked away again, biting back a smile.
And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:
I’m so, so screwed.
Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadn’t really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, “Do you want something? I’ll order.”
He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that you’d have another iced mocha—then added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.
At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadn’t noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—like something about the words strawberry cheesecake flipped a switch in him. Oikawa swore he caught the tiniest glint in your eyes, an almost childlike spark that told him you didn’t just like the dessert—you loved it. He made a mental note of it without hesitation, storing it somewhere deep in the corner of his mind like it might come in handy one day, even if he didn’t know when.
A few minutes later, he came back carrying two iced drinks and two slices of cake. One strawberry cheesecake—perfectly plated and slightly glossy under the café lights—and another slice of chocolate for himself. He set yours in front of you without a word, just the smallest smile tugging at his lips.
You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. “Wait—how much was mine?”
“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.
You paused. “Are you sure?”
He looked up—and made the mistake of actually looking at you. The question had come out so genuinely, so earnestly, paired with that slight tilt of your head and the way your fingers hovered above your bag like you were still ready to insist. You looked up at him with eyes too soft for your own good, brows slightly drawn together in a way that screamed polite worry. And Oikawa, who had thought himself immune to such things, immediately felt his heart skip something like five beats.
He forced a casual shrug, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Yeah. Seriously. It’s just cake.”
The silence that followed wasn’t entirely awkward, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. It was the kind that made you stir your straw unnecessarily in your drink just to give your hands something to do. He glanced down at his plate, and you glanced around the café, neither of you quite sure what to say next.
Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. “So... how do you want to start our project?”
It brought him back to reality. Right—your GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scripts—anything that could be dissected and brought to life in front of the class. It was supposed to be simple, academic, straightforward. But now, looking across the table at you—fork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his response—it didn’t feel so straightforward at all.
“Since we have two weeks to prepare, let’s just research first. Then I’ll do the PowerPoint—is that okay with you?” he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.
“Of course, but I’ll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?” you replied, offering a smile before your eyes quickly dropped to your plate. You poked at your cheesecake, avoiding his eyes, too aware of how intensely he’d been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignore—so was the flutter in your stomach. You were trying to play it cool, but God, the way he looked at you was intimidating in a way you couldn’t explain.
Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.
And don’t even get him started on how your cheeks puffed slightly as you took another bite, eyes lighting up at the taste like it was the best thing you’ve had all week. The way you looked—content, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happily—it was too much. Too damn much.
He leaned back in his seat, trying not to grin like an idiot, but it was already too late.
He was so screwed.
And to make it worse, he could already hear Iwaizumi’s voice echoing in the back of his head—“You’re so whipped, it’s pathetic.”
Oikawa took another sip of his drink and stared at you over the rim of his glass, already knowing Iwaizumi was right.
Your days began to follow a pattern—one Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where he’d “accidentally” reserve the seat next to you every time, your dorm lounge where you two would awkwardly huddle over a shared laptop, or sometimes even the house he shared with his three equally nosy (and annoying) best friends, your presence was starting to blur into every space of his life.
At first, it was just the literature project. But that quickly evolved into, “Hey, aren’t we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?” And you’d nodded, a bit too quickly, cheeks already warming, eyes darting anywhere but his face.
What started as strictly academic became something more like a ritual. Oikawa would pretend not to get too excited when your name popped up on his phone, and you would spend a full twenty minutes debating whether your outfit looked “too much” or “too plain.” You were a nervous wreck most of the time—especially the first time he invited you over. To a boy’s house. A house filled with boys. Tall, chaotic, loud boys. You practically considered faking sick.
But you showed up.
In a simple cream-colored dress with puff sleeves and a burgundy bow clipped neatly into your hair. You were trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm, clutching your notes like they were a crucifix. Oikawa thought he might die. Right there. On his stupid living room rug.
“Hey, she’s cute,” Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.
“Our Oikawa has taste, huh?” Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.
“She’s here to study,” Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. “Sorry. They’re idiots. Please ignore them.”
You bowed in embarrassment. “I-It’s okay… I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”
Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. “They’re always here,” he whispered to you. “But you’re the only guest I like.”
He swore he saw steam rise from your ears. And then he had an internal breakdown for saying that out loud.
Your bow would bob every time you nodded, always slightly off-center by the end of the day from fidgeting too much. He grew to anticipate that bow like it was part of your personality—like it was something only he got to see up close. You’d tug at the hem of your skirt while reciting terms or chew on your pen while watching him explain things on your laptop screen, and Oikawa would have to bite his tongue not to say anything stupid.
"She's literally a shoujo manga character," Matsukawa whispered to Hanamaki one evening while peeking through the kitchen pass window.
"I bet Oikawa already has a secret folder of her selfies," Hanamaki replied, nodding seriously.
"I do not—!" Oikawa barked, nearly flipping his textbook. You shot him a puzzled glance, oblivious to the banter, while Iwaizumi dragged the two idiots back to the kitchen by their shirt collars.
“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. “If you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend they’re NPCs.”
You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. “It’s okay. They’re kinda funny…”
Oikawa caught that—the way your eyes softened when you laughed. And he was screwed. So utterly, completely, permanently screwed.
Because your shy glances, your off-center bows, the way you always offered to help even when you didn’t have to—it all made his heart feel too full.
And unfortunately, Matsukawa was right. He might have actually saved a few selfies you sent when you asked, “Is this dress too much for study night?”
He might be whipped. But at this point? He didn’t even want a way out.
Once your literature project ended—and you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didn’t question—your little study dates… still continued.
There wasn’t even a conversation about it. No “Hey, want to keep studying together?” or “Should we still meet up at the café this Friday?” It just happened. Like clockwork. Like you two were already part of each other’s schedules, as natural as morning alarms and coffee runs.
It was almost laughable—how seamlessly Oikawa had folded himself into your routine. Or maybe you had folded into his. Either way, it felt like the universe quietly decided: Yeah, these two belong in the same sentence.
Still, no matter how many times you found yourself beside him—head bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yours—you never quite got used to being close to Oikawa Tooru.
Not in the way that mattered.
Not when his cologne lingered too long on your sleeves. Not when he leaned over your shoulder and quietly read something out loud, voice brushing the shell of your ear. Not when he offered you his hoodie without asking and your fingers brushed when you reached for it.
You were calm and composed on the outside—mostly—but inside? You were still a shy, fidgety mess.
And Oikawa? Well, he was in emotional shambles too.
Every time you smiled up at him with that quiet kind of warmth, every time you touched his arm to get his attention, every time your bow flopped slightly to the side by the end of your study session, he had to resist the urge to scream into a pillow. Preferably Iwaizumi’s.
“She’s so cute I’m gonna combust,” he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.
“You’ve said that four times this week,” Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.
“You’re ruining yourself, actually,” Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. “Man up and ask her out already.”
“I second that,” Matsukawa added. “Unless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.”
“I do not make heart eyes—!” Oikawa hissed, then immediately cut himself off when you peeked your head in to ask if he still had your highlighter.
He melted.
You apologized for interrupting, bow bouncing softly with your flustered movement. Oikawa stared for two full seconds too long before snapping out of it.
“Y-Yeah! It’s on the table!” he stammered. “Wait—I’ll get it for you!”
“Dead man walking,” Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.
“Certified whipped,” Matsukawa coughed.
“Do I ever get a break from you guys?” Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.
No. No, he did not. But he didn’t really mind.
Because somehow, even without the project, even without a clear label for what you two were, you still kept coming back to him.
And honestly? He hoped you never stopped.
But he did hope—selfishly, stupidly—that there was a label between you two.
Because god, the project was over, the grade was in, and the deadline had passed weeks ago—but he still wanted you near him. Even if it meant combusting every time you leaned too close, losing his cool whenever you looked at him for just a second longer than necessary. You still laughed at his dumb jokes, still texted him memes at midnight, still dragged him to cafés under the excuse of "editing" your presentation. It should’ve ended. Should’ve faded. But it didn’t. And Oikawa hated how much he liked that.
He was out at the mall with Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa, trailing a few steps behind them, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they argued over which movie to watch later. He wasn’t really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windows—until it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.
One bow caught his eye.
It was delicate—off-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing he’d never wear or care about. But when he saw it, he thought of you. Instantly. The way you sometimes braided the sides of your hair when you were rushing. The way your eyes lit up when you wore something cute and someone actually noticed.
Oikawa lingered, slowing down.
He was still staring when a voice chirped behind him.
“Oh my god, you’re buying that for her, aren’t you?” Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. “Makki, shut up—” Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.
“Aw, come on, it’s adorable,” Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. “Can you imagine her face? She’d die.”
“I’m not—buying anything,” Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. “It just... looks nice, that’s all.”
“Right, right,” Hanamaki smirked. “And I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, you’re down so bad it’s almost romantic.”
“She’s not even—” Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. “We’re not even together.”
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. “Buy the bow, dumbass. You’ve been staring at it for a full minute.”
Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys don’t get it. She’s... she’s different. And I don’t want to mess this up by pushing too hard.”
Hanamaki tilted his head. “So you’d rather suffer in silence than tell the girl you’re in love with her?”
“I never said love,” Oikawa said, immediately.
Matsukawa raised a brow. “You just did.”
Oikawa groaned again, loud this time, like the sound could drown out his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes found the bow again. The crystals sparkled like they were mocking him. But he still pictured you wearing it. Still wondered if you’d smile. If you’d let him put it on you himself. If you’d finally look at him and say you liked him too.
Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. “Just buy it already, Tooru.”
And maybe, if he did—maybe he’d finally find out if you’d let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe you’d let him be something real. Something with a name.
He bought the bow.
Matsukawa let out a low whistle behind him the moment he stepped up to the counter, and Hanamaki practically threw his arms in the air like Oikawa had just proposed marriage instead.
“Oh my god, he’s doing it!” Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. “Look at our boy—finally growing up.”
“Should we clap? I feel like we should clap,” Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.
Oikawa didn’t say a word. Just placed the bow gently on the counter and tried to ignore how the cashier raised an eyebrow at the spectacle happening behind him.
“Is this… a gift?” she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.
“It’s not a confession,” Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... something I thought might suit a friend.”
Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. “Friend?”
“Liar,” Matsukawa coughed into his fist.
Iwaizumi stepped up with a sigh that sounded like it had aged him ten years. He bowed slightly to the cashier, one hand already gripping Hanamaki’s collar. “I’m sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.”
The cashier snorted but waved it off. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute.”
Oikawa paid in silence, doing his best to look anywhere but at his friends. When the cashier handed him the little pastel bag with the bow inside, he took it carefully, like it might break if he held it too tightly.
He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.
“Don’t screw it up,” he said.
And for once, Oikawa didn’t fire back. He just clutched the bag a little tighter and thought of you.
You were in your dorm, sprawled on your bed with your cheek pressed against the pillow and your phone held loosely in one hand when it vibrated. You barely glanced at the screen before your heart did a quiet flip.
[tooru]: are you free?
That was it. No context. No follow-up. Just five words that immediately lit a fuse in your brain.
You stared at the message a little too long, waiting for another one to come in—for something like need help with econ again? or want to review the lab notes together? Something that would make this feel normal, familiar, something that wouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it was currently doing. But nothing else came.
You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard and deleting your reply three different times before you could bring yourself to send a casual yeah, why? back. You barely had time to toss your phone on the bed when it buzzed again.
[tooru]: there’s a new pastry place by the station. they have strawberry cheesecake. wanna come with me?
You blinked.
Then you sat up.
Then, without warning, you dropped back down face-first into your pillow and let out a long, muffled groan that could only come from someone who was spiraling too hard, too fast.
“Uh-oh,” your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it.”
You didn’t move.
She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. “What did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?”
You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. “He asked if I was free.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And?”
“He said there’s this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.”
Silence.
Then—“Oh, you’re doomed.”
You clutched your pillow tighter. “What if he’s just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.”
She gave you a look. “Company? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?”
You flushed. “It’s not like he called it a date. What if it’s just... casual? Not even that deep.”
“And yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.”
You groaned. “We don’t even hang out like this. It’s always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I don’t know what this is.”
Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. “He said strawberry cheesecake, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The one you like.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve never actually told him you liked it?”
“I don’t think so?” you said, voice going soft. “Maybe... maybe back when we met at that café for our project? He asked what I wanted, and I told him strawberry cheesecake.”
She raised a brow. “So he still remembers.”
You shifted uncomfortably. “There was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kinda—might’ve—gone through his snack stash like a criminal.”
Her grin was practically predatory now. “And he let you?”
You covered your face with your hands. “He said I looked cute when I was chewing.”
She gasped and hit you with a pillow. “You left that out on purpose.”
“I forgot!”
“No, you repressed it,” she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. “You’ve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.”
“I’m not in love with him.”
She arched a brow. “You sure?”
You didn’t answer.
She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. “It’s a date. You’re getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. You’re not imagining it.”
You peeked at your phone again.
[tooru]: i’ll wait for you at the station at 3. don’t be late—i want to see if you’ll light up again when you eat it like last time.
You stared. Then let out another groan and rolled off the bed.
Your roommate smirked. “Yeah. You’re toast.”
Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the message—his fingers trembling slightly as he hit send, and the moment it was done, he immediately tried to play it cool, though it was impossible to hide the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. Behind him, the laughter came sharp and immediate. Hanamaki had caught the tail end of the text just as he leaned over to grab his drink, his eyes widening before he burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw glances from nearby tables. Matsukawa nearly choked on his soup, slapping the table with the flat of his hand while Iwaizumi just stared, unimpressed but not entirely unsympathetic—though the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.
“Be honest,” Makki said through his cackling, “did you actually just say ‘see you later’ like you’re in a high school drama?”
“I told you not to look at my phone,” Oikawa muttered, his face buried in his scarf even though they were already seated and the hotpot was making the space warm enough to fog the windows.
“I mean, I didn’t try to look,” Makki grinned, leaning back, “but you were holding it up like it was a love confession.”
“You should’ve added a heart,” Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. “She replied, right? What’d she say?”
“Yeah, come on, Tooru,” Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, “don’t leave us hanging.”
Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simple—rushed, even—but it was enough to make his chest feel light. okay sre you tooru. A typo, sure, but she had replied. And more importantly, she had called him by his first name. The way his name looked in your message did something inexplicable to his brain, enough that he kept reading it over and over again in his head like it meant more than it probably did.
The four of them were currently seated around a bubbling pot, the restaurant tucked into a quieter corner near the station, their bags from the mall resting beneath the table, the crisp late afternoon slowly darkening through the windows behind them. It was supposed to be just another group hangout to kill time before they headed home for the weekend, but at some point between teasing each other in the arcade and getting distracted at the snack stalls, Oikawa had typed that message to you—an invitation, barely disguised beneath casual words and a half-hearted emoji. He might deny it later, might swear up and down that it was just a recommendation or a friendly suggestion, but the reality was undeniable.
He had technically asked you out on a date. And the moment you replied, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.
After a few hours had passed since they finished lunch—his stomach full but his thoughts restless—Oikawa excused himself from the group, slipping away from the laughter still echoing behind him as they split off in different directions. The late afternoon breeze tugged gently at his jacket as he made his way to the pastry shop by the station, the one with soft pink walls and dainty cakes behind glass, where he’d told you to meet him.
He arrived early, of course. Pacing near the door for a few moments before deciding to head inside, he chose a seat by the window, one that gave him the perfect view of the street. His fingers drummed idly against the table, gaze flitting from his phone screen to the people passing by—until his eyes caught on a familiar figure approaching.
There you were.
Wearing a dress he could only describe as the embodiment of sweet elegance. You always wore dresses—your signature style, he’d come to realize—but today’s look made something in his chest tighten. A soft, lolita-style dress in a muted cream color framed your figure, adorned with subtle lace, frilled sleeves, and a ribbon that swayed with your steps. Your hair was styled with care, and even from behind the glass, he could see the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him.
The off-white lace bow he'd bought earlier at the mall—on impulse, he’d claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through him—would match your outfit perfectly. He felt his heart skip, his fingers instinctively brushing the little shopping bag beside him, suddenly bashful at the thought.
Then you waved, your face brightening in a way that made him melt instantly. There was a sparkle in your eyes—pure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.
“Hi, Tooru,” you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.
And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.
Oikawa blinked once—twice—because somehow, seeing you through the glass hadn’t quite prepared him for how stunning you looked up close. His breath caught in his throat, and his words tangled awkwardly as you approached the table with a small smile, the soft hem of your dress swaying with every step.
“You… wow,” he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. “You look—really, really cute. Like… ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you don’t always, just—today—especially—” He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. “This dress suits you so much, it’s almost unfair.”
The moment the words left his mouth, you looked down immediately, your cheeks heating like a rising tide, lips parting in surprise before curling into a shy smile.
Your fingers clutched your bag a little tighter, voice barely above a whisper as you murmured, “Thank you, Tooru…”
You still wouldn’t lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and there—because even your shyness was adorable beyond reason.
Oikawa stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped back, catching it with a quick hand before clearing his throat and turning to you with a nervous smile.
“D-Do you, um—what do you want? I-I mean, to order,” he asked, voice stammering slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.
You blinked up at him, surprised by how flustered he was, and gave a small smile.
“Strawberry cheesecake,” you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, “and probably… some tarts too.”
Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. “Right—cheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.”
Then, under his breath—barely audible—you caught him mutter, “of course you’d pick something sweet.”
You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lips—small, almost unsure, but warm nonetheless.
Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears, thumping against your chest like it was trying to get your attention. And maybe it was.
Because this felt different.
There were no study guides laid out across the table. No notebooks crammed with highlighted notes. No looming exams or group projects to fall back on as an excuse.
Just you and him.
Just Tooru.
And deep down, in a place you tried to keep quiet, you couldn’t help but wonder if this really—truly—was a date.
Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cake—yours a strawberry cheesecake topped with glistening fruit, and his a rich chocolate mousse layered with ganache. Beside them sat a delicate mini tart platter, each one filled with creams and fruits and custards like a pastel mosaic.
“Uhm—I ordered the mini tart platter instead,” he said, stammering slightly, “so we can, like, try different flavors… together.”
He tried to play it cool, but the way he fiddled with the edge of the tray betrayed the fact that he was anything but.
Then he looked at you—and nearly melted.
Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like you’d just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldn’t decide what was sweeter.
He didn’t care that his cake was probably going to get warm. Not when you looked at dessert like that. Not when you looked at him like that.
He sat down in front of you, still slightly flushed, and gently nudged the tray a little closer to your side of the table.
"You can eat now," he said softly, eyes flicking between your face and the strawberry cheesecake like he wasn’t sure which one was more captivating.
You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, “Okay,” your voice a little shy, your cheeks already warm.
He watched the way you looked down bashfully, how your lashes fluttered when you avoided his gaze—so damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.
“By the way,” he said again, voice softer now as he reached down and pulled out the small paper bag from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the handles, like he wasn’t sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. “I bought this and… it immediately reminded me of you.”
