you guys grew up together, but drifted apart when you started college (he probably went to up or something) and whenever he comes home sa province, aling marites and her squad have a secret meeting sa kalye "hoy linda alam mo ba nandito na gwapong anak ni mitsuki, ang laki laki na niya" tapos syempre kasama mama mo don HAHAHAHA
ok pero ang cool siguro niya. he's like "the most desirable bachelor" sa barangay niyo HSJSBSJ tapos ikaw naman syempre maharot ka so todo papansin pag nakatambay siya sa labas. tapos pag bibili siya sa sari sari store niyo syempre ready na pick up lines mo
"putangina naman ano kinalaman ng number ko sa binibili kong piattos, ha?!" tapos sabay suntok irap sayo
synopsis: nerdjo overhears his brother making a bet that he can get you into his bed- now he has to decide on how to tell you, or if you'll beat him to the punch.
pairing(s): nerdjo x fem!reader x fratjo
c.w. & w.c.: 5k - :: plot :: more plot :: smut with plot :: p in v :: happy ending :: fratjo gets humiliated
satoru knew how his playboy brother, satori was. he really did. he knew him better than anyone else- they both did, as much as they fought to deny the allegations.
satoru was the younger twin of the two, his nose shoved into a textbook with his glasses sliding down his nose every few seconds.
while satori was the frat god, he liked to call himself who was sleeping with a new girl every other night and getting drunk or high at every single party.
satoru wasn't meant to hear the conversation happening in the other room, all he was doing was bringing some notes over to the frat house that satori surprisingly asked for with midterms coming up that weren't so important until their parents threatened not to pay for his tuition if he failed one more time.
i guess it becomes important when the only way you can get girls is the title you have behind your name with being a frat president.
all he could hear was laughs when he stepped through the door until geto's voice finally cracked through the humor. "you couldn't get with her even if you paid her."
"you wanna put money on that?" satori. of course, using money and bets like no other. "guaranteed, i could have her on a date by friday at 6 and my bed by 7."
satoru had no idea who they were talking about, all he knew was that his skin was crawling from listening to his brother make bets and gambles on women like they were simple property that he could buy, fuck and toss back into the gutter.
before he could bear to hear anything else disgusting fly from their lips, he adjusted his glasses and knocked on the entry wall, finally snapping their attention from their meaningless conversation.
satori's head snaps over at the sound before his eyes light up at his younger twin and satoru is already sure, confident even- that it isn't because he's holding the notes to his name keeping of 'president'.
"took you long enough, yeah?" satori says, covering it as a joke but really he's just an ungrateful little shit.
"i was studying." satoru isn't one to hold back his punches, at least not with satori. he knows ball when it comes to his brother. "i actually believe in passing exams, not just when a title is threatened."
"what titles do you have again?" satori's eyes narrow when asking the question. "i don't think 'nerd' is exactly a panty dropper"
satoru couldn't resist the urge to roll his eyes at that comment or the fact that geto was holding back the laughter of a hyena but before he can make a comeback, satori is already talking again.
"hey, you know that girl in your physics class? real pretty eyes with the- the- the hair?" satori asks, waving his hands in gestures towards his eyes and hair.
satoru lets out a huff before pleasing him with an answer. "they all have pretty eyes and they all have hair, satori. do you care to be anymore vague?"
"i dont know! the girl who sits right behind you."
oh.
her.
you.
"what about her?" there is a hesitation in satoru's voice. what would satori want with you?
satoru internally recoils at his own thought. what wouldn't satori want with you? you were pretty, beautiful even with a smile that always met your eyes and one of the softest voices he's ever heard. you were an angel in disguise, he'd already convinced himself of that.
satori snatches the notes from satoru's hands before his thoughts can trail him away any further. "do you have her number?"
god, he wishes he did.
"no and even if i did, which i dont. why would i give it to you?"
"i should've known better than to ask you, what girls numbers do you have in your phone besides our mothers?"
that finally got a reaction from geto, finally cracking at the expense of satoru with a snort.
satoru rolls his eyes, ignoring the anger bubbling inside his chest before walking back towards the front door. "i want those notes back, don't let anything happen to them."
"i'll protect them with my life."
sure he will.
the weekend passed slowly after leaving the frat house, satoru's phone being pinged every few minutes by satori asking for more notes or why some notes were missing, and further asking about you.
"can you get me her number?"
"i'll text you what to say to her, i know you'll have no idea."
"i need her number."
"i have $500 on this, help big bro 'tori out."
satoru doesn't remember muting his texts. he was tired of his brother trying to get with women on the pretense of money and bets alone and not actually wanting to get to know them and building a happy relationship with them while satoru believed women should be worshiped and prized.
as if satoru and satori didn't even look alike, all that was different was the fact that satoru wore glasses and satori didn't. big difference, apparently.
****
monday rolled around in a blur, there were no more texts from satori when his eyes finally pried open at the sound of his alarm.
satoru rolled towards the blaring sound before slamming his arm down on his snooze button before swinging his legs around and placing his feet into his slippers resting right beside him on the floor.
satoru would see you today, he always does. sitting right behind him in class, catching whiffs of your perfume every few minutes. it was always a fruity scent, strawberry's or coconut seemed to be your favorites- the thought of it alone causes his heart to speed up just barely before his chest is quickly constricted by the thought of satori seeing you too.
he should tell you. you're too sweet for your own good, always trying to see the best in people, never doubting anyone. you probably wouldn't have a single negative thought on satori stopping you in-between classes to coax you into a date just to be spreading your legs for him hours later on friday.
satoru stretches his arms above his head with a groan before finally standing to get ready in hopes to make it to class before he has to squeeze through the student body just to make it in one piece.
his thoughts don't leave him as he prepares for class, trying to figure out what to say to you, wondering how he can explain how his brother is a slob who just wants women for his own pleasure and release.
the walk to class from his dorm was quick, dodging bodies left and right in the hall and the few couples he mentally gagged at who already had their tongues down each others throats at eight o'clock in the morning.
what he didn't expect to see when he rounded the corner to walk into physics was you shoving satori away from your personal space.
"stay the fuck away from me you freak!" you shouted right into the face of satori, cheeks flushed and chest heaving.
you were already turning and walking away when satori shouted back to you, causing every head to turn towards the commotion . "i made reservations! i even asked utahime what you liked so i knew where to take you!"
pathetic and desperate.
your steps slowed before coming to a stop, turning around to face him, feet away now but eyes narrowed in on him like laser beams.
"i don't want your reservations- just how your parents didn't want a fucked up 2 piece," you cut back, your tone is cold and icy but not a single ounce of hesitation in your voice. "be more like your brother and less like a disappointment, maybe you'll finally make mommy and daddy proud."
the hall is filled with "ooohs" and cackles as you walk away, not turning around this time not even when you hear satori grumbling something under his breath about money being lost out on.
satori's eyes land on his brother, narrowing in before speed walking in his direction like a man on fire.
"you told her something, didn't you?" ah. there it is. always blaming it on someone and never himself.
satoru sighs and pushes his glasses back up before answering. "i didn't tell her anything." it's not a lie, he didn't utter a single word to you. "word just. . .gets around about you."
"what is that supposed to mean?" satori questions, the disbelief in satori's voice is astronomical, as if he doesn't know he's slept with half of the campus and word doesn't get around.
"it means that not every girl on campus wants to sleep with you. . .or even be within a few feet of you, apparently."
satori doesn't give satoru the satisfaction of a reply before stomping down the hall, opposite direction of where you went.
as if he would want a reply. he could barely even tolerate his brother more than half of the time. he thought he was disgusting, even more so confident on the fact that he was carrying some form of std from the pill bottle he caught a glimpse of once when visiting.
whatever. satoru adjusted his bag before finishing his walk into physics class where he's gonna hear the same monotone voice talking about energy, forces and electricity like he doesn't know about it all already, correcting his professor from time to time without shame.
stepping inside of the room, there you were. same spot as always, one seat directly behind him. you appeared calmer now, relaxed with that half smile you always wore on your face. nothing like the look you had just minutes ago when you were shouting in his brothers face, humiliating him in front of everyone.
satoru moved to his seat, sitting down and pulling out what he needed before waiting on the professor to come in. and there it was, that whiff of your perfume filling his nose. it was different today, more floral smelling than the fruity ones you'd typically wear.
not that he was noticing, of course.
satoru felt the lightest touch on his shoulder before a warm breath hit the back of his neck, sending a chill down his spine.
"hey. i'm sorry for about yelling at your brother," you whisper to him, your tone is almost regretful. probably feeling guilty about seeming mean and making his brother the joke of the hallway. "i should've controlled myself better."
satoru leans back a little in his seat to whisper back to you, catching a glimpse of your eyes when he turns his head. "don't be, he's a pig."
your eyes widen just slightly before letting out the smallest sound that sounded a lot like a giggle. "i've heard too much about him, he was coming on strong, like a desperate puppy. . .and he smelled like whiskey." you say in disgust.
satoru is about to whisper something back when the door is swung open and the professor walks in, already looking like he's regretting every decision he's ever made, especially applying for this job where he teaches students where half of them aren't even paying attention.
apparently, you're one of those students today.
you've always had the softest crush on satoru. constantly sitting behind him, wishing you could just drag your fingers through his pearly white hair. you wish you could drag them along other unholy things.
you didn't think he was interested in you like that, you were more than sure on it. throughout "knowing" each other, he had barely looked at you unless you were asking for a spare pencil or notes that you missed the teacher saying because you were too entranced by him.
little did your sweet self know, he'd been watching you for a while now and wishing he could just man up long enough to ask for your number to again, build the courage to ask you out. something his brother didn't have the brains to do with any female.
the lecture drones on for another hour before everyone is finally being dismissed, nobody paying attention to the professor when he tells them to study for the pending exam on friday, except maybe satoru. no surprise.
satoru notices you're already gone from the class when he finally prys his eyes and ears away from the professors last second spew.
he wants to take his shot, he really does.
his feet are already moving in the direction you walked off in before he can talk himself back from it, weaving through bodies again from other classes being released and filling the halls.
he thinks he's completely lost you until he turns the corner and sees you at the far end of the hall.
what is he even supposed to say to you? how do you get a girls number? maybe he really should've taken satori up on his offer for those tips a while back.
no. no. no. he'll think of something, anything- satoru pulls a pencil from his backpack quickly finishing the distance between the two of you.
"hey!" satoru calls out, voice barely shakey as he forces to stabilize it.
this is going to go poorly, he's sure of it.
you turn to find satoru walking up to you, his frames sliding down his nose with a shy smile coming to greet his lips. the sight makes your heart pound a little faster.
"hi satoru, everything okay?"
"uh. yeah, you forgot this." satoru holds up the pencil in shakey between two shakey fingers.
you bite your lip to suppress the grin that's fighting to escape before you actually do take the pencil, his pencil- from his hands. you didn't even use a pencil today, only a pen.
"thank you- that's, uhm..kind of you." you say sweetly, there is a hint of disappointment in your tone that you hope he doesn't catch.
but he does. of course, the observant nerd catches everything.
you're about to walk away again when his hand lands on your shoulder. "could i. . .get your number?" satoru? asking for your number? you swear the world stopped spinning even just for a minute.
satoru notices your hesitation before quickly trying to cover it up in a panic. "if thats not okay, dont worry about it! i don't want to make you-"
"no! no, it's okay, promise." you rush out before pulling your phone from your pocket and passing it into his hands. "just put your number in my phone, i'll text you later."
and that's exactly where it all started after he quickly placed his number in, not actually believing that you'd even send him a text. but you did.
you and satoru had been texting the entire week, sharing stupid meme's or it was mainly you asking if he had any notes from class because you weren't focusing again. eyes locked in on his hands that you noticed grew larger with veins when he'd fist his hand around whatever he decided to write with.
you wish his hands would wrap around your-
"young lady! are you paying attention?" your professor calls out, dragging every eye in the classroom into your direction. "the exam is about to start and i am giving out instructions, it's best you pay attention."
"oh. uh- yeah, sorry!" you stammer out in embarrassment. "please, continue."
you notice satoru's shoulders shaking just barely in front of you, earning himself a light punch to the back. you two had grown close in the short period of time. you learned he was easy to talk to and not some stuck up asshole nerd who used his parents money to his advantage, he would actually make jokes, mainly at his own expense or his brothers but he was funny. and sweet.
the buzzer went off indicating the exam had started and it was time to laser focus in. no more thoughts of him. not right now. not when your grade depended on him and not thoughts of his cock that you wish he'd pound into you with until your legs were shaking and sore.
the exam passed faster than you expected before the professors voice sliced through the quiet, telling everyone to put their pencils aside and that he would be around to pick them up.
while you waited for him to slowly make it to your desk to gather the paper, you couldn't stop yourself and you didn't want to. you lean forward, whispering to satoru. "hey, do you wanna come watch a movie tonight?"
there was a singular beat of hesitation before: "yeah, what movie?"
"do nerds still like star wars?" you ask playfully, already knowing the answer. it's not like he hasn't mentioned it six thousand times.
there's a huff with his signature grin that makes your toes curl in on themselves. "the return of the jedi- or the deal is off."
you bite back a laugh as the professor finally grabs your paper so you can leave. "deals on." you whisper back before standing to leave.
the nerves in your stomach tighten at the thought of him being in your dorm room, that close, that type of closeness where you could just- no. relax.
you have to at least shave first before the unholy thoughts take over.
you rush back to your dorm, not even waiting for another word from satoru before locking yourself in the bathroom.
"okay. okay, okay, this is okay- he's just going to be here to watch a movie, that's all." you whisper to yourself. why are you so nervous? he's so gentle, so warm.. so so fuckable.
you quickly undress and hop into the shower, mentally preparing to shave every crevice of your body, exfoliating every inch of your skin and using your best smelling body soaps.
you step out after about 30 minutes, chest heaving slightly. you really forgot the work it takes to put into an everything shower.
you're in the middle, well, you're finishing blow drying your hair when you notice the time- 5:57pm. satoru is supposed to be there at 6pm and he's always on time. for everything.
and there it is. 2 firm knocks landing on your door. three minutes early. that fucker. he would show up early for star wars, wouldn't he?
you turn off your blow dryer, thanking the heavens that you were actually able to finish drying your hair so you didn't look like a waterboarded rat before bolting to the door.
"you got this, turn the knob." you pep talk yourself, heart pounding faster before turning the knob to show satoru on the other side. dressed in plain blue jeans and a black tee. well, that's a little different from his vests.
"hi"
"hi"
"uh-" you step back a little to open the door more. "you can come in, the movie is already in, if you want to start it."
satoru steps in and hands you a small purple baggy. "this is for you. just a small bag of candy- i always see you sneaking these between classes."
he noticed that? your heart swells at the thought of you being watched. . .wait, should that concern you? no. no. he's pretty, it doesn't matter.
you give him a soft smile, pulling the candy out and popping it open. "thank you, that's so sweet of you" god. you just wanna pounce on him for a bag of candy. you hate him for making you so weak.
you and satoru settle on the bed once he starts the movie. close, probably too close, you can smell the exact cologne he put on. sauvage by dior.
the little things you notice are cute. how his fingers rub against each other during the tense scenes, how his eyes focus in when it gets to a fight scene.
"they're preparing to confront the galactic empire." satoru whispers, eyes not leaving your television.
you can't hold back anymore, you're wet alone from watching his hands, his fingers and seeing the veins in his hands bulge out more than they do in class.
"have you ever fucked a girl?"
oh. that really did just come out like that.
satoru blinks before turning his head to look at you. "what?"
well, can't go back on it now. "have you ever had intercourse. . .with a female?"
"uhm-"
you trail your fingers along the hem of his collar, leaning in enough that your breathe fans over his lips. "y'know, sticking your cock inside of a girls-"
"i know what you mean." satoru chokes out, cheeks glowing red in embarrassment of being put on the spot. "uh- yeah, i have."
you blink, truth be told you're a little surpised and satoru can see it all over your face.
"satori," he starts, already regretting the story before it starts. "he hooked me up with one of his friends before coming to college. . .im clean, i mean- i promise."
why are you not surpised at the fact satori would do something like that.
"you haven't had sex with anyone since then?" you ask him, not wanting to embarrass him any further but leaning in more boldly to place light kisses along his neck.
"uh- no, no i haven't"
"do you want to?"
satoru's answer doesn't come in words, just him grabbing your face to pull your mouth onto his. everything heats up quickly after that, tongues fighting for dominance while broken moans are shared between bitten lips.
satoru pulls back from the kiss, looking you in the eyes through his now tilted frames. "are you sure you want to? with me?"
you bite your lip before grinding your hips into his. "yeah, i only want you 'toru"
that's all he needs to hear before he's removing his glasses and slamming his lips back onto yours.
you reach down tugging on the end of his shirt before he's pulling it off in a hurry and you doing the exact same in return, you didn't bother with a bra after your shower, leaving you bare chested in front of him.
his breath catches hard the second your bare tits press against his chest. skin on skin after all the layers feels obscene in the best way. satoru’s hands are everywhere- greedy, reverent, shaking just enough to betray how badly he’s been thinking about this.
“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, “you’re so- you’re perfect.”
"so are you."
one palm slides up your spine, fingers splaying wide like he’s trying to memorize every bone of your vertebrae, while the other cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple once, twice, then pinching just hard enough to make you moan and gasp into his kiss.
you can already feel how hard he is through his jeans- thick, insistent, twitching every time your hips roll against his. begging to be freed.
the movie in the background long forgotten now, just the barely heard sounds of light sabers clashing, ewoks screeching- but it might as well all be static to you in this moment.
your fingers fumble only for a second at the button of his jeans before it pops open.the zipper comes down with a soft rasp that feels deafening under the muffled blaster fire and john williams score leaking from your tiny dorm tv. satoru’s breath hitches when your knuckles graze the straining outline of him through the denim.
he lifts his hips to help you- impatient and greedy and you drag both jeans and black boxer briefs down his thighs in one rough motion. his cock springs free, thick and flushed dark red at the tip, already glistening with pre-cum that beads at the slit and slowly slides down the underside of his cock. the sight makes your mouth water and your core clench around nothing.
“fuck,” satoru exhales, voice cracked. his hands flex against your hips like he’s trying not to grab too hard. “you’re gonna kill me, baby.”
you don’t answer with words. instead you wrap your fingers around him- hot, velvet-hard, pulsing- and give one slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip causing his whole body to jerk forward in motion.
“shit- wait, wait- ” he gasps, but his hips buck into your fist anyway, chasing the friction.
you smear the leaking pre-cum down his length with your thumb, circling the sensitive ridge under the head until his abs clench and his thighs tremble. he’s so responsive it’s addictive- every twitch, every choked sound, every time the pretty blue of his eyes goes glassy and unfocused.
you never would've guessed.
you shift forward on your knees, straddling his lap properly now. the damp heat between your legs brushes the underside of his cock and he whimpers, actually whimpers, high and desperate.
“‘toru,” you murmur against the shell of his ear, letting the wet tip of him nudge at your folds, slipping through your slick without pushing in yet. “you’re shaking.”
“‘cause you’re fucking dripping on me,” he grits out. one hand flies up to grip the back of your neck, keeping your foreheads pressed together. “can feel how wet you got just from jerking me off. you want it that bad?”
you answer by rocking your hips forward, letting his cock slide along your slit, coating him until he’s shiny with your juices. the head catches on your clit with every pass and you both moan- yours softer, his broken and loud enough that you’re suddenly glad your roommate is away for the weekend.
“say it,” he pants, voice gravel-rough, different than you've ever heard from him. “tell me you want my cock inside you. right now. while Luke’s out there fighting jabba’s goons.”
you laugh breathlessly, but it turns into a whimper quickly as you flip the both of you over, notching him at your entrance and starting to sink down.
the stretch is filthy- slow at first, then faster as your body remembers how much it wants him. inch by thick inch he fills you until your ass meets his thighs and he’s buried to the hilt. you both freeze for a heartbeat, breathing each other’s air.
satoru’s hands clamp onto your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “oh my god,” he chokes. “you’re- so fucking -nghh- tight. warm.”
you clench around him on purpose just to hear the strangled noise he makes before you start moving.
slow rolls at first- lifting until only the head is inside, then dropping back down, feeling every vein, every ridge drag against your walls. his eyes roll back; long fingers dig into your ass, spreading you open a little wider like he wants to feel even deeper.
“harder,” he begs after only a minute. “please- baby, fuck me like you mean it.”
you plant your hands on his chest for leverage and start riding him as requested- hard, wet slaps of skin on skin that drown out the movie. his cock hits that spot inside you over and over until your thighs burn and your rhythm stutters.
your moans filling the air, the smell of sex becoming an overpowering smell.
satoru suddenly sits up, arms banding around your back, mouth crashing into yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. he thrusts up to meet every downward grind, fucking into you with sharp, hungry snaps of his hips.
“gonna come so fast,” he warns against your lips, voice wrecked. “been thinking about this- about you- for fucking months. you feel too good- too wet- fuck- ”
you reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast little circles while he pounds up into you.
“come with me,” you gasp. “please, want to feel you fill me up inside-”
that does it for him.
his rhythm falters, hips slamming up once, twice- before he buries himself as deep as he can go and comes with a long, guttural moan that vibrates through your chest. you feel the hot pulses of him spilling into you, the way his cock kicks and throbs, and it tips you over the edge right after him. your walls clamp down hard, milking every drop while your vision whites out and pleasure crashes through you in brutal waves.
for several heartbeats you just cling to each other, panting, sweaty, still joined.
you both collapse together onto the bed, tangled in the sheets and each other. satoru pulls you closer, glasses still long forgotten, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer into his chest like he never wants to let go. his heartbeat thumps under your ear, grounding you in the moment, this moment with him.
"you're amazing," he whispers, his long fingers tracing lazy shapes on your back. "i can't believe this is real."
you smile before pressing a gentle kiss onto the nape of his neck. "it is and it's perfect."
he reaches for the remote, turning the volume up as the end credits roll over the screen with a chuckle. "next time, we'll actually watch the movie."
"next time?"
"yeah-" his tone is warm and his eyes full of promises he would keep. "every time. with you."
your heart swells warmly at his words and snuggle deeper into his chest, content in the quiet warmth with the nerd you've always had the softest spot for. knowing this is only the beginning.
the unnamed extra has become a suspect in the male lead's murder investigation!
previous | chapter eight: the crooked crown | chapter index
what do you do when your second chance of life comes with a new death sentence? enjoy the three really hot men you meet! oh, and solve the case!
synopsis: you died, game over! except, uh, after getting hit by a car, you wake up in the body of a background character who gets murdered in some cheesy romance novel you hadn't finished reading. and before long, you realize there might be more to the murder mystery subplot that meets the eye - only to end up tangled in the middle of it when the cold duke of the north's investigation leads him to suspect you have something to do with the serial stabbings plaguing their kingdom.
content: mdni!! smut, angst and fluff, inspired by romantic fantasy manhwas, historical inaccuries, murder mystery, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, unprotected piv sex, mentions of pulling out, soft and sweet gojo, possessive/protective men, multiple povs
What would the rest of the kingdom think if they could see their crown prince buried between your legs like a starving man?
Knew that he was secretly a freak who apparently couldn’t shut up about how many wet dreams he had about you since you slept with him? Rambling as he licked and lapped at your cunt, dragging his tongue up-and-down as he whispered filthy things about how pretty your pussy was, practically whimpering every time you squeezed your thighs around his head.
“Holy shit, fuck, you taste so-” he murmured, his sharp nose nuzzling against your clit. “God, so good.”
You didn’t think he had any state other than dramatic.
But you couldn’t complain when he had you clawing at the pillow behind your head, arching your hips up off the bed and begging him to keep going between broken breaths.
“S-S’toru,” you whined, reaching down to grab his dyed hair, still a little thrown off at the brown strands. It softened him a little, made him look charming in a cute way. Not quite as dangerous when his eyes were all half-lidded and hazy, like a big dog melting just for his owner.
You could almost forget that he was one of the most powerful people in this forsaken novel.
That all he had to do was snap his fingers, and people would come running to please him.
It was just a little baffling how much he seemed to give a shit about your pleasure.
“Y-you like it?” He hummed into you, taking a fucking slurp from your cunt that forced a sharp shiver down your spine, half-humiliated by the amount of slick on your damp thighs and half-exhilarated by the high he was dragging you to. “Is it, am I good?”
Your puppy wanted praise.
“Yeah, ah, yeah,” you barely managed to gasp, blinking fast as his thumbs dug into the tense muscles. “You’re-”
A strangled moan ripped from the bottom of your throat as he sucked on your clit, the pressure sending shockwaves up the rest of your body.
You were going to cum. And soon.
“Tell me, princess,” he purred, dragging his tongue up your clit, sparks lighting up in your stomach as you struggled to stop the inevitable.
“You’re fucking amazing, Toru,” you groaned as two of his skilled fingers slipped inside you, stretching you out even more so his mouth could stay devoted to that sensitive bundle of nerves. “T-the best.”
He was a little clumsy. Slightly, ah, sloppy.
But he made up for it with ample attention. Treating the whole thing like a learning experience, watching your reactions and adjusting accordingly.
Honestly, it made you wonder even more about what his previous hookups had been like if he was acting like this with you.
His sucked harder on your clit, and you came undone with his name on your breath. His fingers opened you up more, scissoring faster as his taste buds rubbed just right over your aching bud.
“Oh, fuck,” you hissed, holding onto his hair as your back arched up higher, his groan doing awful things for what was left of your sanity.
“I love that fucking face you make when you cum,” he breathed, his eyes burning and bright, watching you break as he pulled his fingers free. You swallowed hard, nose still scrunched up as you tried to choose to believe he'd say the same if he saw what you used to look like.
It wasn't fair.
But you guessed nothing about Satoru Gojo was fair.
He'd been born with an advantage, or well, created to be beautiful and blessed. Crafted to be someone's dream guy.
And all it took was a sentence for your face to feel like it was sizzling, blood burning with a blush that kept crawling up your neck.
You couldn't fall for him.
And yet, you were here, giving him another opportunity to sweep you off your feet.
He started trailing kisses higher, over your hips and across your stomach, in between the valley of your breasts until his lips were dusting over your collarbone.
“Did you read my letters?” He purred into your skin, pressing tiny pecks across the tendon of your throat.
“Yes,” you nodded as much as you could, whining a little under his weight as he fully climbed on top of you. His arms caged you in, your wrists wrapped around his neck as you tangled your fingers back in his hair. Little wisps of white had started to stand out where the temporary dye had already begun to fade. “You’re sappier than I thought, Your Highness.”
He scoffed at the use of his title, but one corner of his mouth turned up at your light teasing.
“Suguru wants me to return to the palace soon,” he breathlessly panted, like his lungs were straining for air after he tried to suffocate himself inside you for so long.
You rolled your eyes at the mention of his name, only managing to conceal it by pretending it was just because of the friction of his cock rubbing against your clit.
“C-can we not talk about him?” You complained, tugging at his roots as you resisted the urge to remind him it wasn't exactly sexy to hear him talking about someone else before he was about to shove his dick inside you.
Besides, the thought of Suguru only lit the wrong fire inside of you, flames of irritation bubbling as your brain reminded you of the difference in how he spoke to you and her. How he had screwed you over before and probably would again.
“I just don't want you to get the wrong impression,” Satoru whined, his mouth moving to decorate your face with more kisses.
“What would that be?” You tentatively asked, almost instinctively sensing that you were treading in dangerous territory. That he might say something he shouldn't – and that you'd be paying the price for it.
“That all I want from you is this,” he whispered, glancing down at the connection between your bodies, the swell of your breasts, where his cock was throbbing, pre-cum collecting at the tip and leaking into your stomach.
“Is there something wrong with this?” You murmured, trying to sound seductive, to distract him before he could make a grand confession you couldn't unhear.
Everything would be a lot more fucking complicated if you had to reject a marriage proposal from the crown prince.
“It’s just, I like you,” he said, and despite the weight in his words, you supposed you could live with that. As long as it wasn't love.
Because if he said something that stupid, just to go off and find his happily ever after with the protagonist, you might murder them both yourself.
“Show me how much,” you dared, just to avoid saying it back.
Satoru only grinned at the challenge, a slow smile stretching up on his soft pink lips.
“You know how many different ways I dreamed of us doing this?” He cocked his head to the side, and before you even huffed, he was shoving your thighs up, pressing them against your chest in a mean mating press.
Your already sore hips aching as he readjusted the position, his mischievous stare sliding down to where you were already wet and soaked waiting for him.
“I think you may have mentioned one of two in a few of your letters,” you murmured under your breath, and his mouth parted, but before he could say something to make you more flustered, you wiggled your hips to remind him what you wanted from him.
He obliged you.
Obeyed despite being the one who held the power here. Or well, everywhere, technically.
He slowly slid himself in, inch-by-inch, each hand holding down a thigh, thumbs digging in like he was struggling not to cum inside you in the first two seconds. His pretty face screwed up in pleasure, mouth open in a dramatic pant as your brain went blank at the slow stretch. How he pushed through that first little ring of resistance with ease after how much time he’d devoted to you before, filling you up in a steady thrust until you were sure he was about to rearrange your guts.
Molding you to every ridge and-
Fuck.
Had he put a condom on?
You tried to search your thoughts, head lazily turning to look over at the still-closed nightstand as you realized that no, he was raw inside you, and you hadn’t done anything to stop him.
“N-no condom?” You stammered, sucking in a short breath as he kept your thighs pinned in place.
“Promise I’ll pull out,” he said, his voice tight and strained as he slowly started to slip back out only to shove himself back in. The force of his hips made you jolt, but he was holding onto you like you were his lifeline, refusing to let go of his grip as the lump in his throat bobbed.
Were you really going to let a man whore like him fuck you without any protection?
Normally, you’d say no.
But when you opened your mouth, his next thrust robbed you of all the air in your lungs. And maybe all the rationality from your brain.
And when he was fucking you like this, his palms pressing into your skin and his eyes glittering in the sun streaming in, cock stretching you out and keeping you so stuffed it was a struggle to remember your old name, all you could really do was take it.
Lay there and be his pillow princess while he made sure you felt even better than him, his mouth crashing down to kiss you like your parted lips were simply an invitation for him.
He wouldn’t stop kissing you, his tongue halfway down your throat as he freely moaned into it, rutting into you the whole time. It probably would’ve been more flattering if you could focus entirely on him.
Instead, your attention was slipping, eyes glancing back over to the wall you were only now remembering you were sharing with Sukuna.
Shit.
You sincerely hoped they were thick enough he wouldn't overhear, or he had probably already caught an earful of moaning and whining and whimpering from both of you.
Not that Satoru seemed to care if anyone else in the entire estate heard when he began rutting into you faster, interrupting his current kiss to hiss out your name.
One of his hands kept sliding down lower, reaching for your oversensitive clit, clearly intent in coaxing another orgasm out of you.
See how much you could take.
“Wanna see your face when you cum again, pretty girl,” he purred, and you couldn’t help but fully falter the second time. Freezing while he just thrusted harder, cruel thoughts conjured up about what a fool you were for being here. Beneath him.
But how the hell were you supposed to slip away from the future king?
𖥔 ݁ ˖
“You are aware you’re not being paid for this, right?”
Was everyone just a moron today?
Suguru suspected the answer was yes. To his second question at least. With the way Sukuna was just standing outside your door, leaning against the wall with an unfortunate scowl across his face, he wasn’t so sure on the first. The pink-haired prick glared at him, as if he wasn’t the one who made sure he got paid half the time.
“I know,” he sarcastically answered, refusing to budge from his spot.
“I’m looking for His Highness,” he added, glancing around as he reluctantly tried to swallow what he really had to ask. Annoyed at the idea he was going to you to find out where his best friend was. “Is she in there?”
Sukuna unclenched his jaw, throwing a disdainful look back towards the door.
“They both are,” he grunted, and it took Suguru a few admittedly long seconds to realize that the look on Sukuna’s face wasn't just his usual shade of sour.
That was when he heard it.
A breathy whimper, thankfully muffled enough that he didn’t make out more than the desperate pitch.
“That’s fucking it,” his best friend moaned, the faint smacking of skin-on-skin audible as they both stood there and stared at the wood that suddenly seemed not-so-thick. “God, you take me so fucking good, princess.”
Suguru felt his face contorting in a grimace before he could control his own reaction. Eyes shutting as he forced a shallow exhale at the shameful sounds drifting through the door.
“How long have they-” he cleared his throat, reaching up to rub the creases from his brow.
“Half an hour, maybe more,” Sukuna shrugged, but his mouth just twitched down into a deeper frown. “It was louder in my room.”
Satoru's appetite for, ah, everything, had always been insatiable.
But this was simply ridiculous.
Fucking like a horny teenager before lunchtime? With some woman he hardly knew?
Suguru felt his eyes twitching.
What happened to acting like you weren't interested in Satoru? Was it actually true? Or were you pulling away just to make him chase you?
Unfortunately for Suguru, and probably the rest of the Kingdom, it seemed to be working.
You weren't stupid. You were remarkably clever, albeit in a way that annoyed him to no end. Even if you flung food at him like a child while you quipped back at him with quick remarks. You had to know this would not end well.
Satoru would eventually have to settle down with a real princess from a neighboring kingdom, or marry some noble lady with a certain kind of social standing. He sincerely doubted you were the sort that dreamed of being a mistress or a concubine when you were already desperate to get away from the capital.
He could admit that it was his own fault that Satoru followed you here, even if he was just adhering to his duty.
But finding you had only brought new concerns.
Namely, this…attack on you.
There just wasn't much he could do to look into it while he was stuck here listening to this.
“Fuck,” your voice was airy, absent of the mistrust constantly present in all your conversations with him. “S-S-”
He hated himself for the heat burning beneath his cheeks at the irritatingly cute whimper that came from you.
“Do you want to knock?” Sukuna sarcastically asked, snapping him out of his momentary insanity. “Or should I?”
“Just tell him I'll be waiting in his office,” Suguru sighed, jaw locked tight. He tried to relax his shoulders only to realize the rest of him was just as tense. “With something important to discuss.”
“Is it about that Priestess?” Sukuna scoffed a little like he was almost suspicious. One brow subtly arching up higher than the other, his chin raised as he held his stare.
“She left shortly after your departure,” Suguru answered, squinting as he tried to discern what it was Sukuna had noticed that he didn't. What reason a knight like him had what seemed like some bone to pick with someone the rest of the world regarded as divine.
He hadn’t quite formed an opinion on her yet. She was fairly by-the-book. Quiet. His questions were answered easily, with no apprehension or anxiety. Although, he had to acknowledge the oddity in how many times her path seemed to cross with his. But the pious had a certain way of seeing things. He was sure that if he’d brought it up, she’d probably chalk it up to fate, or the hand of her so-called creator.
Suguru had never taken too much stock in religion - not as an adult, at least.
It could be a useful tool, he supposed, if wielded correctly.
But most of the missionaries and priests he encountered seemed only interested in preaching their gospel and converting as many people as possible rather than utilizing their power.
But there was something he couldn't pinpoint in Sukuna’s stiff nod, the subtle change in his tone when he said Priestess.
“Do you have something to share?” He pointedly asked, but Sukuna just rolled his eyes. Didn’t bother to hide his disdain when he knew he was one of the best knights they had. As if it didn’t make it even more questionable he was spending his spare time playing your guard dog.
Like it wasn’t at least a little silly to protect the sort of woman who carried around a dagger in a fucking hidden pocket of her dress.
“Not with you,” Sukuna dryly muttered.
“You know,” Suguru paused, pretending to not hear the faint panting coming from the other side of the door as he fixed his stare on Sukuna. How exactly was he supposed to believe that you were some fainting flower who would wilt at the first sign of danger when you were ready to pull it on him? But then again, he guessed you might have a reason for being so standoffish or concerned for your own safety if you thought you had a stalker. Except, that didn’t appear to be the story you were going with. “I still have some questions about the man who broke into-”
Sukuna scowled at him, only moving his hand away from the hilt of his sword to stop him from finishing.
“Save it for when I’m getting paid.”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
You didn’t know what was really keeping you in bed. The cock still slowly leaking out on your stomach, sandwiched between your bodies, or the fluffy hair tickling your neck as your chin rested on top of his hair.
Satoru was still on top of you, holding you close as he murmured more wonderful things that were too good to be true.
“I’ll probably have to return tomorrow,” he hummed, and you felt his pout on your skin, pressing just above your collarbone. “Maybe even tonight.”
“Oh,” you blinked. “Okay.”
Was that bad? Good?
You couldn’t tell anymore.
Weren’t sure you wanted to.
He slowly got up, glancing around the room before he walked over to the attached bathroom to find a washcloth to wipe you down.
You listened to him start rambling about his responsibilities, let him make his promises that even if he left, he would return in a week just because he would miss you too much. And somewhere in all his ramblings, you started to wonder just how big of a mistake you made.
Satoru wasn’t the easy fuck and flee you thought he’d be.
And now you were teetering on the verge of a real relationship with a man that wasn’t yours to keep. He just couldn’t see that yet.
Part of you wanted to hold on. Cling to the invisible string he was trying to tie you together with.
The rest wanted to run.
“You’ve slept with, like, a lot of other women before, haven’t you?” You tried to sound casual, pulling the blanket up around your chest as you watched him get dressed next. He froze halfway through putting his pants on, his head snapping back up to you.
“What are you-” He awkwardly paused. “Why are you asking?”
“You sorta have a reputation,” you murmured under your breath, shrugging your shoulders slowly. You’d touched on it before, the first time you fucked. Where you tried to tease him about doing it often. But he avoided a direct answer back then too. “After what we just did, I mean, I think it’s normal to be concerned about whether or not-”
“I, um, had never been with a woman before,” he reluctantly admitted before you could express that you were worried he could give you an STD, biting his bottom lip and staring down at the floor. “You were my first.”
You tried to stop your face from reacting. But the shock was obvious on your face, brows knitting together tightly as you recollected yourself.
“Your, uh, first?” You echoed, unable to hide the disbelief in your voice.
“There’s just, I don’t know, something about you,” he said, as if that really made it more…plausible. Considering the rumors, the whispers you’d heard and the stories repeated about his sexdrive, the entire fucking plot where he was set up to be the playboy love interest, it didn’t exactly sound credible. “I wanted you.”
No, he wanted the body you were in, the one that wasn’t yours.
You swallowed hard, struggling to process what he was trying to sell you.
“I’ve been paying some of the noble ladies to say they slept with me,” he confessed, finishing pulling up his pants before scratching the back of his head. “You know, asking them to sneak out of my room in the mornings, but making sure they would still be seen?”
“Why?” You asked, fiddling with your fingers, smoothing out where the blanket was bunched in your lap.
“My image is important,” he excused, but it only dredged up more curiosities inside your head. If his image was so important, wouldn’t ditching his own party only to chase you all the way here only hurt him?
You sucked on the inside of your cheek, the ridges of your teeth running over a spot you’d already bitten before.
“Hey,” he spoke softly, walking back over to the bed before sitting on the edge.
“I’m not judging you or anything, I’m just surprised,” you mumbled, tampering down your distrust to give him the benefit of the doubt. Although his previous sentiment of it being the best sex he ever had did feel distinctly less special if you were the only person he had sex with. “I just don’t really get why I would be any different than any of the other girls who want a place in your bed.”
“Don’t think like that,” he admonished you, his sweetness at least sincere.
You could’ve laughed.
His cluelessness was less cute when you couldn’t find a way to verbalize how difficult it was to accept his affection. To believe you would be the one he chose in the end when you’d read entire chapters devoted to him pining over someone else, albeit from the perspective of a female lead who also didn’t take him seriously.
If he knew what you told Sukuna, that this was just a book, that they were characters who were all veering away from the plot, would he still feel the same? Be drawn to the actual protagonist? Or was the outcome still predetermined?
Would all you ever be was a blip on his destiny?
You wanted to reject all of it.
Ignore the stupid story and start carving out your own ending in spite of some killer who might or might not be dead already.
Satoru’s blue eyes glittered, that gleam in them only getting brighter as his gaze never drifted from your face. His lips were still glossy as they slowly opened.
“Besides, considering you were the one to deflower me,” he hummed, brushing a stray sweaty strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m basically your responsibility now.”
CHAPTER NINE HERE
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3
I sat down and read AI fics so you don't have to...
So I got curious about how difficult it would be to tell apart AI writing compared to regular fics, and I've seen people be concerned about how to distinguish the two. So I read some fics across multiple fandoms, with different lenghts, popularity and ratings.
Here are my main take aways:
Continuity and logic:
AI is terrible at remembering what it has already told you and make it make sense with what's to come. Many examples of X said this in the first paragraph, and then further down the line it was suddenly Y who said or did the thing. The longer the story gets or the more characters it contains the worse this problem becomes.
Physical placement:
Suddenly people are in a different room, not as close to the thing or closer to each other than previously described. Are they holding a cup or not? Where the heck did their hands suddenly go? who knows. The robot has glowing eyes when everyone in the fandom knows it ain't the eyes that glow on robots in this fandom🙃
The mood:
Wtf on this one. The moods are so strange and there is a severe case of telling instead of showing. I've read some that were clearly prompted to give a certain mood which meant that it was mentioned at times that just didn't fit. Like "there was tension in the air between them" when absolute zero things have happened to create this tension. Or quick shift from comfortable -> tense -> comfortable in one paragraph. Yikes.
Generalizations:
AI uses whatever it can find to fill in the gaps. Example: if you're writing about someone in a certain profession it will just grab whatever it might have picked up about said profession and fill in wherever it can. So you end up with strange descriptions that might fit a stereotypical person from that career, but certainly not this particular character. Makes for some real out of character descriptions.
Conversation:
The individual lines might make sense, but the overall conversation doesn't necessarily make a lot of sense. Or the things they say are so vague and unspecific that it's meaningless. Think "I'm 13 and this is deep" kinda things. I also saw plenty of cases of a child/teen/college student would not talk like that.
Word choice:
You know how some authors use different words than what you might expect, but it just works? Gives a funny, quirky or heartfelt vibe? AI does basicly the opposite. The word choice in many of these fics made me stop and reread multiple paragraphs because it really didn't suit the setting. You would think it would be easy to make it pick the right choice between formal and informal language, but if it also needs to fullfill other criteria simultaneously it gets messy. If it's a subject that is usually talked about in a formal tone, but in this case shouldn't be... the poor thing can get confused.
Repetition:
This one surprised me, but I'm pretty sure it happens from poor prompting that doesn't have enough info to go on. So damn many repetitions of the same word or almost same phrase popped up in many of them. I know we're already telling nothing with these stories, but come on how many times to we hear about the lamp on the shelf?
Pacing:
Either too fast and skipping parts in a way that doesn't make sense (see above logic problems) or sloooow where it really shouldn't be (see above repetition issues). Makes for an overall either confusing or very boring reading experience depending on which direction it went in.
-
To avoid all of these mistakes, you have to be a somewhat decent writer to start with. So if you think "I'm a bad writer AI will be able to fix it for me" - Yeah, no. It can help with grammar, but it cannot write a compelling story as it is now.
The worst part was that some of these stories were based on ideas that I would like to read about. But the AI execution completely killed the story.
we lost a great write cause you’re miserable enough to go around accusing people in order to be a know it all without proof, congrats
If you miss her works you can go to ChatGPT and create a prompt based on what scenario you would like!🩷 Would you like to be in your Literature Class with Megumi being there already with his black ballpen? Third row on the back. Left side. 8:30am. Sharp. Coffee in hand? While you're already stressing out scribbling a long Shakespearean poem on your coffee stained notes?
c.w: megumi x female!reader, aged up!megumi, stablished relationship, use of safeword, overstimulation, smut, soft boy megumi, based on this request, mdni
w.c: 956
Your body gave out with one last broken cry, legs trembling around Megumi’s hips as your climax tore through you. Every muscle locked tight, every nerve stretched thin, until all you could do was cling to him and shake. He was right there with you, his voice low and steady in your ear, coaxing you through the storm.
“Good girl… just breathe, I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing the side of your damp temple as your nails dug into his shoulders.
It was too much — the stretch, the pressure, the relentless rhythm that had already pulled orgasm after orgasm from you. This one left you wrecked, boneless, too raw to even cry out properly. A strangled sound left your throat, your body clenching helplessly around him, and you knew you couldn’t keep going.
“…Shadow,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, your lips brushing his collarbone.
The change in him was instant. Megumi stilled, every taut line of him softening in a heartbeat. He pulled back from your neck, searching your face like he needed to be absolutely sure. “Okay. Okay, love, I’m here,” he murmured, and the urgency in his voice shifted into something gentler, like cotton wrapped around your frayed edges.
He kissed you before moving, soft and lingering, his hand stroking through your damp hair. Then he eased out of you slowly, careful, pausing when you whined at the sting before pressing his forehead to yours. “Shh… I know. I’ve got you. No more.”
When he finally settled beside you, the world seemed to tilt back into place. He pulled the blankets up around your body, tucking you into his chest like you were fragile. His fingers rubbed circles into your hip, his mouth brushing against your hairline. “Too much?” he asked quietly, almost more to himself than to you.
Your throat felt tight, and you could only nod, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Heat burned your cheeks. “Sorry—”
“Hey, no. Don’t you dare apologize.” He tilted your chin so he could see you, his gaze soft but unwavering. “You did so good for me. You gave me everything.” His thumb brushed under your eye, smoothing over damp lashes. “I’m so proud of you.”
Something in your chest broke at the way he said it — not stiff, not like an obligation, but like he meant it down to his bones.
You clung to him, trying to steady your breathing, trying to let the warmth of him settle the trembling in your limbs. But after a few minutes, when your body calmed enough to notice, you realized… he hadn’t come.
Your leg shifted, brushing against him, and you felt the hard press of him still straining against your thigh. Hot, aching, obvious. You blinked up at him, brows pulling together.
“Megumi… you didn’t…”
He kissed your forehead before you could finish. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But—” You slipped your hand down over his stomach, toward the heavy outline pressed against his skin. He caught your wrist gently, lifting it to his lips and kissing the inside before resting it over his heart instead.
“Sweetheart.” His voice was a quiet plea. “Not tonight. You’ve given me more than enough already.”
“But you’re still hard,” you whispered, guilt knotting in your chest.
That pulled a small laugh from him, low and warm against your hair. “I’m always hard around you,” he admitted, nuzzling his nose against your temple. “That doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”
You pouted, stubborn even in your exhaustion. “But I want to—”
Megumi shook his head, cutting you off with a kiss to your lips. Slow, lingering, sweet enough to make your toes curl despite how spent you were. “No,” he whispered against your mouth. “Not when you’re this tired. You think I could ever enjoy it if I knew you were pushing yourself past your limit for me?”
Your eyes prickled with tears again, and he noticed immediately. His arms wrapped around you tighter, his lips finding your cheek, your jaw, your temple — pressing kisses like he was trying to anchor you back into yourself.
“You don’t have to give me anything but this,” he murmured, settling his forehead to yours. “Just let me hold you. That’s all I want.”
You swallowed hard, but the fight in you melted away as you curled against his chest. His skin was warm and damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing, but every part of him was focused only on you.
Megumi pulled the blankets higher, rubbing your calf when it twitched, massaging your shoulder until it loosened. He kissed along your hairline, murmuring softly with every breath. “That’s it… breathe with me. You’re safe. I’ll always stop when you need me to. Always.”
Your tears finally slipped free, but they didn’t feel heavy. Not with him brushing them away so carefully, not with him kissing the corners of your eyes like they were precious.
“Don’t ever think using the word means you’ve let me down,” he whispered, his voice so soft you barely caught it. “It just means you trusted me. And I’m grateful for that.”
You tucked your face against his chest again, letting his words sink deep, letting his warmth soothe you. His body was still aching against your hip, but he didn’t shift, didn’t seek relief. He just held you tighter, threading his fingers through your hair, kissing the crown of your head.
“I love you like this,” he admitted softly, like it slipped out without him meaning to. “Just you in my arms. Nothing else.”
And with that, you finally let go — body loose, heart steady, your whole world tucked against Megumi’s chest as he stayed awake, keeping you safe in the circle of his arms.
The first time you saw him, he was sitting two rows back in your Intro to Literature class. Wednesday morning. 8:30 a.m. Sharp. The kind of class where most people showed up five minutes late and still half-asleep, hoodies up, coffee cups clutched like lifelines.
But not him.
He was already there when you walked in—back straight, notebook open, pen in hand. Not scribbling, not doodling. Just… waiting. Focused.
You took the last open seat near the window.
Didn’t notice him noticing you.
You never caught his name when the professor went through roll that first day.
But he sat near you again. And again. Never right next to you—just close enough to hear you answer a question, to glance your way when you laughed at something the professor said, to hand you a worksheet that got passed back.
You learned things about him by accident.
He underlined things in his paperbacks.
He always brought a pen and a mechanical pencil. He never raised his hand, but when he did speak—everyone listened. His voice was low. Dry. Always to the point.
You didn’t even know if he knew you existed.
Until mid-October.
It was raining. You were late. The only open seat was right beside him. You hesitated. He glanced up, then moved his bag without being asked.
You sat down. Tried to focus. Tried not to think about how he smelled—clean, like cedarwood and rain. Tried not to notice the way he wrote, the way his fingers curled slightly at the page’s edge. Tried not to wonder what his name was.
Halfway through class, the professor made a joke about Wuthering Heights being “toxic but iconic,” and you laughed under your breath. So did he. Your eyes met. The corner of his mouth lifted. Just barely. After class, he turned toward you as you stood to leave.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. “What’d you think of the chapter?”
You blinked. “You… you want my opinion?”
He nodded once, calm. “You always seem to have one. I was curious.”
That was the first real thing he ever said to you.
You didn’t know it then, but the rhythm started that day.
Walking out of class together. Talking in fragments. “Did you like the ending?” “I don’t trust that narrator.” “Your take in class was better than mine.”
You found out his name was Megumi. You found out he liked coffee black, liked poetry more than he let on, and didn’t care much for parties.
You started sitting beside each other. He started saving you a seat. And when midterms hit, he slid a sticky note across your desk that just said:
“You’ve got this.”
— M
You kept it in your notebook. And that Friday, when you left class, he caught up to you outside the building—hands in his coat pockets, hair damp from the drizzle.
edit: I didn't know this person was already accused of using AI, but the whole fic has the same pattern that chatgpt uses. The same small length sentences, out of place metaphors, and more one liners. If you create a prompt for a fanfic, this is exactly the pattern that AI uses.
I understand how everyone has different writing styles and how most works can be wrongly accused of being AI, but people are not that dumb to notice the very obvious AI work.
What's more sad is that lots of writers here on tumblr use AI too, with the writing formula. If you're an avid reader you would notice how an actual person writes.
the unnamed extra has become a suspect in the male lead's murder investigation!
what do you do when your second chance of life comes with a new death sentence? enjoy the three really hot men you meet! oh, and solve the case!
synopsis: you died, game over! except, uh, after getting hit by a car, you wake up in the body of a background character who gets murdered in some cheesy romance novel you hadn't finished reading. and before long, you realize there might be more to the murder mystery subplot that meets the eye - only to end up tangled in the middle of it when the cold duke of the north's investigation leads him to suspect you have something to do with the serial stabbings plaguing their kingdom.
series content: mdni, smut, angst + fluff, inspired by romantic fantasy manhwas, historical inaccuries, murder mystery, mentions of death/blood, falling in love, bit of a slow build, multiple romantic interests, enemies-to-lovers, casual sex, hookups, manhandling, jealousy, eventual smut and piv sex
a/n: this series will be uploaded early on patreon and then the chapters will be posted 1-2 weeks later on here <3 prologue is currently out on there and chapter one should be out in the next couple days
synopsis: maybe you should've given it a second thought before accepting your best friend's offer to be your sperm donor - especially when it's obvious he'd rather be the baby daddy! is your relationship really platonic? or will years of gojo's pining finally get him the girl of his dreams?
pairing: best friend!gojo x f!reader
wc: 9.2k
content: mdni, FLUFF AND SMUT!!!, some light angst, mutual pining, but reader's lowk in denial, childhood friends to lovers, he fell first and harder lmfao, gojo is the best sperm donor and dad, very much planned pregnancy, gojo is so in love, lots of comfort, touchy/clingy-ness, lowk codependence, kissing, confessions, HEAVY LACTATION KINK, nipple play, gojo is THIRSTY ok, unprotected piv sex, creampie, happy ending
a/n: commission for the incredibly lovely @cantarcantar hehe :3 the art is by @1amglow !!
“You want a what?”
“A baby,” you answered, shrugging your shoulders and shoving another piece of cake in your mouth as if you told him you wanted a designer bag for your birthday. Innocently blinking, head tilting to the side as the fuzzy crown he bought for you started to slip from where it was hastily placed on your hair. The 3 and 0 candles still left on the corner of your plate, the burnt ends sitting there and reminding him that you were already moving onto another stage of life without looking back to see if he was chasing you.
But Satoru Gojo had spent so fucking long trying to fit into whatever space was left for him that he wasn’t sure what he’d be without you.
From the first moment he met you, back when your family had been hired at his clan’s estate and you became his built-in playmate, your face scrunched up with indignity at your circumstances before you begrudgingly shoved your hand out to shake his, all he had wanted to hold onto you and never let go.
“Like, um, a real one?” He stupidly asked, throat constricting as he watched you clean the fork with your tongue slowly. Considerately. Taking your time to think about what he was asking, what this conversation actually meant, while his brain was thinking filthy things about your glossy lips, what your eyes might look like glazed over, how good your hair probably would smell if he buried his face in it.
“Mhm,” you eventually hummed, pulling the fork out of your mouth and plopping it down on your plate. Glancing back over your shoulder for a quick second, looking at the birthday decorations he’d spent two hours setting up before you showed up at his penthouse, the banners and the balloons and the glittery streamers that were probably way over-the-top for takeout and cake for just the two of you. Smiling a little to yourself as your head turned to him, tilting a little as your eyes locked onto his. “Do you think I'd be a good mom?”
“The best,” he honestly answered, as if in his fantasies, he wasn't already imagining he was the father.
“I was thinking of getting a sperm donor,” you casually added, clearly something you'd been toying around with for a while.
Two words, and a terrible idea blossomed in the back of his brain – and exited his mouth before he could shut the hell up for once.
“Why not just use mine?”
Your mouth fell open. His did too.
Watching you slowly blink, eyes slowly narrowing into a squint as he panicked and pushed out some frantic explanation, holding his hands up as he tried to make it sound somehow less creepy, “Look, you just never know if the guy you pick already has like, fifty other kids, and what if your baby meets one of them and doesn’t know that they’re siblings and-”
“You don’t want me to use a sperm donor because you think my hypothetical kid might accidentally fuck their sibling?”
Okay, wow, that was worse.
“I’m just saying you wouldn’t have to worry about that sort of stuff with me,” he continued, choking on the lump in his throat before clearing his throat. “You already know I have great genes.”
And like he wasn’t already shooting himself in the foot just by speaking, he flexed his bicep with a stupid grin on his face, t-shirt straining against his muscles just for you to roll your eyes at him.
“You’re twenty-eight,” you bluntly said, as if he had ever given a shit about being younger than you before.
If he was the same age, would you see him differently?