You blinked, eyes flickering between him and the bag. You slowly opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue, revealing the off-white lacey bow inside. Your heart skipped at the sight—it was delicate, sweet, and just your style. You already imagined how it would look nestled in your hair.
You looked up to thank him, but your voice caught when you saw the way he was watching you—quietly, earnestly, like he’d been holding something in for a long time.
“Tooru…?”
He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at his fingers before lifting his gaze back to yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, but firm enough not to run away from what he needed to say.
“I didn’t just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,” he admitted. “I… I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.”
He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it just—made me think of you. How cute you’d look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.”
Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.
“I… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” he continued, quieter now. “But I figured, if there was even a chance… then I wanted to try.”
You looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were wide with vulnerability, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Just Tooru. Honest. Hopeful.
The bow still rested in your lap, but your hands were already trembling from how full your chest felt.
And with a shy smile tugging at your lips, you whispered, “I’m really glad you did.”
Your fingers moved almost on instinct, soft and trembling as you reached across the table and gently held one of his hands resting near the fork. His skin was warm, and when your touch met his, Oikawa froze—eyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didn’t want to ruin the moment.
You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuine—tinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.
“I like you too, Tooru,” you said quietly, just above a whisper. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now… I just never thought you’d notice me like that.”
His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.
“And… I’m happy,” you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. “That it reminded you of me. It’s really pretty. It feels like… you see me. Really see me.”
You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, “And you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecake… you always remember the little things.”
Oikawa was speechless for a moment—his fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.
“You’re kind,” you whispered, “and I always thought… maybe someone like you wouldn’t look at someone like me like this. But I’m really glad I was wrong.”
And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cry—from relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person he’d been falling for felt the exact same way.
You and Oikawa walked to your dorm that same evening hand in hand. In your grasp was a paper bag filled with slices of strawberry cheesecake and another box holding cakes of different flavors—ones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.
You couldn’t stop smiling, your fingers gently curled around the handles as if you were afraid this day might slip away like a dream. Your heart fluttered at how thoughtful he’d been, getting takeout just so you could enjoy the sweets later too.
Oikawa kept glancing at you, grinning to himself. The way you clutched the cake boxes so carefully, eyes bright and steps a little lighter than usual—he thought you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didn’t think his heart could take it.
When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.
“Thank you again, Tooru,” you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. “For… everything.”
Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips—soft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.
You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.
But then Oikawa’s hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed you—deeper this time.
His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if he’d been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didn’t care. You felt like you were floating.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was a little shaky, and his smile was boyish and full of wonder.
“…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmured.
You giggled, breathless, and whispered, “Me too.”
After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball player—Oikawa Tooru—who, unbeknownst to most, had been deeply in love with you all this time.
Even with the title of boyfriend now secured, Oikawa would still short circuit in your presence alone. You could be doing the most mundane thing—tying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phone—and he’d be sitting across from you, red-tipped ears and dreamy eyes, completely malfunctioning.
You, on the other hand, were doing your best to overcome the fluttery shyness that came with dating someone like him. It was hard to stay composed when Oikawa would send you heart-throbbing winks across the hallway, or pull you close by the waist just to kiss the top of your head when you least expected it.
Of course, this only gave his friends premium material to tease him with.
“Look at Lover Boy over there,” Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. “He’s been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?”
“Bet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,” Matsukawa added with a snort.
“I wouldn't put it past him,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “The man once practiced ‘how to smile less smugly’ in the mirror for her.”
Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. “You're all just bitter and alone.”
But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbothered—too busy being head over heels for you to care. And while you were still adjusting to all the public attention, there was one thing you both knew for sure:
Whatever this was between you—it was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.
SYNOPSIS ── The blue spring of their youths—and everything after it ends. Your story told from the perspective of your closest friend since childhood, Shoko Ieiri.
PAIRING. ── gojo satoru x reader
TAGS. canon jjk timeline, (or at least as accurate as possible) coming of age, sorcerer!reader, angst, fluff, slice of life, mutual pining, friends to lovers, nostalgia, hidden inventory timeline, the tokyo five plus you, emotional vulnerability, dreams and nightmares, missing scenes, domestic fluff, megumi and tsumiki / dad!gojo dynamic, we love and adore shoko ieiri on this blog
WARNINGS. ! manga spoilers ! depictions of grief & loss, canon typical violence (described but not in detail), use of cigarettes and smoking, character deaths
WORD COUNT. 13.2k
mae's note. my debut work !! thank u for all the support on 'of love & lesson plans', the first chapter will be out by tomorrow hehee but i wanted to share a project i've been working on for over a year now <3 i also PINKY PROMISE my other fics won't be this sad jsjdjskd but i love u all and i'm so sorry in advanced ... but likes and reposts are much loved mwah mwah mwah
inspired by ♪ from the subway train, vansire 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ── ao3 version. playlist. header art twt/@5booosa. dividers by @cafekitsune
The air in December tastes like endings, bitter like smoke and cold enough to hurt.
Shoko stands alone beneath the harsh fluorescent glow of a streetlamp, cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers, the embers burning quietly, steadily, a small star of comfort in between her fingertips. Snow falls in careless spirals, catching in her hair, dusting her eyelashes, melting against her skin.
She watches her breath leave her body, a faint cloud in the chill, and thinks about how strange it is—how terribly quiet the world becomes when there’s nothing left but memory.
She swears it wasn’t always this cold.
i. november, 1989
You were both born in early November, five days apart.
Shoko first—small, silent, blue around the lips. Her mother would later tell her she hadn’t cried, not even once. She just blinked up at the ceiling, like she’d already seen too much of the world. You had come days after—red-faced and furious, shrieking like you’d already been wronged.
Balance, their clanhead called it. One to make, one to unmake.
They grew up in a quiet prefecture, tucked between the mountains, where fog collected on windows in the morning and everything smelled like pine and old rain. Their family was not a traditional jujutsu clan—not in the way the Zenins or the Gojos were—but they still had blood that remembered power, blood that ran strangely cold.
Shoko discovered her technique early—reversed cursed energy, delicate and warm, the ability to stitch together what others could only destroy. It made her quiet, made her thoughtful, made her feel too responsible for things she didn’t understand. You, on the other hand, were all forward motion and fury, manifesting offensive cursed techniques with raw instinct and terrifying precision.
You burned. Shoko cooled. A soldier and a healer.
It wasn't rivalry. It wasn't even contrast, really. It was rhythm—two halves of a heart, orbiting each other, moving through childhood in tandem. You protected her from bullies, from curses, from the dark under the bed. Shoko bandaged your scraped knees, held your hair back with her small hands when you threw up after manifesting your cursed technique for the first time, whispered questions into your shoulder late at night about whether they’d ever be normal.
Neither of you wanted normal. Not really.
So when your mothers had suggested both of you for Jujutsu Tech—you didn’t hesitate. It is the slight chill that Spring of 2005 that Shoko remembers most. Fifteen years old, uniforms they’d taken customized to their liking just a month before—Shoko, with her wide turtleneck and midi skirt. You, in a well-tailored blazer, and much to your mother’s disapproval—a short skirt.
Even after the arguments and bickering, their mothers had cried. Their fathers had barely nodded at them. The train took them away to Tokyo with petals sticking to the window, and their only belongings in duffle bags at their feet. Shoko’s hands were cold where they held yours softly.
She was afraid. You weren’t.
You had always loved the idea of being chosen, and Shoko just didn’t want to be left behind.
And maybe that’s how it all began—not with power, or fate, or bloodlines.
Two girls stepping onto a train together, one chasing strength, the other running away from a world she’d one day have to hold together with her hands.
ii. april, 2005
Jujutsu Tech was nothing like Shoko expected.
She thought it would be colder, older, more like the hospitals she’d passed on the train—tall and sterile and gray. But it was… soft. Vines curling around wooden buildings, laundry strung between windows, the hum of cicadas already testing their voices in the trees. It smelled like dirt and chalk and something faintly sweet, like sakura or summer air caught in the stairwells.
She didn’t talk much those first couple of days. Neither did Suguru Geto.
They met on their first day of class, standing awkwardly apart. Shoko was pressed against the wall, you beside her like a shield, when she noticed him—black hair long just at his shoulder, eyes unreadable, hands folded neatly behind his back like he was waiting for something more important than small talk. He caught her looking, and they didn’t smile, but something passed between them anyway. A kind of shared silence.
Then came Gojo.
She had heard of him before, of course. The honored one, the destined boy of the Gojo Clan. He arrived like a storm—messy white hair, too-tall frame stuffed into the uniform like it didn’t quite belong to him. He talked too much, laughed too loud, tripped over his own shoes, and still managed to radiate something untouchable. He was awkward, undeniably gifted, and absolutely convinced he had nothing to learn from anyone.
Shoko didn’t really like him.
You despised him worse, found him amusing. You would say he was infuriating, sure—but interesting.
“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” you whispered one night, grimacing into your pillow. “But his ears turn red every time I catch him staring.”
Shoko rolled her eyes, gave you a half smile. “He’s insufferable.”
“You're just mad that he said you would look better if you grew out your hair.” you teased.
“That's not true. I like my hair.”
“I like it too.”
“Then why does it matter to me what he thinks?”
But slowly—so slowly it almost escaped her notice—he changed. He started making jokes with them. And regrettably, Shoko would sometimes laugh at something he said. He started sitting with them at lunch. Picked up Suguru’s habit of folding napkins into strange little birds. Borrowed Shoko’s pens and returned them. Awkwardly, with both hands and a muttered thanks.
He began learning them. Their rhythms. Their silences.
It was the end of summer when it started to feel like something real.
Missions were few and far between in those first months. They trained hard, sweat and bruises under the cherry blossoms, sparring on grass that still held morning dew. Shoko hated sparring. She wasn’t built for it—not the way you were, with your reckless cursed technique and even more reckless joy.
But she tried. Because she had to. Because she wouldn’t let herself be the weak link.
And Gojo—he always held back when they fought. Even then, before he understood how to be gentle, he understood that she needed to win sometimes. Needed to prove that she could. He let her land hits, not because she needed help, but because he saw the way she looked at herself compared to the rest of them. She knew that Gojo—the freak of nature he was with those blazing blue eyes—saw her beneath her dry sarcasm and grins and tired eyes.
Suguru, on the other hand, never let her win. But he gave her pointers after. Explained why she slipped, what her stance betrayed. His feedback was quiet, clinical, never cruel. Always gave her a nod and a smile. Shoko trusted him for it.
Those were their blue springs—their youth washed in cloudless skies and laughter and rain-soaked uniforms drying on sun-warmed rocks. Those were the days of early friendships, of discovering who they were becoming.
They took the train into Tokyo for missions, packed into cars half-asleep, heads knocking against windows. You would always take the window seat, with your far too expensive mp3 player and ratty wired earbuds. You’d hum under your breath, fingers tapping a beat on your thigh. Gojo sprawled across two seats, his head inevitably ending up in someone’s lap. Suguru read novels and pretended not to notice you and Gojo’s helpless bickering.
❀
The first storm of the summer comes sudden, like most things that mattered back then. Sheets of water turning the courtyard into a lake, petals plastered to the stones.
Gojo didn’t run for cover. Of course he didn't. He stood in the middle of it all like some idiot, arms outstretched, hair plastered white against his forehead, laughing so loud it made the rain sound shy.
“You'll catch a cold,” Suguru called from the walkway, voice dry as the towel slung around his shoulders.
“Colds are a myth,” Gojo shot back, spinning in a circle, water flying from his sleeves. It wasn't rare back then for Gojo to turn off his infinity, especially for rain storms he used to practically bathe in.
Shoko watched from the step, dry under an awning with a cigarette between her fingers. Smoking was a new habit she’d picked up, in spite of the protests from her friends, in spite of the distaste and the mini interventions and scoldings you’d given her. All these years later, she can’t really remember where it started from.
You had taken the cigarette from her fingers that day and threw it in the rain, leaving her a little frustrated. Then she watched as you tried not to smile, and bolted straight into the storm after Gojo, shoes kicking up water like wings.
The both of you were soaked in seconds—shrieking, colliding, uniforms clinging like second skin. Grinning too bright for the gray sky above them.
❀
They went on their first mission as a full team in late October.
A cursed spirit in a temple in the countryside—nothing particularly dangerous, but big enough to warrant the four of them. The four of you, as it turned out, had garnered somewhat of a reputation in the Jujutsu world by this point, even though it had only been a couple months into your first year. There was Gojo, being who he was, and then there were you and Geto, two special-grade hopefuls, and then Shoko, with her reverse cursed technique. It was hard not to hear the excitement, the chatter from your seniors and teachers and higher-ups and worse, the curses, as they marveled at what potential the four of you possessed.
On their first mission together they took the train, bundled in thin jackets, feet tangled under the seats. You sat next to Gojo this time, your knees knocking occasionally as the train curved through the mountains. You two didn’t talk much, just passed a packet of rice crackers back and forth, you opening them with your teeth and Gojo laughing, soft, like he couldn’t help it.
Suguru fell asleep with his head against the window. Shoko watched the landscape blur, temples and fields dissolving into dusk.
She remembers that October day clearly — because the first time they saw a body together was on a bridge, the river swollen black beneath it, the cold gnawing at their ankles. The mission shouldn’t have had civilian casualties. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Yet their world didn’t care about supposed to.
Shoko stood back as Suguru exorcised the curse, her hands clenching, heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out. When it was over, the corpse of the victim lay sprawled against the guardrail, mouth full of frozen air. A little girl—her hair so matted in blood Shoko couldn’t tell what color it was anymore.
Gojo tried to crack a joke, to distill the buzzing in the air—something stupid about ghosts haunting bridges—but no one laughed, not even him. You touched Shoko's arm, light as breath, and for the first time Shoko wondered if maybe they weren’t weapons at all. Maybe they were just kids with blood under their nails and no way out.
It's that night she remembers all these years later, coming home from the mission. They stayed up talking until sunrise. They lay on futons in someone’s dorm room, the windows open, moths circling the lights.
“Do you ever think,” you had asked, staring at the ceiling. “That we’re not meant to survive this?”
There's a quiet that fills the room, uncomfortable, like understanding the inevitable.
“Don't say that depressing shit,” Gojo said sharply, but his voice still held a hint of something that could’ve been mistaken for vulnerability.
“I'm serious. We're weapons. Tools. They'll use us until we break.”
“Then we don’t break,” Suguru said quietly.
“Or we break together.” Shoko said, so softly no one answered.
That first year, they were just kids. Cursed kids, sure. But kids.
And even though Shoko knew better—even though she could already see the shape of blood and bodies and burials in the future—she let herself believe in nights like those. The four of them sprawled on the floor, laughing at someone’s expense, playing cards and cheap candy wrappers littered on the floor.
In the way Gojo looked at you when he thought no one else saw.
In the way Suguru never raised his voice, but always listened.
In the way you gave your heart like the world hadn’t hurt you yet.
In the way they all leaned on each other like scaffolding, like maybe if they held tight enough, they wouldn’t fall.
iii. june, 2006
Summer in Tokyo hit different when you were sixteen and almost certain you’d die before twenty.
They weren’t supposed to go out—they had curfews, missions stacked like bones at the start of their second year—curses growing restless, schools asking for protection, strange whispers threading through reports about ancient prisons and shifting power balances. Still, they trained. Still, they laughed. Still, they stole naps on rooftops and dared each other to eat expired convenience store pudding.
Still, they were kids.
Gojo whined until Suguru sighed and gave in, and you had tugged Shoko by the wrist before she could protest.
The festival was a crush of lantern light and smoke, sweet batter curling through the air, fireworks cracking open the dark. You darted ahead, yukata swaying, hair pinned up with something glittering like starlight. Gojo stuck by your side, wolfing down skewers two at a time, Suguru following at a distance with his hands tucked in his sleeves, gaze flicking toward the crowd like a man always counting exits, but still roaring in laughter as Gojo almost chokes on his third kebab.
“Try this,” Gojo said, shoving a stick of candied fruit under Shoko's nose.
“I don’t want your leftovers,” she muttered, unimpressed. But after a bit of nagging she took it anyway, quietly unwrapping it and biting through the sugar shell and pretending it wasn’t good—just to spite him.
Fireworks bloomed overhead—white, then red, then a scatter of gold that turned every face strange and beautiful. For a moment, Shoko saw them like strangers: Suguru haloed in crimson, Gojo’s grin carved bright in the dark, and you tilting your head back to watch the sky like it would never fall.
The boom of the next firework swallowed her thoughts, and she let it.
❀
Shoko always thought the end would come like a firework—loud, blinding, impossible to ignore.
But it hadn’t. It came instead like fog. Slow, creeping, impossible to trace where it started.
By the time they noticed it was already over, the fog of it had already filled the room.
She thinks she can trace every lamentable moment of her life back to that August of 2006.
Gojo, Geto, you and the star plasma vessel mission she hadn’t been a part of. When she thinks back on it, she can’t exactly understand what happened in that week to have changed the course of their entire lives. Was it before Gojo died in a bloody mess? Was it after he came back, blood-stained, eyes dark, buzzing with an energy that she acknowledged—with bated breath—had finally crossed to godhood?
Gojo was stronger. Far stronger. Six eyes sharp as knives, his cursed technique threading into infinity like it had always been waiting for him to catch up. The elders watched him now—not as a student, but as a threat. You noticed it too. Started staying closer to him, stepping between him and the higher-ups during briefings.
“They're grooming him,” you told Shoko once. “Not for leadership. For war.”
Shoko looked at you—at the calluses on your hands, the scar on your jaw you hadn’t let Shoko heal.
“They're grooming all of us.”
You didn’t deny it anymore.
❀
There are softer things that year, where Shoko can’t remember the exact moment things changed.
Only that something had slowed, gone hazy. Like the last layer of frost on a windowpane, melting so gently it almost went unnoticed.
It felt like fall had come early. The leaves on the tech’s old trees went gold and red like they’d been waiting to burn. There were still wounds to be tended to, and there were still things they couldn’t talk about from the end of that summer.
But Gojo had grown taller over the summer, like his body had finally remembered he came from giants. His hair had grown shaggier, uniform didn’t fit right anymore, and he refused to ask for a new one. Shoko watched him adjust his cuffs every morning like it was some kind of ritual, then pretend not to notice when you offered him your spare hair tie for his sleeves. He took it without meeting your eyes, and wore it like armor.
Shoko noticed the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way that you had started lingering after training, towel around your neck, laughter caught in your throat like a secret. Or the way Gojo stood straighter when you walked into a room, blinking too slow, like he hadn’t meant to look. Maybe it was how the two of you had stopped fighting in that way you used to—loud, fast, like lightning cracking open the sky—and started teasing instead. Light, easy, ridiculous. Like you didn’t know how else to be near each other.
Shoko noticed it in the quiet, in the pauses between conversations, and in the way you touched your own wrist absentmindedly whenever Gojo spoke, like grounding yourself. She noticed how Gojo—always so proud of his attention span—started forgetting what he was saying mid-sentence if you laughed too loud.