He had asked himself that too many times to count. Enough that the hurt that it came with had seeped into his bones and started to live there. Weighing him down as he wondered how you would treat him if he met you later, when you were both older, somewhere neutral.
Would you want him the way he wanted you?
“And?” He whined, pouting as you resisted the urge to shut him down harder. “Doesn’t that mean I have, like, even better sperm?”
“Satoru, you’re gonna meet some gorgeous girl and get married, and then it’s just going to be weird if-” You started, shaking your head dismissively.
“I’m not,” Satoru cut you off before you could finish coming up with weak excuses, like he’d ever met anyone he thought was half as gorgeous as you.
You made that cute little face you always did when you wanted to argue with him but couldn’t come up with anything that would make him agree with you.
“You don’t know that,” you said after a few short moments, leaning in closer, oblivious that the next whiff of your perfume was enough to make him lose what little reason he had left.
“What if I pinky promise?”
“That you’ll never have kids with anyone else?” You gawked at him, face scrunching up in confusion. “That’s literally ridiculous. You know I’d never ask you to-”
“I was going to get a vasectomy in a couple years anyway,” he lied in a panic, shrugging his shoulders as if he didn’t really care when he had literally never cared more about the simple notion of some stranger’s sperm winning out over his.
“You never mentioned that,” you quietly pouted back, like you were a little upset at the idea he never brought it up. But at least you believed it.
“If I was even ever going to have one,” He paused, dragging his chair closer to the table to stretch over it and wipe some icing stuck to the corner of your mouth, dredging up something he knew without a doubt was the truth to make up for his bullshit. “I’d want it to be with you anyway.”
You stared at him, his fingers still grazing against your mouth before he dropped his hand and reclined back in his chair, as if there was even a scrap of his cool left to recover. Shrugging his shoulders as he scrambled for something to say before you could call him an idiot for even suggesting something like that.
“I could even pay for it,” he grinned like this was some grand gesture instead of him desperately clinging onto this chance. He didn't like to just throw money at problems – but he'd throw his entire dignity in the trash can if it meant when you were waddling around pregnant in six months, that it would be his baby you were carrying. “What else are best friends for?”
Personally, he’d prefer to add father of your child (and future husband) to his resume, but he was used to accepting whatever you offered.
“Satoru,” you said his name slowly, sounding out the syllables so he could hear the hint of scolding in them. But you didn't dismiss him.
He smiled at you, and it was just as easy as it had always been. Comfortable. Cozy.
“It's not a big deal,” Satoru shrugged. “I want what you want.”
Even if it meant pulling down his pants and jerking off in a cup a few weeks later after you admitted that maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to have the hottest guy you knew contribute his sperm to create the cutest child ever – not that you worded it exactly like that. He guessed his promise of paying all the bills may have also helped sway your decision.
The whole thing was sorta scary, waiting and hoping for updates from there about egg retrieval and embryo viability, feeling like a loser checking his phone two hundred times a day when he wasn’t with you and showing up at your place with meals, trying to pick out foods that were good for someone doing IVF.
You always let him in, even if you hummed and huffed that he didn’t have to do it.
Satoru clung to claiming that he just wanted to be supportive.
Carrying you back to your bed after you crashed on the couch, tucking you under the blankets and cleaning up the dinner, stuffing the styrofoam boxes down in the trash can while he cursed himself for not just coming clean about his feelings fifteen fucking years ago.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure you even saw him as a man. Didn’t realize he wasn’t the awkward, lanky preteen or scrawny kid he used to be despite the fact he’d been taller than you for over half your lives now.
You didn’t even blink when you woke up to him sleeping with no shirt on your couch, the blanket deliberately draped at his hips to show off his sculpted abs, just yawning and walking past him, already showered and fully dressed, applying lip gloss as you scrolled on your phone.
“Just lock the door after you leave,” you hummed, dropping your phone back in your purse and picking up your shoes before returning back to the couch to sit on top of his calves so you could slip them on.
A few years ago, he might have pretended to groan, to tease you for being on him, but now he just felt utterly hopeless at how hard he was savoring the connection, the weight of you on him even when it was totally platonic. Blinking sleepily and staring at your side profile as you bent over to slide your shoes on, preemptively picturing where you both might be in nine months. Would he be helping you get them on then? Putting his hand on your stomach and feeling his baby kick underneath your skin?
“Where are you going?” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes before he propped himself up on his elbows.
“Today’s the day,” you casually said, and after a painfully long pause, it clicked.
“Like, the day?” He gawked, adrenaline overwriting the exhaustion at the thought that you could be coming back home with his babies implanted inside you.
“We don’t know if it will take,” you muttered. The cocky half of him wanted to remind you that the doctors had said that his sperm was high quality, tempted to turn it into a joke and break the tension, make some childish offer. But he held it in, reached out to brush his fingers against your arm.
“How many are they implanting?” He asked, tracing a faint little heart over your skin you didn’t seem to notice.
“Just one,” you answered with a little sigh, biting your lip to hide the hint of a smile curling up and betraying the hint of excitement under the surface you were trying not to feel. “A girl.”
And then you were standing back up, readjusting your purse over your shoulder as you searched it for your keys, despite the fact they were sitting on your kitchen counter instead.
“Can I come?” He asked, wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks as you puckered your lips together, shuffling on your feet. Was it so fucking wrong to want to be in the room at least when he got you pregnant?
“It’s not like-”
“I could drive you,” Satoru offered, hyperaware of how hopelessly desperate his own voice sounded. “I have the day off anyway.”
He didn’t, but he’d call out sick if he had to, fake a coughing fit and convince Ijichi to push back all his meetings or come in at absurd hours to catch up on stuff if he had to.
Satoru didn’t want to miss a single appointment. Didn’t want to let you do it alone – no matter how strong he knew you were. You never needed him. But he needed you.
Craved being the guy you depended on. Trusted to help take care of you.
You glanced back at him, tilting your head to the side with that cute little sigh of yours you always made right before you caved in.
“Fine.”ᘏ⑅ᘏ
“Do you think she’ll like it?”
For a man who was only supposed to be a sperm donor, Satoru Gojo was acting far more like a father.
Your best friend standing outside your front door with shopping bags of baby stuff, stumbling through your threshold with that stupidly charming cheeky smile. And when he realized he was about to be scolded, he started dramatically sniffing the air as he peeked past you to see what you were cooking, eagerly changing the subject before you could comment on what he brought, “Whatcha making?”
“How many different outfits do you think she needs?” You rolled your eyes as you eyed him suspiciously, sighing as you shut the door behind him. Satoru just laughed, already piling up everything on your coffee table as you self-consciously tried to pull down your t-shirt from where it was sticking to the swell of your stomach, threatening to ride up and show off your growing baby bump. Only five months in and barely fitting into any of your old stuff anymore, despite how many prenatal yoga classes you attended or midnight cravings you ignored.
He looked as perfect as he always did. White hair tousled and the sleeves of his button-up rolled up on his forearms, veins sticking out as he glanced up at you with those irritatingly sparkly blue eyes. God, you couldn’t remember a single time you’d seen him look bad.
Even when you were younger, you couldn't escape the effect he seemed to have on everyone else. It didn't help that your family worked for his, that you got a front row seat to watch him get everything he ever wanted. Hyper aware of all the differences in his life than yours, what world he'd been born into that you just happened to occupy. Only able to stare from the sidelines, the bottom row of the bleachers, pointedly aware that he occupied a certain position above everyone else.
You’d grown up glaring as your other friends fawned over him, strangers approaching him in public to shove their numbers at him or shyly flirt while he smiled at the affection he was showered with. It wasn’t his fault. You didn’t even hold it against him, not when over time, you’d found yourself increasingly, um, fond of him.
But you couldn’t just ignore who he was when it trickled down to every aspect of your own life.
All the guys you started seeing never lasted long.
Either assholes who cheated on you or dickheads who dumped you, both always citing how little they could stand Satoru, just insecure, you supposed, unable to tolerate your best friend and his sometimes annoying antics. He had a bad habit of showing up right when you were about to go on dates, swinging by late at night or bringing presents just because.
You tried to explain that it was just how he was. Satoru had spent his entire life being spoiled and sheltered. Spoiling you in return was one of the few ways he knew how to show affection. And when he could drop a few bands a day without noticing so much as a tiny dent in his bank account, it wasn't like money or gifts meant anything to him.
And here you were now, feeling like you were taking advantage of it anyway, single and pregnant while your best friend bought your (his?) baby teething toys and the most expensive car seat stroller combos, helping turn your spare bedroom into a nursery on the weekends while you reminded him (and yourself) over and over again that you didn’t expect him to do any of it.
Satoru didn't just blur the lines.
He buried them.
Took a shovel and tossed so much sand over it that it was impossible to tell where they originally were. And after the first embryo was successfully implanted, once you went to the first scan and saw the tiny little blob that would be your baby, you seemed to be making meals for three instead of two most days when the man who helped make it insisted on coming over after he got off work nearly every evening.
Sometimes, he'd arrive with takeout or groceries, but he never showed up empty handed.
“How's our, um, this little princess doing?” Satoru grinned after he corrected himself, walking over to squat down in front of you, tapping your stomach like he was trying to wake her up.
“She keeps kicking,” you murmured, biting your lip as his palm abruptly pressed flat as if he was hoping to experience it for himself. His hand was warm through your thin shirt, his thumb subtly dragging a small semi-circle as you continued, “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Lay down,” he muttered, just as a faint flutter stirred in your stomach, the sensation of your baby moving around still alien and strange as you watched the slow smile spread up on his face as he felt it too. “I’ll finish cooking.”
“You suck-”
Satoru pressed one long finger against your lips before you could argue with him, shaking his head as he scoffed, “I’ve been taking classes.”
“When?” You pouted, a hand on your hip as you racked your brain for when he’d even have the opportunity when you practically had to shoo him out of your place half the time.
“Every other Tuesday,” he retorted – and then he was gently trying to guide you over to your couch, not stopping until you were sitting down and he was putting the remote in your hand.
Begrudgingly flipping through boring movies, readjusting a pillow behind your back before you gave up and started sorting through the bags of stuff he brought with him.
Blue dresses. Pink bows. Extra diapers and wipes. Swaddles.
A two-pack of onesies featuring the words MOMMY’S ANGEL and DADDY’S PRINCESS embroidered across the chest.
A small voice in your head rationally suggested that you should set some better boundaries. Tell him you weren’t going to put her in that second one when he was supposed to be more like a…rich uncle? Family friend?
Well, something other than daddy.
But some awful part of you sort of liked it.
Liked how much his attention was devoted to you, how you couldn’t exactly ever feel lonely when he was always around, always willing to step into whatever box he thought you needed from him. He didn’t complain. Never groaned or gritted his teeth and acted like you were too much. Always able to make you laugh and smile, holding your hair back when you were nauseous and holding your bags for you in public.
Even if all of it was only platonic.
You weren’t stupid enough to think his interest in you was romantic.
He could pick anyone. Go out and come home with a girlfriend in two hours if he wanted to.
Satoru was simply excited to share this with you, at the idea of a little infant that might have his hair or his eyes, his ego probably ballooning and bigger than ever because you chose him to have it with.
The one thing you could never afford was letting yourself have a crush on him.
Especially when his care right now was temporary.
It would probably fade after your baby was born, once she was crying and crawling and required more than just trinkets and toys to thrive. You didn’t think he’d disappear. But he would move on, focus on his work or his other friends, return to his more spontaneous visits as he resumed his role as your best friend rather than baby daddy.
Which was fine.
Completely, totally, fine.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Satoru hummed, handing you a warm bowl before clearing off a space on the coffee table for you to put it before rushing back to grab napkins and a drink for you to go with it. You stared at him. Struggling to ignore how sturdy his frame was, how handsome, how steady he’d turned out as he hurried around, casually rummaging through your cabinets to pick out a glass while he acted like he was perfectly at home here when his own place was probably three times bigger, your heart thumping a little too loud for your own comfort as you caught a glimpse of that cute crinkle by his eyes when he turned his head.
You loved him.
As a friend.
You were content to raise your daughter by yourself, made the decision to have her because you knew you could.
But maybe you could enjoy his attention while you had it.
Hold onto how things were before he got bored.
And whatever this fluttering in your stomach was, the one that you couldn’t blame on the baby in there, it would pass.
ᘏ⑅ᘏ
Satoru only realized the depth of his own stupidity when he was realized just how fucking hard it was to stay best friends watching you waddle around swollen and seven months pregnant with his baby. Barefoot with powdered sugar dusting your fingertips, one hand casually resting on your stomach and leaving a print on your loose pajama shirt while you baked your favorite dessert, babbling about how badly you were craving it in between complaining about how much your back was aching.
He’d known his pining was pathetic from an early age.
Forced to acknowledge it post-puberty when you started going on dates and he had to resist the temptation to punch a wall and tell you that no one was good enough for you. Discomfort and anger crawling under his skin at the idea of you giving anyone else who obviously didn’t deserve you any of the time that should be his.
And now, despite the (lack of) wisdom age had added, he was still just stuck staring at you with an open mouth like a moron as you glanced back at him, glowing no matter how much you complained about how awful you thought you looked.
His pants had never been fucking tighter around you.
Boner carefully concealed with one of your throw pillows, long legs stretched out on your couch as he pretended to scroll on his phone.
Every day only seemed to get harder too. More of a struggle to shove down his feelings when you started to rely on him more. Leaning against his shoulder, holding onto his forearm, your fingers skimming over his skin as you started to casually cling to him the same way he always hung onto you. Asking him for massages, laying your head on his lap, playing with his hair when you walked by him. Your stare had started to stick to him more, catching you watching him when you thought he wasn't looking.
Satoru had spent years dreaming of this easy domesticity with you.
Walking through your door to find you already making a meal big enough to share, baking or singing to yourself, peeking out and smiling at him without even being surprised. Expecting to see him there.
And still, he only ever got to sleep on the couch.
Didn't get to hug you or hold your hand or kiss you at the end of the night.
He wanted to invite you back to his place, see if you’d spend it with him if he changed up this new normal, but he was scared that you’d decline. That he’d fuck up this tightrope he was walking before he made it to the other side.
Um, and maybe because he’d turned one of his own extra rooms from storage to a pretty, pink nursery too. Just in case you asked him to babysit, or uh, wanted any extra help with her.
But there was a subtle edge to your behavior, your softness sometimes switching abruptly, going cold or sharp when least expected it, suddenly getting short with him when he got a little too close. Hormones, maybe?
It wasn’t like he could ask without receiving a lecture that he shouldn’t blame your feelings on your hormones just because they didn’t match whatever he thought they should.
“You’re quiet tonight,” you commented with a huff, turning on the timer on the microwave after you shut the stove.
“Jus’ thinking,” he hummed, trying to avoid the urge to spill out his dirty secret.
“About?” You tilted your head to the side, almost bumping into the baby swing he built last weekend as you walked back over to him, starting to bend over to try and lift one of his legs instead of just sitting on him like you used to.
He patted his thighs, as if you would actually take him up on it, just to earn a dramatic hand on your hip, pouting hard.
“You’re really making a pregnant lady stand?” You muttered dryly, jutting your bottom lip out further.
“There’s a perfectly good seat right here,” he teased, grinning as his hand reached out, leaning forward, about to gently graze against your waist when-
You started crying.
Big tears welling up in your eyes before he could so much as blink, your brows knitting together in frustration as your own fingers rushed to wipe them away.
His mouth fell open, words automatically spilling out, “Sorry, I’ll move, I-”
“You’re an asshole,” you hissed, breath hitching as you started to turn away from him, and he was shoving himself up off the couch, hurrying to spin you around by your wrist only for you to yank your arm away from him.
“What did I do?” He gawked, blinking hard and fast, panic seizing in his chest as he desperately tried to search your face for any sign.
“You keep acting like-” You stopped yourself, just vaguely gesturing up-and-down at his body before you scoffed and buried your face in your hands. “I’m such a fucking idiot for thinking that this was a good idea.”
“You’re not an idiot,” he argued, pulling your hand down so he could wipe away your tears himself. Dragging his thumb under your eyes and cupping your cheeks to force you to look at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“We need, like, boundaries, or-”
“Boundaries?”
Okay, sure, boundaries were normal, needed even, in most relationships. But he’d be lying if he said the idea of you putting up walls and pushing him away with new rules didn’t make him want to vomit.
“You keep treating me like I’m your girlfriend,” you said, eyes wide and wavering as you barely managed to meet his stare. “Like, this means something more-”
“Do you want to be my girlfriend?”
He knew he shouldn’t have said it the moment he heard how it sounded out loud. Heard the sharp inhale you sucked in, how shattered it came out. “Stop-”
“You mean everything to me,” he blurted out before you could break his heart, ready to beg, to barter, to do whatever he had to just so you would see it.
“Don't say that,” you whispered, shaking your head as you tried to take a step back. “Not when you don't mean it.”
“I do,” he huffed, holding onto you as he again attempted to stop you from pulling away, from severing this connection. And somewhere in his panic, his body purged all the words his mind had been shoving down for so long. “Fuck, sweetheart, I love you. I've loved you my entire life and I will for the rest of it. I'll be anything you want me to be, shit, just don't shut me out.”
“You love me,” you repeated, like it was ridiculous.
“I love you,” he said it again anyway, his voice dropping low.
“You-” You stopped yourself, starting to breathe fast through your nose, biting your bottom lip before you continued, “If you're just trying to make me feel better-”
“Do you seriously think I'd say it and risk ruining us just because you're crying?” He asked, wiping away another stray tear from your soft cheek, managing to sound appropriately serious for the first time in his life.
You swallowed hard, like you were suffocating on the truth now that it was out there. Fingers balled up by your side, fists shaking as you fought the reality Satoru had dropped on you.
“I don't expect you to tell me that you love me too, just, fuck, just don't walk away from me, okay-”
And before he could finish begging, you were grabbing the collar of his shirt to pull him down, his mouth still open when yours connected with it.
You kissed him, soft, unsure, like you weren't certain or confident that this was the right decision. But you didn't stop even if part of you thought you'd regret it later.
His own hands failed him, his brain freezing the second if processed the fact you were actually kissing him, stuck completely still as you soft lips lightly started to suck on his bottom one, his breath stolen and his heart straining to accept how fucking sweet this felt.
But then your fingers went loose, started to let go of his shirt, and he snapped out of it. Tethering his hands in your hair, deepening the kiss before you could pull away and he'd have to hear that you changed your mind. That he lost his only chance.
Satoru tried to show you with his lips.
Tongue dancing across your bottom lip for entry, dragging over the ridges of your teeth, exploring your mouth and memorizing how it felt. Saved it in case he'd never be able to savor the experience again.
And when a cute little moan slipped out as his chest pressed against yours, as your bodies connected, your baby bump pressed against his stomach and your free hand draped over his shoulder, he knew his boner was back.
“Mmph, Sato-” you murmured when you finally pulled away for air. He was desperately trying to suck in the quickest breath he could just to kiss you again.
The most he managed was a few quick pecks pressed to the corner of your mouth before your palm pressed flat against his chest.
“We should talk about it,” you reasonably said, despite how inclined he was to throw reason out the window and carry you back to your bed.
“Do you want me?” He asked, sucking in a short breath, leaning down so his nose was nuzzling against yours.
“I do,” you answered, your voice strained and tight as you reluctantly looked up at him, studying the shape of his lips. And maybe it was because he’d spent an entire life wrapped around your finger, building and molding himself to be the sort of man you wanted, that you needed, he knew what thoughts were swirling around in your head before you said any of them. “I’m just scared.”
Hearing it out loud still scared the shit out of him though.
Knowing how close he was to having you – and how easy it would be to fuck it all up.
“What can I do to show you just how serious I am?” He murmured, leaning in, lightly grazing his lips against your mouth again.
You closed your eyes, held onto his shirt and let yourself melt into his chest.
This kiss didn't last long though, not when the timer on the microwave suddenly blared out.
“I, um, should check on that,” you muttered, and it was incredibly hard to let you go. To watch you slip from his hold again and walk back into your kitchen, some intangible thread tugging him towards you, unable to stay more than a few steps away from you while you opened the oven and sighed before you added a few more minutes on the timer.
But you didn’t come back, didn’t speak up immediately.
You were staring at your distorted reflection in the microwave, like you were silently attempting to convince yourself of something.
Maybe to turn him down.
Say that you were both always going to be better off as friends.
“Tell me what to do,” Satoru begged.
“I don’t know,” you blanched.
“Anything,” he started. “I swear, I’ll-”
“Shouldn't we take this slow?” You hesitantly asked before he could offer to put up a billboard professing his love or get down on his knees to propose, clinging onto the counter tight enough he could see the clear outline of the bones and tendons in your knuckles.
“You're having my baby,” he pointed out, and you just pouted at him.
“I know,” you muttered, mulling over how you wanted to word your concern. “But what if you're only doing this because of that?”
“Sweetheart,” Satoru started, a fresh pang of panic shooting straight through his chest. “I would want you whether or not the baby was mine or someone else's. I've loved you for so fucking long-”
“It's hard for me to accept that,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don't understand why you would pick me. You could have-”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted. You occupy all my thoughts,” he breathed, his throat constricting as he did his best to confess. “Your glare. Your laugh. The way you defend me even when I'm a dick. How you indulge me even when I don't deserve it. Every morning, every night, every stupid meeting I get stuck in and when I'm in the shower. I've spent my whole life waiting for you to see me standing here and hoping for you.”
Another big tear welled up in your pretty eyes, one you quickly blinked away as your stare shined up at him.
“Can you wait a little longer?” You asked, as if he wouldn't wait another ten, twenty, thirty fucking years holding onto this.
“Of course,” he whispered.
As long as you needed.
He’d just hope it was a sooner rather than later thing.
You wiped your cheeks, recollecting yourself before checking the oven again, pressing your lips together in a thin line as you put some mitts on and opened it to pull out the baking tray before reaching up to shut off the timer.
Satoru ended up where he always did.
Stretched out in the corner of your couch, arm thrown around the back and pretending to pay attention to what was on TV instead of watching you in the corner of his vision. But this time, you snuggled up a little closer after you sat a plate down in front of him.
Curled up enough that your thighs were firmly pressing against each other, and slowly, his hand drifted down to cup your stomach. Just under the skin, feeling the faint flutter of his daughter kicking, or readjusting in there. Growing to hopefully be more like you than him, even if she would get stuck with half his DNA.
“You’re warm,” you softly said, as if that was your excuse to melt into him more.
“Will you still let me spend the night?” He pouted, lips parting only for you to push a warm treat against them to shut him up.
“On the couch?” You asked, watching him chew, chocolate probably smeared across his mouth before you asked something he only ever dreamed about. “Or in bed?”
ᘏ⑅ᘏ
Satoru never stopped staying the night.
And despite the fact he’d technically gotten you pregnant, you still had yet to have sex with him. But instead of him walking in hungry for your cooking, he was starving for you. Thighs hooked over his shoulders while he dragged his tongue up across your pussy, greedily lapping you up like it was his new favorite meal.
You liked the way he kissed you when you woke up, his strong arms slung around your body, his soft mouth dotting your face like it was his favorite thing in the world. You loved the way he looked at you when he left for work, the warmth that seemed to radiate and wrap around you when he leaned down to caress your cheek and tell you that he’d call you at lunch.
Somewhere along the way though, or more precisely around week thirty-eight, you started spending the night at his place instead, getting stretched out on his long fingers in his silk sheets instead of your cotton ones.
You spent almost an hour chewing him out for the nursery he’d already set up there, dismissing his excuses because you both were well aware of the reasons why.
He didn’t want to just be the donor.
He wanted to be your baby’s dad.
And when it came time to actually have your daughter, when your water broke a couple days past your due date and he rushed you to the hospital, you were the one to tell the nurses that was exactly what he was instead of playing pretend and ignoring what was right in front of your face.
Letting him wipe the sweat from your brow and hold the cup of water to your lips, nearly breaking his hand by holding it so hard when it came time to push, hours of labor culminating in a little baby with your favorite set of blue eyes.
She had your hair though, and he tried to say your smile too, peeling off his shirt right there in the room and ready to do skin-to-skin with her the second you said he could.
If you hadn’t figured out you were completely and totally fucking in love with him, you knew the second you saw him cradling her to his chest, the gleam in his stare and the reverence in his trembling fingers brushing across her chubby cheeks.
He had looked up at you with that lopsided smile, pride and adoration present in every line etched in his face.
“I feel like the luckiest guy in the world,” he grinned.
And just a couple months of being with him had made you see how lucky you’d always been to have him.
To have her.
Even though you were pretty sure she inherited her dad’s personality.
Specifically the loud and clingy parts.
Always needing one of you to be carrying her, crying when you tried to leave her in the crib, refusing to be bottlefed half-the-time even when you were just feeding her what you pumped. Her crystalline stare welling up with fat tears if you dared to put her down on a soft mat for tummy time, lazily hitting her tiny feet against the ground instead of trying to roll or crawl.
All that baby proofing Satoru had spent hours on pretty much useless so far when she'd barely been outside of your arms or the baby carrier he proudly walked around with her in. He even started working from home once his paternity leave ran out, taking meetings with her still in the carrier, chatting with people on the phone or on video calls, something about the sound of his voice and the way he bounced her, always seeming to lull her to sleep.
You had unofficially moved in with him, although you let him handle all the packing and unloading, rooms conveniently already set up like he'd always been holding that space for you, closet half-vacant until all your clothes were hung up by his.
Boyfriend, best friend, husband, no title really needed to tag onto whatever it was the two of you shared.
It was bigger than that.
You were his now.
And you didn’t want to deny it anymore.
Besides, you'd done some laundry a couple days ago and found a ring box underneath his boxers in the sock drawer, so you supposed it would have a label soon anyway.
If you were going to spend the rest of your life loving someone, it was always going to be him.
You were an idiot for not seeing it sooner.
But he never made you feel like one.
He kissed you good night like it was the most natural thing in the world, half-draped across your body and skimming his fingers over your face before he curled up next to you in the dim bedroom, blankets tangled around your bodies.
Falling asleep came fast when it was in his arms, but you'd begun to have one, or, uh, two problems when you woke up at four in the morning with a massive ache in your chest.
In his quest to be the best father (and future husband), he'd taken over night feedings to make sure you slept, but despite his sweetness, your body wasn't on the same page. Or rather, schedule.
Missing her night feedings had left you engorged.
Tits swollen and milk stuck in the ducts, the usually soft flesh practically hard under the stretched skin, painful when you sat up and realized you had started to soak through your bra and shirt. You tried to peel both off of you, wincing at the wetness as your finger fumbled for the pump you left by the nightstand in the dark only to knock it off instead.
“Sweetheart?” Satoru groggily spoke up, a big hand reaching out, half-patting your stomach in his sleepy state.
But then he was already shutting his eyes again, yawning and humming as he drifted back to sleep, your lips pressing together in a frustrated line as you swung your legs off the bed and bent over to grab the pump.
Although, it wasn’t really much use when your ducts were too fucking clogged for anything other than a painfully slow drip to come out, the ache just getting worse as you begrudgingly switched on the lamp by your bed and bathed the room in warm yellow light as you put the pump back.
“Satoru,” you whined, rolling over in bed and lightly shaking the pretty man drooling on the pillow next to you. He almost immediately stirred for real this time, sitting up and blinking before wiping the spit from the corner of his mouth, grunting as he got up, the low sound only making your thighs tense and press together.
“Mm, baby?” He yawned as he stretched, running his fingers through his hair as his baby-food-stained sweatshirt rode up to show a sliver of his toned abs.
“When did you feed her?” You half-whispered as his tired eyes shifted to his phone on the other side of him, briefly turning it on with a sigh.
“Like, an hour ago?” He answered, blinking a couple times as his eyes returned to you – and then practically bulged out of his head at the realization your boobs were out.
Mouth falling open in a pretty ‘o’, drool probably pooling inside it as he stared at how heavy they were hanging, tongue uselessly trying to form a coherent follow-up and some strangled sound escaping instead.
“I need you,” you admitted just as another droplet of milk leaked out, starting to roll down your breast – but before it could make it more than an inch, Satoru was there, wrapping his lips around your areola and starting to suck before you could even get another sentence out.
He pulled you closer, an arm slipping around your lower back, pulling you in as his tongue dragged over your hardened nipple, his other hand already reaching up to squeeze your other tit, groaning at how it felt under his palm.
You gasped, a surprising surge of electricity racing down your spine as heat you hadn’t expected bubbled up to simmer in your core. Technically, you’d been cleared for sex, like, six weeks ago, but you’d been a little anxious about him seeing your postpartum body.
Not sure if his feelings would be swayed after you carried his baby, if the stretchmarks or soft plush of your stomach would put him off.
But the ravenous gleam in his eyes, the frenzied way his fingers kept fumbling to make sure you couldn’t slip away, you didn’t think anyone had ever wanted you as badly as he did right now.
And before you could fully process it, your back was hitting the bed, pinned between his heavy body and his firm mattress, the sheets crinkling underneath you as he greedily drank.
He looked delirious.
Okay, probably a little bit sleep deprived from being in night feeding duty half the time, but he was drunk on you, letting out a lewd moan as he sucked hard on the hardened bud, desperately kneading into the other one with those thick fingers of his while something hard and huge dug into your thigh.
Fuck.
Why the hell was he that big?
The size of him was on your mind as he switched breasts, eagerly slurping as he squeezed, trying to break up the clog with his thick fingers, pressing in and working into the skin, forcing more milk out as he tried to drain you.
“Shit, angel,” he moaned, barely pulling away to glance up at you, the blue in his eyes swallowed up by his pupils as milk dribbled down the corner of his mouth. “You’re so sweet.”
“S-Satoru,” you stammered, relief washing over you as he went back to drinking and managed to clear out at least one of the ducts, eyelashes fluttering as his tongue toyed with your still overly sensitive nipple. Your fingers were shaking as you tangled them in his hair, trying to guide him back to the other one, hyperaware of how sticky your skin was, some of the milk definitely leaking down onto the bed and getting on his shirt as he continued without a pause.
“S’not fair,” he whined, fingers digging in again as he practically rutted his cock against your thigh. Hips rolling down to grind against you, his muscled thighs flexing with every rock of them. “How come she gets to drink this all the time and I don’t?”
“You can’t be serious,” you gasped, tugging at his roots to pry him back just to find that fucked-out look on his face, everything relaxed as he jutted out his bottom lips like he was willing to beg for more if he had to.
“This is my new favorite drink,” he insisted, and before you could sputter out another protest, he was latched on again, relieving your other breast with that pretty mouth of his, massaging it until you were both moaning, your head falling back against the pillow as you gave in.
Gave it all up for him.
Finding yourself arching your own back up off the bed, squirming and shuddering as he went to work on it, teeth skimming and scraping until your nipples were sore, swallowing your milk until your breasts almost felt empty – but you knew they’d fill back up sooner or later. Sooner, if he kept sucking on them like that as if he could telepathically communicate to them to make more.
And even when they were nearly drained, he was running his tongue over your chest, cleaning you up like he was a goddamn cat. Taste buds dragging over your skin, running his fingered over your peaked nipples now, a surprised squeak pulled from you that made you both pause for a second, his blue eyes wide when they immediately locked onto your face.
Neither of you said anything.
But his cock twitched, and a funny pulse shot down to your clit, and your mouth was opening to ask him something you’d been craving more than you could confess.
“Do you want to fuck me?” You breathed, awkward, tense.
Terrified he’d say no, no matter how irrational it was.
But Satoru just smiled, climbing completely on top of you and caging you back in to caress your cheek, “God, you have no idea just how long I’ve been waiting for-”
Your mouth crashed against his before he could even finish his sentence, your own impatience catching you by surprise, lips fitting so nicely in between his, and you wondered why it had taken you so long to take what was always yours.
You could taste yourself on him, the faintly sweet milk on his breath, although it was a little weird mixed with the leftover mint from him brushing his teeth. He didn’t seem to mind though, eagerly shoving his tongue in your mouth, the now-damp fabric of his shirt pressed against your chest.
One of you would definitely need to throw a load into the washing machine after this, strip the sheets down and change them after the mess you were making.
But you couldn’t help but slip your hand down, sneaking underneath the band of his sweatpants and inside his boxers to feel his swollen tip, collecting the thick pre-cum already there and sliding it down his dick.
Veins pulsing against your palm, your fingers delicately wrapping around his girth and starting to stroke as he made some guttural groan that made your stomach feel funny. Pure want searing through you, desire you weren’t used to handling or holding back now dealt to you in spades.
Maybe it was because some small voice was trying to suggest that you were about to have sex with Satoru, a sliver of you thrilled at the idea of him needing you too.
“F-fuck,” he whimpered, and it was probably the prettiest sound you ever heard. “M’gonna cum if you keep doing that.”
“You’re not even in me,” you teased him. He growled at that, and before you could even giggle, he was pulling your hand back out of his pants, firm fingers gripping your wrist and pinning it above your head before you could make him snap.
And then his other hand was suddenly helping spread your thighs further apart, easily able to move the thin fabric of your cotton shorts and lacy panties aside so he could shove two fingers inside your pussy to see how soaked you were.
“Baby,” he immediately hummed the second his fingers swirled inside, one corner of his mouth curling up almost condescendingly while you huffed back at him. “I wasn’t even in you.”
Dick.
But it was hard to be hurt by him mocking you back when he was sliding his actual dick inside you barely thirty seconds later, the rest of your clothes and his quickly discarded so he could do what you'd both been dreaming about, his eyes scrunching shut as he slowly took it inch by inch. Savoring the stretch, the way his hands trembled as he touched you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he felt your walls squeeze around him. You might’ve complained at how long it was taking if you weren’t also having a hard time holding yourself together.
Studying all those details of his face you’d fallen for, the shape his soft lips made when his features were all twisted up in pleasure, how his long lashes fluttered as he whispered your name like a prayer.
Sure, you had sex before. Weren’t exactly a virgin by any means.
But nothing was like this.
No one was like him.
Satoru was treating you like some alter he was born to worship at. Every movement deliberate, sucking in a sharp breath as he pushed through, filling you up until his cock was nestled against your womb, the pressure mind-melting as he tried to focus on your own body reacting to him.
“I-is it too much?” He asked, like he wasn’t straining, his voice thin and airy. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
Still concerned for you, still worried he might wound you.
You nodded, heart thrumming wildly as his cock throbbed and all your sore muscles tensed around him. Hesitantly opening your mouth to reassure him, “I’m good. This is good.”
Fantastic, actually, but his ego didn’t need that much of a boost.
Satoru still lit up like you’d told him it was the best you ever had.
“Thank fucking god,” he murmured, his head falling down so he could nuzzle his nose against your neck. Peppering your throat with kisses as he started thrusting, almost delicate at first, but quickly picking up the pace once he was confident he wouldn’t completely break you with his cock.
Driving himself in faster, harder, both hands now holding up your hips, angle himself deep enough you could feel himself re-molding you to him. You were out-of-practice, and you could tell he was too, but his sloppiness was made up for with how eager he was, how earnestly his mouth and his fingers and his cock worked to make you feel good.
“I love you,” he babbled, breathing hard and heavy into your collarbone, your breasts still leaking a little bit of milk onto his chest that he didn’t seem to notice. “I, oh fuck, I love you so much.”
You were nodding, tracing your fingers over his broad back, his defined shoulder blades, holding onto him as your walls tried to squeeze and clamp down on him. The sex felt different, all your nerves suddenly more sensitive, everything burning and starving for more.
“I-I love you too,” you gasped, an invisible weight lifted off your chest hearing the words leave your mouth.
He made a noise that was probably loud enough to wake anyone else in the building, both of you freezing as your heads snapped back towards the door to see if it woke up your daughter down the hall.
But then his thumb darted to your clit, rushing to make rough circles, his chest heaving with fast breaths as he tried to make sure this wouldn’t end without him making you cum.
“My pretty girl, fuck,” he purred, sucking a spot he’d already nipped at above your tendon, the jolt it sent through you dragging you embarrassingly close to climax when it was combined with the patterns he was painting over your needy bud. The friction was intense, feeding something deep in your chest you hadn't realized was hollow before.
Comforted by him coaxing you, crumbling bit by bit into his hand as his cock continued pumping inside you.
“Always been your girl,” you half-whispered back, toes curling hard as your body tensed up again, lips staying parted as he pulled you right to the precipice.
“Forever,” you promised without really thinking, breath itching in your throat as his cock abruptly stalled, still buried deep.
You were pretty sure he came first, but before you could open your eyes or get another word out, his thumb twitched and pressed down mid-motion and you were seeing stars right as he groaned and snapped his hips down. Too occupied with the pleasure rolling through your almost limp limbs, your nails scratching down his back as warm spurts of cum started coating your walls, leaking down your legs.
“Shit, fuck, please tell me you came,” he hissed, his own eyes shut, sweaty strands of hair hanging down and sticking to his forehead as you stared at his glossy lips.
“Mhm,” you murmured, blinking as he finally peeked his eyes open and took in the full sight of you. Breasts still sticky and swollen, his cum dripping down your thighs, bite marks probably staining your throat.
“Will you marry me?” He bluntly asked, and you could only roll your eyes and laugh at him.
“Ask me again later,” you muttered, sighing at the state of yourself and wondering if a late night shower would wake a sleeping baby.
You guessed it didn't matter when her soft cry cut through the brief silence, both of you exhaling at the same time.
“I'll get dressed and go get her,” Satoru preemptively offered, climbing off of you with a small yawn. You watched him pad barefoot over to the dresser, biting your lips as he pulled fresh boxers back on and rummaged through the other drawers for pajamas.
“Um, Satoru?” You hesitantly spoke up as a thought nagged at you.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I'm not on birth control.”
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3
pairing: kakashi hatake x fem!reader (doctor!reader)
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, super tension-filled..
wc: ~6.8k
setting: pre-war konoha; team 7 are still genins. medical wing.
warnings: slight use of medical jargons
a/n: sorry, it's pretty long! i figured i'd get lazy to write a part two, three, etc. after some time (especially since this has been rotting in my drafts as part one), so i decided to just write the whole thing in one go. i haven't written in years, so i apologize if some parts are kinda ass huhu
thanks for reading!
୨୧ — 𝐈
The first time you meet Kakashi, he's not exactly conscious.
Bloodied, broken ribs, chakra system’s a mess. He's wheeled into your medical wing after a botched infiltration mission and dropped onto your table like a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
"He's stable now," a senior medic declares, handing off the chart to you. "Keep him monitored. He'll be under for a while. If he wakes up early... sedate him."
You nod professionally, but your fingers twitch slightly as you review the name on the clipboard.
Kakashi Hatake.
As in, the Copy Ninja Kakashi. The man who led Konoha's Anbu Ops at an age where you were still learning how to suture without shaking.
But all you see right now is a man with deep scarring, blood under his nails.
Is this really the reality of shinobi? Even the strongest ends up this rough.
“I’ll take care of him.”
And you do. I mean it is your job.
୨୧
He wakes up on day three.
Groggy. Grumpy. Mask already back on somehow.
His one visible eye blinks slowly, adjusting to the sterile white light of the recovery ward. "You're not the usual nurse," he rasps.
You glance over your chart, your pen pausing mid-note. "I'm not a nurse." you reply calmly. "I'm your attending. The name's Y/N."
He studies you with a single eye, unreadable. "You're young."
You raise a brow, unmoved. "Well, you're nosy."
He hums, almost like a lazy laugh, fluttering his eyes shut again.
"Touché."
Kakashi shifts slightly against his pillow. Winces. His breath catches.
"You know, you shouldn't move too much," you say softly. "Your lung's still healing."
"Doesn't feel like it," he mutters, wincing again.
"It wouldn't. You were barely alive when they brought you in." You pause, then meet his gaze evenly.
"But you will be. Don't worry, you're not going anywhere. I don't lose patients."
That stops him—like something in your words hits deeper than you'd meant it to.
He doesn't deflect with a quip. Doesn't reach for one of his usual dry remarks to ease the weight of the moment.
Instead, his eye just stays on you.
You don't know it yet, but that's the moment it starts.
୨୧
Though, you still think Kakashi is the worst patient.
He's quiet, which would be fine, if he weren't also absurdly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that turns silent defiance into an art form.
On day five, you step into his room after rounds and check up on him.
There he is—lying in bed, one arm lazily draped over his chest. Breathing even. Quiet.
You narrow your eyes.
Too quiet.
"This is a shadow clone, isn't it?" you thought to yourself.
You step closer and reach for his wrist. And as expected, your hand goes through it. The illusion flickers like smoke dispersing, and vanishes.
You blink once. Then twice.
Your eyes track the thin IV tubing, dragging across the floor, still attached to the pole—and still attached to him, limping slowly toward the window like escaping a hospital room is a normal post-op activity.
You drop your clipboard with a loud clack, pushing the curtain aside.
"Kakashi."
He pauses, glancing back like a schoolboy caught sneaking chewing gum, except this one has cracked ribs and an oxygen monitor.
"Doc," he greets, voice too casual.
"Are you serious right now? You know you can't fool me with your shadow clone," you say, shooting a glare at him.
"I heal fast," he offers, like that explains anything.
You glance at the IV line still dangling from his arm. "Is that why you're still dragging your IV bag like a sad little suitcase?"
You sigh, stepping closer. "You have a punctured lung, you're not even fit to climb out of that window yet."
"I've had worse," he mumbles.
"You are literally dripping saline and blood thinner while trying to crawl out of a third-floor window," you add.
He looks at the IV pole. "I was hoping it would detach on its own."
You sigh. Hard.
Then you plant yourself between him and the window, arms crossed, voice steel-edged. "If you don't sit back down right now, I'll inject you with enough sedative to knock out a tailed beast."
He blinks. Once. Then again.
And—he smiles.
"Come on." you say, hand gently gripping his arm. "You'll tear your stitches. Again."
He looks down at your hand, then slowly steps back into the room, one foot at a time. Defeated.
"...You're not like the other doctors," he blurts.
"No," you deadpan, grabbing the IV pole and dragging it back toward the bed. "I'm meaner."
He laughs. An actual chuckle—quiet and short, but it slips out before he can stop it.
You freeze for a second.
Huh.
You didn't know he could laugh like that. And definitely didn't expect you to be the reason.
Kakashi notices the way your expression falters for just a split second.
"I meant that as a compliment," he says as you help him sit back on the bed, reattaching the IV and tugging the sheet over his legs.
"I know," you reply. keeping your voice even. "I'm just debating whether or not to sedate you anyway. You're a flight risk."
"I prefer 'high-risk investment'," he quips.
You smirk despite yourself. "Sounds like something an emotionally unavailable man says when he knows he's charming."
He huffs a quiet breath as he settles back into the pillows. "And you sound like someone who's been burned by one."
You pause, lifting a brow. "Occupational hazard. I meet a lot of shinobi."
There's a beat of silence. Then his eyes crinkle again. "Touché."
You check the IV line with practiced ease, masking the strange flutter under your ribs.
You don't know it yet, but this is the first time he starts looking forward to your visits.
And the first time you start wondering if this recovering shinobi is going to be more trouble than your toughest surgeries.
Maybe he isn't the worst patient after all.
୨୧ — 𝐈𝐈
He starts lingering after he's discharged.
First it's, "Just a follow-up."
Then it's, "I've been having some tightness in my shoulder."
Then, more shamelessly, "You're the only one who doesn't poke me around like I'm a science experiment."
You don't call him out. Yet.
But you notice.
You notice how he always shows up around the same time—just before your shift ends. You'll be wrapping up patient logs or locking cabinets when you hear that familiar shuffle of footsteps in the hall, never rushed. Always like he belongs there.
You notice how he brings a book, but never really reads it. Just holds it open, glancing up every few minutes—tracking where you are in the room, who you're talking to, whether or not you've looked over yet.
You notice how he always seems to time his visits perfectly with your exit.
"Kakashi? Why're you here again?"
"Ah, well you see, I think I forgot my.. book around here the other day. Heading out?"
"Yeah."
"Mind if I walk with you? It's getting pretty dark."
"...Sure."
The walks are quiet at first. He's not chatty. Just... present. And not in a suffocating way, either. He listens when you ramble. Responds when it matters. Fills the silence without ever making you feel like you have to.
You pretend not to notice the way your heart beats faster when his hand accidentally brushes against your fingers as you walk together.
...
One evening, as the light begins to dip below the trees and the hospital's rooftop turns gold with dusk, Kakashi speaks without turning to you.
“So…” A pause. Then, casually.. too casually,
“Why aren’t you a shinobi?”
The question slides into the quiet like a kunai. No edge. But it lands.
You blink, caught off guard. He’s seated beside you on the ledge, legs stretched out in front of him like this is just another idle visit. He’s staring straight ahead—like he’s asking about the weather.
But you know better.
You swallow and look down at your bag, at the little jar of salve you made from scratch earlier.
"I... wanted to be one," you admit, crushing a leaf between your fingers absentmindedly. "Didn't make the cut. Politics. Bloodline—You know how it goes."
He hums, low in his throat. Something between acknowledgment and understanding.
You think that’s it. Think maybe it’ll drift into silence again.
But then he adds, in that maddeningly offhand tone—
“But you still train.”
You stop, just for a moment. A flicker of surprise catches your breath.
Your head turns. “How did you—?”
He doesn’t even blink.
“Your grip. Your posture.” His eye ticks over to you, lightheartedly. “The way you sidestep interns trying to surprise-hug you.”
The last part makes you scoff, reluctantly amused.
“That obvious, huh?”
He shrugs. “To me.”
You scoff quietly and shake your head, trying to brush it off. But then his voice softens. Low, intimate in a way that feels almost too much under the setting sun.
“And the way you treated my chakra scars,” he adds, “like someone who’s felt it.”
Your breath stutters.
He's not pressing, just... observing. Studying you the same way you study old wounds, figuring out where they started and whether they still hurt.
You glance over again.
He’s just looking. That quiet, unreadable gaze of his focused not on your face, but on something deeper. Like he’s reading old damage. Worn threads, invisible bruises.
You pull your eyes away first. “Old habit,” you murmur, voice thinner than you mean it to be.
He nods once. Nothing more.
No follow-up. No prodding. Just lets the moment hang between you and him.
...
The next day, he shows up again. Like always. But this time, no fake excuses. Just him—leaning against your office doorway, hands in his pockets, posture deceptively casual.
You barely look up, already suspicious. “Let me guess, your back hurts and it may have something to do with your chakra points.”
He says nothing at first.
Then, without a word, he steps in and sets something gently on your desk.
Two skewers of dango. Still warm. Wrapped neatly in wax paper. It's like he made sure they wouldn't get cold on the way over.
You blink, mid-signature. “...What’s this?”
You look up at him.
"For your old habit," he says, not quite meeting your eyes. "Figured you could use the energy."
It’s so… simple. But it lands like something heavier.
You stare at the dango, then back at him. Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
“Thank you,” you say, quieter this time.
Kakashi shrugs like it's nothing. But the tiniest crinkle at the corner of his eye betrays him.
You know it. You feel it.
It’s not just the gesture. It’s the silence around it. The way he’s still standing there, not saying anything, not moving to leave. Like part of him is waiting for something. Or maybe… hoping.
You return to your paperwork, but your hand lingers near the food.
“You really didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says simply.
And there’s something about the way he says it. Like of course he didn’t have to. That’s not the point.
He pushes off the doorway and turns to go. Almost like he’s trying to leave before you can ask anything else. Before you can look too closely.
But just before he slips out of sight, you catch it—that familiar, steady rhythm of his steps in your hallway.
It’s the sound you’ve started noticing more and more lately.
Even when he’s not there.
Even when you wish he was.
You don’t know it yet, but you’re already the reason his feet take the long way home.
And he doesn’t know it yet, but your heart now leans slightly toward the door—every time it opens.
୨୧
By the nth time he shows up in your office, you finally say it,
"You do realize I have other patients, right?"
Kakashi blinks at you from where he's perched on the exam table—same corner, same lean, same unreadable expression behind the mask.
"I'm aware," he says. "But none of them have chakra scarring this symmetrical."
You lower your clipboard, unimpressed. "You said that two days ago."
"I did," he nods. "Consistency is important in the healing process."
You stare at him.
He stares back.
In defeat, you sigh and gesture for him to take off his shirt.
He does so without hesitation—and you hate how very little hesitation you have about it either. His movements are smooth despite the lingering bruising, and your fingers betray you by brushing just a second too long over the edge of a scar.
"You know," you mutter, checking his pulse, "you don't have to pretend you're here for medical reasons."
A beat.
He arches a brow. "You think I'm pretending?"
You glance up at him. "You showed up yesterday because your ear itched."
"It did itch," he says mildly. "Could've been a very rare parasite that actually messes with my chakra system. Dangerous stuff. I was being proactive.
You roll your eyes, but you're biting your lip to keep from smiling. You hate that it's working. That he's gotten comfortable. That you have.
He's watching you again—and not the casual observation he's always done. This is softer. Curious.
"You don't mind, do you?" he asks, after a pause. His voice is quieter now. Almost hesitant.
You look at him, carefully, heart beating somewhere a little too loud in your chest. The way his hands fidget slightly with the hem of his shirt. The way his eye doesn't meet yours at first.
"...No," you admit. "But I'd mind if you keep pretending you're just here for check-ups."
That gets him.
His eye crinkles a bit. The closest thing to a grin you'll get through that damn mask.
"Alright," he says, voice lower now. "Then let's not pretend."
You gulp.
He leans forward just slightly—not enough to break the boundary, but enough that you feel the heat of him, close and steady and very, very real.
"Y'know," he murmurs, in a slight teasing manner "If I keep showing up, I might end up your most frequent visitor."
"Well congratulations, you already are," you mutter, unamused.
"Ah," he muses, "then I guess I should start bringing snacks. Or flowers. What do people usually bring their favorite doctor?”
You blink.
He says it so casually—but there’s something underneath.. Like he’s waiting to see how far he’s allowed to go.
You try to play it cool, but your ears are warm. “That depends. Are they still pretending they’re here for medical advice?”
His gaze holds yours. No grin. Just something soft. Steady.
"You're not just a doctor," he says, almost like a secret.
You tilt your head. "No?"
"You're something else."
The way he says it, quiet, reverent—it makes your chest clench. Like you've been waiting for someone to say it. To see it.
You don't respond. But you don't move away either.
And that's enough for now.
୨୧ — 𝐈𝐈𝐈
You don't expect to see him on the roof.
It's well past midnight. The hospital is quiet, lights dim. Even the overworked med-nin staff have gone home. You'd stayed behind, again, to clear your head the only way you know how.
Shadowboxing under the moonlight. Sweat on your brow. Wrists wrapped. Your stethoscope long forgotten somewhere inside your locker.
You don't even notice the quiet flicker of chakra until a familiar voice breaks the silence.
"Your stance is a little stiff."
You freeze mid-strike, spinning.
Kakashi is leaning lazily against the rooftop doorframe, arms crossed. Civilian clothes. No mask. Just that sleep-mussed version of him that only seems to appear when the rest of the world is asleep—when it’s just the two of you, suspended in some strange in-between.
You exhale, heart jumping in a way that has nothing to do with cardio.
“How long have you been watching?”
He tilts his head, feigning thought. "Long enough to diagnose a repetitive elbow drop. Possibly chronic."
You squint at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“Technically, I’m being supportive.” He shrugs, wandering closer. “Some people bring protein bars. I bring unsolicited critiques.”
“Some people also knock.”
“I’m more of a ‘mysteriously materialize on rooftops’ kind of guy.”
"Stalker."
He shrugs again as you shoot a glare at him.
He steps into the moonlight—and gods, it should be illegal how good he looks in it. Silver hair tousled, sleeves rolled up, that look in his eye like he's trying not to say something too loud.
"You didn't tell me you were this good," he says, quieter now, watching the way as you reset your stance.
"I'm not," you mutter, adjusting your footwork. "I'm just... persistent."
He makes a quiet sound in his throat, somewhere between approval and amusement.
You throw another combo, more focused now—until a warm hand suddenly catches your wrist mid-strike.
You freeze.
He’s close.
"Loosen your grip," he murmurs, thumb brushing along the inside of your palm. His voice is low, his touch light. "You’re strong. You don’t need to punch like the world’s ending."
You usually say something to bite back, but... you didn't.
You can't.
Because he's looking at you like you're already something precious.
His fingers are still curled lightly over yours. His touch is warm.
You're not sure how long you stand like that—close, breath caught, words balancing between unspoken and the undeniable.
And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s reckless—but right now, under moonlight and bruised silences, you let yourself wonder,
If he came up here for more than just a critique.
And if you’re the only one who doesn’t want to pretend anymore.
But then—
a while ago…
"Okay but WHY is Kakashi-sensei always at the hospital?" Naruto mutters for the third time this week, slurping his ramen suspiciously.
Sakura looks up from her bowl. "You think he's sick again?"
Sasuke scoffs from across the table. "He's not sick. I passed him yesterday—he was carrying dango. Looked perfectly fine."
Naruto leans forward. "So what, he just likes hospitals now? That's suspicious."
Sakura frowns. "Actually... I overheard some nurses saying he only ever waits for one doctor."
Sasuke raises a brow.
Naruto gasps. "YOU DON'T THINK HE'S—"
"—Don't be ridiculous," Sakura cuts in, but even she sounds unsure.
Still, the next time they see him slipping out of the hospital late at night—hair messy, sleeves rolled, looking far too smug for someone supposedly recovering from shoulder pain. All three of them stare.
Kakashi just lifts a hand lazily. "Evening."
Naruto squints. "You're not even limping anymore!"
Kakashi smiles behind the mask. "I heal fast."
...
"You didn't have to come all the way up here just to watch me," you murmur after a long moment. Your voice is softer now. Raw.
He doesn't look away.
“I didn’t come to critique your footwork either,” he says eventually. “Even if it could use work.”
You scowl. “Charming.”
He lifts a shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lazy—except you know him now. You know when his voice goes softer, when he avoids your eyes, when his hands are in his pockets not out of boredom but restraint.
“I came because I wanted to see you,” he admits, voice low.
Your heart trips over itself.
"...You could've just said that."
His gaze dips to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Would you have believed me?"
You hesitate. "Maybe."
The silence between you hums.
"If you keep looking at me like that," you whisper teasingly, "I might think you're about to kiss me."
He's so close now.
"If I did," he murmurs, "would you stop me?"
You don't answer, taken aback with his reply.
But your fingers curl gently around his.
And your lips part, just slightly.
And the world narrows to the space between you and him.
Just heartbeats away.
୨୧
You feel it before it happens.
Kakashi's hand, still cradling yours, shifts just slightly—fingers ghosting along your wrist, your palm until it feels less like a correcting and more like a touch that's meant to linger.
His breath brushes your cheek. He doesn't move away. And the silence thickens with the weight of something that's been building for a long time.
You look up at him, eyes searching.
"...You're close," you whisper.
His eye curves just faintly. “I tend to wander.”
His voice is low, dry — but something in it falters at the edge, almost self-conscious. Almost shy.
You swallow, pulse humming. “…Do you want to?”
A beat.
“I think the more important question is… do you?”
You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy noticing the little things: the way he’s not blinking. How his thumb grazes your pulse like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. How he’s always careful, but somehow always stays just long enough to make your heart forget how to protect itself.
“…Yes,” you whisper, finally. “Don’t go.”