“You're obvious,” Shoko told you one evening, as you stood in front of her dorm mirror brushing your teeth. It was practically your dorm now, too.
You spat into the sink. “He’s worse.”
“You're both insufferable.”
“He’s insufferable. I'm charming.”
“He told Nanami you punched him in the throat during training.”
“I did, so what? He totally deserved it.”
“I just can’t believe he let you in the first place.” Shoko shook her head, and thought of the infinity around Gojo, the invisible barrier between him and humanity. The thing that put him closer to godliness. A smile curling at her lips despite herself, understanding the implications of Gojo turning it off around you. “And yet you still gave him your last Milkis at lunch.”
“It was strawberry-flavored.” a shrug. “I don't like strawberry.”
Shoko didn’t say anything else. Didn’t point out the way you lingered when Gojo wasn’t around, or how your voice got quieter when you talked about him. Didn’t say that she’d seen Gojo staring out windows when he thought no one was watching, fingers tapping the rhythm of your laugh on his thigh.
There was something sacred about their closeness. Something fragile and half-formed, still soft at the edges. Shoko didn’t want to break it by naming it too soon.
She just watched. Just remembered.
Suguru was the only one who never commented.
He saw it too—of course he did—but he never overtly teased, only gave a knowing smile quietly to Gojo who would glare back, but never really poked at the obvious tension between the two. Maybe because he understood it, or maybe because he was the kind of person who noticed things and let them be.
He grew quieter that fall, but not in a way that worried her yet. It was more like he was watching, gathering. She felt like something was shifting behind his eyes, too slow and too early to name yet. He still joked with Gojo, still helped Haibara with his footwork, still spent long evenings reading next to Shoko in the common room without saying a word.
But he didn’t smile as easily. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would close his eyes like the world was too loud.
Shoko didn’t ask. She didn’t know how.
Maybe she should have.
❀
It's late November and the mission went fine.
They exorcised the spirit, cleansed the space, burned the remains. But it was what happened after that stuck.
They stayed overnight in a small inn at the base of the mountain, just two rooms—boys in one, girls in the other. The floors were tatami, and the air smelled like cedar and sulfur from the hot springs nearby. it should’ve been peaceful.
But Shoko couldn’t sleep.
You lay on your side, back to Shoko, eyes open in the dark. She listened to the wind outside, the drip of water from a leaky faucet, the quiet hum of something that felt like change.
And then, sometime past midnight, you slipped out of bed.
Shoko didn’t move, just watched the shadow cross the room, slide the door open, and vanish into the hallway.
It wasn't long before Gojo left too.
You weren’t subtle. Maybe you didn’t want to be.
Shoko waited a full minute before getting up. Her feet were cold on the floor. She didn’t know what she expected—to interrupt them, to tease them. She heard echoes in the hallway, but couldn’t make out a word. Just the shuffling of feet, and the wind blowing against the door.
But when she found the two of you — you weren’t touching.
You were standing in the snow-dusted garden outside the inn, facing each other, breathing visible in the cold. Your arms were folded tight across your chest. Gojo's hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets.
You weren’t saying anything, but she felt this air around you two. In your distance, in the heavy breathing and puffs of smoke between your lips, like you had run out of words to say.
Now, you were just looking.
And maybe that was worse. More intimate, somehow.
Shoko didn’t move. She stayed hidden by the shadows, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
Then you reached forward.
Your hands touching Gojo’s cheek, just barely.
He flinched.
Not away. Not exactly. Just — startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.
Shoko could see it then—how scared he was. Not of you, but of what it meant to want something in a world like theirs.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you said quietly.
Gojo looked at you. “I should.”
“You never say anything you don’t mean.”
“I don’t know how to mean this.”
A pause. Your breath hitched.
“Just don’t look away.”
He didn’t.
And she watched as you leaned in, closing your eyes for your first kiss. How his lashes had brushed against your cheek as he let you pull him in, his hand finding its way to gently hold your waist.
Shoko had left after that — witnessing a moment so intimate she felt shivers just watching it, intruding in it. Or maybe it was the cold that got her. But, she waited to sleep until you went back inside. Waited until you crawled into bed beside her again, colder than before, but smiling softly into the dark.
Neither of you said a word.
Shoko stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how everything had already started to change.
❀
The next few weeks felt warmer, somehow. Like something had opened in their group that wasn’t there before. Not just between Gojo and you—but all of them.
They trained harder. Laughed more. She wanted to believe they were healing the cracks from that August, that the feeling of finality sinking into her wasn’t real.
Even Suguru seemed lighter again. He stopped frowning at the radio when the news came on. Started humming again while he read. He taught Haibara about a complicated binding technique in the training yard one afternoon and let out a laugh when their junior tried it himself. There was a moment—a brief, impossible moment—where Shoko almost believed in forever.
They sat on the school rooftop one evening, all four of them, sky streaked violet and pink and gold. Someone had brought a speaker, and someone else had brought a bottles of various soda. Music played low. She noticed that you had rested your head on Gojo's shoulder, and he didn’t move, just leaned into it like gravity.
Suguru was telling a story about a curse he saw shaped like a crab. Shoko laughed. The wind was cool and sweet. The world didn’t feel like it was ending yet.
“You ever think we’ll get out of this?” Suguru asked, voice low, cigarette between his lip.
“Out of what?” you asked.
“This. Jujutsu. Destruction and death and chaos—whatever it is.”
Gojo stared at the sky. “No.”
“Maybe,” Shoko took the cigarette from Geto’s lips, and took a puff. “but not whole.”
They sat in silence for a long time after that.
The sun set, and Shoko watched the light disappear behind Gojo’s glasses, behind your smile, behind the quiet curve of Suguru's mouth.
It felt like a beginning.
But all she could think about was how beautiful things always seemed, right before they broke.
iv. march, 2007
It’s cruel to her, how the missions only seemed to get worse after that.
Higher-ranked, more volatile, more death. More nights in strange towns with blood on their hands. They started seeing each other less and less. After last August, in the aftermath of Riko Amani’s death, Gojo had been assigned onto more missions alone—acknowledged for the first time in finality as the strongest. Started carrying all the mission files himself, memorizing them down to the street corners. Shoko started collecting more tools, more supplies, more sutures for the clinic at the tech, where she stayed more often than not now. She stopped wearing earrings because they got in the way of her face mask. You had learned how to kill without hesitation.
And she swore Suguru never complained about the missions he went on alone. But now he flinched when they passed playgrounds. Tensed when civilians asked for help. The curses he swallowed grew sharper, crueler. nastier, he had once told her late one night, the word leaving his tongue like he had coughed up bile.
“Don't let them suffer,” he said once, without blinking. “Fast is better.”
Shoko nodded.
She didn’t ask what he meant.
❀
The last mission they took together was in the early spring of 2007, before the start of their third year.
A cult in Hiraizumi—dark rituals, civilian disappearances, cursed users hiding behind holy symbols and incense. They traveled light, only the four of them. It felt like the early days again, for a moment—suitcases and jokes and Gojo making dumb puns as they checked into a cheap ryokan.
But the mission itself was ugly.
Children locked in closets. Blood on the temple floors. Curses formed from fear and starvation, clinging to walls like rot.
Suguru lost control halfway through.
Not of his technique. Not of his mind. But of his restraint.
He killed too quickly. Didn’t wait for surrender, and didn’t leave the last cursed user breathing long enough to answer questions.
Gojo grabbed him by the collar after.
“What the hell was that?”
“They were killing kids.”
“They were running away.”
“And they would’ve kept going.”
Gojo's hand tightened. his voice dropped. “We follow orders.”
“Do we?”
Suguru's eyes burned—hotter than Shoko had ever seen. “Whose orders, Satoru?”
Shoko watched you step between them. A hand on Gojo's chest. Your voice low. “Not here.”
Gojo dropped his hand, and Suguru had turned and walked away, scoffing.
The two of them didn’t speak again the rest of the trip.
❀
Haibara died not long after.
He had been bright—sun-bright, laughter-bright, too-young-to-fall-bright. He said “good morning” like it mattered. He addressed them all formally even when they told him to stop. He sparred with you like he was dancing, ate lunch with his mouth full, had dreams about being a sorcerer who saved people and meant it.
The mission was supposed to be simple.
Shoko remembers the call. A cursed womb, grade 3, nothing extraordinary. She remembers you saying, “they’re strong. Nanami'll be with him. they’ll be fine.”
They weren’t.
What came back wasn’t a body, not really. It was a mess of limbs and red and something too silent to be the Haibara she had known.
Nanami carried him. Wouldn’t let go, even as his uniform soaked a darker shade from the blood.
Shoko stitched Haibara's body together with shaking hands—not to save him. Just so his mother could recognize his face.
You threw up in the courtyard after the funeral. Gojo didn’t speak. Suguru didn’t cry.
Grief had finally split the group like glass under pressure—fracture lines running between them, invisible until the light hit just right.
Gojo got louder. More obnoxious, more ridiculous. He made jokes during meetings, fell asleep in class, tripped over his own feet just to make you laugh.
And you did laugh. Loud and real and reckless. But there was something sharp underneath it. A glint in your voice. A kind of defiance.
Suguru got even quieter.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that meant calm or ease.
This was the kind that clung to him. That narrowed his eyes when he passed civilians on the street. That curled his lip when they reported to elders who hadn’t lifted a hand in battle in years. That made him look at Haibara’s photo like it was a question that would never be answered.
Shoko felt it most at night.
Suguru used to accidentally fall asleep reading in the common room, head tilted back, glasses slipping. Now, he sat up long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at nothing, fingers curled like he was still gripping a weapon.
She said something once. Tried to, at least.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, as they stood in the hall one night. She can’t recall why, or where, but she remembers this moment because there has never been a part of her that hadn’t wished she had pushed back harder.
Suguru looked at her.
His smile was soft, fake. “Yeah.”
By then she knew he was gone.
❀
A couple weeks later, in the midst of an August heatwave — Suguru Geto disappears.
He left a note on the dorm kitchen table and a photo of the four of them.
Just one sentence: I can't do this anymore.
The rest was silence.
Shoko found it first. She read it twice, then sat down at the table and stared at the handwriting until you walked in and asked where everyone was.
Gojo didn’t say anything after meeting with Yaga. Didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the morning.
Though it’s the last time she sees Suguru, she understands this is it.
She had heard, just a little after reading his final note, what he’d done. A town massacred, burned to the ground and cursed residuals that couldn’t have been anyone’s but the man next to her — his own mother and father killed by their only son’s hands.
Yet here he was, lighting her cigarette for her and laughing. At least she could pretend for a moment that this didn’t have to be over.
She gives Gojo a call and waits with Suguru for his best friend to arrive and she wonders if Gojo could change the outcome of this. If Gojo Satoru could save Suguru Geto from himself. But another glance up at him, long hair disheveled, the purpled skin under his eyes deeper than she’s ever seen, and the emptiness behind his smile, that she realizes she doesn’t know the man next to her. Not anymore. Maybe not at all.
So he waves goodbye, and she nods and lets the smoke cloud her lungs.
And she never spoke to him again.
❀
That winter, the sky felt heavier. The air full of ghosts.
You stopped wearing bright colors. Started sleeping in your uniform, like you expected to be called into battle at any second. Gojo trained until his hands bled, and didn’t let Shoko bandage them.
“What if he’s right?” he asked her once. His voice barely audible. “What if we’re just killing things to delay the inevitable?”
Shoko didn’t answer, because she didn’t know. (Because something in her still wanted to believe.)
But by the end of that year she had found herself alone more often.
In the morgue. On the roof. In the silence between patrols. She smoked less, not because she wanted to live longer. Just because it didn’t feel worth the taste anymore.
You had stopped talking about the future.
Gojo stopped calling himself the strongest.
They were eighteen then. Too young to have seen so much. Too old to unsee any of it.
v. 2008
The years felt blurry after.
Like the sky after a firework show, after the beauty of it wears and you are left with the remains. Of the sky billowed in smoke, and the ground covered in ash. Shoko remembers the firework show during the summer festival in their second year, how she had watched the lights change your faces. How when she thinks of Suguru, she remembers him back then, hair in a half bun, wearing a yukata, his profile cast under the red glow of fireworks.
Mission after mission. Report after report. Half-empty dorm rooms. Birthdays that passed unnoticed. Names that became numbers. More curses. More blood. Fewer friends.
By then she had stopped smoking entirely, not because she wanted to live. But because you had always hated the smell.
And for a long time after Suguru left, Shoko couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the morgue.
The lights were always too bright. The steel trays too cold. Her gloves slick with blood that would never dry. In the dream, you always walked in first—whole, alive, laughing. And Shoko would reach for you. Call your name. But you would just smile, step onto the autopsy table, and lie down.
“You're early,” Shoko would whisper.
“I know.” you would say.
Then the door would swing open, and Suguru would walk in next. But his face would be hollowed out, eyes dark like tunnels. He'd sit beside your body, light a cigarette, and say nothing at all.
Shoko always woke up with her hands clenched tight around the sheets, fingers aching.
❀
Gojo never talked about Suguru.
Not once.
Not even on that day all those years ago when he came back from the confrontation in Shinjuku with blood in his nails and grief in his eyes.
He got stronger. Faster. Untouchable.
The elders stopped looking at him like a student and started looking at him like their greatest tool. He didn’t flinch, just started smiling bigger, make louder jokes, wore sunglasses indoors, and flirted and teased and deflected.
Shoko could see it, thought. In the slump of his shoulders, or the way his laugh caught wrong in his throat.
He was grieving like a dam breaking. Slowly and inevitably.
But never where anyone could see.
You stayed close to him after that. Stopped being fire and became gravity. Quiet and steady. The only thing that could bring him back when he started spinning too fast. You were the one who waited outside meetings. The one who kicked open his door and pulled him out of bed on the days he refused to get up, muttering, “If you don’t move, I'll set your curtains on fire.”
He always moved. Shoko thinks that it’s less because he believed in your vague threats, and more because he just believed in you.
Shoko watched it all from the edge.
The way you stopped waiting for him to say how he felt. The way you just stood there—open, unwavering—until he stopped running.
The two of you never made it official. Not with labels. Not with grand declarations or anything, But Gojo started showing up late to meetings because he walked you home.
Shoko didn’t know if it was healing, but for a while, it was peace.
vi. april, 2009
Around this time, the Fushiguro’s arrived.
Megumi. Six years old. Too serious. Too quiet. walked around everyone like he was ready to hit, or be hit. His older sister, Tsumiki. Not older by much, just eight years old, but she was sunshine, warm and motherly beyond her years. Shoko saw that you took to her instantly, buying her hair clips and braiding her hair — showing her how to throw a punch if she ever needed to.
Gojo brought them to the school with a box of takeout and a stubborn glint in his eye. "Don't say anything weird,” he told you and shook. “He already thinks I’m an idiot.”
“He's not wrong,” you smiled, and Gojo pouted at you.
Shoko bent down to meet the boy’s eyes, unsure of what to say. “Hmm. What’s something you like?”
He shrugged, and gave her an unimpressed look. “I like dogs.”
“Me too,” she said. “They’re honest.”
That night, they all sat in the common room eating cold noodles. Gojo told a story about a cursed tanuki that stole his left shoe. Megumi didn’t laugh, but he leaned into his sister when she did. Shoko watched as he leaned by Gojo's side as the lights went out.
You and Gojo had opened your arms and made space for the two of them.
Or maybe you had filled in the spaces left behind.
❀
Gojo cooked more, and wasn't great on his first try, surprisingly. Shoko had to supervise so he didn’t poison anyone, and you would’ve eaten anything Gojo cooked, regardless.
Shoko watched as the four of them fell into something like a rhythm. Not a family. Not quite.
But something softer than she had become used to.
The kids brought color back to the halls when they came to visit. Laughter that didn’t feel borrowed. It wasn't like before—but nothing ever was.
Gojo had bought an apartment for Megumi and Tsumiki, and the two of you stopped by almost everyday that year. You and Gojo made bento boxes. You went on grocery runs. You argued over what show to watch on Saturday nights. When Shoko would come over, Tsumiki would beg to paint Shoko’s nails, and once she had given in with her nails painted badly in rainbow and glitter, and you and Gojo had made fun of her for weeks when Shoko didn’t wipe it off.
You stopped wearing your uniform outside missions. Started wearing sweaters with loose sleeves, earrings again, mismatched socks.
You started reading books and magazines and things that weren’t just mission reports. Bought a plant for their windowsill. Put post-it notes on the fridge.
Shoko found one once that said, “Satoru, if you forget to buy me dorayaki again, I swear to God.”
He forgot anyway, but he came back late that night with flowers.
Shoko watched from the couch as you opened the door, just to see you blinking down at the bouquet like it had grown a second head.
“They didn’t have dorayaki,” he said, sheepish. “But they had these.”
You didn’t speak—just grabbed the collar of his coat and stepped into the apartment hallway with him, shutting the door without looking.
Shoko looked away, and gave them the evening. She hung out with the kids, because they were cooler, and let them sleep on the couch watching movies.
It’s after they had fallen asleep, and you and Gojo were nowhere to be seen, that she sat on the balcony and watched the city lights flicker, listening to the hum of traffic into the night.
For the first time in months, she felt… full.
Not happy. Not yet healed.
But full, like maybe all her pieces had stopped rattling.
Just for now.
❀
She still worked long hours, because the clinic never slept.
New students. New injuries. New names she tried not to memorize.
She stitched and cut and stabilized and cleaned. Practiced her technique until it no longer felt like a gift but a reflex.
She stopped praying, though she had never been good at it anyway.
But every time a body came in, not yet cold, not yet gone, she held her breath.
Please, not them.
❀
They didn’t talk about the past. At least not often.
But sometimes, when you had already fallen asleep and the wind whistled through the hallways, Gojo would sit next to her on the balcony and say things in a tone older than his twenty years.
“He liked soba more than ramen. I never knew that.”
And Shoko would nod.
“He read faster than anyone,” she’d add. “even me.”
“He believed in this more than we did.”
“Yeah.”
Then silence.
Then the night.
Then the world turning, regardless.
❀
Shoko isn’t sure what time it is now, but it feels like a bit past midnight. In here, it’s just the two of you on the couch with the weight of exhaustion like a second blanket. The balcony door is half-open, and the September chill is blowing in softly. There’s a glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, that she keeps forgetting to drink, and you’ve got your legs tucked underneath you, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of those shirts that’s probably his — though neither of you ever acknowledges it out loud.
Shoko tips her head against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like it’ll tell her the future, and mutters, “I feel so old.”
You laugh, soft, incredulous. “We’re twenty-one.”
“Exactly. And yet my back feels like I’m fifty.” You give her a side glance, smiling.
“My back feels perfectly fine, granny.”
“That’s because you have two little minions who give you back massages whenever you ask. And they can’t say no because you house and feed them.”