That’s all it takes.
His forehead tips gently to yours—cautious, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
You breathe in. His scent taking over you. Faint smoke, cool earth, something grounding.
"'Kashi," you whisper.
It slips out before you even think about it.
He stiffens just slightly, surprised. Then blinks down at you.
“You’ve never called me that before,” he murmurs. His voice is soft, but it catches. Like it struck something he wasn’t ready for.
You feel your face warm. “Should I not have?”
“…Didn’t say that.” He exhales, almost a laugh—the barest curl at the edge of his mouth. “Just… wasn’t expecting it.”
There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it. Like you’d pulled something loose without meaning to. A thread he was doing a very good job of pretending didn’t exist.
And still—he doesn’t pull away.
But something shifts.
His hand slips from yours, trailing down your arm as if second-guessing the right to hold you.
“I’m not…” He pauses. And there it is again—that small crack in the usual calm. “I’m not really good at this.”
The words are quiet. Measured. Not self-pitying, but honest. And it's the first time you hear it: uncertainty. The guarded edge in his voice.
You look at him closely now—at the way his jaw tenses just slightly, how his gaze drops to somewhere near your shoulder instead of your eyes.
How he’s retreating in inches, like he’s used to being shut out before he can be let in.
"I've lost everyone I've ever cared about," he says, quiet. Measured. "Team, friends, family, people I should've protected. People I never got to say anything to. And every time something good shows up, I wonder how long before I ruin it. Or before it's taken from me."
It hits you—not just the weight of his words, but the quiet ache beneath them. The belief that love is something he wasn't meant to keep. A belief stitched into his ribs like a scar.
"That's what I think when I look at you." he finishes, voice rough.
"'Kashi..." You step forward again, gently taking his hand back.
He doesn't resist. Doesn't speak.
You hold his palm between both of yours, grounding him.
"You haven't ruined anything," you say. "And if you're scared of losing me, that just means there’s something real enough to try for."
He's quiet for a long moment.
And then—
"HEY, KAKASHI-SENSEI!"
You both jolt apart like lightning just struck between you.
Kakashi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why do they always show up when I'm about to make a breakthrough?"
You peek past his shoulder and groan.
Sakura shoots a glare at Naruto. "Idiot! You were supposed to be quiet."
Naruto. Sakura. And surprisingly Sasuke?
Peeking from behind a low rooftop wall, not even pretending to be subtle.
Kakashi turns to you, expression sheepish. "We should probably relocate."
You bury your face in your hands. "I hate everything."
He laughs—a quiet one that reaches his eyes—and gently guides you behind the rooftop door, hiding you both from the peanut gallery of nosy genin.
As you both lean against the wall, catching your breath, you sneak a glance at him.
"Do you... still want to try?" you ask. "Even with all of that fear?"
You're not even touching anymore, but it still feels like you are.
Kakashi's hand is braced against the wall beside your head, just slightly caging you in. Not on purpose, maybe, but he doesn't move away, either.
"You really didn't move," you whisper, staring at the space between your shoes and his.
He hums, voice low. "You didn't ask me to."
When you dare to look up, the air shifts—slow, quiet, electric.
Your gazes lock.
"I think about it all the time," he murmurs.
You blink. "Think about what?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he reaches up—slowly, like he's afraid you'll flinch—and brushes a stray of hair away from your cheek. His fingers linger.
"You. Me. What this could be if I weren't—"
"Weren't what?" you breathe.
His hand drops.
"Haunted," he says simply. "Tired. Not built for this."
Your chest tightens. "You're not broken, 'Kashi."
He exhales shakily. "You say it like it's obvious."
"It is obvious," you say, stepping closer—close enough for your hand to find his again. "To me."
A beat of silence.
He looks at you like you're something rare. He doesn't understand how you exist in the same world he does—soft but fierce, steady but unpredictable, someone who sees him and doesn't flinch.
"I don't want to lose this... to lose you." he says vulnerably, and it slips out like a confession he didn't mean to speak aloud.
You squeeze his hand. "Then don't."
He stares at you, really stares. As if he's memorizing this exact version of you, like what he did the first time you told him that you don't lose patients—his first impression of you. The way your eyes shine when you speak. The way you always smell faintly like herbs and clean linen.
The way you say his name like it means something.
"...Say it again," he murmurs.
You blink. "Say what?"
"My name. Like that."
A soft smile tugs at your lips.
"'Kashi."
And oh—he's undone.
You don't notice you've leaned in until your noses almost touch. Your breath catches. His does, too. His hand comes up to your cheek again, a trembling thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.
You're going to kiss him.
You know you're going to.
It's happening.
It's—
"KAKASHI-SENSEI, YOU DROPPED YOUR HEADBAND!"
I swear to all the gods.
You jolt apart again, absolutely burning with embarrassment as Naruto's voice rings out like a kunai in a dream.
Kakashi groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder.
"Unbelievable," he mumbles.
"I'm going to inject him with a sedative," you mutter.
"Well, he'll have to get in line." Kakashi sternly adds.
"I swear, that Naruto."
Still hiding behind the wall, he glances up at you with a rare softness. Something so fond, it steals you breath even more than the almost kiss did.
"...Rain check?" he asks.
You meet his gaze.
And maybe it's reckless, fast, but you smile and say, "Only if you promise you'll actually cash it in."
He steps back, brushing his fingers over yours one last time straightening his hitai-ate like nothing happened.
"Deal," he says, giving you one last look over his shoulder. "You're worth waiting for."
And just like that, he disappears over the rooftop ledge—mask up, cool façade back in place, but his steps just a little too light for someone who's totally not in love.
You lean back against the wall, breathless, heart sprinting.
You're in trouble.
Big, stupid, wonderful, trouble.
୨୧ — 𝐈𝐕
The next day, you're barely holding it together.
Running late for your rounds, you’re juggling a clipboard, two folders, and a thermos of questionably reheated tea that’s one pothole away from disaster. You round the corner near the nurses’ station, muttering under your breath—
And slam straight into something solid.
Well. Someone solid.
The folders go flying. Your tea wobbles midair, chaos pending—
But nothing hits the ground.
A gloved hand steadies your elbow. Another has already caught the folders. And Kakashi Hatake, full gear and unbothered, blinks down at you like he didn’t just materialize out of nowhere to intercept a minor tragedy.
“...Morning,” he says. “You seem busy.”
You blink. Stare. Blink again. “You—what–”
He glances at the folder in his hand. “Radiology results. Hmm. Interesting reading.”
You snatch the folder back with a noise that’s half-gasp, half-groan. “You were discharged.”
“I was,” he agrees, perfectly calm. “Then I left. And now I’m here again. Life’s full of circles, isn’t it?”
"I'm just here for a check-up," he adds innocently.
You narrow your eyes. “Why are you actually here?”
He shrugs. “Might’ve pulled something.”
You frown. “Doing what?”
“Reading,” he says, with zero irony. “Very taxing. Spine’s not what it used to be. You should consider offering shinobi posture seminars. Or maybe back braces.”
You fold your arms, trying not to grin. "Uh huh."
He takes a small step closer, lowering his voice. "Besides... I thought I owed someone a rain check."
Your brain stutters.
Right. The rooftop.
You glance around quickly, suddenly hyperaware of the hallway—the nurses moving in and out of stations, the open patient room doors, the sound of someone wheeling a supply cart past. And him, still standing entirely too close, like his presence isn't already short-circuiting your entire system.
“You remembered that?” you ask, voice a little hoarse.
His visible eye crinkles just slightly, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the edges of his mask. “Of course.”
Your heart stumbles. You forget to breathe for a second.
He still hasn’t let go of your elbow.
“Right,” you mumble. “That.”
“That,” he repeats softly, gaze steady on yours.
Your heart stumbles again.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been looking at him until someone very pointedly clears their throat from down the corridor.
Twice.
You both flinch.
A nurse is walking past with a tray of bandages and a poorly concealed smirk on her face. She doesn’t even try to pretend she didn’t see anything.
Kakashi exhales, glancing after her. “Should I go before we become the subject of your staff’s next coffee break conversation?”
You lift your tea thermos, which somehow survived the chaos. “I think we already are.”
He makes a noise of faint amusement. “How tragic. I was hoping for at least a three-episode buildup before we got caught.”
You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
He shrugs, clearly unrepentant, and gently passes you back the remaining folder like this has all been very civilized. “You didn’t stab me. That feels encouraging.”
“I could stab you,” you mutter, grabbing the folder.
He falls into step beside you as you turn to walk toward the stairwell.
“Please do,” he says lightly. “It’ll give me an excuse to come back.”
You nearly trip on your own feet.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
He’s looking straight ahead, hands in his pockets now, posture just a touch too casual to be natural. His mask hides most of his expression, but there’s a quiet ease in him. Something softer than usual. Lighter.
You swallow. “...You don’t have to force yourself to show up just because you feel like you owe me something.”
Kakashi’s voice is quiet, but sure.
“I’m not here because I owe you. I’m here because I want to be.”
Your grip tightens on the folder.
He doesn’t press nor look at you again. But his presence hums quietly at your side like something steady. Familiar. Something trying.
You keep walking, heart in your throat, brain shorting out.
“...Fine.”
His head turns. You don’t have to look to know he’s smiling behind the mask.
His fingers brush yours—just the barest graze, enough to make your hand twitch in surprise.
He doesn’t hold on.
But he doesn’t pull away either.
And somehow, that says everything.
୨୧
It starts innocently.
At least, that's what you tell yourself.
It’s a few days after the folder-flying hallway incident, and most of the clinic has quieted. Dusk has softened the world into gold and shadow. The lights in the hallway are dimmed to a low hum, casting long silhouettes along the clean floors. Most of the staff have clocked out.
You, however, are still perched at your desk, signing off the last few charts with a half-empty mug of cold tea by your elbow and a stubborn crick in your neck.
And then you feel it.
That familiar presence—unspoken but impossible to miss. A quiet awareness that slides in through the seams of your focus.
You glance up—and there he is.
Kakashi stands leaning casually against your office doorframe, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that practiced way only shinobi ever manage.
His hitai-ate is pushed up. His mask is on, of course. And his gaze, when it finds yours, carries that ever-present flicker of amusement and something quieter beneath it—something warm.
“You’re making a habit of this,” you say without missing a beat, quirking a brow at him.
He tilts his head. “Is that a complaint?”
“That depends. Are you here with another fake injury? Or should I start charging you rent?”
He shrugs. “Neither, actually.”
He steps forward. And that’s when you see it—a small, slim box in his hands. Plain packaging. Tied with red twine. Your heart immediately performs a minor somersault.
“I brought you something,” he says simply.
You sit up straighter, wariness mixing with curiosity. “...What is it?”
He holds it out, almost sheepishly. “Open it.”
You undo the twine with careful fingers. The box opens with a faint creak.
Your heart makes a strange little thud.
Reinforced knuckles. Lightweight weave. Tailored exactly to your size. And not just functional—they’re in your favorite color. Muted, but elegant. The kind of gear you’ve wanted but never had the time to get.
You blink, throat suddenly tight. “How did you—?”
“You favor your left hand for close defense,” he says. “But the padding was starting to fray. And last week you rubbed your thumb raw without realizing.”
You stare at the gloves, then back at him. “You noticed all that?”
Kakashi scratches the back of his head, almost like he regrets being caught caring. “You’re my attending. It’s... hard not to notice things.”
Your heart twists. The words are simple. But the way he says them—soft, honest, like it cost him something to admit.
It makes you forget how to breathe.
He shifts on his feet. “I know it’s not much. But you’re always patching people up. I figured someone should return the favor.”
You can’t look away from him.
There’s a silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s full—of gratitude, of something you can’t quite name. He meets your eyes, and the world narrows to the space between you, heavy with the ache of things unsaid.
You step closer.
“Thank you,” you murmur. “No one’s ever... I mean, that was thoughtful.”
He shrugs, but there’s a quiet smile in his eye.
“You’re easy to think about, well at least to me."
That lands harder than you expect.
You feel something shift—like gravity tilting slightly between you.
Your voice is a little too soft when you ask, “Is that why you keep showing up?”
Kakashi doesn’t answer right away. He takes another step closer, closing the space until there’s barely room for air between you.
“Do you remember what you said to me?” he asks, voice low. “First week I was here. Third day in.”
You blink. “…I said a lot of things.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. But one stuck.”
You search his gaze.
“You told me I wasn’t going anywhere,” he says. “That you don’t lose patients.”
Your breath catches.
“I didn’t believe you,” he adds. “Not then. Not with the track record I had. But you said it like it was a fact. Like even if I gave up, you wouldn’t.”
He looks at you then, really looks. Not like you’re a mystery, but like you’re the answer he didn’t think he was allowed to have.
“You made me want to stay,” he says quietly. “Even after I didn’t need to.”
The silence deepens.
You don’t know what to say. Only that something in your chest is unraveling at the seams.
He lifts a hand. Hesitates. Then gently brushes your knuckles with his fingers—like he’s memorizing the feel of you.
“You made me want things again,” he says.
“Kakashi...” you whisper.
“I don’t know what this is,” he continues, voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do it right. But I know what it feels like when I leave the clinic and I wish I hadn’t. Or when I think about you in the middle of a mission, and it makes everything quieter for a second.”
You stare at him, eyes glassy.
“Being around you doesn’t make me forget,” he says. “But it makes remembering hurt less.”
Then, softly,
“I want this. I want you.”
He never meant to stay this long.
The hospital was supposed to be a pit stop. A consequence of a botched infiltration. Just a bed.
Just another awfully long healing process in a boring hospital, again.
Just another scar.
But then there was you.
Sharp-tongued. Steady-handed. Unafraid. You didn't look at him like a broken thing. You didn't see his mask and flinch. You saw someone worth keeping alive—someone worth caring for.
He remembers one of the first things you've said: "You're not going anywhere. I don't lose patients."
He remembers thinking, Good luck with that.
He hadn't believed you. Not then. Not with the weight he carried. But you stayed, even beyond the hospital. Every day, every sarcastic remark, every heartbeat.
And somewhere in the silence between your scoldings and salves, something changed.
He started making excuses.
A sore shoulder. A "follow-up." A muscle twitch that needed checking. When really, all he wanted was five minutes more with you. Ten, if he was lucky. Long enough to hear your laugh, banters, to see your smile.
Long enough to feel like maybe... he wasn't just another name on a chart to you.
You made him feel like he could be whole.
You made him want more.
And now, just inches from your warmth, he realizes—
You're the first person who didn't give up on him before he even began.
And this... this soft, staggering thing he feels in his chest—it's terrifying.
But it's real.
You met him where he was ruined—and stayed long enough to see him whole.
He doesn't want to leave.
You step in without thinking. Press your palm to his chest—right where his heartbeat drums steady against your hand.
“Take it off,” you say, so quiet it’s barely audible.
He freezes. “...What?”
“The mask,” you murmur. “Let me see you.”
Kakashi stills for a heartbeat. Two.
Then, slowly—very slowly—he raises a hand to his face. The fabric folds down with practiced ease.
And there he is.
His face. His scars. The ghost of old wounds etched along his jaw. He doesn't flinch. Not when you see him.
He's... beautiful.
Quiet vulnerability hangs between you, completely unguarded—all laid bare, just for you.
No facade. No barrier. Just him.
Kakashi.
You lift your hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of a healed wound by his jaw. His eyes flutter shut—just briefly—like the touch startles him in a good way.
And then you lean in.
It's soft. Warm.
It's... real.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss—not with hunger, but with so much longing. Like he didn't think he deserved this, but now that it's happening, he's terrified to lose it.
When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, breaths slow and warm between you. The world feels like it’s holding its breath.
"I think,” you begin, barely above a whisper,
“I’m falling in love with you.”
Kakashi stills.
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.
"...You are?" he asks, voice ragged.
You nod.
"I didn't plan to. But you keep showing up, and suddenly you were just... everywhere."
“Kept telling myself it was just clinic visits,” he murmurs, almost like he’s confessing to a crime. “A few check-ups. A few muscle twinges. Some bruises I let hang around longer than they needed to.”
His thumb rubs over the back of your hand once, slow. “And... okay, a few dango runs. Maybe a few too many excuses to pass by your hallway. Maybe I started faking injuries just a little.”
You bite back a smile, but your chest aches.
He looks away for a second, as if the weight of saying it is harder than he'd like to admit.
“I told myself it was safer this way,” he continues, voice dropping to something more fragile. “To just… orbit. Not land. Not want.”
His jaw works. There’s something old in his eyes. Worn.
“You made it impossible for me. Somewhere between the salves and the stubborn lectures and you yelling at me for almost ripping my stitches—I stopped being scared. I just didn't know how to say it."
His hand finds yours and wraps around it gently, firmly, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.
“I didn’t know how to say any of this,” he admits. “I’ve never been good with... saying things.”
You don’t speak. You don’t need to.
You just look at him—his brow slightly furrowed, like he's bracing for the moment to crack and vanish beneath his feet. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it doesn’t.
It won’t. You won't.
Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his. You let the silence answer for you—full, grounding, real.
Then, gently—soft as breath—you say,
“I love you, too.”
The way Kakashi stills is so subtle you might miss it. A sharp inhale, a flicker in his eye like something ancient inside him just shifted.
And then he laughs—barely. A sound like wonder, like disbelief cracked in half. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s just... Kakashi. Quiet. Guarded. But a little undone.
His voice comes slow. Measured. Like every word matters.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get to hear that.”
He says it like it costs him something. Like it matters more than he expected.
Your eyes sting.
His hand stays in yours, but his other reaches up and brushes the line of your jaw with the backs of his fingers. He’s still not sure you’re real. As if he’s trying to memorize you before you vanish.
You cup his cheek, and he leans into it like someone who’s forgotten how to ask for comfort but finally found it anyway.
And in that moment, something shifts.
He lets himself believe.
That he might be allowed to have this. That he might actually deserve it. That maybe, for once, he won’t lose the thing he’s grown to need.
His thumb brushes your cheek, slow, tender. Like he’s drawing a promise into your skin.
And when he leans in again—slowly, deliberately—the kiss he gives you is softer than the first. More certain. Less like a moment stolen, and more like one that belongs to you both.
Full of warmth.
Full of something that feels like future.
And this time, he doesn’t run.
You don't know it yet, but this is the moment he lets himself stay... in a love never thought he'd be allowed to feel or have.
One that began not with a plan, but with broken ribs, a wrong turn, and the quiet, stubborn hands of a doctor who didn't believe in losing.
A meeting that should've been nothing,
But somehow, became everything.
likes and reblogs are very much appreciated! thanks for stopping by ~ ^3^ <3
(p.s. i hope you guys saw the mirroring of events!! (kakashi to 'kashi), “to me”, and also the use of "you don't know it yet, but..")
For about a year I have been observing how AI writes stories, specifically fanfiction, and there’s a distinct pattern that only AI can do. How disappointing.
summary: the heat of battle had long since faded, but the tension between you never had. It clung to the quiet moments—unspoken, sharp-edged, and waiting. When Team Taka paused for a single night of rest, beneath a sky washed in twilight and steam rising from ancient stone, you thought you might finally breathe. But some silences burn hotter than war. And when eyes linger too long, when touches hover just a moment more—something always breaks. Or claims.
The path narrowed beneath your boots, winding like a quiet thought through the cedar forest. Soft light filtered through the high canopy, gold pooling at the roots of trees and brushing the worn earth in patches. Somewhere ahead, the sound of water echoed—lazy, unhurried, spilling down stone and vanishing into moss. Evening hadn’t fully arrived, not yet, but it lingered at the edges. The kind of hour that felt like an exhale after holding your breath too long.
You could feel the change in the air.
It wasn’t the cold, though that crept in, subtle as a fingertip against your neck. It was the hush. The way the forest quieted around the five of you. Like it, too, knew this wasn’t a mission. No blood, no orders, no chase. Just a rare pause in the endless current you’d been swept into since joining Team Taka. Since aligning yourself with something that felt darker than you could name, but never cold enough to leave.
Leaves shifted underfoot as you walked, their dry crackle giving rhythm to your steps. Jugo moved steadily a few paces ahead, his silence steadying—like stone at the heart of a storm. Karin followed closely behind him, muttering something about the mineral content of the spring and how it would ruin her hair. You’d half-listened, smiling once when she’d sighed dramatically and tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She had a flare for discomfort, made it sound romantic.
Suigetsu was at your side. Of course he was.
He walked like the world owed him something, his hands folded behind his head, blades strapped lazily at his hip, his grin a little too sharp for how soft the forest looked in the fading light. “You know,” he started, the drawl in his voice already a provocation, “you could’ve walked closer to me earlier. I don’t bite.” You gave him a sideways glance, mouth quirking before you could stop it. “That’s rich, coming from a guy made of water.” He laughed, low and pleased. “Water can be dangerous, you know. Especially when it gets into places it shouldn't.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t walk faster.
The path dipped then rose again, a gentle curve that led toward the steam rising faintly between the trees ahead. You could smell it already—warm minerals, damp stone, the barest trace of sulfur. The onsen was real. After days of tracking, hiding, running—it was real. Your shoulders sank slightly at the thought, the weight of it slipping lower along your spine.
Suigetsu must’ve caught the change in your posture, because he leaned in closer, voice dropping just enough to brush the shell of your ear. “I bet you’re the type to wear something modest, huh?” His grin curled. “Or maybe not.”
Before you could answer, before you could do more than raise an eyebrow, a sharp glance cut between the trees ahead.
Sasuke.
He hadn’t said a word in the last hour—not since you passed the river crossing where he’d stopped for water and stared at nothing for a heartbeat too long. But now his eyes flicked back toward you and Suigetsu, brief and unreadable, like the shadow of a bird crossing over stone. You felt it more than saw it. A shift in the air. The tension of something held tightly in place. He turned back before either of you could react. But something about the way his jaw tightened said enough.
You tilted your head slightly, just enough for your voice to carry without rising.
“Well, in that case,” you murmured, eyes still on the path ahead, “maybe I won’t wear anything at all.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed—thick with implication, humming in the space between one breath and the next. You didn’t look at Suigetsu, but you could feel him freeze for half a step, then exhale a soft, choked laugh, like he wasn’t sure if you were teasing or tempting. “Damn,” he breathed, grin widening. “Now that’s not fair.”
But it wasn’t his reaction you were listening for. You watched Sasuke’s back instead—watched the way his shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like someone had pulled a wire taut beneath his skin. He didn’t glance back this time, didn’t say a word, but the quiet around him deepened. Grew heavier. Like the forest itself had drawn closer to listen.
The trees began to open, just slightly. The path widened to a clearing where the air shimmered with rising heat. Stone steps emerged beneath patches of soft moss, leading up to a split in the terrain. One path veered left, toward the bath; the other bent right and disappeared behind a veil of mist. “Finally,” Karin huffed, adjusting her glasses. “My legs are going to thank me for this.” The clearing opened wider now, the path giving way to weathered stone steps wrapped in creeping moss and low-hanging mist. The smell of mineral water hung thicker in the air—rich, metallic, ancient. It curled into your lungs and settled there like something half-forgotten, something the mountain had been keeping warm for centuries.
A single wooden structure stood tucked between the trees, more shrine than shelter, its beams dark with age and slick with moisture. Lanterns had been lit along the entryway, their soft amber glow pulsing behind pale rice paper. Steam poured from behind the slatted walls in lazy drifts, rising into the fading sky like whispered prayers.
You stepped forward with the others, your body already easing into the idea of stillness. Jugo was the first to disappear inside—silent, respectful, his form folding neatly into the fog. Karin followed, mumbling something about temperature and skin pH under her breath. You caught the flash of her red hair as she vanished behind the curtain. That left the three of you. Suigetsu stretched his arms above his head with an exaggerated groan. “Now this is how a rogue shinobi should live. Hot water, no enemies, and—” he glanced sideways, his smile slanting, “—excellent company.” You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your idea of a mission report?” He laughed. “What can I say? I’m a man of culture.” But again, you weren’t looking at him.
You felt Sasuke more than saw him. A presence just behind your left shoulder, still and silent like a blade balanced on its edge. He hadn’t moved in several heartbeats, and when you finally glanced back, you caught the faintest shimmer of restraint in his posture. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. But there was a tightness in the line of his throat. Barely there. Telling, if you knew where to look. You did. “This one’s mixed, by the way,” Suigetsu added as he stepped forward, nudging the curtain aside. “Konyoku. Just the five of us. No rules.” He grinned at you, then shot a glance at Sasuke. “Unless someone wants to make some.”
No answer. Only quiet.
You slipped past the threshold, the air inside warmer, heavy with vapor and old cedar. A small alcove housed baskets and folded towels, a stack of simple cotton robes. You took one without thinking, your fingers brushing damp wood, the grain smooth from years of use. Your skin already tingled with the promise of heat, of letting go.
The quiet in the changing room wasn’t absolute—it shifted with the rustle of fabric, the low clack of hairpins falling into baskets, the sigh of breath held a moment too long. The air was warmer here, rich with cedar and steam curling in from the cracks in the wooden slats. Lantern light flickered softly overhead, washing the space in gold and shadow. You peeled your outer layers away with slow movements, your skin grateful to be free of the weight of travel. Somewhere to your left, Karin cursed under her breath as she tried to untangle her damp cloak from her shoulders. “Honestly,” she muttered, pulling her hair up into a twist, “we track rogue ninja for days, but heaven forbid my jacket comes off without a fight.”
You glanced over, watching as she narrowed her eyes at her reflection in the darkened glass pane nailed above the washstand. Despite the faint flush of travel across her cheeks, she still somehow looked composed—sharp lines, sharper wit. She caught your eye. “You’re not going to pretend you don’t notice, right?” she asked, a sly edge to her voice. “The way Suigetsu’s been circling you all day like a vulture with a crush?” You let the corner of your mouth lift, folding your clothes neatly into the basket beside you. “I’m used to it.” Karin scoffed. “Used to it isn’t the same as uninterested.” You didn’t answer. Not directly. Just reached for the thin cotton robe and slid it over your shoulders, the fabric clinging slightly to the heat of your skin. “He’s not subtle,” you offered finally. “No,” she agreed. “But then again—neither are you.”
You didn’t ask what she meant. The look in her eyes said she wouldn’t answer anyway.
By the time you stepped out into the main corridor, the scent of the spring was already stronger, curling in your lungs, tugging you forward. And Suigetsu was waiting. Leaning against the far wall, shirtless, robe slung low across his hips, a towel carelessly draped around his neck. His silver hair was damp, slicked back and shining faintly in the low light. When he saw you, something in his grin changed—less casual, more focused. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to arrive. “Well, well,” he said, pushing off the wall with easy grace. “I was starting to think you got lost in there. Shame—I was hoping for a proper entrance.” You raised an eyebrow, walking past him slowly. “You mean, one you could stare at longer?” “Caught me,” he said, unabashed. “And I’m not even sorry.”
You paused near the doorway, letting the steam kiss your skin, letting him look. His gaze wasn’t crude—just hungry. Not for your body exactly, but for the reaction he could draw from you. The game of it. The edge. “I hope,” he added, voice lower now, “you sit next to me in the water. Wouldn’t want this heat to go to waste.” You turned to look at him fully then, your voice quiet but clear.
“Don’t worry, Suigetsu. I run hotter than I look.”
That grin of his? It didn’t falter. But something in his eyes sparked—a flicker of genuine intrigue that sat just beneath the teasing. Then the door slid open, the mist rolled over your ankles like smoke—and the heat of the spring swallowed the rest of your words whole. The steam curled thick around you as you stepped into the spring, heat lapping at your calves, then your waist, drawing a long, low breath from your lungs. The world outside blurred—trees and rocks and sky all swallowed by mist and warmth and the muted hush of water meeting skin. It was the kind of heat that seeped into your bones, softening every edge, every tightly wound muscle. You felt yourself begin to melt.
Jugo sat farther off, shoulders deep in the far end of the pool, head tilted back against stone. His eyes were closed, expression distant—serene, almost. He looked like he belonged to the mountain. Karin was already in, arms propped along a rock ledge, her legs outstretched beneath the surface. The steam clung to her hair, pulled tight in a knot, droplets catching on her glasses. She glanced toward you as you settled nearby and gave a slight eye-roll. “Of all the places to end up together,” she muttered, “it had to be a mixed onsen.”
You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have anything to say—but because Suigetsu entered the water just then, with all the subtlety of a crashing wave.
He slid in beside you, grinning like he had already won something you hadn’t agreed to play for. The water rippled out in soft rings as he leaned back against the smooth stone behind you, stretching one arm along the edge behind your shoulders—close enough to feel, not close enough to touch.
“You look like you belong in here,” he said, voice low. “Like you were made for this.” You arched an eyebrow. “Sweating in a pool of hot minerals?” Suigetsu smirked. “I was thinking more along the lines of steam and moonlight.” You didn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. But your gaze shifted—unbidden, instinctive—to the darker shape that had just appeared through the fog. Sasuke.
He moved with his usual quiet—slow, precise, measured. The kind of stillness that drew attention without asking for it. Water barely stirred as he stepped in, his robe discarded somewhere behind the boulders. His hair was damp, clinging to the line of his jaw, the rest of him half-swallowed by shadow and heat. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t have to. He settled near the edge, a few paces away from the rest of you, arms resting on the rocks, head turned slightly toward the trees. Like he was listening to something none of you could hear. But you felt his awareness. You felt it like the prickle of heat against your skin—subtle, constant, watchful.
“You know,” Suigetsu said, his voice dipping low as he let himself drift a little closer, “you never actually said if you were serious.” You tilted your head lazily, the warm water lapping at your collarbones, steam curling around your skin like silk. “About what?” He grinned—slow and sharp, eyes flicking over your bare shoulders with open interest.
“That thing you said on the trail.” His voice dropped to something just above a whisper. “About not wearing anything.”
You didn’t look at him, not right away. You let the silence stretch, watched the ripples move across the surface of the spring, and then—very slowly—you turned.
“I didn’t say it to be funny.”
Suigetsu blinked. For once, his cocky grin faltered—just for a heartbeat, before it slipped back into place, softer now. Less a smirk, more a surrender. “Shit,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours. “You're really trying to kill me.”
You smiled, just barely. “Maybe.”
And then—just for the fun of it—you rose a little from the water. Not enough to reveal, only enough to suggest. Just a hint. His breath caught audibly. Across the spring, something shifted in the mist. A presence more than a sound. You didn’t need to look to know it was Sasuke. You felt it. The air around him stilling. The quiet deepening like pressure beneath the surface of a wave. You let your gaze flick toward that shadow—half-concealed by steam and stone—and met eyes darker than the night above. Suigetsu was still watching you like he’d forgotten how to blink.
You settled deeper into the water, letting it rise just below your collarbones, steam curling like breath around your bare skin. The heat was almost dizzying now, soaking into you, flushing your cheeks with something more than temperature. “You know,” he said again, voice rougher this time, low and slow like it might slide against your skin, “I’ve had dreams that start less promising than this.”
You tilted your head, feigning thought. “That so?” He grinned. “Not one of them ended with me keeping my dignity intact, though.” You laughed quietly, the sound escaping before you could stop it. It felt good—unrestrained, warm, like something you hadn’t let yourself feel in weeks. The mountains seemed to echo with it, the trees holding their breath. “And here I thought you didn’t have any dignity to begin with,” you teased. Suigetsu clutched his chest dramatically, letting himself sink lower in the water as if your words had wounded him. “Cruel,” he groaned. “Beautiful, but cruel.”
You were about to reply—something smart, something worse—when you caught it again. That weight. That stillness. You didn’t need to turn your head to feel Sasuke’s gaze brush your skin. It wasn’t intrusive, wasn’t lecherous—nothing like Suigetsu’s playful hunger—but it was there. Focused. Steady. Like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t name. Your eyes flicked toward him—just a glance through the mist. He hadn’t moved. Still half-shadowed, arms folded along the edge of the spring, dark hair clinging to the curve of his neck. But his eyes were on you. He didn’t blink. Didn’t pretend not to see. Didn’t pretend not to care. Something in your chest tugged tight, unexpected.
Before the moment could stretch too long, Karin’s voice cut through the air like a pebble through glass.
“Oh my god, Suigetsu,” she snapped, “would you shut up already?”
You turned just in time to see her pushing herself off the rock ledge, arms sloshing water as she waded a little closer. Her glasses had fogged slightly, but not enough to hide the sharpness in her eyes—or the flush creeping up her neck. “Seriously,” she went on, voice full of acid-sweet disdain. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Again.” Suigetsu didn’t even flinch. “Aw, Karin. Don’t be mad just because the view’s not of you tonight.” Her mouth fell open in outrage. “You slimy little—!”
You started laughing before she could finish, the sound bubbling up unfiltered, a sudden rush of warmth against the thick air. It spilled out of you too easily—honest, unguarded—and for a moment, the tension in your chest loosened completely. Even Karin froze, caught off guard by the shift in your expression. She blinked once, then rolled her eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t get stuck. “Whatever,” she muttered, turning her back and sloshing away again, muttering something about “morons” under her breath. Suigetsu leaned a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “See? I knew I could make you laugh.” You turned toward him again, amused despite yourself. “Is that your goal? Flirt until I crack?”
“I wouldn’t call it cracking,” he said, watching you from beneath damp lashes. “More like… melting.”
The words lingered in the air between you, sticky and warm as the steam. You were about to reply—something sharp, something clever—when another voice cut in, quieter, colder.
“Suigetsu.”
One word. Flat, steady. But it moved through the haze like a blade.
You turned your head just enough to see Sasuke more clearly now, his form still half-submerged in shadow, arms draped along the edge of the spring, dark eyes narrowed. The steam curled around his shoulders like smoke, and for a moment, he looked less like someone bathing and more like someone waiting for a fight to start.
“Enough,” he said. Calm, but firm. “You’ve made your point.”
Suigetsu blinked, as if surprised to be addressed at all. Then, slowly, that lazy grin of his crept back in place like it had never left. “Come on, Sasuke,” he drawled, stretching his arms out wider across the rocks. “Just appreciating our teammate’s… confidence. You don’t own all the silence around here.” His voice danced with mischief, but there was something else beneath it now. A hint of provocation. As if he knew exactly which threads he was tugging. You didn’t say anything. Just leaned back slightly, the stone cool against your spine, and let your mouth curve into a quiet, knowing smile. Not at Suigetsu. Not at Sasuke. At the space between them.
Sasuke didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His eyes flicked from Suigetsu to you and held there—just a second longer than necessary. The water rippled softly where his fingers touched the surface, a subtle tension in his jaw that only someone who knew him would have noticed. You tilted your head and met his gaze with deliberate ease. And smiled. Not a challenge. Not an apology. Just a spark. Something unspoken passed between you then—wordless, heatless, deeper than either of you was ready to reach for. And still, Suigetsu chuckled low under his breath, breaking the moment like a ripple through still water. “Careful,” he said lightly, “or I’ll start thinking you’re jealous.” Sasuke didn’t look at him. Didn’t even blink. But you saw it—the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not really. But not nothing, either. And that, somehow, was more satisfying than any reaction you could’ve hoped for. You shifted slightly in the water, letting your shoulder brush Suigetsu’s again, playful and slow, before sinking deeper into the heat with a soft exhale. Let them stew.
After all, the water wasn’t the only thing simmering tonight.
Eventually, Suigetsu’s words began to fade into quieter things. He still grinned, still let his shoulder brush yours once or twice, but even he wasn’t immune to the pull of the onsen’s warmth. The minerals soaked into his muscles, and his voice, once so sharp with flirtation, dulled into a lazy hum, his head tilted back against the stone.
Karin was the first to leave. She mumbled something about “pruney fingers” and needing to dry her hair before it frizzed, shooting you one last look you couldn’t quite read before she climbed out and disappeared behind the bamboo screen. The scent of her perfume lingered faintly behind, floral and acidic. Jugo followed soon after, as quiet in his exit as he had been during the entire soak. He nodded to you in that gentle, solemn way of his, a silent acknowledgment, before slipping out into the cooler night.
And then, it was only the three of you.
The heat had long since sunk into your bones, softening muscle and thought alike. The water curled around you like silk, fragrant with cedar and iron, as if the earth itself was trying to cradle your skin. The quiet between the three of you had grown dense—not uncomfortable, but not empty either. It pulsed softly in the steam. A low hum of awareness.
Eventually, you felt the shift in your own body. The way your limbs, slack with warmth, started to stir beneath the surface. The gentle ache in your shoulders, in your thighs. The knowing that rest had settled long enough.
Time to move.
You exhaled slowly and leaned forward, fingers skimming the surface as you pushed up onto your knees. The water slipped from your body in slow, weighty waves, heat trailing behind like reluctant hands. You rose. Unhurried. Unbothered. Uncovered.
The water rolled off you in long rivulets, catching the lantern light as it traced the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft weight of your breasts, the swell of your hips. The cool night kissed you instantly, raising goosebumps across your exposed skin, but you didn’t flinch. You welcomed it. Let it draw the heat closer, concentrate it. And you felt them. Both of them.
Suigetsu went very still.
His gaze, no longer teasing, turned liquid—heavy and openly reverent. He didn’t even pretend to look away. His jaw slackened slightly, one hand drifting beneath the surface of the spring, forgotten. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence that followed said more than his usual thousand words ever could. You stepped forward slowly, droplets trailing down the inside of your thigh, across the backs of your knees, and you knew without seeing that every shift of your body was being watched.
And Sasuke—
He hadn’t moved. But his eyes…
You didn’t need to meet them to feel their weight on your skin. Not curious. Not surprised. Just… alert. Fixed.
As if every drop of water clinging to your skin had his attention. As if he was memorizing the exact shape of you in this light, at this hour, like he was afraid it would vanish. Your hand reached for the robe draped neatly over the bamboo rail. The cloth was cool, the texture rougher than you remembered, and for a long moment, you let it hang in your grip—deliberately slow, deliberately still. Behind you, Suigetsu finally spoke, his voice low and thick with awe and something more dangerous. “If that was your exit,” he murmured, “you just ruined every fantasy I’ve ever had.” You paused, hand still resting on the tie of your robe, and glanced over your shoulder—just enough to meet his gaze. A slow, dangerous smile curved your lips. “Then you need better fantasies,” you said softly, voice like smoke. “That was nothing.” Suigetsu made a low sound in his throat—half-laugh, half-groan—but didn’t argue.
The robe slid over your shoulders, clinging faintly to damp skin, outlining more than it hid. You tied it loose, unhurried, and turned slightly—enough to glance over your shoulder. Suigetsu was still staring. He didn't bother to hide it. His expression was open now, unguarded. Almost reverent. Like someone who knew they were witnessing something they had no right to touch. You smiled, just a little. But it wasn’t for him. You shifted your gaze past him, to the stillness coiled in the steam. To Sasuke.
His expression hadn’t changed. Not much. But something in his eyes had darkened—just slightly. Something low and unreadable flickered across his face. A muscle in his jaw ticked, faint as a heartbeat. And he was watching. Not like Suigetsu did—hungry and open and hungry again—but deeper. Quieter. Like he was listening to a secret your body had just confessed. Your smile softened.
You turned fully now, barefoot against the stone deck, heat still clinging between your legs, across your ribs, behind your knees. You gathered your hair in one hand, lifting it from your neck, letting the air cool the damp line of your spine.
The changing room was silent, save for the soft creak of the wood beneath your feet and the distant hush of wind curling through the trees outside. Most of the lanterns had burned low, their light flickering across smooth walls and empty benches. The steam from the onsen still clung faintly to your skin, your robe damp where it rested against your spine. You slipped out of it slowly, letting it fall in a quiet heap at your feet, exposing your body to the cooler air of the room. Your fingers brushed the edge of a clean towel as you reached for it, ready to pat down the lingering heat, to smooth your hair, to return to the calm you’d wrapped around yourself like a second skin.
But then—
Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. You didn’t flinch. Just let a small grin tug at the corner of your mouth as you tilted your head toward the sound. You didn’t need to turn to guess who it was. “Took you long enough,” you said, voice low, teasing. “Didn’t think you had the balls to follow me, Suigetsu.” No answer. Just silence. And that silence—
It felt different. Heavier.
The grin on your lips faltered, not quite gone, but pausing. The towel in your hands stilled. You straightened, slowly, listening. And then you heard it. The breath behind you. Not rushed. Not eager. Measured. Quiet. Too quiet to be Suigetsu. You had just enough time to turn your head—just a little—before a hand caught your waist and the other braced your shoulder, spinning you gently but firmly toward the nearest wall. Your bare chest met the wood with a soft thud, the grain cool against your heated skin. He stepped in close—closer than breath—and then you knew.
Sasuke.
His presence was unmistakable. Sharp and restrained and heavy like thunder behind the mountains. His body didn’t touch yours fully, not yet, but you could feel the heat of him—like a storm waiting to break.
“Sasuke,” you breathed, surprised, but not afraid. Not even close. His chest pressed against your spine then—solid, steady—and one hand smoothed along your side, fingertips skimming the curve of your waist. Slow. Intentional. Like he was memorizing what others only dared imagine. “I saw the way you looked at him,” he said quietly, voice a dark thread of breath beside your ear. You didn’t move. Not away. “You were watching,” you murmured, a hint of satisfaction in your voice. His hand slid higher, brushing the outer curve of your breast, not quite cupping it—just touching, just claiming. “I always watch.” That made something in your stomach tighten.
You could feel the tension in him, coiled and carefully held back. His fingers traced the line of your hip, the dip of your lower back. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Every inch he touched felt like a quiet confession. “And what exactly are you doing here?” you asked, barely managing the steadiness in your voice. He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in closer, until his breath grazed your ear and his chest fully met your back. You could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, low and steady, against your spine. “Reminding you,” he said. You smiled—slow, dangerous. “Of what?” He shifted then, one hand bracing the wall beside your head, the other sliding lower, over the swell of your hip. His voice was quiet, almost calm.
“That he can flirt all he wants.” His fingers tightened slightly. “But you’re still mine.”
You inhaled, sharp and shallow. His words weren’t loud. They weren’t boastful. But they burned. You let your head fall back slightly, resting against his shoulder, your bare skin flush against his warmth. His mouth hovered just over your throat now, not quite touching. Not yet. “And here I thought you weren’t the jealous type,” you whispered, just to test him. You felt his breath stutter—just once—against your skin. But his hands didn’t stop. “You’re wrong,” he said simply. “About a lot of things.”
That made you laugh—quiet and breathless. “Maybe I wanted you to see.” He went very still behind you. Then: “I know.”
You turned your head then, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, your cheek brushing his.
“And what will you do about it?”
His eyes met yours—black, unreadable, burning with something deeper than anger, darker than want. His hand rose, cupping your jaw gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “I’m already doing it,” he said. And then he kissed you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just deep. Certain. Like he’d already decided—long before this moment—that you were his.
The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, like something long held back. It wasn’t rough. It didn’t need to be. The restraint in it—his restraint—made it burn hotter. Like fire fed through silk. Sasuke’s hand at your jaw shifted, tilting your face just enough to grant him better access, as though even your mouth now belonged to him. His lips moved with purpose, but not urgency—like he had all the time in the world to unmake you.
You were still pressed to the wall, the wood cool against your chest, a grounding contrast to the heat blooming across your skin. And then—he moved.
Fingertips, barely there at first, trailed along the edge of your shoulder, down the line of your spine, brushing over each vertebrae with maddening precision. His touch was electric—light enough to tease, firm enough to promise. You felt your breath catch as his palm flattened, gliding down the length of your back in a single, deliberate stroke. Your hands rose, instinctively reaching for him, but his free hand caught your wrist gently and pressed it back against the wall—quiet command, not force.
“Stay,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. And you did. His hand dipped lower now, tracing your waist, then your side—mapping the places that had been hidden in steam and silence. He moved as though he needed to commit every curve to memory, as though knowing you this way was not a privilege, but a right. You felt the heat build beneath your skin, from the inside out.
When his fingers brushed over your hip, your breath hitched. When they trailed further, tracing the outer swell of your thigh—your knee almost buckled. Still, he said nothing. Not until his hand paused, resting low at your waist again, splayed and steady. “You let him touch you with his eyes,” he said softly, voice rough around the edges. “Let him think he had a chance.”
His mouth returned to your neck, but this time, it wasn’t just breath. He kissed the space just beneath your jaw—once, twice—each press slower than the last. You felt it in your stomach, in your spine, in the ache blooming at the base of your throat. His hand slid further now, curling around your thigh, fingers tightening slightly. Not possessive—but certain.
And then—
He shifted behind you, pressing closer, until his chest met your back fully, until you could feel the rise and fall of his breath against your ribs. His hand smoothed forward, tracing the inner line of your thigh. A promise. A question. A warning. Your knees brushed, the tension coiling between your legs sharp and sweet. Still, Sasuke didn’t rush. Just let his fingers hover, let them drift, let you feel the weight of his attention in every inch of air between your skin and his. You exhaled, shakily, eyes fluttering closed. His lips hovered just beside your ear, his breath hot against your skin.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he murmured, voice low and taut. “Don’t let him look at you like that.” You turned your head slightly, enough for your mouth to brush the corner of his. “And if I do?” A pause. A shift in the air. His fingers tightened at your waist, deliberate, slow.
“Then I’ll punish you for it.”
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your own breathing—shallow, steady, as if your lungs hadn’t quite caught up to the weight of the silence. The space between you and Sasuke pulsed with something thick and slow-burning, like the last ember in a dying fire that refused to go out.
Then—he shifted.
You heard it before you saw it. The faint rustle of fabric, the soft whisper of linen sliding against skin, and the quiet finality of something falling to the floor. His towel. It landed with barely a sound, but the intent was deafening. Your pulse stuttered. He said nothing. Didn’t move to touch you. Not yet. But you could feel him behind you—his presence heavier now, less restrained. Not wild, never that, but sharpened to a single focus.
You remained still, standing in the soft light of the room, the scent of hot water and cedar still clinging to your skin. And then—
His voice, low and sure:
“Bend forward.”
It wasn’t a request. Your breath caught. Not from shock. From the way something inside you lit up in response—something instinctive and deep. You obeyed.
Slowly, deliberately, you turned toward the wooden bench, placing your hands on its surface. The wood was smooth beneath your palms, slightly cool against your heat-flushed skin. You bent forward, just enough for your back to arch, for your hips to tilt naturally, exposing the long, bare line of your spine, the soft swell of your hips, the curves he’d traced in silence only minutes before.
The air touched you like a second pair of hands—cool, then warm where his breath followed. He knelt behind you. You didn’t need to see it to feel it. There was a shift in the air pressure, the faintest creak beneath his knees, the stillness of a hunter closing in. And then—
His hands.
They returned like they’d never left. Slow, certain. They didn’t grab. They explored. His fingertips brushed the sides of your thighs first—so lightly you almost questioned if they were really there. Then upward, ghosting over your hips, retracing the same path with more pressure now, more possession. You closed your eyes, spine tightening slightly as your body responded—quietly, instinctively. He was touching you like someone who had held back for far too long. His thumbs skimmed the space just beneath your waist, circling slowly, grounding you. You felt every breath he took behind you. Then, without warning, his hand left your hip. Silence stretched again.
Clap!
The sound was sharp, clean, not cruel. His palm met the curve of your ass with a sting that blossomed quickly, heat blooming under skin already sensitized from his touch. Not brutal. Just precise. You gasped. Not from pain, but from how sudden it was—how intimate. But it was what came after that made your knees weaken. His hand lingered. Flat, broad, warm—he let it rest there like a seal, his fingers curling slightly, digging into the soft of your skin. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you that he was there. That this was him. And that you were his. His thumb brushed a slow, deliberate circle over the tender spot he’d just claimed, and the silence he left in its wake felt loaded with heat.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured behind you, voice rough around the edges. “I thought you had more to say.” You smiled, lips parting with breath, eyes still closed. “I didn’t think you liked talking.” “I don’t,” he said, his hand trailing down now, slow and reverent, over the back of your thigh. “But I do like answers.” “To what?”
His other hand returned, gliding up your side, along your ribs. He didn’t reply right away. His thumb brushed the edge of your breast as he leaned closer, breath ghosting over the curve of your shoulder. “To whether you’re still thinking about him,” he said finally. “Suigetsu.” You turned your head, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. Your hair had fallen slightly forward, damp against your cheek, and in the low light, you caught the edge of his jaw, the darkness in his eyes. “I was never thinking about him,” you said softly. “Only what you would do.”
A pause.
Then his mouth was at your shoulder, not kissing—just hovering. You could feel how close he was. How tightly wound. “You wanted this,” he said. You didn’t deny it. And then—his touch changed again. His hands roamed more deliberately now, like he was no longer just committing you to memory, but writing something into your skin. A language only he would understand. His palms cupped the backs of your thighs, the curve of your hips, moved over the softness of your waist, brushing low along the front of your belly before retreating—teasing, never lingering long enough to satisfy.
He shifted behind you, not touching fully, but close. Close enough for you to feel the warmth of his skin, the power in his stillness. You inhaled, shaky, your fingers gripping the edge of the bench. “Is this the punishment?” you whispered. He leaned in again, his breath against the nape of your neck now. “No,” he said. “This is the warning.”
The sharp sting of his palm still pulsed beneath your skin, warm and aching, when you felt him shift behind you—closer, lower. You were bracing yourself, breath uneven, when his hands steadied you once more, thumbs pressing gently into your hips, as if to keep you still. Then came the heat of his breath—low, deliberate, trailing down your spine in slow descent until it hovered just above the skin he’d struck. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The tension held you in place, strung tight and breathless, your fingertips curling into the edge of the bench as if it could ground you.
But then—
You felt him.
His tongue, warm and unhurried, drew a single, slow line over the curve of your ass—right where his palm had marked you. The wet heat of it sent a jolt through your body, sharp, intimate and entirely unexpected. Your hips twitched, involuntary. “Sasuke—” you breathed, barely a whisper. He didn’t answer. Just gripped you firmer, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that said stay still. And then he bit you. Not gently. Not playfully.
His teeth sank into the soft of you with intent—enough to make your entire body jolt forward a breath, your voice catching in your throat as fire rippled through you. It was possessive. It was a warning. And it was so intimate that your knees almost gave out. A strangled sound escaped your lips—part gasp, part moan, part something you didn’t have words for. His mouth lingered there a moment longer, tongue flicking over the mark he left as if to seal it in, to soothe what he’d claimed. The heat, the pressure, the slow drag of his tongue—it all blurred together until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your skin began.
When he finally pulled back, the absence of him was just as loud.
But you still felt him—his presence, his breath, the ghost of his teeth. You felt it in your skin, in your spine, in the place where your thoughts had quieted into raw sensation. And then his voice came—rough, low, shaped more by breath than sound. “You’ll feel that tomorrow.” You couldn’t answer. Not with words. But your body did. The way you leaned back into his hands. The way your breath hitched. The way his name still sat on your tongue, unspoken but heavy.
He stayed behind you a moment longer, his thumbs brushing circles into your hips—slow, grounding, as though to remind you of who was touching you. Of who wasn’t. And when his lips brushed the curve of your lower back, soft now, like an apology he would never say aloud—
You knew this wasn’t just punishment. It was possession. And he wanted you to remember it.
The anticipation was almost unbearable as you felt Sasuke’s hardness press against you, his arousal unmistakable. He didn’t say anything, just let his actions speak for themselves—his hands sliding from your hips to your waist, his body moving closer, aligning with yours.
With a rough, claiming thrust that stole the air from your lungs he got inside you. You cried out, the sound echoing in the room, and he swallowed it with a growl that vibrated through you. His cock filled you completely, stretched you in a way that was both painful and exquisite. “Fuck, Sasuke,” you gasped, your voice shaking. He didn’t bother with sweet nothings, no gentle reassurances. This was punishment, after all. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, his teeth scraping along your spine.
The words sent a tremor through you, your body responding with a clench around him that made him hiss in pleasure.
He began to move—slow, deep strokes that had your eyes rolling back in your head. The sting of his bite and the ache of his handprint were a constant reminder of what he’d done to you, what he was still doing to you. But it was the feeling of him, so deep and demanding, that had you losing your grip on reality. You felt your pussy start to get wet, a betrayal to the pain that was quickly forgotten as your body craved more. His hands slid around to cup your breasts, pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you arch your back into his touch. “You’re going to take it all,” he said, his voice a dark promise. And you knew you would. For him, you’d take it all.
The room was a blur around you, the only things in focus were the feeling of him inside you and the pressure building low in your belly. He moved faster now, each thrust hitting that spot that made your legs tremble, made you want to beg. But you didn’t. You held on to the edge of the bench with a white-knuckled grip, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.
You felt his hand slip down to where you were wet, his fingers teasing your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. It was like he knew exactly what you needed, and he gave it to you without asking. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “It hurts,” you admitted, your voice strained. “Good,” he said, the word a growl. “It’s supposed to hurt. But it’s also supposed to feel good, isn’t it?”
And it did. The pain and the pleasure were so intertwined that you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. His fingers played with you, rubbing in tight circles, as he pounded into you with a ferocity that had your toes curling.
Sasuke’s grip on your hips tightened, his thumbs digging in almost as much as his teeth had. He pulled you back into him with a force that made your eyes water, his cock slamming into you without mercy. The bench creaked beneath you with every powerful thrust, echoing through the room like a declaration of his ownership. Your breath hitched in your chest, turning into gasps that grew louder and more erratic with each movement. The sting of his earlier bite was now a constant throb that only served to heighten the sensations as he took you harder than you’d ever been taken before.
The sound of your skin slapping against his filled the room, punctuated by the slick wetness of his cock plunging into your pussy. You could feel the ache deepening, your body trying to adjust to his size, to the intensity of his claim. His fingers on your clit moved faster, more insistent, as he drove into you from behind, each stroke hitting deeper, rubbing against that spot that sent sparks of pleasure through your core.
“Sasuke—it’s too much—” you panted, your voice hoarse and needy.
His voice was a challenge, a taunt, and your body responded with a shiver that had nothing to do with fear. He was right. You’d always craved this from him—his dominance, his possession, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in his world when he was inside you. Your pussy clenched around him, desperate for more, and he gave it to you. His hips slammed into yours, each thrust more demanding than the last.
Sasuke’s hands left your hips, and for a moment, you were left to the mercy of his relentless thrusts, your body rocking back into him with every forceful plunge. And then—his fingers trailed down, down, until they hovered at the sensitive juncture between your thighs. You felt his touch linger there, teasing the tight ring of muscle, making your entire body tense in anticipation of what was to come.
Without warning, he pushed one thick digit into your ass, and you bit back a scream, the intrusion foreign but not unwelcome. The dual sensation of being filled in both places was almost too much to bear, but your body, trained to crave his dominance, opened for him willingly. The pressure was intense, but the slickness of your arousal and his steady rhythm allowed him to slide in deep, the digit joining his cock in claiming you fully.
Your breaths grew ragged, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to adjust to the new sensation. His pace didn’t falter—instead, he used the newfound leverage to drive into your pussy even harder, his finger curling inside you in a way that had your toes curling. You were stretched to the brink of pain and pleasure, a fine line that Sasuke danced upon with expert precision.