You nudge her knee with your own, half-amused, half-affectionate. “They’d starve if it wasn’t for us.”
“They’d at least learn how to cook instant ramen properly,” she fires back, though her tone is fond. She knows it as well as you do—how Megumi sometimes falls asleep at the kitchen table with his homework still out, how Tsumiki always insists on washing the dishes even when her fingers are pruned from her bath. How the apartment has begun to feel not just like a place to sleep, but like the kind of home you were never supposed to have.
It makes her chest ache.
She glances at you again, more carefully this time. “You’re happy, right?”
You blink at her, then tilt your head like you don’t quite understand the weight of the question. “Happy?”
“You know what I mean.” Shoko shrugs, too casual. “With all this — and with him.”
There it is. Not accusatory, just curious, like she’s been holding this thought in her mouth for months, letting it turn over until it smoothed into something she could say without breaking it.
You’re quiet for a moment, your gaze lowering to the glass of wine you still haven’t touched. “It’s not simple.”
“Nothing ever is with him.” She huffs a small laugh, but she doesn’t look away from you.
“Sometimes,” you admit, your voice softer, “it feels like we’re still kids, sneaking out after curfew, daring each other to jump rooftops. And then sometimes I look at him and I feel like—” You break off, shaking your head as though it’s too fragile to name.
“Like what?”
You exhale slowly. “Like he already belongs to the world, and I’m just borrowing him for a while.”
That hits Shoko harder than she expects. She shifts on the couch, watching the way your fingers worry at the hem of your sleeve. There’s something unguarded in the way you say it, something that makes her throat tighten.
Shoko leans her head against the couch cushion, her glass dangling loosely from her fingers. “You talk like he’s a library book or something. Checked out, due back in three weeks.”
You laugh, though it’s small and tired. “Maybe that’s all love really is. Borrowing someone for as long as they’ll let you keep them.”
“Morbid.”
“Honest.” You glance at her, and your smile is crooked, fond. “You know him. He’s… a hurricane in human form. Everyone wants a piece of him, and half the time I feel like I’m just holding on, hoping he doesn’t blow past me.”
Shoko hums, noncommittal, but her eyes are sharp. “And yet you’ve been holding on for who knows how long. Most people can’t even last five minutes with him in a room.”
“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, though your lips curve. “He still leaves his socks everywhere. Still eats candy for breakfast if I don’t stop him. And he—” You pause, and the softness of your voice betrays you. “He still looks at me the same way he did when we were sixteen. Like he can’t believe I’m real.”
Shoko conceals her smile, and masks it with a sip of wine. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
“I think about it sometimes,” you admit. “If we hadn’t met so young. If we hadn’t been thrown together in that pressure cooker of a school — would it have still been him? Would he have still found me?”
Shoko stretches her legs out, her gaze slipping toward the ceiling. “I think he was always going to be yours, you know. Some things just… fix themselves in place before you even notice.”
You fall quiet, staring at the wine in your glass, watching the way the light fractures against it. When you speak again, it’s hushed. “I’m scared, Shoko. I– I think I’m scared of losing him. Of the day the world asks for more than he can give, and I have to watch him walk toward it anyway.”
Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She looks at you — really looks — the girl who grew up at her side, who always chose kindness even when it cost you. You, who Gojo has loved since he was growing into his height, awkward and half-feral with grief and brilliance. You, who still look at him like he’s worth the trouble.
Finally, she says, “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to wonder if you’d grow tired of him. If one day you’d realize it was too much.”
You blink at her, startled. “And now?”
Shoko shrugs, her expression softening. “Now I think — if anyone was ever built to love him, it was you. Stubborn, patient, stupidly brave. He’s impossible, but you’ve always made the impossible look easy.”
Your laugh catches in your throat, trembling somewhere between joy and sorrow. “Don’t make me cry, Shoko.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She lifts her glass in a lazy toast. “To you and him. To sixteen and twenty-one, and however long you can keep borrowing each other.”
You tap your glass gently against hers, the sound ringing low and warm. “To growing older.”
Shoko watches the way your face lights up at the thought, and takes a long sip from her glass. She tries for levity, though it comes out a little rough. “Well, if he breaks your heart, I get to kill him. That’s the rule.”
You laugh—really laugh this time, the kind that crinkles your eyes and warms the air between you. “You’d have to fight him first.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “He’s all bark. I’d win.”
“You’re funny, Shoko.” You smile a little sleepily, and lean your head against her shoulder, the way you used to when you were girls hiding from the elders in the back hallways of the clan compound. She doesn’t move, just lets you settle there, the weight of you a reminder that some things never change.
There’s a long stretch of silence, broken only by the city hum outside. Then, almost shyly, Shoko says, “Well, I hope he loves growing old with you as much as I loved growing up with you.”
You still against her, then let out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t push. That’s never been your language. Instead, she reaches for her wine, takes another sip, and adds, almost casually, “And if he doesn’t, then screw him. You’ll still have me.”
You laugh again, watery this time, and lean closer. “Always.”
❀
In the mornings, she drank coffee alone.
In the evenings, she liked to come to your apartment to the sound of laughter, and nonsense on the TV. To the smell of your cooking, which had gotten better than Gojo’s after a couple months. To Tsumiki and her hands that grabbed Shoko’s wrists and led her to the dining table. To Megumi, who Gojo tried so hard to make smile at his awful jokes.
Sometimes, she let herself believe it could last.
Sometimes, she let herself want more.
That was enough.
vii. 1997
When they were seven, you and Shoko built a grave for a bird.
They’d found it after a storm — a small thing, all bones and feathers, collapsed in the mud beneath a persimmon tree in the compound’s garden. You crouched beside it, poked it with a stick. “Is it sleeping?”
“No,” shoko said. “It's dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Its chest isn’t moving.”
“How do you know?”
Shoko didn’t answer. Just knelt down, tiny hands damp with soil, and began to dig.
They buried it beneath a square stone, lined the edges with pebbles. You picked wildflowers and bundled it with twine from the kitchen. Shoko pressed her fingers to the earth and whispered something she didn’t really understand — a wish, maybe, or a prayer.
They sat there until the wind died down, until your mother called them in, until the sky turned the color of ash.
“We should’ve saved it,” you whispered, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
Shoko didn’t say it, but she knew it then: sometimes you’re too late.
❀
january, 2014
The call comes at 2:19 in the afternoon, a higher-up’s voice, clipped and formal.
“She’s been recovered. We’re bringing you the body now.”
The world doesn’t spin, it just stills. Though Shoko sits at her desk for a long time after, the phone silent in her lap, her hands empty.
Shoko doesn’t ask whose, because there’s only one person left.
She's already standing.
Her coat’s already on.
Her tea’s gone cold. The light in the infirmary has gone muddled and slanted, painting long shadows over everything like a warning.
Her hands move automatically. Clipboard.Pen. Gloves.
The air starts to feel static.
The mission was supposed to be easy. “A clean-up.” A second sweep.She repeats, and repeats. Yet how many other times has she thought this?
You weren’t supposed to go alone, but someone backed out last minute, and you were never one to wait around.
Grade one curse. Warehouse District.
Shoko remembers the briefing because she was in the room. Because you had smiled — tilted your head, chewing gum, loose-limbed and tired. “I’ll be home quick.”
❀
Shoko gets a morbid sense of déjà vu when she sees you laid out on the table, covered with a sheet pulled too high.
But when she sees the body, it doesn’t feel like you.
Not you. Born five days apart. The soldier to her healer. Balance, the clanheads had once called them. One to make and unmake.
Not the same girl who used to share her shampoo, or talk in her sleep. Not the girl who burned bright and reckless and kissed Gojo Satoru like it was the only truth left in the world.
The word balance keeps running through her head as she stares at your face. So still.
No, it wasn’t you. This body is cold, and broken in ways Shoko doesn’t have the words for.
Her gloves are on. Her cursed energy thrums at her fingertips.
But it’s all useless.
The wounds are clean. Carved into you like declarations. Chest collapsed, Ribs fractured inward. Shoko's already cataloging the report in her head. Trachea crushed. Internal hemorrhaging. Cursed lacerations across the sternum.
Then she moves.
Like a surgeon. like a healer with something to prove, even if there’s no one left to prove it to.
She doesn’t try to bring you back. Not really. She's seen too many bodies to believe in resurrection.
She stitches muscle back together like it’ll matter. Seals split skin. Brushes blood from your scalp. A ritual, maybe. or penance. And as she runs her fingers through the ends of your hair, she thinks of being five years old when you had taught her how to braid it.
When she feels her vision blur she whispers, “don’t be stupid,” just like you used to.
Her voice doesn’t tremble until the end.
Too late, she thinks, and she sees a dead bird cupped in your small hands. Wildflowers wrapped in twine.
Too late, too late, too late.
She writes the report with mechanical precision.
Her handwriting doesn’t shake.
She signs it, and place it on top of the clipboard.
Then folds your arms across your chest, straightens your uniform collar, uses a towel to wipe a smudge from your chin, and the drawer of the morgue clicks shut with a hollow finality.
And she finally lets herself cry.
Just once.
Quietly.
Like a confession.
❀
Shoko takes the train without really knowing why she’s chosen this route over the school car. After she explained what she was doing, Ijichi had told her he could drive her with a solemn look in his eyes, always so insistent. She had declined, so now she sits by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, the tunnel lights strobing against her reflection until her own face starts to look like a stranger’s.
She's still in her work clothes, still smells faintly of antiseptic and smoke, and the folder in her lap feels heavier than it should. She keeps one hand pressed flat to its cover like she’s holding a wound closed.
People filter in and out of the train at each stop, their chatter muted, just faint shapes moving through her periphery.
She doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The only thing she lets herself look at is the glass, and the snow on the other side of it—each flake blurring against the motion of the city, small and perfect and already gone.
Yaga had told her, after, that Satoru wasn’t told yet, but she wonders if he already knows. If some part of him—whatever raw, uncanny instinct makes him the strongest—registered it the moment your heart stopped. Maybe he felt it like an earthquake deep in his bones, the sudden, wrong absence in the air. Maybe he was sitting on their couch, turning toward the door without knowing why.
Her mind drifts, unspooling memory:
Summer afternoons, the four of them sitting on the roof with drinks to cool the sweat on them. Your hair tangled from the wind. Gojo leaning back on his palms, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head so she could clearly see the way his gaze snagged on you like he didn’t even notice he was staring. The quiet shift over months from banter to something slower, gentler, like they’d started speaking a language that Shoko didn’t know but could still recognize in the spaces between words.
A late night after a mission, all of them exhausted, half asleep in the common room. Shoko had woken to see them leaning together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his hand resting loosely on yours. The kind of touch that wasn’t accidental.
There had been other moments—quieter, private ones she hadn’t meant to see—that told her this was the thing that had changed him. He'd always been brilliant, unbearable, untouchable. but with you, his edges softened. He laughed differently. He listened.
Now she wonders how much of that she’s about to take from him in a single sentence.
The train slows into her stop, brakes screeching. She rises, folder in hand. She doesn’t know why she carries the hardcopy—maybe it makes it feel more real, more final, more like evidence of something she already failed to prevent.
She had stopped by a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes and a small black lighter for the first time in almost six years. There’s now a cigarette clamped between her teeth, though she hasn’t lit it.
Snow is falling.
It catches in her hair, her sleeves, her lashes.
When she reaches their apartment building, she stops at the bottom of the stairs and thinks about turning around. But she doesn’t. She climbs each step like she’s approaching a grave.
The light’s on under the door.
She raises her hand.
And knocks.
❀
The door opens almost immediately.
And for a second — just one, flickering, incandescent second — Shoko sees the look on his face.
Gojo Satoru opens the door like he expects you to be behind it. Not Shoko. Not grief incarnate. But you. The woman he loves. The only thing in the world that could quiet his mind and hold his entire future in her palms.
He opens the door like someone in love. Like someone relieved. Like someone who still dares to hope.
And then he sees Shoko.
And everything stops.
His face doesn’t fall.
It freezes.
She watches the hope die in his expression. It doesn’t vanish — it dies. Like something physically collapsing inside of him. A structure caving in, silently, under its own weight.
His shoulders lock, and she watches his jaw tense. He doesn’t move aside to let her in, doesn’t say a word.
Just stares.
He looks at her like he had known this would be how it ended all along, but still — still, deep down, some piece of him had been holding on. Had left the light on. Had made her side of the bed. Had waited.
Shoko clears her throat.
The words don’t want to come.
"I’m sorry—she’s gone.”
That's all it takes.
Gojo doesn’t flinch.
But she sees it in the way his hand clenches around the edge of the door. The way his breath leaves him — sharp, shallow, wrong. The way he looks past her, like he’s trying to reframe the hallway, the scene, the moment.
Like maybe he can rewind it.
Undo it.
See you behind her, scolding her for delivering bad news so bluntly.
But Shoko is alone, and the silence is loud.
He steps back, and turns.
Walks into the apartment like everything inside was knocked over.
Shoko follows and shuts the door behind her.
The apartment is dim. Bathed in soft warm light. The heater hums gently in the corner, and there are two mugs on the table, one empty and one half-drunk. Your sweater is still hanging over the back of the couch, sleeves inside out. Your boots are by the door. The windows are covered by sheer white curtains, but the shade of blue that appears just after sunset peeks through, framing the room the same color as melancholy.
Shoko wants to scream.
Instead, she places the folder on the table.
Neither of them look at it.
She taps the folder once, not to push him, but to make its presence undeniable.
“Are you going to read it?”
His back is still to her. She can see the angle of his spine through the thin cotton of his shirt, every muscle tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
With no hesitation, “No.”
Shoko expected that answer, but she still feels something drop in her chest.
“You sure? It’s not… it’s not just medical jargon. I kept it clean. No gore.”
He turns his head just enough for her to see one sharp eye over his shoulder.
“You want me to read the autopsy for the love of my life?”
She pauses, feeling herself hold her breath.
“I want you to know what happened,” she says, voice level. “Exactly what happened. Without the stories you’ll tell yourself later.”
He scoffs—a sound halfway between disbelief and exhaustion—and shakes his head.
“The story I want is that you’re lying.”
Silence.
He pushes away from the counter, crosses to the table. His height makes the space between them smaller without him even trying. He puts a hand on the folder like he might open it—thumb brushing the edge, fingers curling.
And then he just… freezes.
Shoko watches him, and for the first time she sees it—not the usual walls, the sarcasm, the easy dismissal. This is different. This is a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s nothing but rocks and cold water below.
“I can't,” he says finally, and it’s not defiance. It's quiet. almost gentle.
“Why?”
he swallows, eyes still on the folder.
“Because the second I read it, it’s over. She's gone in ink. In numbers. In your handwriting.” he glances up at her, and there’s no shield in his expression now. “If I don't read it, she’s just… late coming home.”
Shoko's throat tightens.
For a moment, she wants to tell him she understands. That she’s done the same—taken certain pages out because the words make her feel sick. But she doesn’t. She just nods, takes the folder back, tucks it under her arm again.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
He’s not moving.
Not breathing, maybe.
His hand rests on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright and she watches his shoulders shake.
Once.
Then still again.
His face is unreadable.
But his eyes — god, his eyes.
Shoko has known him for more than a decade, has seen him bloodied and laughing and blind with pain and victory. But she has never seen him like this.
Not even after Suguru.
Not even after Toji.
This isn’t rage.
This isn’t despair.
This is something else.
Something jagged. Something bottomless.
He looks at her like she’s the executioner. Like she didn’t just bring the news — but she made it true. But maybe, in some way, he’s right to feel that way.
“You’re sure that she’s—?” he asks, voice quiet. She could’ve mistaken his tone for desperation.
Shoko nods.
That's when it happens.
He laughs.
Short, ugly, and bitter.
An instinct, like flinching.
He runs a hand through his hair. Leans back against the counter.
The quiet settles like dust.
Shoko sits down on the couch. something crackles beneath her — one of your notebooks. She picks it up, flips it open without thinking.
The last page is filled with sketches. a little cartoon version of Gojo, grinning, speech bubble saying “have you seen my honey?”
Her throat tightens.
She doesn’t speak.
“I thought I had more time,” he says. Shoko doesn’t have it in her to speak.
“I wanted to take her to Okinawa again. Not for a mission this time. Just because.”
He closes his eyes.
“She never got to see it in winter. She would’ve liked the cold.”
And she stays the night on their couch. Like old times, except there is no wine and no laughter and your warmth isn’t beside her. Shoko never really registered that she’ll never see you again. Even now, it feels like you’ll call her at any moment and ask her if she wants a drink.
But that first night without you, she doesn’t think she could really fall asleep.
And he doesn’t really cry.
But in the morning, he makes coffee with hands that won’t stop shaking.
She drinks hers cold, and so does he. But she watches him press your mug to his lips and set it down again, like it burned him.
❀
august, 2014
Gojo is twenty four, and he’s older than he was meant to be. More tired than he lets on, and somehow still waiting for something that already ended.
Sometimes, when it’s late, and the city is loud, and the stars don’t show themselves—Shoko catches him leaning against the doorway of his apartment balcony, looking at the buildings and cars and passerbys like he’s trying to remember the shape of your face.
And that, she thinks, is love.
Not flowers.
Not vows.
Not even the waiting.
But the remembering.
The carrying.
The way his world stopped. The way he never quite leaves the doorway, just in case you might still come home to him.
viii. 2015
Grief, when it lingers long enough, becomes routine.
Shoko wakes the same way every morning: early, cold. the city a dull hum outside her window. The kettle clicks on. She measures out coffee. Drinks it black, because that’s how you liked it, and then cooks konnyaku because you hated it.
The irony keeps her company.
The mornings are always quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and stays.
And Nanami leaves the Jujutsu world around that time.
Quietly. Respectfully. Without fuss.
He came to her clinic on a Tuesday, knocked once, sat down across from her, and said, "I'm leaving.”
She didn’t ask why, because she felt like she already knew.
He was twenty three and already looked like he’d seen the end of the world twice.
“You'll be good,” she said softly. “Too good for this place.”
Nanami looked away. “I just want to live like a person.”
She envied him for thinking it was still possible.
Before he left, he placed a small paper-wrapped gift on her desk.
Inside was a lighter, clean, silver, unused.
She held it in her palm for a long time that night.
But she didn’t smoke.
Not yet.
❀
She sees Gojo more often these days.
Not because they talk more, and not because they seek each other out. Just because there’s no one else left.
They don’t need to make plans anymore. They just end up in the same places. The clinic. The faculty room. The convenience store on that street with the broken traffic light.
Sometimes he brings her canned coffee. Never says anything when he hands it to her.
She drinks it anyway.
It’s the only thing he offers that she can still take.
And he laughs a little more now, but it’s not the same.
When he does, it’s wrong. Jagged. Like something trying to escape from under his skin. It reminds her that he’s still grieving, even when he tells her “he’s over it.”