The feeling of his hand on your ass, his finger buried deep within, was almost too much to handle, but you didn’t protest. You knew what he wanted from you—what he always wanted. Complete submission. And as his thumb found your clit once more, pressing down with just enough force to make you whine, you gave it to him. The pressure grew, building like a storm in your belly, your muscles tightening around his cock and finger, your entire body straining towards release. His breaths grew harsher, his thrusts more erratic, and you knew he was close, too.
And then it hit—a crescendo of sensation that shattered you, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. Your orgasm washed over you, a tidal wave of ecstasy that had you collapsing onto the bench, your limbs trembling.
But Sasuke wasn’t finished with you yet. He withdrew his finger slowly, the emptiness in your ass making you whimper, only to be replaced by the fullness of his cock. He pulled out of your pussy and pushed into your ass in one swift motion, making you cry out. You weren’t ready for this—his cock was so much bigger, and the burn was intense. But his hand was there, his fingers playing with your clit, keeping you on that delicate edge of pain and pleasure.
He took you with the same ferocity as before, his cock sliding in and out of your ass as he whispered dark promises into your ear. The burn grew with each thrust, turning into something else, something deeper, something that made you crave more. “You like this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice a mix of pleasure and challenge. “You’re mine. All of you. Every part of you.”
And you couldn’t deny it. Every inch of you was his, claimed by his touch, his bite, his cock. You pushed back into him, meeting his every thrust, begging for more even as your body screamed for mercy. He was unforgiving, his cock filling you completely, the stretch of your ass around him making you feel so impossibly full. The pain was sharp, but it was a reminder of who owned you, who was taking you so fiercely. And in that moment, you’d never felt more alive.
Sasuke’s breathing grew ragged, his hips pistoning into you with a force that had the bench groaning beneath you. You could feel him swelling inside you, his release imminent. And then, with a final, brutal thrust, he came—his hot seed filling your ass, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm.
The silence that followed was thick—settling over the room like steam, curling into every breath you tried to steady. Sasuke’s chest rose and fell against your back, his breath still ragged, the heat of him pressed along your spine. Neither of you moved. Not yet. His hands remained on your hips, fingers flexed faintly like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Like he wanted the imprint of you to last a little longer beneath his palms.
You closed your eyes. Let yourself feel the burn in your thighs, the dull throb where he had held you too tightly, moved too deeply. The ache was raw, but not unwelcome. You’d asked for it. And he had given more than words ever could.
When he finally stepped back, the loss was immediate—cold air rushing in where heat had been, breath settling into the space his body had filled. You rose slowly, steadying yourself with one hand against the bench, the other brushing damp strands of hair from your face.
You didn’t look at him. Not right away. But he was still there—standing, composed, barely disheveled except for the sharpness in his gaze. He reached for his towel without a word, draped it over one shoulder, and then—finally—spoke. “Don’t make me remind you again.” His voice was low. Flat. No heat in it now—just fact. You turned, eyes catching his. There was no softness in his expression. No apology. Just that steady intensity that never seemed to break.
His eyes dipped briefly—tracing the marks he’d left on your skin, now blooming in quiet color along your hips, your thighs, the subtle red curve where his mouth had claimed you. When he looked back up, his mouth twitched—just barely. “You’re mine.” he said again. Not with fire. Not with gentleness. Just truth.
And you knew: it wasn’t jealousy that drove him.
It was certainty.
He didn’t reach for you again. Didn’t kiss you. He simply turned, collected what little he’d brought in, and left the room with the same quiet finality he always carried—with steps that didn’t ask for attention, only left it behind in their wake.
You stood alone in the warm hush of the changing room, skin still tingling, breath still uneven. You weren’t sure if what you felt was regret or satisfaction.
But whatever it was, it was yours to carry. And you would.
summary! your best friend satoru gojo has had a massive crush on you for years, the only issue is, he's pretty slutty. all he wants is you, god, you're the only thing he cares about these days, but he's too insecure to let himself want someone as beautiful and kind as you are.. he feels like he doesn't deserve such a loving person, so he sticks to his promiscuous lifestyle until you two can't handle pretending you're not enamoured with each other anymore. (insecure gojo, angst to comfort, gojo uses sex as an escape (no explicit mentions of said sex between others), toxicity, he's a sweetheart i promise)
satoru was off-his-fucking-face drunk.
he saw you from across the room chatting it up with shiu, a well known plug around campus, and a very attractive one at that, although he hated to admit it.
he knows he probably shouldn't of felt that stab of jelousy that just radiated through his gut, he's supposed to smile, then shrug all nonchalantly, cmon. don’t be weird. she talks to people. you talk to everyone. that’s how this shit works. he thinks.
but then he clocks the way shiu leans in closer, not to the point he's feeling all up on you, but he's close enough that it really, really pisses gojo off.
so, like any good 'best friend' who was almost blackout would do, he stalked over and threw his floppy, muscular arms around your waist with a deadly glare.
"can you fuck off shiu? no one wants you around here fucking up freshman with your fucking sketchy shit." he slurred, clinging to you like a koala.
"good cussing, satoru." shiu smiles with a new cigarette hanging from his lip.
"i hate you."
"i know, buddy..." he replies, winking at you before slipping the back of smiles into his pocket, "well uh, i'll leave you two alone then?" the obviously more mature man offers, you clench your teeth and pull one of satorus arms off of your body.
"sorry, kong. we'll chat another time?"
"no, you won't. go away shiu." satoru quipped, the black haired man just waves with a chuckle and moves on. he knew drunk gojo wasn't to be taken to heart, after all.
good riddance, he thought. everyone knew you were his, so why wasn't shiu getting that?
he sighed, but deep down he hated that part of himself. the obsessive part that wants to pull you away while knowing full well he's never once made any sort of claim on you. he doesn't get to play guard dog when he himself is the one who's taught everyone he's nothing more but a temporary play thing for others to use.
he knows it's pathetic, but still, he couldn't help but cling to you. it was just second nature to him at this point.
once shiu's gone, you exhale curtly. this always happened. despite your and satoru's relationship being nothing more than a tight friendship, he always got disgustingly possessive when you gave your attention to others, especially men, and especially at parties.
you sigh, then pry his other lanky arm off you with a big huff, fuck, he was heavy.
“you’re being ridiculous, satoru,” you groan, yelling over the music even though he's loud enough for the both of you, “i was only asking him how his studies were going.”
“don’t care,” satoru mumbles with his cheek pressed to your smaller shoulder. “don’t like him.”
“you don’t like anyone who talks to me.”
“mhm.”
you groan softly, this has happened so many times it’s become expected at these kinds of things. you reach for his collar and tug it, steering him away from the kitchen before he can latch back on to shiu who was now talking to maki.
“come on,” you roll your eyes. “you’re piss faced.”
he laughs boisterously, a stark change from the pout he was wearing a few seconds ago. “only a bit.”
“you’re literally swaying.”
“and? i sway when i'm sober.”
you can be bothered arguing with this meat head. instead, you turn toward the stairs and brace for impact because right on cue, his hand slides into yours and he pulls you up them.
“satoru,” you hiss, but he’s already halfway up, pulling you along behind him.
“i want to go to my room,” he says bluntly. “it's too fucking loud down there.”
he keeps a tight hold of your hand all the way up the spiral stairs with his thumb brushing your knuckles over and over, a nervous little tic he did when he got overwhelmed.
people smile and shout at the both of you as you walk pass, you think you can make out sukuna yelling his name, but he ignores all of them with a scoff like the dismissive drunk he is.
the moment you’re inside his room he shuts the door with his foot and leans back against it, still holding your hand.
this is always the part that makes your heart go all soft.
satoru looked so much gentler when he was inebriated like this. physically he’s still got that massive muscular upper body, still takes up all of your personal space and all, but he seems so fragile. like he’s set down the flashy go getter version of himself everyone else sees and picked up the one he only lets you have.
“sit,” he says dragging you toward his bed.
you smile at his slightly slurred speech and sit, he drops down beside you with his long lanky knees bumping yours. he immediately scoots closer until his leg presses against your own. his hand itch's until it's touching yours, your wrist, then your fingers, lacing them together.
he was always a little touchy when drunk.
“you okay?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says with a smile, then, “you’re really good.”
you laugh and lean back on your free hand. “that wasn’t the question, silly.”
he shrugs, flopping back onto the mattress and dragging you with him so you’re both propped up against his bashed up and faded wooden headboard. he loops his strong arm under your back and around your waist, pulling you closer to his body. okay, maybe a lot touchy.
you and satoru had a special kind of thing going on.
in freshman he spotted you from across the way at a mixer, he clocked you from the other side of the room and decided, for reasons he never really explained, that you were his person now.
he stole your cup, replaced it with a fresh one, and talked your ear off until you forgot what being nervous actually felt like, he seemed like a suave man on the outside, but this guy poured straight chronically online brainrot humour into your brain for like, two hours straight?.
by the end of the night you were sitting on the curb together, sharing fries he'd door dashed to the frat laughing like you’d known each other forever.
from then on, it was just a thing. you studied together, even though he never actually studied and mostly complained. you slept over, even though you both had comfy beds of your own.
you knew his school schedule, his little moods, the signs that meant he needed to leave a party early and unwind somewhere else. he knew when you were lying about being fine and when you needed him to just sit there and not try to fix anything.
people joked about you two all the time.
geto once asked why you didn’t just date already. satoru laughed far too loud and said that’d 'ruin absolutely everything'. you giggled too, telling yourself it was better like this, that you liked having him without the risk of romantic intimacy.
but like everything, the truth always came out.
one night where the both of you were almost blackout drunk, he took you upstairs after throwing his guts up into the toilet. you laughed at him and he flipped you off back, cleaning up then pulling you into his room like a rag doll.
he held you in the middle of the floor after you'd both toppled over, and he admitted everything to you through very crappy, slurred speech.
he told you how much he loved you, how badly he wanted you all to himself, how no one else could do it for him. you admitted the same, you told him how much you needed him in your life and how you felt more loved with him that anyone else.
you kissed, it was gross and quick but it happened. your feelings were out in the open.
for that night, at least.
morning came and the previous confession felt like small tiny fragments in both of your minds, you just couldn't remember any of it fully.
you went about your little friendship like nothing had changed. from what was left in your brains, you had a semi-clear thought on it all.
oh shit, maybe she/he likes me back?
sometimes, late at night, you’d lie next to him while he talked about nothing, sometimes you thought you caught drawls of that night in how he went quiet when you mentioned another guy, or when his hand squeezed yours that little bit tighter. but then he’d joke it away, or pull back, or remind you with a grin that you were his best friend.
so you stayed quiet, and so did he.
because being close to him like this felt better than not having him at all, loving him quietly was safer than risking losing him.
you didn’t know he was doing the exact same thing, from the other side of that line, telling himself over and over that you deserved better than him and that wanting you meant destroying his favourite thing in the world, your friendship.
now, your eyes drag over his pretty face as he stares up at the celling, letting out a long sigh that smelt like hard solo.
then he starts talking.
“god, this theme sucked actual nut sacks." he announces. “it was so bad, y/n. tell them to never do it again.”
you snort. “hm? weren't you the one hyping it up last week.”
“can you be quiet? i was lying. why are you lying to me?" he was making no sense.
“i feel like that's not... a proper answer?” you shake your head like you yourself were letting it go, he wasn't sober enough to be answering things correctly.
“rude.” he turns his head to look at you. “everyone looks stupid.”
“you’re wearing bright red board shorts and no shirt."
“yeah,” he says seriously. “so fucking stupid.”
you glance at the discarded lifeguard whistle on his desk, the red plastic stark against the silky oak. “you look fine, toru.”
“nah.” he shakes his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “everyone’s dressed like baywatch rejects. i hate it.”
“you hate fun.”
“i love fun.” he squeezes your waist as to prove his point. “this just isn’t fun fun.”
“yeah? what’s fun fun then?”
his face turns and he's suddenly looking happier. gosh, these drunken mood swings.. “like... a onesie party.”
you laugh and sit a bit closer. “of course.”
“like animals,” he adds, gaining conversational momentum. “or dinosaurs. geto would be a gorilla. choso would be like, a wolf or some shit.”
“yeah? what would you be?”
he breathes out an answer before you can even finish your sentence. “a bunny.”
“oh wow, no you would not.”
“i absolutely would. i'd buy ears and everything.” he whines with a forlorn expression, oh we're sad now? perfect.
you picture it and bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard, but he notices.
“see,” he says, now smug (you seriously couldn't keep up). “way better than 'surfer sluts'.”
you look at his shorts, then back at him. “at least the name was semi-creative?”
“tch, only thing creative 'bout it.”
he rambles on, complaining about the trashy pitbull music, about how someone spilled a drink on his nice new grey decarbra's, about how the freshmen are hella annoying this year. his hands wonder as he talks, sometimes he's squeezing your fingers, sometimes drifting to your hip, sometimes tracing the line of your knee cap? he's doing it absentmindedly so you guess it was fine.
you two chat about how shitty the party was for a good half hour, circling back to old gossip and relationship dramas, laughing and spit balling for ages. you'd never tell him but you loved these moments, where he'd laugh and talk to you like you'd known him since he was born, rather than just a few years ago.
he always looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the universe, whether you'd be out on long drives in his fancy car, or over at your dorm making really crappy cupcakes, he'd always gaze at you so lovingly. the bond between two best friends, am i right? you pushed away the thought of his lips on yours.
he sobers up a tad so the conversation is semi coherent on his end.
eventually, he circles the topic back you like he always does.
“so, you talk to shiu a lot,” he says quickly, darting his eyes back and forth from your face to gage your reaction.
“you know i talk to everyone,” you reply.
“yeah, but like.. you talk to him a lot.”
you smile at his badly hidden jealousy, “he’s in my stats class, satoru. nothing more.”
“still.”
you roll your eyes. “i asked how his studies were going. that’s it.”
he hums but it sounds very unconvinced.
“you get so weird about this,” you add. “it’s not that serious, i promise.”
he shifts closer again and his forehead drops to your shoulder. “i just don’t like when guys look at you.”
“they’re going to look at me.”
“i know.” his voice drops. “i hate it.”
you bump his knee with yours. “that’s a you problem, toru.”
“rude,” he repeats, but there’s no real malice in it.
you blurt out quickly, regretting it as soon as it pours out, "you're the only guy i'm this into, satoru, don't worry." fuck why did i say that?!
gojo's heartbeat is now thumping. she means that... in a friend way, right? of course. of course she did. no biggie...
he bites his lip as his hand goes all shake dragging up and down your arms.
you sit in silence for a bit as he and you both process, listening to the muffled frank ocean seeping through the floor boards. his thumb keeps tracing your knuckles, slower than before like he’s losing steam, getting sleepy.
to satoru, his room feels so much safer because no one’s looking at him like they want to eat him alive. not in here, with you. there's no one staring, waiting for him to be alone so they can make a move. sure, he's into it, but sometimes he jsut wants this, with you.
this is the version of him that he loves, sitting. talking. hands brushing without it being a big deal.
he wonders, not for the first time, why this version never feels like it’s allowed to want things. to want things like you.
the silence is comforting, but you make the mistake of opening your mouth. you promise you were only trying to lighten the mood, and/or distract from your almost confession earlier.
“c'mon,” you say lightly, not really thinking, “you should be thriving tonight, not sulking up here in your room. i mean, this theme was basically made for you.”
he lifts his head. “uh? what’s that supposed to mean?”
you shrug. “you know, surfer sluts. pretty fitting, no?"
you don't realise, but he goes stiff at your throw away comment, his fingers pause their ministrations on yours, his grip loosening until your fingers slide apart. he sits up straighter, and his body naturally moves away. his blue gaze dropping to the floor.
he’s heard it all before. much worse than this. louder than this. laughed off in locker rooms and kitchens and group chats.
'he's a slut.'
'a manwhore.'
'gojo’s just being gojo.'
he knows deep down he's built it, with every hook up being another brick. it was easier than being the guy who wanted one girl and didn’t know how to ask without ruining everything.
but fuck, he doesn’t want you to see him like that. that’s the fucked part. he doesn’t mind anyone else thinking it. just not you.
“oh,” he says.
you tilt your head, smiling. “oh, what?”
“nothing.”
you watch as his face turns into a distant blunt pull, you can't tell if he's still going through his drunken emotional switch ups or what.
“hey,” you say. “hey, i was joking.”
“yeah,” he mutters. “i know.”
he doesn’t look at you. oh shit.
without him pressed against you, the room suddenly inflates ten fold, when did it get so cold? the space between your bodies is small but very prominent, like a missing piece to a puzzle you'd spent hours putting together.
“toru?” you try again.
he scratches at his neck, a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times but never really questioned. “it’s fine.”
it’s clearly not, but you don’t push. you’ve learned when to stop.
he swings his legs off the bed and leans forward, elbows on his knees. the chatter downstairs seeps up, laughter and shouting coming through the walls. he stares at nothing, his mouth moving like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to swallow.
“everyone thinks that,” he says eventually, “so you’re not wrong.”
you frown, then fling your own legs off of the couch and hug into his side. “hm? thinks what?”
“that i’m just… that.”
oh.. you wince to yourself and drag a hand up and down his arm for comfort, “hey.. i didn’t mean it like that.”
“i know.” he huffs a laugh lacking all the humour it usually had. “doesn’t really matter how you meant it.”
he looks down at you, “it’s true.”
you don't know how to answer, because you know it's true, too. you didn't mean to be rash, but he was a slut. this guy averaged two girls a week and bragged to almost everyone about it, why was he getting angsty now? his constant rotation was the main reason you hadn't brought up your feeling for him since that night. who sleeps with that many chicks if they really did like someone for real?
he keeps going, words pouring now that the dam’s cracked.
“i mean, look at me,” he says, gesturing at himself. “everyone here’s fucked me or wants to. it’s kind of my thing now, not that i totally mind, it's just.. not all i am.”
“i don't think that's all you are, okay? you're my bestfriend, satoru. i know you better than that.” you're trying so hard to save this sinking ship.
'bestfriend..' he echoed in his mind, a solemn smile playing at his mouth, he wanted to be so, so much more than that.
"yeah, i know you don't think that.” he shrugs, smiling softer. “you're the only opinion i really care about, anyways.”
you tap his wrist for his hand again and he lets you intertwine your fingers. his heart blips, you don't normally initiate this type of intimacy, it was always him grabbing for your hand.
"of course satoru, don't worry,” you say.
he wants to say something else but whatever it was stays lodged behind his smile, any sadness he had was long gone, he was now hyper fixated on your hand.
"i know you wanna tell me something else."
“yeah but.. forget it,” he says almost too happily.
you squeeze his hand. “c'monn, tell me.”
he shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes again. “it’s stupid.”
“you’re stupid,” you say gently.
stupidly in love with you..
~
satoru stretches and lets out a deep, throaty groan. he somehow didn't have a hangover this morning, that was surprising.
he yawns and rolls over to bury his face into the pillow, his head feels packed with cotton and gravel, but it's not necessarily throbbing.
he's halfway through another groanish yawn when he realises the blankets that are pulled over his chest, when did they get there?
he stares at the ceiling, frowning. his comforter is pulled up to his chest with the corners tucked around his shoulders in a fashion he never ever does himself because he’s lazy and tall and always hangs off the bed. someone even kicked his shoes into place on his shoe rack.
you, of course it was you.
your face floats right to the front of his mind clear as day. your pretty little laugh, your hand in his, the precious way you were looking at him when he knocked out, you looked so beautiful.
he had morning wood and the thought of you was only making it pulsate harder. you were so kind to him, you'd always been there as an anchor, no matter what. he'd crash at your place when he felt like it, he'd squeeze into bed with you and hold you against his body.
shit, your body.. he presses his boner into the bed and groans, draging a heavy hand down his face.
“fuck.”
he's loved you for years, every girl he's ever fucked was a distraction. a distraction from the fact he never felt good enough to have you, all of you, all to himself. he hated it.
he catalogs the evidence like it’s a horrible case against him and his promiscuous ways. the kind words you'd always spewed, the way you can leave him without it feeling like you're really gone..
he racks his brain for every girl who’s woken up here and slipped out before he got to learn their last names. how none of them ever did this. how none of them stayed this gentle with him.
he tells himself thats gotta mean something.
then, he reminds himself that wanting something doesn’t mean he deserves it..
as he's having a deep, 'i love my bestfriend but i'm too much of a whore to deserve her, what the fuck do i do?' crisis for the fiftieth time this month, the door slams open.
“rise and shine, whore,” sukuna bellows, stepping into the room blowing a fat cloud of sweet vapor straight into the air. “get the fuck up. house looks like a dump.”
satoru squints at him. “i hate you.”
“yeah, yeah.” sukuna hits the vape again. “come clean. you threw up in the downstairs sink.”
“that wasn’t me.”
“it was absolutely you.”
satoru rolls onto his side and curls in on himself dramatically. “fuck off.”
sukuna snorts. “get up and mop you insufferable asshole.”
he waits until the door slams shut again before forcing himself to sit up. he scratches at his neck, then glances down at himself, he's still shirtless and in these ridiculous shorts. he grabs his geek bar off the side table and takes a hit, then throws it aside and sniffs.
he grabs a pair of grey sweats off the floor along with boxers from his draw, he strips, poses nakedly in the mirror for a good ten seconds, and pulls them on, not bothering with a shirt. he comes down the stairs barefoot, every step reminding him of how much of a lightweight he is. he makes it to the bottom and, holy fuck, the house was a mess.
empty cups are everywhere, bottles spilt into the carpet, peoples sweaty clothes strewn all over the place, what a palace.
choso is sweeping loads of trash into a big rubbish bag on the floor, nanami is wiping down the counters with a pissed off look, sukuna and toji are flipping the couch back over.
geto spots him before everyone else, "there he is,” he smiles, clapping a hand on satoru’s shoulder. “you okay?”
“no.”
geto grins. “heard you were real fucked up last night.”
satoru sighs. “don’t.”
he grabs a rubbish bag and starts scooping cups off the floor, his mind keep floating back to you, over and over again. he can still feel your hand in his, he can still see the way you'd hugged into his side when he got all quiet.
that’s the last thing he remembers before everything goes black is you.
he clears his throat. “hey.”
no one looks up.
“hey,” he tries again, louder. “did anyone see y/n leave last night?”
ino looks up like hes been waiting for a question like that, “why,” he asks. “you forget where you put her?”
satoru shoots him a look. “shut up.”
“i think she left kinda early,” nanami says without looking up. “before two.”
satoru’s chest loosens just a bit. “yeah?”
“yeah,” nanami continues. “she walked out with-"
toji stood up from kneeling besides the couch,
“shiu,” he says casually, cracking open a beer he had in hand. “she went home with shiu.”
the room goes quiet for exactly a second.
satoru stops and the trash bag slips from his fingers.
“what,” he says.
toji shrugs. “saw them out front walking to his car. sure looked cozy.”
he feels his heart beat thump, his head starts to throb and his eyes feel like they want to water and spill.
“that’s not-" he laughs weakly. “that’s not funny.”
toji takes a sip. “wasn’t joking.”
geto raises an eyebrow, watching satoru a little too closely. “you sure, man?”
toji nods. “yep.”
it feels like someone socked him in his mouth, his ears ring, the house feels claustrophobic, suddenly everything's very wrong.
you wouldn’t.
would you?..
he thinks about the way you held his hand, the way you tucked him in, all 6"4 of him, the way you told him he was 'the only guys you were this into.'. maybe that never happened ? maybe it indeed was just a figure of his imagination.. fuck, maybe his whorish lifestyle had finally scared you off..
he breathes in deep. if you did sleep with him, satoru doesn’t get to be hurt. he’s the guy who taught you this was normal, that this was so right and casual.
if you chose someone else, all that means is you learned the rules from watching him doing it over and over and over again.
his chest tightens and he laughs again. “ha. wow. okay.”
ino bursts out laughing. “are you deadass?”
sukuna snorts. “c'mon bro, you hook up with mad girls. don't be pressed when she does the same.”
geto covers his mouth, he wants to laugh but he knows he shouldn't. “that’s rough, but sukuna's right, satoru.”
gojo wipes a hand down his face quickly, blaming the hangover. “yeah. hilarious.”
“guess surfer sluts really was her thing,” toji adds, smirking.
that one lands.
satoru bends down and picks up the rubbish bag again with his eyes fixed to the floor, “i’m gonna go take the trash out.”
"okay, bro."
~
now, in your defence, while you did go home with shiu, you didn't sleep with him.
you couldn't, not when you were this deep under the satoru spell.
"thanks for letting me crash here, i didn't want to disturb gojo's sleep. oh, and yuki brought higuruma over last night. didn't wanna be up until 4 listening to them fuck."
you're half dressed under the covers, wiping your eyes as he come in with a cup of coffee.
"i got you, don't worry." he smiles from the door of his room, he let you take his luxurious bed while he slept on the equally as nice couch. shiu was surprisingly rich for a collage kid, maybe all that 'sketchy shit' as satoru liked to put it, was really selling.
he brings the cup down onto the table besides your bed and flicks your nose, "just remember your promise, gotta do that last section of the assignment for me, payment for my generosity."
"mm, wouldn't dream of leaving you without proper compensation." you laugh, taking the cup and sipping gently.
he looks from one of your eyes to the other like he's appreciating your presence, then quickly looks away and spins around.
"gotta make a few runs this morning, leave whenever you feel like it, yeah?" he throws over his shoulder.
you give him a thumbs up and he nods, waving while walking out.
the morning scuffles along, you eventually pull yourself out of his beautiful bed and get dressed into whatever clothing you could find that'd fit you in his draws. there were a few women's camis aswell as sweat pants in here, oh no, did he have a girlfriend?
as if being summoned by the universe, who else but shoko walks into the house, with her own key, no less.
she locks eyes with you for a second then smiles and waves like she couldn't care less.
"sh-shoko? what the fuck?"
"hey, y/n. is shiu still here?" she was so calm you just had to pry.
"why? are you two a thing? god, i promise this isn't what it looks like, i was just at a party and he offered to-"
"hush, i don't give a shit if you fucked him, girl. he's not my man."
phew... wait- not phew! you guys didn't even do anything!
you explain to her what went down, and she, in turn, told you why she was there. turns out she and shiu were hooking up on the dl, but she only felt for him physically, so you weren't a bother to her. "yeah, we fuck and he gives me drugs, pretty sweet deal. would recommend."
"yeah, i'm so good, thanks."
after that semi-akward interaction you gathered your stuff and got the hell out of there.
shiu's place was just off campus so the walk back to your own apartment wasn't far. like you did every morning after a party, you tried to give satoru a call. only, after the third ring, the line went dead.
satoru was finishing up the last little chores around the frat when he got your call, he stared at his phone as it rung on the kitchen bench, your name in cute heart emojis flashing on the screen.
he declined.
the last thing he wanted right now was to talk to you after shiu had been apparently digging in you. no way.
"yeesh, that's harsh, man." choso commented from his spot sitting at the breakfast bar.
"it's nothing, just busy right now." satoru tries his best to sound nonchalant but it's obvious he's still very much annoyed.
"oh yeah? you stop training when she calls you, man. you're never 'too busy.'" choso makes air quotes around that last part.
satoru sighs and chucks the last of the solo cups in the recycling bin, then takes off back up the stairs.
he shuts his door far harder than he needs to and falls onto his bed.
shiu.
the name keeps coming back, no matter how hard he tries to shove it away.
he tells himself he has no right to feel like this, none. he fucks around constantly, hell, it’s practically his brand. he’s built this whole thing around being easy, wanted and available. so why does the idea of you choosing someone else make his chest feel so disgusting?
you’re your own person. you always have been. he’s never tried to cage you, never tried to tell you what to do or who to see. that’s not him and he prides himself on that.
still.
you’re supposed to be his person.
not like that, he tells himself. not in a gross way he gets to possess but in the way you always end up together. the way you fall asleep next to him without it meaning anything and somehow meaning everything at the same time.
he massages the bridge of his nose with both hands.
get over it.
get over it.
get over it.
god, he just can't. instead, he unlocks his phone and stares at your pretty contact photo, the stupid nickname. his thumb taps call before he can talk himself out of it.
it barely rings twice before you're answering all giddy.