The students adore him. Still think he’s invincible, and think the blindfolds and wit and charm are who he really is.
But Shoko knows better.
❀
december, 2017
Suguru's death didn’t come like she expected, though to her, Suguru Geto had died the August they were seventeen.
From the outside, he went out in flame and fury.
But then again, it feels like he went out quietly. Gently. By Gojo’s own hands.
Because, in the end, that was the only way it could’ve happened.
Not in hatred or vengeance, but in recognition of what they’d been. Of what they’d lost. Of the thin line between who you are and who you become when the world stops making sense.
“It was quick,” Gojo told her afterward, his voice steady, eyes blown wide with something far beyond pain.
Shoko believed him. Not because she trusted the words, but because she trusted the silence between them.
❀
She thinks of Suguru now more than she admits.
Remembers how he used to hum under his breath while taking notes. How he’d hand her highlighters during meetings without looking. How he used to let them braid his hair on missions just to make them smile.
Remembers the way he stood the last time she saw him, on the night of the cursed parade—back straight, curses curling around him like smoke, eyes tired in a way that made her want to scream.
He broke long before he died.
Shoko knows this.
She also knows he would’ve been a wonderful teacher.
If the world had been kinder, and if someone had stopped to tell him that softness wasn’t weakness. That wanting to save people didn’t make him naïve.
That watching them die wasn’t his fault.
❀
Gojo comes to dinner sometimes.
Not often or predictably. Sometimes he just knocks, steps inside, doesn’t take his shoes off properly, and drops onto her couch like he owns the place.
She used to yell at him for that, but now she just lets him.
He eats whatever she makes. Doesn’t complain, even when it’s instant ramen or cold rice or nothing at all.
They don’t talk much during those nights.
But sometimes, he falls asleep.
And sometimes, she covers him with the old blanket you used to use when you were over — just because. Just to remember what it felt like to care for someone who was still breathing.
There's one night that she remembers, after a long day of treating a couple injured sorcerers in the midst of a mission, that she finds him already waiting.
In the kitchen, cutting vegetables.
“What are you doing?” she asks, flatly.
“Trying to give you a break,” he says.
“By mutilating my carrots?”
“They fought back.”
She puffs a breath from her nose and smiles.
It’s the closest she’s come to laughing in days.
He makes curry. It's too spicy. The rice is slightly undercooked — but it’s not half bad.
She eats every bite, and doesn’t thank him for showing up.
They’re not close, not in the way people imagine. They don’t tell each other secrets. They don’t hug. They don’t reminisce out loud. Their bond lies in the memory of what it meant to be sixteen and still whole. Of how it felt watching the strongest boy in the room slowly learn how to be gentle. Of seeing him break and build and break again.
Of surviving the wreckage together.
He keeps her from vanishing. She keeps him from shattering.
They exist near each other.
Orbiting.
Keeping each other tethered.
❀
Shoko's the only one who doesn’t have a grave.
Not really.
Haibara's is now marked in a clean Kyoto cemetery. Suguru's ashes were never recovered, but there’s a stone for him outside his old temple. You have a simple plaque under the oak tree they used to study beneath.
Shoko visits them all, but she doesn’t linger.
Because it’s not the places that hold them.
It’s the way she still turns her head when someone says “Geto” in a briefing. It’s the way she keeps chopsticks in her drawer for four, not one. It's the way she wakes from a dream, disoriented and reaching for an image of herself, of when her hair was cut to her chin and she is surrounded by people who were once her home — before she remembers that no one’s coming.
Though, there's a new photo on her desk now.
Four teenagers. Uniforms on and grins wide.
Gojo has his eyes closed. Suguru is pretending to look annoyed. You’re flipping off the camera. Shoko is mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes crinkled.
She doesn’t remember who took it.
Doesn’t remember what they were laughing at.
But she leaves it there.
Next to the medical files and the pills and the list of new students.
It’s a reminder — not of who they were, but that they were. That at one point in time, the four of them had existed together. That at some point, that was all that mattered.
ix. december 24, 2018
The first snow falls unceremoniously. No warning and no wind to carry it.
Just flakes, slow and fat, drifting sideways over the rooftops of Shinjuku like ash from something that’s already burned.
Shoko watches it from the roof.
She doesn’t move.
Not yet.
It's the holidays, and she hates this time of year. There’s too much pretending, too many bright windows, too many mouths grinning like the world hasn’t ended five times already.
This year, the snow comes early.
And with it—him.
She thinks the city is strange under snow. Not soft. Not pretty. Just muffled, hollowed out. Sirens echo longer. Footsteps vanish quicker. The skyline dissolves behind a white veil, lights blurring like bruises.
She walks through it alone. Past vending machines glazed in frost and power lines sagging beneath the weight. There are paper lanterns swaying over shuttered storefronts, their glow smudged and dim.
Her boots crunch the snow like something brittle and alive. She isn’t wearing gloves. She likes the cold biting at her skin. It feels honest.
She finds him in the square.
Tall. Unmovable. Eyes like winter distilled into glass.
He's facing Sukuna, and there’s no backup. No panic. No speeches or horns sounding in the dark. Just two gods standing where no man should be.
She doesn’t call his name or break the silence. Only stands at the edge of it all, smoke slipping from her mouth, her eyes dry as bone.
He knows she’s there.
He doesn’t turn.
But he tilts his chin, barely, like a gesture carved out of stone.
And she understands, like she did all those years ago in August, when Suguru Geto had lit her cigarette. When he smiled and waved and she had turned away, for the last time.
That this is the end.
Not just of him. Not just of this fight.
But of everything that tethered them to a time when living felt possible.
Springtime in Jujutsu Tech. Sunlight tangled in white hair. You, singing too loudly, Suguru sighing like the world rested in his lungs. Sandos split in half. Train cars rattling at dusk. Leaves falling as soft as promises they never kept.
All of it.
Ending here.
Under a sky in a city stripped down to bone.
He burns too bright, even now. Bends space like a god, cuts air like a blade, shoulders the infinite and makes it look like art. And still—Sukuna is cruel. patient. inevitable.
Shoko watches as it begins: sharp, merciless, a brilliance that blinds and dies just as quickly.
She sees him hold and hold and hold—until he doesn’t.
He doesn’t scream.
He just folds.
Quietly.
Finally.
And the moment he hits the ground, the world doesn’t shatter.
But something in her does.
Everything slows.
The air thickens. Her breath fogs in front of her. Her hands are shaking, not from fear, but because she’s remembering. Nostalgia has always had its way of killing her, of creeping up on her and leaving her feeling sick. There is nothing left to reminisce now, as the last remaining part of her youth lies split in half in the show.
❀
The lab smells like steel and antiseptic, like every failure she’s ever catalogued. Fluorescent lights hum above her, sickly and bright, making her want to tear them out of the ceiling. She doesn’t. She just sets the instruments in place, lines up scalpels with the precision of someone who cannot afford to think.
Yuta lies unconscious on the table, his chest rising shallow, his pulse steady under her fingers. Now, she moves over to the drawer, where she placed Satoru’s body after stitching it back together. When she pulls back the sheets, she touches his hair once, brushes it off his forehead the way she remembers you used to when he was too stubborn to sleep.
Now she stands over him, and for the first time in years, her hands shake.
Not from inexperience. Not from fear of failure.
But from knowing that if she succeeds, it won’t really be him. And if she fails, she will have killed the last piece of her friend’s legacy with her own two hands.
Her cursed technique hums, steady, inexorable. Flesh unravels, rewrites. Neurons glimmer under her touch like constellations in a dark sky. She threads them carefully, patient as a weaver, until she feels something spark. Until she feels him.
Not Yuta, not exactly.
But not Satoru either.
Something between.
A gasp, sharp and wet, tears through the air. fingers twitch. The body arches against restraints she swore she wouldn’t use, but had to.
And then—eyes.
Too blue. Too familiar.
Her knees nearly buckle.
Because for an instant it feels like the dorms again and being a teenager. Then for an instant, she is twenty two again, and she watches Gojo lean down to talk to Tsumiki and Megumi, to give them reassurance, to protect their youth.
But then the boy blinks, coughs, chokes on his first words, staring at his hands. and Yuta is suddenly speaking to her, from Satoru Gojo’s lips.
And it’s not him.
It’s not him.
She forces her hands steady, swallows down the tremor in her throat. “Well, it worked.” She says, clinical, detached. Like she didn’t just carve open time and stitch it into something monstrous.
The snow keeps falling outside.
❀
Later, they ask her what happened. after transferring Yuta back to his own body, after dismantling Satoru, pieces lying on a table in her clinic — while Yuta walks, unscathed.
She gives them the facts. stripped bare, like bone. No softness. No poetry.
“Gojo fought. He fell. He's dead.”
Nothing more, because she refuses to let them dress it in glory, refuses to let them write a hymn where there was only silence.
He was tired.
He died.
And there’s nothing beautiful about that.
❀
She cremates him herself. In the same furnace that once took you. Her gloves are soaked by the end of it, dark and slick, but she doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t cry either. Not this time.
x. 青春
Tokyo feels different after. Like the city is holding its breath, waiting for something that will never come.
That evening, she stops beneath a streetlamp outside the school. Cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers. Snow catching in her hair, turning her into something ghostlike. Embers glow like memories in the dark.
For the first time in forever, she speaks. Not to anyone. Just to the cold, to the shadows that linger in her bones.
“You win.” she whispers.
The lamp above her flickers once, then dies.
And Shoko stands alone in the dark. Utterly. Finally. Completely.
Yet that night, she finds herself dreaming in color that she thought had left her vision over a decade ago now.
Dreams not of blood. Not of battle, or of bodies in a morgue, or the harsh December air.
But of summer. The old apartment bathed in sunlight. Then, you’re next to her, seated cross-legged, fingers deftly braiding Tsumiki’s hair. Gojo at the table, laughing, trying to pry the cap off a bottle of soda with his teeth while Suguru shakes his head, pretending not to smile at him. Somewhere on your balcony, Haibara’s voice rings out, bright with Nanami’s deeper murmur tucked inside it.
Shoko feels a weight in her hands, and forces herself to look down for just a moment just to see that she is holding a camera. She lifts it. Frames them in her viewfinder — her whole heart in one room. Click.
A still life. A stolen moment that no one else notices.
They’re too busy being alive.
(終わり) END.
When August comes, I don’t count the days
Transitory views from the subway train
How strange, when life unfolds this way
In the drift less zone, sky’s prone to stay off-gray
Clouds are omens too, fading at the rate
That most pleasant memories do
mae's note. first chapter of "of love & lesson plans" out tomorrow, and i pinky promise it won't be this sad </3 likes + reposts are appreciated, thank you soso much for reading
Out of a petty decision, you decide to trash on Osamu’s business, but the temptations were too great.
A/n: WC - 1.1k y/n is like a food review vlogger thing, Osamu has big fat biceps…Timeskip Osamu. Osamu isn’t the fav twin sorry I have a bias so don’t come for me too hard if its ooc 💔✌️
You woke up at 3:00 in the afternoon due to staying up late editing videos last night, and the only thing your stomach is craving is onigiri. You hit the upload button and send the video out, then throw on a mask and a black hoodie, hoping they’ll make a convincing disguise.
You’re about to walk into Onigiri Miya, the restaurant that you published an entire 5-minute video about, telling viewers not to go. Well, in your defense, the owner of Onigiri Miya has this super famous brother or whatever, and his fangirls always crowd up your favorite bakery to catch him walking out. So out of rage, you kind of uploaded a deinfluencing video. It’s a petty move, sure, but you had to do what you had to do, right? As much as you hate to admit it, the one time your curiosity got the better of you and you actually tried their onigiri, no other onigiri has ever hit the same.
So now here you are, dressed extremely suspiciously, about to wander into the long line at Onigiri Miya. The line in front of you wasn’t as bad as the other days, probably because the volleyball player Miya isn’t here today. After 5-ish minutes, it was almost your turn, but the cashier at the counter suddenly left and a man walked out.
Osamu Miya. The owner of this shop… (the same guy you also got into a heated argument with because he personally invited you to his shop to prove you wrong, and you, out of the pure hatred in your heart, ate everything he cooked only to tell him it was terrible). It’s fine, it will be fine. With your mask and hoodie disguise, there was no way he would recognize you. You’ve only seen him twice afterall.
Step.
Step.
“Uh, I would like—”
Your words were cut off as you suddenly made eye contact with the man.
“I will never come to this place again, she says.” Osamu looked at you with a mocking tone in his voice. “Perhaps the bakery down the street?”
“I, uh… my mom wanted your onigiri today.” You quickly looked back down at the display case, your eyes flying across the different flavors trying to find the one you wanted. “Is the unagi flavor still available?” you ask, your voice slightly quieter due to embarrassment.
“We never offered an unagi flavor?” Osamu asked, tapping his fingers against the display glass.
“Yes, you have. I remember when I came last time—”
“Oh, you remember? I thought our food was so forgettable that you would never come back.” Osamu chuckled slightly and tilted his head, waiting for your response.
“What if I also have a twin, and I’m not actually the one who uploads food reviews?” You laughed. Your hoodie felt too hot all of a sudden, and your mask was starting to suffocate you. You were questioning your choices. Damn it. You should’ve just settled for the left-overs in your fridge.
“Don’t lie to me now.” Osamu let out a full laugh and tapped on the counter. “We ran out today, but let me get you something else.”
“Oh.” The shock crossed your face before you realized it. You didn’t expect him to be this nice after your hate video on him got so many views… now you actually felt ashamed. This must be his new strategy. But before you could say anything, your stomach growled in approval. “Tuna mayo, then. Two. Thanks.”
“You don’t gotta look embarrassed. I still gotta serve you as my customer, y’know?” Osamu pressed a few buttons on the cash register and then stopped abruptly. “Actually, I got a deal for you.” Osamu leaned closer to you. You really needed to take this hoodie off. It was getting unbearably hot. “Go sit. I’ll bring you your food later.”
Strutting over to a seat next to the wall, it offered you a perfect spot to peek into the kitchen of Onigiri Miya. Osamu walked back in after taking orders from the next few customers. A pair of biceps came into view, along with an apron with the words ‘cooKING’ on it. Osamu really made most of the onigiri himself. Guess it’s not false advertising after all. All around the restaurant, pictures of Atsumu Miya hung on the walls, ranging from them in high school to his most recent magazine shoots. They looked identical, but Osamu just felt so much more approachable, like someone you’d want to talk to. As you zoned out looking at the picture of the Miya twins while Osamu still had silver hair, the very real, grown-up version of him sat down in front of you.
“So about that deal…” He set down your tray of food next to you, along with a drink you didn’t order. “The drink’s on the house.”
“This feels like a trap…”
“Well, if you think we’re still fighting, I surrender.”
“You’re making me feel guilty on purpose.” You stared him down and picked up the tuna mayo onigiri your stomach had been screaming for. The bite was heavenly. Yet while your stomach enjoyed it, your mind flashed back to the scene of Osamu rolling the rice around and… his biceps.
“Alright, Ms. Y/N, I have an idea. For Peace.” Osamu picked up the other onigiri from your plate.
“Pfft—I didn’t know you could be funny?” You laughed with a mouthful of rice, until you looked back at his totally serious face. “Okay, we’re serious. Uhmm, what kind of peace are we talking about?” Another mouthful of the onigiri. God, this man deserved some sort of compensation for offering humanity this.
“Delete the video and upload another one to redeem our reputation.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, his muscles flexed in all the right places.
“I thought you surrendered?”
“I ain’t arguing, am I?” Osamu shrugged and unwrapped your onigiri, which you bought with your hard-earned money.
“I paid—”
“I made it.” He took a huge bite, cutting the onigiri in half with one bite. “Anyways, consider our deal. You get to eat my food every day, and you get mega profit.”
“My fans are going to call me a hypocrite.” You rolled your eyes, knowing damn well that you’d be uploading that video the second you got back to your apartment.
“Your fans won’t deny good food.” Osamu smirked and finished the rest of the onigiri in one huge bite.
When he left your table, you watched him go back to serving the rest of his customers with a smile on his face, and that’s when you knew it was over. Before you left his restaurant, he came by your table again and offered you napkins. The one placed on top had a line of numbers on it. Under it, the note said, “For collabs ;)”
Pranking Atsumu Miya with embarrassing videos of himself during your wedding except you guys are so mega-in love with each other
A/n: WC - 1.08k. Timeskip Atsumu Miya with the mentions of highschool Atsumu. Mega fluff oh em gee. I need to stop writing for atsumu the favoritism is getting out of hand oops. Hope you guys like it!!
White dress, veil touching the floor, and your fiancé’s brother standing next to you. The day Atsumu proposed to you, the scenario that Osamu and you joked about became real. In high school, Atsumu had way too many embarrassing moments caught on camera. It would be a waste if only a few people got to see them, so Osamu and you decided to play them on your wedding day.
You first debated whether you should do this or not. It seemed a little mean. But ever since he played that video of you ugly crying when he got down on one knee during your bridal shower, there was no turning back.
Down the aisle, Atsumu wore a white suit, his tie matching your favorite color. The smile on his face stretched from one ear to the other. His hair was slightly more toned than the bright yellow he had in high school. Now that you think about it, you kind of miss it. You chuckle at the memories that now feel so long ago.
As he walked down the aisle, his best men cheered louder than everyone else in the crowd. Hinata slapped Bokuto multiple times as he jumped up and down like a child. Osamu had to make up some shitty excuse for not being there with the rest of them. (He had actually just told Atsumu he had a surprise, and poor Atsumu didn’t suspect a thing.)
Seeing that Atsumu had arrived in front of the altar, Osamu ran down the aisle and gave Atsumu the biggest hug ever. Though Osamu would never admit it, he had to swallow back a few tears.
“Hi guys, before our lovely bride walks down, we actually prepared a gift for my lovely brother.” Osamu laughed into the mic as the projection screen lowered. He looked at a clueless Atsumu, still smiling like an idiot.
As the crowd went wild, you slowly crept behind a pillar to watch their reactions. This video has consumed you for the past week. Having to hide it from Atsumu was extremely tiring because this man wanted to be glued to your hip twenty-four seven.
The video started with a very happy high-school Y/N waving to the camera.
“Hi guys! I want this video to play during Atsumu’s wedding so I can expose him to his poor wife.”
You flipped the camera to Atsumu on the ground with a bruised arm, his cheeks covered in mud and his bike drowned in a puddle that none of you saw coming.
“He looks like he just ate dog shit.”
You pointed at Atsumu sitting on the ground, and Osamu’s laughter blended into yours.
“This does not look like a surprise.” Atsumu turned to Osamu and kicked him, but before he could land another hit, he was held back by the people he called his best friends.
As the video went on, Atsumu’s face got redder and redder, while the crowd’s laughter became louder and louder. From his fights with Osamu filmed by Suna, to him choking on food, to the clip from your first date that had been filmed because Atsumu was so nervous that he dragged half of the Inarizaki team with him and told them to hide.
At the end of the video, a high-school Osamu set up the camera in their childhood bedroom. Atsumu sat on Osamu’s bed, hugging a pillow.
“Hey, ‘Tsumu, repeat what ya just said to me again.”
Osamu lowered the phone so his twin couldn’t see that he was filming.
“I said… I think…” Atsumu buried his head further into the pillow. “If it’s not Y/N that I marry, then I won’t marry anyone.”
His voice got quieter and quieter, and the crowd absolutely erupted upon hearing this.
“You said more than that, dumbass.”
“Fuck off.”
“Nah, just repeat what you said. I didn’t hear ya.”
“I think I’m in love with Y/N. If it works out—”
Atsumu suddenly stood up beside their bed.
“Are you filming?”
The camera fell to the floor as Atsumu launched himself onto Osamu. No more than ten seconds later, Atsumu snatched the phone off the floor and spoke into the camera with a bruised face and a bleeding lip.
“Ya know what, ‘Samu? I’m gonna play this at Y/N’s and my wedding.”
And that’s where the video ended.
Atsumu laughed a little and immediately turned around to face his brother.
“You’re so dead for this, ‘Samu.”
Atsumu gave Osamu’s shoulder a tight squeeze and smiled, making Osamu chuckle out loud and stumble backward.
“Alright!” Osamu walked back to the middle of the stage to escape from his terrifying twin. “Let’s welcome the bride!”
You stepped out from behind the pillar where you were hiding, trying your best to hold back your tears. As embarrassing as it was, you had cried so much while making the video.
So much has changed since high school. The boy in the video had changed so much, but you were sure that his love for you was one thing that had never changed. Through countless arguments, all the hair toner sitting in your bathroom cabinet, and thousands of little pranks, you could finally walk toward Atsumu.
Each clip of Atsumu in that video contained pieces of what you loved about him. People saw him as chaotic in that video because that’s what you decided to show them. Selfishly, you kept the other parts of Atsumu to yourself.
Each step you took toward the altar reminded you of a different memory of Atsumu. The ones you kept from other people. The parts that Atsumu saved just for you.
Each step toward the altar represented something different: a late-night conversation, the touch of his fingers, the secrets you two shared, and the warmth of your limbs tangled together under the sheets. You’d dreamed of this moment. You’d written about it in your journal during high school like the lovesick teenager you were.
And there he was. Standing in front of you.
“So, you can expose me to my future wife, huh?” Atsumu took your hand in his, trying his best not to show how nervous he was. “Any thoughts?”
He kissed your forehead, as gently as a feather drifting to the ground—just the slightest touch of his lips.
“I guess your wife really loves you if she decided to stick with you after all that.”
You giggle at him, taking it all in. You lean closer to him, closing the distance between the two of you even more.
synopsis: when you hear strange noises coming from sana’s bedroom, you check on her just in case… turns out, she’s not in any pain whatsoever — rather, the complete opposite.
author’s note: this is an old idea i had that i really wanted to write and i can’t sleep…… i also realized that i never write for sana so… :))
contents: innocent reader, basically you walk in on sana while she’s masturbating…, you help sana ‘relieve’ herself…, sorry 😳
1.1k words
the first noise was easy to ignore.
the second one, you blamed on the old building — strong night winds from the outside often produced creaks and groans that reverberated throughout the halls.
the third one? it was louder, more distinct, and unmistakably clear, the sound cutting straight through whatever noise the wind was producing outside. it sounded like something in-between a gasp and a moan, the unfamiliar noise sending your heart racing. it was coming directly from sana’s bedroom.
you held your breath as you tiptoed towards her door, hand hovering hesitantly over the doorknob. sana had said goodnight a good twenty minutes ago, so you assumed she would be sleeping — she had a long schedule today after all. but the sounds coming from behind the door indicated that she was awake and in pain, or worse: being murdered.
the last thought made your eyes widen. before you could stop yourself to think, your hands already opened the door.
“sana? are you okay? is something—”
the sight that greeted you caught you completely off guard. maybe you expected sana to be clutching her calf as a cramp overtook her body or a masked someone trying to kidnap her — or anything else.
you didn’t expect to see her completely naked, long hair splayed across her pillow as she laid on top of her bedsheets. your eyes flickered down before you could stop them, catching a glimpse of the way her hand moved in between her legs.
you completely froze, unable to move as your cheeks burned with a mix of emotions you couldn’t quite name.
sana didn’t seem fazed at the intrusion. instead, she held your eye contact, not stopping the way her hands circled her… private area. another moan fell from her lips, the sinful sound going straight to your core and sending a rush of heat throughout your body.
“sana, i—” your voice was barely above a whisper. “s-sorry, i thought you were in pain.” you couldn’t help but grimace at how obvious it all seemed now. you tried to leave and give her privacy, but your legs couldn’t seem to move, stubbornly rooted in place against your will.
“im not in pain, darling,” sana said, her voice breathy. a smile formed on her lips at how red you were turning.
“you know,” she purred, her voice like honey and velvet. “you could make up for your intrusion by helping me.”
“helping you?” you repeated, unsure you heard her properly. she just nodded, eyes hooded as she continued to touch herself. she gestured for you to come onto the bed, and as if caught in some sort of trance, you obediently made your way to her, positioning yourself in between her legs. your heart stuttering at the thought of what might happen next.
“h-how— what do i do?” you whispered, pupils dilating at the sight of her bare body up close. the smooth expanse of her thigh reflected the pale moonlight coming from the window. you couldn’t help but stare at her — the slope of her breasts rose and fell in uneven breaths, nipples peaking from the cool night air. the streetlight past the window caught the ridges of muscle on her torso and the graceful curve where her waist met her hips. your eyes naturally gravitated towards her cunt — she was dripping wet, her arousal sticking to her thighs and soaking the bedsheets underneath her.
it was only then that sana stopped her movements. she grabbed your wrist and guided it down to her core, exhaling as you made contact with her dripping cunt.
“move y-your hand in circular movements around my clit,” she breathed, watching as you clumsily followed her instructions. her arousal coated your fingers as you dragged your fingers over her sensitive bud.
“just like that darling, with a little more pressure.”
your cheeks flushed as reality caught up to you. here you were, lying on sana’s bed and touching her in the most intimate way, bringing out quiet gasps and whimpers from her lips. you shifted your hips slightly, feeling the way your own panties dampened and how the fabric stuck to your folds.
“and with your other hand,” sana murmured, her eyes closing completely at the sensation, “you’re gonna put t-two fingers inside me, okay?”
with your left hand still circling her clit, you pressed two fingers up against her entrance, pushing in slowly. your fingers inched inside her slowly, a light shudder wrecking through your body at the way her walls squeezed around you. when you were finally knuckle-deep inside her, sana whimpered, her breath hitching.
“move your fingers, baby. fuck me.”
spurred on by her words, you withdrew your fingers — almost to the point of taking them out all the way — before pumping them back inside her, your fingers hitting the spongy part of her pussy. sana cried out as you pushed your fingers into her again, your pace a little faster and rougher. your fingers slid in and out easily, and soon, the room filled with lewd noises of skin-on-skin.
“am i doing this right?” you asked shyly. sana answered with a ragged yes, hips rising to meet your thrusts halfway.
“don’t stop,” she cried out, hands fisting the bedsheets. you kept both hands moving, forearms burning slightly from the exertion. she seemed close by the way her walls squeezed your fingers with a vice-like grip.
“you’re so wet, sana,” you whispered, staring at the way her juices flowed down to your wrist. sana didn’t answer — she was a mess of moans and stuttering gasps, eyes rolling back as your fingers hit against her g-spot with each thrust.
“f-fuck, im so close,” sana panted, her mind dizzy as pressure coiled together in her lower belly.
you sped up your movements in response, biting your lip as sana fell apart around you. she cried out as white stars filled her vision, climax hitting like a trainwreck. the muscles in her stomach visibly tensed as she came, her walls pulsing around you.
you slowly took your drenched fingers out of her as she panted to catch her breath. somewhat instinctively, you put your fingers into your mouth, tasting her.
sana groaned at the sight, her walls squeezing around nothing.
“god, y/n, what the fuck,” she sighed, letting her head fall deeper into the pillow.
“you taste good,” you said quietly as you laid down next to her. you stared at her side profile, pulse fluttering throughout your body. “im sorry i walked in on you.”
sana turned to face you with a small smile. you glanced down to how her cleavage pushed together before quickly looking away in embarrassment.
“you should do it more often,” she murmured, smirking at having caught your line of sight. this could be a very long night.
bf!satoru seeing his girlfriend in a bikini for the first time
satoru had seen you in oversized hoodies, pajamas, his shirts that practically swallowed your frame whole.
a bikini, however, was entirely a new territory.
the moment you took of your shirt and shorts, on the beach, adjusting the straps of the bikini top, like it was no big deal, satoru forgot how to function.
"..oh." he mumbles. that was akk the so called strongest sorcerer in the world could manage.
you blinked, "oh?"
his face was already turning pink. "no, I-...you just-". the words died somewhere in his throat, he couldn't even think.
you stared for a second before smiling. "toru.. are you blushing?"
"what? no.."
he absolutely was. the tips of his ears were pink. whole face red. and he couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to look at you or literally anywhere else.
a sweet laugh slipped frm your lips. he looked away immediately.
"you are blushing."
"i'm not..." he whines.
you took a step closer. "satoru."
his breath caught. the strongest sorcerer in the world had fought curses, survived impssible battles, and stared death in the face more times thn he could count.
yet somehow this was worse. his eyes found yours again. for a moment, he just stared. then his face turned even redder.
"you look... so beautiful, baby." he says, focused on just you.
your smile softened instantly. "thank you, toru."
satoru swallowed. he wanted to say more. tell you that he thought you were beautiful everyday, that the sight of you still managed to take his breath away.
but nothing came out. his brain had compleyely given up.
your smile softened. you stepped closer, slipping your hand into his. a quiet smile tugged at his lips as he squeezed it gently.
maybe he didn’t need to say anything else.
the warmth in his chest, the blush on his cheeks, and the way he couldn’t seem to look away from you said enough.
You are, by all societal metrics, an absolute degenerate. You haven't touched grass in months, your sleep schedule is entirely dictated by tournament brackets, and your primary source of dopamine is starting flame wars in the comment sections of competitive gaming forums. You spend twenty hours a day in a dim room, surrounded by empty energy drink cans, aggressively typing slurs at teenagers online. You are a certified, unwashed loser, and your gorgeous, multi-millionaire Yandere!RichBoyfriend thinks you are the most precious thing to ever walk the earth.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend is a highly successful corporate executive who dresses in tailored suits and conducts high-level board meetings, yet his phone is constantly buzzing with notifications from your stream or your social media rants. Yandere!RichBoyfriend doesn’t just tolerate your online toxicity; he finds it incredibly endearing. While he’s sitting in a glass high-rise negotiating business mergers, he’ll casually scroll through your latest 40-tweet manifesto where you’re cyberbullying a random streamer over a video game patch, a soft, doting smile appearing on his face. "Look at them go," he’ll think proudly. "So passionate."
Yandere!RichBoyfriend completely funds your pathetic lifestyle, and he does it with an intense, possessive joy. He treats your bank account like a bottomless pit for bad decisions. If you mention offhand that you want a rare $5,000 legacy skin for an obscure first-person shooter, the money is transferred to your digital wallet within 30 seconds. You’ll be mid-match, screaming into your headset, and a notification will pop up: Account Credited by your Yandere!RichBoyfriend. He doesn't care if you're wasting his wealth on literal pixels; he loves knowing that every ounce of entertainment you experience is entirely branded by his wallet.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend thrives on the fact that your lifestyle makes you completely dependent on him. He wants you to be an unmarketable, anti-social hermit because it means no one else will ever see your value or try to take you away from him. If you ever have a rare moment of clarity, looking at your messy room and muttering that maybe you should get a part-time job or go back to school, he will instantly shut it down with overwhelming, suffocating luxury. He’ll crawl into your gaming chair, pull you into his lap, and kiss your forehead. "Why would you ever do that, sweetheart? The outside world is exhausting and cruel. Stay right here. Buy your skins. Let me take care of the bills. You belong in this room with me."
Yandere!RichBoyfriend handles your terrible hygiene and health habits with a doting, overbearing discipline. Left to your own devices, you would survive entirely on instant ramen and stale chips. He compensates by hiring a private chef to drop off gourmet, nutrient-dense meals at your desk, forcing you to eat them while he sits on the edge of your bed watching you. If you haven't showered in three days because of a competitive grind, he won't be disgusted. Instead, he will literally carry you out of your gaming chair, run a warm bath, and wash your hair himself, turning your lazy neglect into an opportunity to handle you like a fragile doll.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend is your silent partner-in-crime when it comes to your online feuds. If a group of internet trolls starts ganging up on you and doxxing your account, they don't realize they've just signed their own corporate death warrants. Your boyfriend won't just report them; he will hire private data analysts to track down their real identities. By the next morning, the people who were bullying you online will find themselves fired from their jobs, kicked out of their universities, or facing sudden, mysterious lawsuits. He will hand you his tablet while you're waking up, showing you the data. "Look, love. The people who stressed you out yesterday no longer have internet access. You can play your games in peace now."
The true extent of his madness is that Yandere!RichBoyfriend has designed your entire environment to keep you a permanent, pampered prisoner. He loves that you are too socially anxious and lazy to leave the apartment. He has effectively built a high-tech, luxury fortress around your degeneracy. You are a toxic, screen-addicted loser to the rest of the world, but to him, you are a perfectly captured creature trapped in a digital terrarium, and he will gladly spend millions of dollars keeping you greasy, comfortable, and entirely his until the end of time.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend has a literal, calendar-tracked intervention system for your clothing. Left to your own devices, you would comfortably live, sleep, and sweat in the exact same oversized, food-stained grey anime hoodie for six weeks straight. He draws the line at biological warfare. He’ll walk into your dark gaming cave, pinch the hood between two fingers with a deeply amused but firm look, and pull you out of your chair. "Sweetheart, we’ve crossed the thirty-day mark. This hoodie can practically stand up on its own. It’s going in the incinerator." You’ll whine and fight him for it, but he’ll already have a plush, $1,200 designer replacement waiting on your bed pre-washed with his personal signature cologne so you smell exactly like him the second you put it on.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend treats your disgusting desk setup like a toxic waste site that he is privileged to clean. While you’re fast asleep at 7:00 AM after a grueling 14-hour ranked session, he’ll quietly slip into your room in his pristine Tom Ford suit before heading to the office. He’ll methodically collect the mountain of empty energy drink cans, the crusty delivery boxes, and the crumpled chip bags, wiping down your custom mechanical keyboard with specialized tech-wipes. He doesn’t find it gross; he honestly finds it deeply comforting. The messier your desk is, the more it proves you haven't left the room, and that makes his possessive heart soar.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend has a massive, hilarious double standard when it comes to toxic behavior. If you tell someone on Twitter to delete their account and jump off a bridge over a bad movie take, he thinks you're a comedic genius and will literally bookmark the tweet to show his executive buddies as "peak modern satire." But if a random user replies to you, calling you "clueless" or "lazy," his entire corporate demeanor drops into pure malice. He will literally use his company's legal department to issue cease-and-desist letters for "digital harassment" to random teenagers across the country just to protect your right to be a menace in peace.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend handles your absolute lack of a sleep schedule by forcefully adapting his own. He knows you won't log off until the server resets at 4:00 AM, so he’ll bring his work laptop into your room, sitting on your bed under the dim glow of your RGB strip lights, quietly approving multi-million dollar corporate budgets while listening to you scream at your teammates through your headset. The second your match ends and you let out an exhausted groan, he’s already behind you, massaging your tense, hunched-over shoulders. "Good job tonight, love. You carried. Now, bed. I have a board meeting in three hours and I need to cuddle my favorite loser."
Yandere!RichBoyfriend weaponizes your laziness to ensure you never have a reason to interact with another human being in the physical world. If your PC mouse starts clicking weirdly, you don't even have to look up a replacement. By the time you wake up the next afternoon, three different top-of-the-line gaming mice will be neatly unboxed on your desk. You don't have to talk to the delivery guy, you don't have to run errands, and you don't have to look at the sun. Yandere!RichBoyfriend has streamlined your entire existence into a seamless pipeline of digital instant gratification, completely cutting off any survival instinct that might force you to step outside.
Yandere!RichBoyfriend has a habit of "buying out" entire gaming servers or lobbies if he thinks they're making you too stressed. If you’re throwing a massive, keyboard-slamming tantrum because a specific multiplayer game is riddled with cheaters or has terrible queue times, he won't tell you to play something else. Instead, he’ll make a few phone calls, buy a massive block of shares in the indie dev studio, and force them to fast-track a private, dedicated server just for your IP address. He’ll walk into your room and slide a glass of iced coffee onto your desk, kissing your cheek. "There you go, sweetheart. I bought the devs. The netcode should be fixed now. Go break some hearts."
The ultimate reality of your dynamic is that Yandere!RichBoyfriend has successfully turned your self-destructive habits into his perfect trap. To the rest of the world, you are a shut-in, anti-social internet troll with zero life skills. But to him, your complete lack of functionality is a masterpiece. Yandere!RichBoyfriend loves that you can’t cook, refuses to clean, and doesn't know how to pay taxes because it means you can never leave him. You are his highly expensive, deeply toxic, pampered little house pet, safely locked away in a golden cage built of fiber-optic cables and designer sweatpants, and Yandere!RichBoyfriend wouldn't trade your greasy, chaotic self for anyone else in the world.
you met him during your time as inarizaki’s manager for the boy’s volleyball team, putting away equipment after practice as he trained late nights in that small high school gymnasium. once graduation came along and you went off to do your own thing, you stayed on the sidelines, cheering him on the same way he does with everything you do.
it’s a sad fate for all of his fan girls, really. the moment he takes his first steps on the court as a pro with the msby jackals, he’s already taken. his first press conference sends storms through the media—this handsome, charming young rookie steals japan’s heart with every wink the cameras catch.
but what they don’t see at first is who atsumu’s really winking at, and it’s not the cameras. it’s you, up in the stands wearing his jersey and cheering for him every game without fail.
there’s one post-game interview that really gets his fans going.
“atsumu, great game today! as a rookie, do you feel the pressure of the professional world setting in yet?” a short female reporter with a courtside access pass around her neck shoves a microphone in atsumu’s face before he can even catch his breath.
“there’s always pressure at this level, ya’ know. but i pour my heart out into my training and i think it translates well onto the court. plus, i’ve got my girl to support me.”
a look of confusion passes over the reporter’s face before she collects herself with a polite smile. “i’m sorry, your girl?”
“yeah,” he smiles at you, waiting for him off to the side. “she’s a little camera shy. but sorry to break the news, she’s already stolen my heart. cheesy, i know.”
“so we have a case of high school sweethearts, i see,” she’s quick to switch the topic back to volleyball, “and about that play in the first half. . .”
the media sends a mixed response afterwards, but it’s certain that there’s plenty of talk about atsumu’s love life. there’s the comments on how adorable your young love is, questions about who atsumu’s mysterious lover could be, posts gushing over the way he looks at you or how he’s always seen with a bouquet of flowers after a match, disappointed fangirls that know they’ll never have a chance—and the list could go on.
but beyond the internet hype, everyone can tell how much atsumu loves you when he can never keep his girl out of the conversation.
“P-please please V-Valko! Valko please t-tell him to let me cum!” Your choked whimpers send a knife through his heart, though it has little effect on Zayne, who rips the vibrator away from you with no mercy.
“C-come on doc, don’t you think she’s had enough?” The scent of you nearly overwhelms him, makes his mouth water really. Your poor pussy is soaked, and Valko wants nothing more than to clean you up.
"Hardly. Her punishment has barely even started." Still, Zayne squeezes your thigh, letting you catch your breath before he keeps going.
"I-I promise to be good! I'll behave I-I swear please...Valko..." Just the breathy gasp of his name makes him lurch forward, but Zayne stops him.
"Just-just let me clean her up. I won't make her cum." His nose is twitching, eyes locked onto the slick between your thighs. When Zayne nods, Valko moves as a blur, nearly launching himself between your legs and dragging his tongue across your inner thighs. He moans at the taste, but it's nearly tortorous for you to have him so close and so far all at once.
Of course, that had been Zayne's plan.
"V-Val please-ngh-please!" He pins your hips down to prevent the way you thrash, using just the tip of his tongue to trace your entrance.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" Zayne smirks, leaning over to press his lips to yours. You whimper into the kiss, tears streaming down your face. A cool hand wipes them away, soothing you just barely. Before you can get too lost in him, Valko's nose bumps your sensitive clit, making you cry out.
"God! Please Z-Zayne..." Your head is spinning, body burning with desire.
"Poor thing...she's so desperate." Valko murmurs, eyeing Zayne with a clear intention. Zayne sighs, knowing that Valko always has a way of sneaking you out of a punishment.
"Alright, you can make her cum. But if you do...you aren't allowed to cum tonight."
Being in love with someone while slowly watching them become someone who no longer loves you.
The television was a soft, erratic hum in the corner of the room, casting blue and gray shadows across the floorboards. Above you, the ceiling fan spun on its highest setting, a low, rhythmic whir-whir-whir that seemed to measure the empty space between the walls.
It wasn't that Suguru wasn't home. He was. Technically, his shoes were by the door, and his heavy, dark coat hung on the rack in the hall. But the apartment felt completely hollowed out, as if his physical presence was just a monument to someone who used to live here.
On the coffee table sat a velvet box. Inside was a heavy, spun-gold bracelet—extravagant, delicate, and entirely devoid of meaning. It was the third one this month. They were peace offerings for wars he hadn't bother to fight, bribes to buy your silence so he wouldn't have to endure the exhausting chore of apologizing. To Suguru, love had become a ledger; as long as the material balance was high, your emotional deficit shouldn't matter.
He had told you he was having a "meeting." But the apartment had been dead silent for hours. No one had walked through the front door, and no one had slipped through the back. You knew, in a vague, terrifying way, about the world he inhabited. He had explained curses to you once—months ago, back when his eyes still held a spark of warmth instead of that bottomless, dark fatigue. He had told you that the things he saw were monstrous, that his distance was a shield to protect your fragile, ordinary mind.
But lately, the monsters didn't feel like they were out there in the streets. It felt like he was bringing them home in his pockets, letting them crawl into the corners of the rooms until the air itself tasted bitter.
A heavy weight settled behind your ribs, dragging you up from the cushions. Your feet were silent against the hardwood as you crossed the short distance to his study. Your hand hovered over the brass doorknob, trembling slightly, before you pushed it open just an inch.
"Suguru..." you muttered, peeking through the sliver of light.
He was sitting on the floor in the center of the bare room, one leg propped up, his forearm resting on his knee. His long, dark hair was half-unbound, falling over his shoulders like ink. For a fraction of a second, before he fully registered your presence, you saw it: a flash of sharp, visceral annoyance in his narrow eyes. It was the look a man gives a stray dog that keeps whining at the glass.
He sighed, the sound heavy and performative, as he stood up.
"I told you I’m busy," he said, his voice entirely flat. He walked toward you, the fabric of his robes whispering against the floor. He didn't stop until he was in your space, his hand coming down onto your shoulder to turn you back toward the living room.
His palm was freezing. It didn't feel like the hand that used to trace your jawline in the dark; it felt like marble.
"Was the gift not to your satisfaction?" he asked.
"I... I just wanted to spend time with you," you said softly, your voice catching in your throat. As he turned you, your eyes darted past his shoulder into the dim room. For a terrifying beat, you thought you saw something—a mass of shifting, oily violet shadows—slithering along the baseboard. "You're never here anymore, Suguru."
"We spend enough time together," he replied, his tone chillingly dismissive. "Perhaps you have grown too clingy. Most humans do."
The word hit you like a physical blow. Humans. Not people. Not you. A biological category.
You paused, pulling away from his hand just enough to look up at him, raising an eyebrow through the blur of sudden, stinging tears. "Suguru... I’m your girlfriend."
"Yes, but my way of showing affection is gift-giving," he said, as if explaining a basic mathematical theorem to a child. "I don’t see the need to be attached at the hip at all times. It’s annoying, especially when I already told you I was busy."
Annoying. The word echoed in the quiet hallway.
"I have plenty of gifts, Suguru," you argued, your voice rising just a fraction, desperate to crack through the porcelain mask he wore. "But I want you. I didn't date you for the things you could buy me."
He didn't argue. He didn't even look angry. He just looked bored. With an agonizingly patient sigh, he led you back to the couch, his hand firm on your shoulder, and guided you down onto the cushions. He reached out and patted your head twice—a patronizing, mechanical gesture.
"You can have me when my meeting is done," he said. It wasn't a promise; it was a dismissal. "Don't disturb me again."
The final sentence carried the distinct, heavy edge of a warning. He turned on his heel, walked back into the study, and shut the door. A second later, the sharp, definitive click of the lock turning cut through the apartment.
You sat frozen on the couch, staring at the dark wood of the door, listening to the fan spin above you.
A week passed, then two, and the seasons began their slow, indifferent shift. The heat outside grew oppressive, but inside the apartment, a permanent winter had settled.
You began to notice the small things first—the subtle ways a person unravels when they are preparing to leave a life behind. Suguru stopped eating the food you cooked. You would spend an hour at the stove, making the traditional dishes he used to prefer, only to watch him stare at the plate with a look of profound disgust before pushing it away.
"My stomach is turned," he would say, his voice thin. "The taste of things lately... it’s all foul."
You didn't know then about the curses he swallowed, the wretched, tasting-of-filth spheres he forced down his throat to maintain his power. You only knew that the meals you made with your own hands—hands he used to hold—had become repulsive to him.
One Tuesday evening, you woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of retching from the bathroom. You got out of bed, your heart hammering against your ribs, and hurried down the hall. The door was cracked open, a sliver of harsh fluorescent light spilling onto the floor.
Suguru was on his knees before the toilet, his shoulders shaking, his long hair falling forward into his face. He looked broken, human, vulnerable—and for a wild, desperate second, you thought the man you loved had come back.
You knelt beside him, reaching out to gather his hair back, your fingers brushing against his neck. "Suguru, let me help—"
He flinched away so violently his shoulder slammed against the sink. He looked at you, his eyes bloodshot, his teeth bared in a snarl that looked entirely feral.
"Don't touch me!" he hissed.
You froze, your hands suspended in the cold air. "Suguru, you're sick—"
"I am not sick," he breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at you, and for the first time, you didn't just see distance in his eyes; you saw an absolute, terrifying revulsion. It was the look someone gives a cockroach on the kitchen counter. "You don't understand. You can't understand. Just go back to bed. Your presence... it isn't helping."
You walked back to the bedroom alone. You lay on your side of the mattress, staring at the empty space beside you, listening to the shower run for an hour as he tried to wash away a grime you couldn't see.
By the third week, the apartment had become a gallery of his indifference. The velvet boxes accumulated on the entryway table like small, expensive coffins. A pair of diamond earrings. A silk scarf. A vintage watch. Each one was a physical manifestation of his absence, a message that said: Take this and leave me alone.
You stopped opening them. You left them in a neat, stackable pile by the door, a monument to a transaction you had never agreed to participate in.
You tried to talk to him. You tried to find the boy who used to laugh into the crook of your neck, the boy who used to complain about his best friend's ridiculous antics over cheap convenience store ice cream.
"Suguru, do you remember that summer we went to the beach?" you asked one afternoon while he was sitting at the kitchen table, mindlessly rubbing a thumb over the rim of a mug. "The one where you got sunburned on just your left shoulder because you refused to use my sunscreen?"
He didn't look up. His thumb kept moving, a repetitive, mindless circle. "No. I don't remember."
"You do," you pressed, leaning across the table, your voice cracking. "You laughed so hard you choked on your soda. You told me that as long as I was there, you didn't care if the sun burned you to a crisp. You remember, Suguru. Look at me."
He finally raised his head. His eyes were completely dark, like stagnant water in a well.
"That was a long time ago," he said, his voice entirely devoid of nostalgia. "People change. The things that mattered then are irrelevant now. You should focus on the present."
"The present is a tomb!" you wanted to scream, but the words died in your throat, choked out by the realization that he wouldn't care if you did. He wouldn't argue. He would just look at his watch, tell you that you were being hysterical, and walk back into his locked room.
You were grieving someone who was still breathing in the next room. You were watching the person you loved more than life itself slowly decompose from the inside out, replaced by a cold, arrogant stranger who wore his skin and spoke with his voice, but possessed none of his soul.
The breaking point didn't come with a massive explosion. It didn't come with a screaming match or a dramatic revelation. It came on a rainy Thursday evening, the water lashing against the windows with a dull, relentless fury.
You had spent the day cleaning. It was a desperate attempt to feel some semblance of control, to scrub away the invisible rot that seemed to be settling over everything. By the time the clock struck eight, you were exhausted, your hands raw from soap, your knees aching from kneeling on the floor.
The front door unlocked. Suguru stepped inside, his umbrella dripping water onto the entryway rug. He didn't look at you. He didn't say hello. He simply reached into the pocket of his damp coat and pulled out a small, heavy box wrapped in dark blue paper.
He dropped it onto the pile of unopened boxes by the door. It slid off the top and hit the floor with a soft thud.
"A necklace," he said, unbuttoning his coat. "The jeweler said the stone is rare. It suits you."
You stood in the hallway, looking down at the box on the floor. Something inside you—the last thread of a string that had been stretched to its absolute limit for months—snapped with a quiet, definitive pop.
"Take it back," you said.
Suguru stopped, his hands freezing on the buttons of his vest. He turned his head slowly, his narrow eyes tracking down to you. "What did you say?"
"Take it back," you repeated, your voice steadier than it had been in weeks. The exhaustion had burned away, leaving behind a cold, crystalline clarity. "Take all of it back."
He let out a short, irritated breath, turning fully to face you. "I don't have time for this tonight. If you don't like the stone, I can have them exchange it for a different cut. There's no need to be dramatic."
"I don't want a different cut, Suguru. I don't want the necklace. I don't want any of it." You walked over to the entryway table, your hands moving with a strange, detached deliberate precision. You picked up the stack of velvet boxes—the bracelets, the rings, the earrings, the watches—and walked over to him, dumping them onto the floor at his feet. They scattered across the wood, the lids popping open to reveal glittering diamonds and polished gold, completely worthless in the dim light.
"You can have it... you can have it all back. I don't want it anymore... I don't want any of this."
Suguru looked down at the wealth scattered around his shoes, his expression hardening into something cold and dangerous. When he looked back up at you, his eyes were sharper than you had seen them in months. The boredom was gone, replaced by a dark, simmering offense.
"Do you have any idea what those cost?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, threatening register. "Do you have any concept of what I do to provide this life for you? You sit here in safety, insulated from the horrors of this world, while I carry the weight of it on my back. And you throw my provisions on the floor like a spoiled child."
"Provisions?" You let out a broken, breathless laugh, tears finally spilling over your lashes, though your voice didn't waver. "You think you're providing for me? Suguru, you're buying my absence! You're paying me to stay in this apartment and pretend that the man I loved hasn't become a monster!"
The word hung in the air between you, heavy and lethal. Monster.
Suguru's jaw tightened. For a single, terrifying moment, the air in the hallway grew thick, suffocatingly heavy. The shadows along the walls seemed to stretch and writhe, responsive to his sudden, spiked anger. You felt the invisible pressure of his cursed energy pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe, making your primitive, human instincts scream at you to run, to hide, to apologize.
But you didn't move. You stood your ground, looking into the eyes of the man who used to hold you like you were made of glass.
"You think I'm a monster?" he asked, his voice terrifyingly quiet, dropping all pretense of the polite, distant boyfriend. "Because I see the world for what it is? Because I refuse to spend my days wallowing in the trivial, pathetic emotions that you humans cling to like blankets?"
"No," you whispered, the truth cutting through you like a knife. "I think you're a monster because you used to care. I think you're a monster because you've decided that because you're hurting, everyone else is small. I didn't fall in love with a sorcerer, Suguru. I fell in love with a boy who used to make sure I got the bigger half of the popsicle. I fell in love with a man who used to look at me like I was his home."
You looked at him, searching his face one last time for any flicker of recognition, any sign that the boy from the beach was still hiding behind those cold, dark eyes.
There was nothing. Just a beautiful, empty shell.
"But he's dead," you said softly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. "He's been dead for months. And I'm done living in a mausoleum with his ghost."
Suguru didn't try to stop you.
As you walked past him into the bedroom to pack a single suitcase of your own clothes—the things you had bought yourself, the things that didn't have his fingerprints or his money on them—he remained standing in the hallway. He didn't follow you. He didn't ask where you were going. He didn't apologize.
When you came back out, your suitcase in hand, he had moved to the living room. He was sitting on the couch, staring out the rain-slicked window, his profile silhouette dark against the city lights.
The gold and diamonds still lay scattered on the hallway floor, glinting in the dark.
You walked to the front door and gripped the handle. You stopped for a brief, agonizing second, waiting for a miracle. You waited for him to call your name. You waited for him to tell you to stay, to tell you that he was lost, that he needed help, that he didn't want to be alone in the dark anymore. If he had spoken a single, genuine word, you would have dropped the bag. You would have stayed and fought a war against his demons alongside him.
But the silence remained absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, indifferent whir of the ceiling fan.
You turned the handle, stepped out into the corridor, and pulled the door shut behind you. The click of the latch was the loudest sound you had ever heard.
As you walked down the hall toward the elevator, the weight that had been sitting on your chest for months didn't instantly vanish. It didn't turn into relief. It felt heavy, a deep, aching sorrow that made every step feel like walking through wet cement. You were leaving a part of your soul in that apartment.
But as the elevator doors closed, cutting off the view of the hallway, you took your first deep, unobstructed breath in a very long time. The air was cold, and you were entirely alone, but it was real. You were no longer drowning in the wake of someone else's descent. You had saved yourself from the wreckage, even if it meant leaving the person you loved at the bottom of the sea.
“Look at that…your pretty lips wrap around my strap…” Shoko mutters as she gently rocks her hips back and forth into your throat. She has you in a nasty back arch with your ass in the air as you suck on the strap-on she has on. “What a pretty sight, you’re doing so good,” She purrs and takes another puff of her cigarette.
Her eyes roam all over your body and you swear you gain goosebumps from those brown eyes looking possessively at every inch of you. And you’re unable to quiet down those pretty chocking sounds from giving head way too deep. “There you go, be nice and loud for me…I wanna hear you.” You can feel the strap all the way in the back of your throat.
Her lips wrap around the cigarette and she blows the smoke downwards to your face with a grin. Your nose twitch’s at the warm smoky smell making her bop your nose. “so sensitive” She moves her hand to caresses your cheek. “Mhm…fuck…you’re so beautiful Like this….” Your saliva starts to drip down your chin making a mess with the sheets.
She starts to pet your head and moves her fingers to card throughout your hair. “you’re doing such a good job, I’ll go a little deeper…can you handle that honey?” You nod your head rapidly. The words send shiver down your spine. She press her hips upwards into your mouth and you gag on it. “….I just wanna shove it all the way in”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head. Holy—you’re now deepthroating her strap and you’re making the most pornographic glupping sounds known to man. At this point you are even crying from the overstimulation.
“Mhmm…look at you birdie, your warm mouth looks so gorgeous while wrapped around me” She brings her cigarette bud close to your nose making you lack any kind of oxygen.
You feel your face heat up and your lungs suffering from being unable to breathe. “C’mom hun, just like that…” your brain is getting foggy from the lack of oxygen and the pleasure you are receiving/giving. “Look up baby, I wanna to see those beautiful eyes of yours” Shoko purrs as she pressed the cigarette bud on your collarbone making your skin burn.
That makes you rapidly reach your limit and release your mouth from her strap; gasping for air. “M’kay thats enough, hun…your poor throat…” she say tapping the cigarette on her ash tray as she gently rubs your sore and red bottom lips. Shes looking at you with sure adoration it’s making your heart melt.
“No…I’m fine I just wanna keep on sucking it, please?” You pleading while your tears roll down your face making her grin lazily. She pushed your head under again and you go right back to sucking her off.
She lights up another cigarette and puffs it. “Don’t waste your tears my love, this is just the beginning…” Shoko says as she wipes your tears away.
A/n: my first time writing smut what do we think also dis was made at 4 in the morning so give me some credit 😭
Shoko's been more distracted on her phone as of late. She's been canceling plans with her two best friends and no they wanna know why?
The rhythmic, mechanical click of buttons on a flip phone had become the new soundtrack to Shoko Ieiri’s life.
For the past three weeks, Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto had been forced to endure a completely different version of their resident doctor-in-training. The usually exhausted, nicotine-deprived, and deeply cynical Shoko was suddenly… distracted. More importantly, she was radiant. It was a subtle shift, but to two teenage boys who spent practically every waking hour with her, it was as jarring as a sudden curse attack.
It started with the texting. Shoko’s thumbs moved across the keypad with a frantic, practiced speed, her eyes glued to the tiny, glowing screen during briefings with Masamichi Yaga. Then came the phone calls. She would abruptly stand up during their rare moments of downtime, stepping out of the jujutsu tech lounge or slipping into the shadows of the courtyard to whisper into the receiver. The calls lasted for hours, her low voice murmuring words they couldn't catch.
But the biggest dead giveaway? The smiles.
Shoko didn't smile without a cynical edge unless she was watching Satoru get kicked through a wall by a curse. Yet, over the last few days, Satoru and Suguru had caught her looking down at a newly received message, her lips curving into a genuinely warm, soft chuckle before she hastily slipped the device into her pocket. It was a look of pure, unadulterated affection.
Naturally, it was driving Satoru absolutely insane.
The breaking point arrived on a humid Tuesday afternoon. The trio had just finished a grueling, sticky exorcism on the outskirts of Tokyo. Satoru was stretched out across a bench in the jujutsu tech breakroom, his long legs dangling over the armrest, while Suguru sat cross-legged on the floor, meticulously cleaning his ears with a cotton swab.
Shoko was leaning against the counter, her uniform jacket discarded, slinging her purse over her shoulder. Her phone buzzed in her hand, and that familiar, sickeningly sweet smile graced her lips for a fraction of a second.
"No, I’m not going with you guys to the same place to eat," Shoko said plainly, not even looking up as she typed a rapid-fire response. "Find your own lunch."
Satoru huffed loudly, throwing an arm over his face dramatically. "Why? You always ditch us nowadays! We're a team, Shoko! A trio! The strongest! You’re breaking up the band. What could possibly be more important than watching me eat four bowls of strawberry parfaits? Are you dating someone or something?"
"Yeah," Shoko responded instantly, her tone entirely casual.
"You always ditch us and—Wait." Satoru paused mid-sentence. His glasses slipped down his nose as his brilliant blue eyes blinked rapidly, finally registering what Shoko had just said.
The silence in the room stretched for a single, agonizing second before Satoru exploded.
"YOU'RE DATING AND YOU DIDN'T TELL US?!"
Satoru yelped dramatically, leaping off the bench like a startled cat. He lunged sideways, clinging tightly to Suguru’s shoulders, burying his face in the darker-haired boy's neck as if he were a delicate Victorian maiden about to faint from the vapors. Suguru didn't even blink. He merely adjusted his weight, holding Satoru up by the waist with a practiced, weary familiarity, his own eyebrows shooting up in genuine surprise.
"Well, you know now," Shoko said, tossing her phone into her purse and zipping it shut. "I have lunch plans with her. So, goodbye."
Satoru gasped once more, his grip tightening on Suguru's uniform. "YOU'RE A LESBIAN?!" he shrieked, sounding even more surprised by the gender of the mystery person than the relationship itself.
Shoko paused at the doorway, turning her head slowly. Her gaze darkened, a dangerous, defensive edge creeping into her eyes. "You got a problem with that?"
Satoru immediately let go of Suguru, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes, completely shifting his attitude. "No? I'd kiss Suguru if he'd let me. I'm just offended you kept a secret from me!" He huffed, pouting like a toddler denied a toy.
"Not happening," Suguru responded instantly to Satoru's casual declaration, his voice smooth and entirely deadpan.
Satoru’s pout deepened, his shoulders slumping. "See? Rejection from all angles. My heart is in pieces."
Suguru ignored his best friend's theatrical display, focusing his attention back on Shoko. A gentle, curious smile played on his lips. "Can we meet her at least?" he asked, stepping forward. "We're friends, aren't we? It’s only fair we vet the person taking up all your time."
"Absolutely not," Shoko said, her voice dropping an octave. "You two are feral. You will scare her away, or worse, make me look bad by association. Stay here. Eat your parfaits."
Shoko underestimate the sheer, unyielding stubbornness of teenage boys with god-like powers.
She had barely made it past the main torii gates of Jujutsu High before she realized she was being followed. It wasn't subtle. Satoru was walking backwards three paces behind her, hands clasped behind his head, whistling an obnoxious, off-key tune. Suguru walked beside him, hands tucked into his deep pockets, offering Shoko a polite, entirely unapologetic wave when she glared back at them.
"I told you to stay," Shoko hissed, picking up her pace down the winding mountain stairs.
"And we chose to ignore you," Satoru beamed, matching her stride effortlessly with his absurdly long legs. "Come on, Shoko! Tell us about her. What's her name? Is she a sorcerer? Does she know you dissect corpses for a living? Because if I were a normal girl, that would be a major red flag."
"She’s a non-sorcerer," Shoko sighed, rubbing her temples as a headache began to form. "And she knows I work in the medical field. That’s all she needs to know."
"A civilian!" Satoru gasped. "Oh, the drama! The forbidden romance! Suguru, write this down. I bet she’s a soft, delicate little flower. Shoko probably acts all tough, but I bet she writes her poetry. Do you write her poetry, Shoko? 'Thy eyes are as dark as the lungs of the smokers I treat...'?"
"Satoru, stop harassing her," Suguru interjected, though the smirk on his face betrayed his amusement. "But I do have a theory. I think she’s an arts student. Shoko likes quiet things. Someone who paints, perhaps? Someone who can handle Shoko’s brooding nature by capturing it on canvas."
"No, no, you've got it all wrong," Satoru interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "My Six Eyes perceive the truth. Shoko’s girlfriend is definitely a badass delinquent from a rival school. They met during a turf war. Shoko patched up her wounds, sparks flew, cigarettes were shared—boom. Romance."
"You two are entirely insane," Shoko muttered, her face burning with a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. She pulled out her phone, sending a quick text: 'Almost there. Bringing two idiots. Ignore them.'
"Look! Look at the smile! She's doing it again!" Satoru pointed an accusatory finger at her face. "She's thinking about her delinquent painter girlfriend!"
"If either of you breathes a word about curses, jujutsu, or my smoking habits, I will personally ensure your next medical checkup involves a very large, very cold needle," Shoko threatened, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as they finally transitioned from the quiet mountain paths to the bustling, sun-drenched streets of the trendy Shibuya district.
The cafe Shoko had chosen was a small, aesthetic little spot tucked away in a quieter alley, featuring outdoor seating shaded by wide canvas umbrellas. It was a stark contrast to the gritty, blood-soaked environments the three sorcerers usually frequented.
As they approached, Shoko’s eyes scanned the outdoor tables. The irritation on her face instantly melted away, replaced by that soft, genuine warmth that Gojo and Suguru had spent weeks analyzing.
Sitting at a corner table, bathed in the dappled afternoon sunlight, was you.
Upon seeing you, Shoko completely abandoned her usual sluggish, lazy stride. She quickened her pace, her boots clicking sharply against the pavement as she left the two boys in her dust. The sudden burst of energy from their usually lethargic friend made Gojo and Suguru exchange a wide-eyed, knowing glance.
When she got within earshot, Shoko called out your name. Her voice was louder and clearer than usual, carrying a distinct note of eagerness.
Hearing her voice, you looked up from your phone, your eyes shifting away from the screen and directly toward her. A bright, welcoming smile broke across your face, immediately softening the tension that Shoko had carried all the way from the campus.
"Hey," Shoko said as she reached the table, her entire demeanor transforming. She looked relaxed, her shoulders dropping as she slid into the chair opposite you. "Sorry I'm late. I dragged some baggage with me."
Before you could ask what she meant, two towering figures flanked the table.
Satoru pulled up his glasses, letting them sit on the crown of his head so his piercing, unnaturally blue eyes could lock onto yours with intense, childlike curiosity. He leaned over the table, placing his palms flat on the wood, invading your personal space with zero regard for social boundaries.
"Hi! I'm Satoru Gojo! The prettiest, strongest, and most important person in Shoko's life—until recently, apparently," he introduced himself with a dazzling, blinding grin.
Suguru placed a hand on Satoru's shoulder, pulling him back just enough to keep him from knocking over your iced coffee. He offered you a smooth, polite bow, his long bangs falling perfectly across his face. "Ignore him. I’m Suguru Geto. We’re Shoko’s classmates. It's a pleasure to finally meet the person who has been keeping our Shoko so hopelessly distracted."
Shoko pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a heavy sigh. "I give you permission to throw your drink at them," she murmured to you, though the fondness in her eyes as she looked at you proved she wasn't entirely miserable anymore.
ᵎᵎ 🧸 ⋅ Kenma x gn!reader but of fluff then angst, sfw
⋅ word count: 1.5k
⋅ warnings: mention of insecurities, ooc?
ᵎᵎ 🧸 ⋅ Masterlist | Pt.2
He's not quite sure when his feelings for you began; in fact, he's unsure when he first ever noticed you.
Maybe it started off when he asked you for a pen, too lazy to rummage through his bag to find his own ones that were scattered all over inside, because he forgot to zip his pencil case closed.
Or perhaps it was when he first made eye contact with you as you handed him his eraser that had fallen from his desk. It was also the first time he truly looked at you, though he quickly turned away, offering a quiet "thank you."
It might have been the time you bumped into him while you were hurrying to the teachers' lounge, just like in a cliché anime scene.
He recalled how annoyed he felt when it happened. Papers flew everywhere, and as you frantically gathered them up, you stuttered a quiet, "I'm so sorry."
It would have been rude to just walk away, so he crouched down to help you pick up the scattered papers.
"Here", he mumbled, handing you the stack of papers he had gathered.
His breath hitched as he felt your soft touch as you took the pile from him.
"Thank you", you responded. And that's when Kenma made the mistake of looking at you again, and gosh, he immediately regretted it, because the second time he properly looked at you, he realised- you were so pretty. Like so pretty, he could imagine the sparkles and flower petals behind you.
He could feel the slight warmth creeping up on his cheeks as he looked everywhere but you, because if he did, he knew he would turn into a mess.
Unsure of his ability to speak without stuttering, he nodded awkwardly and walked away.
Ever since then, he couldn't help but start noticing little details about you— in a non-creepy way, of course. He used his long hair as an advantage to hide the fact that he was sneaking glances at you in class.
He found the way you unconsciously tilt your head when you don't understand what the teacher is talking about, cute or the way your eyes brighten when you know the answer to something.
"Since when did I start thinking about stupid stuff like that..." He muttered to no one as he had lost another fight against the boss.
It's no surprise that Kenma had no experience with things like crushes or dating. This man used to stay up all night playing games, or even wake up early just to do so.
Even after school and sometimes volleyball practice, he rushes straight home to continue where he has left off on his favourite game.
He really doesn´t scream boyfriend material at all.
"Whatcha got there?" The sound of another voice startled him, and he quickly looked up just to see you with your damn tilted head, curious about what he was playing.
"I-I uh..." He cursed himself internally. Dang it. Of course, he´s stuttering and, once again, avoiding your gaze.
Your eyes lit up when you recognised what game he was playing.
"Whoa, isn't the boss like really hard?" You asked him as you sat beside him to observe, which made Kenma even more anxious.
"It's alright..." he mumbled, leaving out the fact that he literally lost just a few seconds ago.
After a bit of hesitation, he asked. "You play this too?" He shifted a bit on his seat and continued to smash buttons.
"Mhm! My friend recommended it to me a while ago, but I keep getting stuck at the puzzles, so I never reached the boss...." You trailed off.
Kenma let out a hum of acknowledgement, trying not to focus on the fact that you're sitting so close, observing his gameplay.
Maybe the fact that you showed interest in his hobbies made him attracted to you.
As time went on, he got used to your presence, so he didnt get as nervous as the first few encounters with you.
But he couldn't deny the fact that his ears felt warm when you were around. Which left him irritated
He didn't dislike you; he disliked the way you made him feel, the way he couldn't help but focus on your details even more, now that you two got close.
The sound of your giggles, the gentle touch of your fingers, the melodic sound of your voice, it all left him awake at night.
It's driving him crazy.
He scratched his head and groaned out of frustration, rolling around on his bed.
It's the third night now that he hasn't been able to sleep. He sighed and reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen's light blinded him temporarily before he lowered the brightness.
He revisited the chats he had with you. The difference between your chatting style and his was obvious. He's rather dry over text, just like he was in person, but it has never bothered you.
For some reason, he enjoys rereading your texts; it makes him wish that you would text him more.
"Kenma!" You sprinted towards him from behind on the way to school. You two had figured out that you shared the same path to school; you just took a turn early to return home.
"Have you cleared the level you talked about yesterday?" Leaning close, you once again watched what he was playing on his phone, just as you always have.
"I did...it was easy," he lied. It actually took him an hour to clear that stage, but you didn't need to know that, because the way you were amazed by his words left him satisfied.
You sighed as you continued to walk beside him. "I'm jealous, you know. I've never reached that far into the game," you grumbled.
"Have you ever thought that it might be because you don't build your characters correctly?"
"It's not my fault they give me shitty stats!"
The walk was peaceful, the weather was perfect: sunny yet not too hot, but warm. Some of the cats he sometimes sees were resting on top of the walls.
He looks down at your hand, and he wishes to hold it. Would you let him if he asked? Is your hand as soft as he imagined? The thought of that makes his cheeks warm.
He really wanted to know.
Although his thoughts were cut short, as he heard an obnoxiously loud "Hey" from a certain rooster head behind him.
"Don't you usually leave earlier for school?" Kenma narrowed his eyes as he watched his childhood friend catch up to them.
"I woke up later than usual," Kuroo groaned. "I didn't even have time to eat breakfast," he complained.
You just giggled beside Kenma and joked, "You could've run with a toast in your mouth, you know."
Kuroo later noticed the presence beside his best friend.
"You never told me you made a new friend." He hung an arm around Kenma's shoulder, which annoyed the latter.
"I don't have to tell you everything, you know," he grouched.
Kuroo let out a dramatic sound and playfully clenched the spot above his heart.
"How heartless you are!"
After watching the playful exchange between the two, you finally decided to introduce yourself.
"I'm 'name', Kenma and I share the same class. That's how we know each other. "
Kuroo let go of Kenma's shoulder and gave you a smile.
"I'm Kenma's childhood friend; he has probably mentioned me a couple of times already," he claimed proudly, but you only gave him a confused smile, which made Kuroo freeze.
"He did?" "He didn't?" you both asked in unison.
"I didn't," Kenma shrugged.
"You really are heartless!"
You three carried on with your walk, and you and Kuroo really hit it off. He was telling stories about him and Kenma back when they were kids, which made the blonde groan.
He also mentioned other stuff, like some fun facts about chemistry or how the nationals were coming up.
"You never told me about that!" You looked over at Kenma.
Kenma only hummed. "I didn't think it was important to," he admitted, as he continued playing on his phone.
His words made the black-haired gasp in disbelief.
"How could you not tell her that?! It's one of the most important events in the world!" Kuroo gave him an earful.
He then walked over to you.
"Why don't you come watch us play?" The question made your eyes light up.
"Are you sure it's all right for me to come?" you asked and looked over at Kenma to see if he had any objections.
Kuroo only smiled. "Of course it's alright! I'm sure Kenma over here won't mind," to which Kenma replied with a soft "not really."
"It will be fun, I promised."
After a bit of thinking, you nodded. "I will hold you to it then," you said, smiling and playfully punching Kuroo's shoulder, which made him laugh.
Kenma finally looked up from his phone and noticed how close you two had gotten.
He stopped in his tracks and watched you two interact in front of him.
Ah. With the amount of time he has spent with you, he has forgotten his place in this world.
It was as if he had been splashed with cold water.
He was reminded of how different he was compared to you.
And it gave him a bitter feeling.
a/n: I had this in my drafts for a year, and it was supposed to be just about the moments where Kenma has fallen for you, but then I remembered I like my men miserable
cw : oral f. rec, fingering, mentions of strap-on use, lesbian shoko, explicit smut, female whimpering, squirting, pet names, not proofread. art : verazpberry.
ⓘ Featuring pornstar!shoko is even sexier off tape !
pornstar!shoko who started her career in college. Her roommate & a few other sorority girls thought making an amateur together porno would make them all famous.
While that wasn't the case for every girl featured in the film, it did end up going viral enough that an agency reached out to scout a few of them, including Shoko.
pornstar!shoko had one of her first professional videos go viral across every post, where she'd been given a strap-on to wear & was told to act "Mean" to her co-star, & the obviously real pleasure they both felt made the video all the times better.
pornstar!shoko quickly made a name for herself as one of the fastest-growing lesbian pornstars within her agency & even made friends with most of her frequent co-stars, and some of the male stars she'd met.
pornstar!shoko eventually became close friends with pornstar!satoru, who encouraged her to not give up on dating after one of her ex-girlfriends dumped her for not being the same as in her films.
He'd been in the industry longer than she had & told her everyone's had their fair share of experiences with a partner being insecure over their jobs. But that he'd seen some of truly beautiful relationships, so don't give up over one bad apple.
pornstar!shoko was wary when pornstar!satoru offered to set her up on a date with one of his longtime friends, until after he assured her that you'd met many of their coworkers & never brought up their line of work.
pornstar!shoko finally gave in after a few weeks of her friend almost begging her to go on a date with you, swearing up and down he could just tell you'd get along, and if you ended up not hitting it off she could beat his ass.
pornstar!shoko was semi-excited, semi-sick to her stomach, waiting for you to show up to the blind date, & was impatiently stirring her drink when you walked into the restaurant, apologizing profusely.
pornstar!shoko was in absolute awe watching you take your seat across from her & ended up spending most of the date listening to you talk & joking around while drinking & eating the night away.
You & she got along perfectly, and as much as she hated to admit pornstar!satoru was absolutely right for wanting to set you up.
pornstar!shoko didn't want the date to end; she actively prayed you'd never finish your beer just so she could keep listening to your voice—but alas, the date did end, & as you were putting back on your coat, she did something she'd never expected.
She invited you over to spend the night at her apartment & was elated when you agreed.
pornstar!shoko hated feeling awkward throughout the date & was just happy to be home, ushering you into the cushy apartment & quickly showing you around.
She was a star for fucks sake; she was so good at making other girls feel good, that they'd pout about scenes being over at the end of shoot days—acting so nervous over someone was not the norm.
pornstar!shoko almost melted into you when you pulled her onto your lap on the couch & started kissing her, before steadying herself and kissing down your neck as your fingers worked at getting your jeans off.
pornstar!shoko relaxed at the sight of your lipstick smeared & even giggled for a second before pressing another kiss to your lips & guided you to lay down on the couch.
pornstar!shoko was between your thighs, pulling your ankles over her shoulders within minutes, sucking sweetly on your clit & keeping her eyes trained on you while listening to each soft moan of her name she drew from your lips.
pornstar!shoko quickly pulled one hand down to tease your aching hole, spreading your slick slowly before finally slipping one of her fingers in—pumping slowly as your back arched off the couch.
pornstar!shoko quickly added a second & curled them once your thighs began shaking against her cheekbones, pulling back to tease you for being so close, so soon—but shut up & went back to eating like a good girl when you pulled her hair and whined out as breathy "Please!"
pornstar!shoko swirled her tongue teasingly slowly around your clit as your whines grew more desperate, until finally you finished against her tongue and fingers, lulling her cheek against your thigh as she wiped off her chin.
pornstar!shoko blushed as you played with her hair, trying to catch your breath before giggling softly, telling her you two "Need to have a second date for sure."
pornstar!shoko helped you get cleaned up in her shower before you both ended up in a tangled pile of limbs in her bed, whispering, kissing, doing anything but falling asleep.
Hentai Is An art @kenmasabg - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