“toru!” your voice is so bright. “oh my god, i was just about to try you again. are you hung over?”
he feels pain coil up in his tummy.
“no,” he says flatly.
on your end, you're taken back by his bluntness “oh! uh, okay.”
he winces internally at your dejected response but doesn’t soften the blow. if he does, he’ll crack, and he can’t afford that right now.
“what’s up?” you ask, still trying.
“nothing,” he replies. “just busy.”
your heart clips like it'd been hooked onto a fishing hook.
“…hey, uh, are you.. are you mad at me?”
he scoffs sharply. “why would i be mad at you.”
your voice dips. “i don’t know. you’re being kinda blunt, i guess.”
he laughs curtly. “i’m allowed to be blunt.”
“not like this,” you say quietly. “you’re never like this with me.”
that hits him in his throat. he pretends to ignore it when in reality it throws his heart for a loop, "what do you want,” he asks, it's so clipped.
you go silent for a second, clearly recalibrating. “i was wondering if you wanted to hang out later? maybe get food or something. i can come over.”
normally he’d say yes without thinking. normally he’d already be planning how fast he could ditch whatever else he had lined up.
today, though, his jealousy makes the decision for him.
“can’t,” he says. “i’ve got a girl coming over.”
the line goes very quiet.
“…oh,” you say.
gosh, he can picture your face. the sweet little drop in your eyes you try to hide. the way you probably nodded even though he can’t see you.
there’s a mean, awful part of him that hopes it stings. not because he wants to hurt you, but because he wants proof that he matters the way you matter to him.
the rest of him despises that part. hates that when things feel out of control he reaches for the only thing that’s ever numbed really it.
he doesn’t want the girl coming over. he wants you. he always does. but wanting you feels so dangerously hard in a way fucking his feelings out never does.
“right,” you add. “that's okay.”
he should stop. he should backtrack and admit to what he really wants, he wants to talk to you about shiu, why you did it when you know he hated him, why you'd sleep with that fucker of all people, get some sort of closure. instead, he keeps going, so cruel and careless.
“yeah,” he says. “don’t really feel like cancelling either. kinda want good company.”
that’s a lie. he feels like shit. but he wants it to sting, shit, he hates that he wants that.
you swallow audibly. “okay. well. have fun then.”
“always do,” he replies, too fast.
the silence is horribly awkward.
“…i know you said you're fine, but really, toru, are you good?” you ask, one last attempt.
he exhales through his nose. “yeah. don’t bother coming over tonight, okay?”
there it is. the line he knows will hit you deep.
your voice wobbles a little, “i wasn’t.”
“good,” he says. “talk later.”
and before you can respond, he hangs up.
the second the call ends, regret slams into him full force.
“fuck,” he grumbles, slamming the phone onto the bed.
he presses his palms into his eyes and groans. what the hell was that? why did he do that?
you didn’t deserve that. he’s supposed to be your best friend, not... not whatever that was.
he tells himself he’s doing you some sort of fucked up a favor. that pushing you away now is kinder than letting you see how messy he actually is when he cares.
it sounds noble until he admits the truth. he ran because staying would’ve meant being honest with you.
he sits there for ages, replaying your tone over and over until it makes him feel nauseous.
he hates this. hates how jealous he feels. hates that he can’t say anything about it without blowing everything up. hates that he took it out on you because he doesn’t know how to handle it like a normal person.
his phone vibrates, instead of checking the notification he unlocks it, opens a different app, scrolls, and sends a message he knows he’ll definitely regret later.
gojo: come over
her reply is quicker than he'd thought it be.
xxx xxx xxx: omw ;)
he drops the phone and leans back, staring at the ceiling. this is what he does. when things get too much, he drowns them out. replaces one feeling with another until it’s all numb enough to ignore.
a knock sounds at his door twenty minutes later.
he doesn’t give himself time to think it over, he opens it, steps aside, and lets the girl in. she smiles at him, then she reaches for his arm like it's her god given right.
the door clicks shut behind them.
and even as he kisses her, his mind betrays him, flashing back to your voice on the phone, so sweet, so soft and hurt.
he squeezes his eyes shut and pushes it away.
anything to not feel like this.
~
now, the party a few days later is so much worse.
the theme is white out so the crowd looks like a sea of seagulls packed into this seats living room.
you're clad in a pretty little white dress with big white heels and matching accessories, pretty basic yet still jaw dropping.
you're walking past the tv when satoru comes into view, today, not only was his hair white, but his entire outfit was too.
he’s across the room near the kitchen island, leaning back against the counter with a drink in his hand and two girls pressed in real close. one of them is laughing like a hyena at something charming he said, her fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans like she’s testing how far she can go. the other is touching his arm, tracing up his strong bicep.
he's too busy with them, he doesn't even spare you a fleeting glance.
you try not to look, you really, really do. but it’s just so difficult when that used to be your spot. when that used to be you next to him, stealing sips of his drink, talking shit about everyone else at the party like you were above it all together.
you frown, the conversations you and satoru had lately have been few and far between. he's dry as hell, and suddenly busy every time you ask to hang out.
you keep telling yourself it’s fine, it's all good. people grow apart all the time, it's collage! maybe he’s bored of being your friend. maybe you leaned too hard on a friendship that wasn’t meant to last.. and while you tell yourself it's fine, your chest twists and ticks and throbs with pain.
you step toward a couch where choso, shoko and geto are lounging around, all three of them clock your mood the second you flop beside them.
“hey, you good?” geto asks, passing you a drink.
you shake your head. “i’m okay.”
choso gives you a look. he's not gonna push but he'd like to. “you wanna sit here with us?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “that’d be nice.”
you sit between them with your legs tucked up, watching the party happen around you like it’s something you’re not really part of anymore. your eyes keep flocking back to satoru like some sort of pathetic magnet.
you loved satoru's company. he was your favourite person on earth, you'd spend every second with him if you could, now he was pushing you away? you'd of at least liked a conversation about it. maybe a warning.
hes getting loud talking like he's the only person worth listening to in the entire room, patting girls on the ass and leaning in close to their necks to hear them properly.
every time he laughs or slings his arm around their shoulders, you feel your heart crack.
you miss him. god, you miss him so bad. not whatever this was.
choso nudges your knee gently. “c'mon, you don’t have to stay if it’s not fun.”
you shake your head again. “i don’t wanna be alone.”
he nods like he understands that more than you realise.
time drags on and an hour passes. then another. you try talking to other people, but it feels so wrong. your attention keeps snapping back to satoru.
he’s still backed against the kitchen island with a drink he hasn’t touched like, forty minutes, he's pretending bf to laugh at those girls terrible jokes, letting them sleaze all over him.
normally he’d lean into the gag. he'd flirt back and say something stupidly charming and let the night dissolve into a forgettable hook up.
but tonight it just feels so weird.
the girl on his left moves in with her mouth near his ear, saying something he pretends not to clock. her breath fans over his skin and his stomach churns, not with excitement but with this dull guilt that keeps scratching his lungs raw.
he looks at their faces and feels a light sense of absence.
he thinks about how easy it would be to disappear upstairs with one of them. how everyone would nod like yeah, that tracks. just gojo being gojo, and the thought makes him want to rip out of his own skin.
he didn’t want this shit tonight. he didn’t want these grabby hands all over him. he’s so tired of being wanted in the most bare minimum way.
he wanted you here.
eventually, after you'd stared holes through the back of satorus head, choso leans down to your ear. “you wanna go upstairs for a bit? i’m gonna smoke.”
you stumble over your words. “oh, i uh, i don’t smoke.”
“i know,” he says quickly. “you don’t have to. just… sit with me. i don’t really wanna be alone either.”
good, you really needed an escape right now.
“okay,” you say. “yeah. i’ll go with you.”
you stand together, weaving through the crowd toward the stairs. you can tell people are staring but you don’t look over your shoulder.
choso leads the way up, your shoulders brushing as he pulls out a pre roll with a smile.
across the room, satoru is midway through a sentence when he spots you. he wants to smile, its his reflex when he catches sight of you, but then he remembers he doesn’t get to do that right now, and the happy pull of his lips dies before it ever reaches his face.
you’re walking up the stairs with choso, close enough that your arms are touching. you’re leaning in to hear what he’s saying, head close to his mouth in a way satoru hasn’t had in days.
his put on smirk falls immediately.
“hey,” one of the girls says, pulling on his arm. “you listening?”
he pulls his wrist free without looking at her. “yeah. go get a drink or something.”
she frowns. “what?”
“look, just go,” he snaps.
both girls scatter away, muttering throw away curses but he really doesn’t care. he’s stalking over to where geto and shoko are now sitting with bottles to their lips.
“great,” he says bitterly, sitting down hard onto the couch. “first she’s fucking shiu and now my best friend? perfect.”
geto thinks for a second. “...what?”
shoko squints at him. “what are you talking about?"
satoru laughs bitterly, “don’t play dumb. i just saw them.”
geto follows his eyes to the stairs and sees you and choso disappearing around the corner. he sighs. “they’re going up to smoke.”
satoru scoffs. “yeah. sure, she doesn't smoke.”
“no,” shoko cuts in, annoyed. “actually sure. choso asked if she’d sit with him.”
satoru’s face drops into a deeper scowl, “since when does she hang out with him like that."
“since always?” geto replies. “they’re friends you just hog her, normally.”
satoru shakes his head. “this is bullshit.”
shoko sets her drink down with a dissatisfied groan. “you don’t get to act like this.”
he snaps his head toward her. “like what.”
“like you own her,” she says flatly. “you don’t.”
geto nods. “man, you’ve been pushing her away all week.”
“because she doesn’t want me,” satoru fires back. “she made that pretty clear.”
shoko raises an eyebrow. “did she now.”
“she went home with shiu.”
shoko’s face twists. “oh my god.”
geto leans forward. “that’s what this is about? you're ditching your best friend because she wanted to get her pussy ate?”
“what- no-,” satoru says. “you make it sound like-" he stop himself from spewing words he doesn't really mean. "it's just the fact she knows i hate that guy. that and everything else..."
shoko exhales sharply. “she didn’t fuck him.”
satoru freezes. “what.”
“she didn’t sleep with him,” shoko repeats. “she stayed the night because she didn’t wanna wake you up at the last function.”
the wave of relief that flows through him is euphoric, but it's followed closely by guilt. because despite everything you still chose him in the quiet ways. and he’d repaid that by pushing you as far away as possible.
geto turns to shoko. “oh, are you serious?"
“dead serious,” she says. “i walked in that morning. she was fully dressed and half asleep. they didn’t do shit.”
satoru feels like the floor drops out from under him and his heart is smudged into the wood.
“she told me herself,” shoko adds. “she was worried about you that morning, too. wanted to go over straight away and see if you were hung over.”
he's taken back by the revelation, satoru feels like he can't breathe.
geto runs a hand through his hair. “man…”
“also,” shoko continues, clearly not done, “she’s been really upset. you know that, right?”
satoru stares at the stairs. your face flashes in his mind. the way your voice sounded on the phone. so hurt.
“i'm gonna be honest, you’ve been acting like an asshole,” geto says gently. “and she’s been taking it like a champ. i'd of socked you in the jaw by now."
the music seems to disappear into the depths of his mind as he reels.
you didn’t fuck shiu.
you weren't up there sleeping with choso.
god, he thinks about the way he spoke to you. the way he brushed you off so calloused, the way he said he had a girl coming over and didn't brush her off for you, like he'd always done.
his stomach drops.
“oh fuck,” he whispers.
shoko watches him closely. “you're a real asshole, you know.”
he swallows. “fuck, i know.”
geto snorts.
satoru rubs a hand down his face, standing abruptly. “i need air.”
he takes off, on his way past he stops at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at them.
for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel angry.
he feels scared, typical gojo reading too deep into things and reacting rashly. he really needed to work on that.
~
"i don't know cho... this is the first time something like this has happened. i feel like he hates me or something... i just don't know what i did."
choso, bless his heart, had been listening to you pour your heart out about gojo for the past half an hour, blowing smoke out his open window. that last part caused his zooted brain to form a coherent thought.
"it's probably because you fucked shiu." he announces in uneven tones, he was more than a little gone.
you stare at choso like he’s just spoken another language.
“uhm?” you quiz.
his head falls to look at you from his spot by the window, he’s so relaxed he looks like gravity might forget about him any second now.
“yeah,” he nods, very sure of himself. “that’s gotta be it. gojo’s dramatic like that.”
your stomach drops, not in guilt, but in pure disbelief.
“i didn’t fuck shiu,” you say with a bitter taste in your mouth.
choso's neck rolls and he rubs his face, “…huh?”
“i didn’t sleep with him,” you repeat, “nothing happened. i crashed at his because i didn’t wanna wake satoru up and yuki had a guy over our place."
he processes this slowly with his face scrunching, the thought is buffering.
“okay,” he says after awhile, “but you went home with him.”
“yes,” you snap. “but that’s not the same thing.”
he hums, then shrugs. “dunno, sounds the same.”
you were gonna punch this loser.
“oh my god,” you mutter. “i have to go.”
“go where?” choso asks genuinely curious.
“i have to tell satoru,” you say grabbing your phone. “not because i did anything wrong, because i didn’t. but because he thinks i slept with someone he hates.”
choso sighs again. “you know you’re allowed to sleep with people.”
“i know that,” you say quickly. “this isn’t about that. it’s about him thinking i did it behind his back with someone he clearly can’t stand.”
choso nods like this makes sense to him, even though it absolutely does not. “okay.”
you pause at the door. “can you not tell anyone else?”
he raises two fingers in a salute. “your secret is safe with me.”
you don’t trust that for a second, but you’re already shutting his door.
you bolt down the stairs two at a time looking over the crowd. the stupid partys still bumping. you look for his pretty white hair, for his broad shoulders, but with everyone wearing the same color it became impossible.
you groan and head for the couch you left shoko and geto at.
“where’s satoru,” you breathe.
“uh. outside, i think.” geto responds surprised.
“yeah,” shoko adds. “went out front. needed air, apparently.”
you nod and make your way to the front door, the coolness of the night sweeps over your face and you notice a very tall man almost instantly.
he’s leaning against the lamp post across the street with his phone in one hand and his vape in the other.
he only vapes when he’s stressed.
stepping closer, you clock just how small this moment feels and how big it could blow up and become if you say the wrong thing.
“toru,” you say softly.
he looks up.
the second his eyes land on you, he feels his heart pulse.
“can we.. can we talk?” you ask.
he doesn’t answer, he gives you the most longing stare you'd ever seen. then, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms.
hard.
his biceps wrap around you so tight, his scrunched up face presses into your hair, his grip is stable and you want to cry at how passionate this feels.
he breathes out a shaky, “i’m sorry.”
you wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him back.
“i’m so sorry,” he repeats. “i was a dick. i shouldn’t have been so rude. i should’ve talked to you, communication and all that shit.”
you move back to look up at him. “hey. hey, it’s okay.”
he shakes his head. “no, it’s not. i acted like a stuck up cunt. i thought you slept with shiu and i just… i lost my mind.”
you sigh. “i didn’t. i swear. nothing happened. i should of told you that.”
he nods quickly. “i know. shoko told me. i just… god. i’m sorry i made you feel so shit.”
you reach up and rub your thumb under his eye. a sweet gesture you’ve done a hundred times before. “i’m sorry you got that impression.”
he leans into your touch for half a second before catching himself. “i had no right to be mad even if you had slept with someone. i know that.”
you nod. “yeah. you didn’t. but i get it's because you thought i did it behind you back, especially with someone you really hate."
a beautiful, silent moment exists between you two before you step back, forcing a small smile. “are we all good?”
he lets out a weak laugh. “yeah, you're so good.”
“that wasn't the question, silly.” you add, gently.
after that, you'd both agreed to ditch this lame party and stay at yours for the night. yuki was at higuruma's, so the place was all yours.
at your apartment, you both shower separately then change into comfy sleep clothes. his essentials hoodie ends up on you without either of you talking about it. when you come back into your room, he’s flopped onto your bed with his big arms spread, staring at the ceiling.
“c’mere,” he says, patting the space beside him.
you smile and crawl in next to him, turning onto your side so your head rests against his chest. he adjusts automatically, one arm coming around you, fingers threading through your hair in slow, relaxing strokes.
it feels like safe, blissful warmth. like coming home.
you lie there in silence for a while, listening to his breathing even out.
then he speaks again.
“hey, uhm.. sorry for blowing you off for a chick, the other day, by the way.”
you lift your head. “huh?”
he grimaces. “i lowkey didn’t even have plans. i invited her over after i hung up. just wanted a distraction.”
your chest does a confusing little blip.
“would’ve liked to see you instead,” he adds quietly.
your heart aches and swells at the same time. you press your face back into his chest, “it’s fine.” laughs at your adorably muffled voice, then sighs. “i shouldn’t have done that.”
you shrug. “you’re allowed to see people.”
he hums. “yeah.”
you hesitate, then say it anyway. “i don’t care about the girls you hook up with. doesn't really effect our friendship, right?”
the words feel so distasteful and strange, but you push through.
he smiles a forlorn smile. "right.”
he pulls you a little closer, brushing his lips against your temple in an almost kiss. he threads a piece of your hair through his fingers like a coiled ribbon, feeling the individual stand's texture against the pads of his fingers. this was his therapy, the soothing lull of you, with him.
he can feel your soft breathing slow down as you knock out, the way you always do when you know you can trust him to stay with you.
and god, that trust truly destroys the last bit of careless arrogance he carried in him.
because just hours ago he was so sure you’d replaced him. that you’d looked at someone else and chosen them.
but you no, didn’t.
you never did that.
every girl he’s ever dragged into his bed flashes through his mind in quick, ugly snapshots like those old black and white movies.
they've got faces he can't remember, voices that sounds distorted and wrong, and their bodies look like every other persons. it's surreal.
he tells himself, not for the first time, that he never meant for it to get this bad. it all started as some quick fun. then it became a boarder line addiction, one he desperately wanted to break.. he feels sick at how it turned into something people expected from him, something he leaned into because it meant no one would ever ask him for more.
no one except you.
you wriggle around adorably in your sleep, your knee hitting his thigh, and it smacks him all over again how easy it would be to lose this bliss. how close he came. how close he kinda still is.
he’s been hiding behind it for so long. the flirting. the girls. the persona. acting like he doesn’t care.
but lying here with you? knowing you didn’t do anything wrong, knowing he almost burned the best thing in his life because he couldn’t get over his own shit, something in him finally snaps into place.
he doesn’t want to be that guy anymore.
he wants to be someone you can choose without any hesitation. someone who doesn’t make you doubt where you stand. someone who doesn’t reach for distractions the second things feel too hard for him to handle alone.
i’m gonna fix this, he thinks.
he’s not stupid enough to think it’ll be easy. habits don’t disappear overnight. insecurity doesn’t vanish just because he wants it to. but he can stop hiding behind other people. he can stop pretending he’s fine with the left over crumbs when what he wants is everything.
he wants to earn you.
not with big gestures or revolting drunk confessions he can’t really back up, but by showing up differently to what hes been doing. by choosing you the way you’ve always chosen him.
he was gonna stop. he couldn't be labeled a good for nothing playboy anymore,
~
"so bro, did you figure shit out with your girl?"
"what, you mean y/n? yeah, man. that's all sorted."
gojo was back at the frat the next day after a very messy, long night of staring at your sleeping face, (and fighting to overwhelming urge to kiss your pretty nose.) he was chatting it up with toji who had heard about the drama through shoko.
"just curious, are you two like.. a friend with bennies kinda situation? or what." he asks, shaking his banana protein powder violently in it's can to break apart the clumps.
satoru starts drumming his fingers against the kitchen bench, trying to sound nonchalant. "nah, man. she's just my friend. i've got other girls for that shit." he winces at that douchey response... hm, if he wanted to stop the slut allegations he needed to work on how he talked to guys like toji.
"yeah, and she's just fine with that?"
"i dunno, bro."
toji shakes his head and chuckles, then geto interrupts from the couch.
"ever think of like, oh, i don't know. telling her you're into her?"
gojo lets out a fake groan like he's sick of the question, not like he's obsessed over that very idea for around a year now. "can you two lay off? i'll tell her eventually."
"yeah right. you're gonna waste away your life fucking hoe's you don't even like, and she's gonna get a guy hitched. like shiu." sukuna chimes in from the stairs. fuck, was everyone coming down to clock his shit?
"fuck off with the shiu shit, they didn't do anything."
"yet."
he was seriously about to throw hands.
the chaos is interrupted when nanami walks through the large front door holding a piece of paper.
"i just got the theme for the next function." he says, holding it in the air. "it's that stupid white lies thing we did last year in june, remember that?"
oh, they remembered. everyone in white or coloured shirts with sharpie on the front spelling out a little white lie about each person. so much drama came from that, it was insane.
satoru faintly remembers sukuna's shirt saying, 'i'm not cheating on my girl.' and getting his wallet set on fire not long after said girl got to the party.
"sweet, that's easy to set up." toji commented. all satoru was thinking was how you were the first person he had to invite, his hand itching for his phone.
he smiles at your response and pockets his phone, his mind reeling with what he was gonna write on his shirt, as he taps a finger to his chin, the most big brain, amazing thought pops into his head.
god, i'm so suave.
his promise to himself was about to become really real after this party, he just hoped it didn't all go downhill..
you on the other hand, you were contemplating whether or not what you had planned for your shirt was too much. the instant you'd read his text about the theme, the idea immediately popped into your head.
being brave enough to actually go through with it? that was another story..
~
11pm saturday, the frat.
okay, you're really nervous now. you stand outside for way longer than necessary, your jumper covers the secret writing on your shirt, you can't embarrass yourself, yet.
you take a deep breath and walk into the familiar house you'd crashed at so many times.
it's still early, so only the people actually in the frat are there so far. you walk through slowly and the first one you clock is sukuna.
he’s got a beer in one hand (already? smh.), his white shirt is stretched across his muscly chest with thick black letters that read, i hate milfs.
you snort before you can stop yourself.
toji’s near the tv wiring up the music, his shirt says, i’m not a felon.
these guys weren't real, what the fuck.
shoko’s leaned against the counter nearby, one of those big chunky choofs in her hand. her shirt reads, i’m not addicted to nic.
you love her.
you pull out your phone and shoot satoru a text letting him know you've made it, you barely have time to lock your screen before arms wrap around you from behind.
big, hard, comforting arms.
gojo buries his face into the side of your neck, "there you are,” he says, pleased. “you smell good.”
the blush that covers your cheeks is embarrassing. “well, hi to you too.”
he pulls off and beams down at you, although, you can't help but see a slight hint of nerves in his eyes.
“missed you,” he laughs.
before you can overthink that, you notice that his shirt is covered by a loose flannel, hanging open but covering the writing on his chest.
he notices your eyes flick down and smirks. “don’t look yet.”
you scoff. “oh, so you’re hiding yours too.”
“maybe,” he says. “what about you?”
you tug at the strings of your jumper. “mhm.”
his eyes narrow playfully. “suspicious.”
"you love it."
he grins. “yeah. i do.”
he’s tugging you along by the hand, weaving you through the house toward the kitchen the next second.
“come onn,” he says. “it’s still early. let's pregame before it gets all sweaty and gross.”
the kitchen is devoid of people, satoru hops up onto the counter, then contemplates ad corrects himself.
“wait,” he says. “no. you sit.”
before you can argue, he lifts you and plops you on the bench, your face feels hot but you blame it on the lack of air flow.. or the way he’s standing way too close.
he pours you a drink keeping in mind you’re not trying to get wrecked tonight, then puts it beside you.
“there ya go, sweets,” he says.
“perfect.”
you sip, then notice his fingers tapping against the counter like a drum, oh yeah, he's definitely nervous.
you tilt your head, flashing him that gorgeous smile that always made him weak in the knees. "so.”
he looks at you. “so.”
you smile. “what’s your shirt say?”
...
his laugh is strangled and just a little too loud. “oh, uh. straight to the point, huh.”
“you know it."
he rubs the back of his neck. “it’s stupid.”
“uh huh.”
“and you’re gonna laugh.”
“probably.”
he squints at you. “you go first.”
you shake your head. “nope.”
“c’mon,” he whines. “you’re way braver than me.”
you giggle, heart doing that annoying thing again. “mm, absolutely not.”
he rolls his eyes, then comes up with a compromise.
“okay,” he says. “same time, then.”
you pause. “uhm?.”
“we'll both reveal it at the same time,” he continues. “y'know, like one, two, three.”
you stare at him. “c'mon.”
“you're so lame, pleasee,” he plead.
you roll your eyes. “okay, okay, fine.”
he grins, wide and oh so nervous. “really?”
“yeah,” you say, with your fingers are already curling into the fabric of your jumper. “on three.”
he nods. “okay.”
the moment stretches. neither of you moves.
“you count,” he says.
you swallow and nervously laugh. “one.”
his fingers fall into the edge of his flannel.
“two.”
your hands slide to the hem of your jumper.
“three.”
both of your fabrics lift.
his flannel drops open as you tug your jumper over your head, both of you frozen for a good minute as the truth finally, finally stares back at you.
i’m not in love with my best friend.
on both shirts.
identical. same handwriting style.
you stare at his chest.
he stares at yours.
then you both lose it.
you're both toppled over laughing at how ridiculous this was.
“no fucking way,” he gasps.
you wipe your eye, “are you kidding me.”
he steps closer, closing the space until he’s right between your knees, caging you in gently. his smile softens as he looks down at your shirt.
“wow,” he murmurs.
you feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with fabric.
“guess we both lied,” you say quietly.
“guess so.”
his hands caress your face ever so slowly, like he’s giving you time to slap him off but you don’t.
you stare up at him with big, wide eyes. he smiles and inches toward until your noses touch.
he leans in, “can i?” he asks, quietly.
you nod smiling harder than you ever had before. “yeah.”
then, he kisses you.
it’s soft and warm, nothing like that sloppy drunk one you both pretend you forgot.
you kiss him back deeper, your fingers drift through his hair pulling him closer, and the sound he makes against your mouth is almost whiney, wrecked.
the bliss is interrupted by someone yelling from behind you.
“about fucking time,” sukuna bellows.
you break apart laughing again, foreheads still touching. satoru groans and drops his head to your shoulder.
“i’m killing him,” he mutters.
he hops you off the counter, taking your hand. “we’re leaving.”
“where.”
“my room. like, now. these assholes are not ruining my moment.”
you follow him up the stairs both of you grinning like idiots. he's pulling you softly but quick enough the moment isn't lost.
his door closes behind you. the room is dim, only lit by the lamp on his desk, nice and moody.
he doesn’t rush you and he doesn’t pounce like he did with other women. no. he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, “hi,” he says, dumb and fond.
you smile. “hi.”
satoru literally can't fight this urge any longer, he pulls you into his chest and wraps his arms fully around your body. your cheek presses to his chest, right over his heart, and it’s beating oh so fast. one of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head with his fingers threading through your hair, stroking slowly.
“i’ve wanted this for so long,” he says into your hair. “like, embarrassingly long.”
you laugh softly. “yeah?”
“yeah,” he says. “i just didn’t think i was, like, allowed to? if that makes sense”
you look up at him with a confused smile. “why wouldn’t you be?”
he swallows. his eyes flick away, then back. “because i’m kind of an asshole, if you couldn't tell.”
you knew what he meant. the women, his not so shiny reputation, his arrogance.
“you're not the only one, i didn’t say anything either.” you rub the side of his face.
he smiles into you hand, “why?”
you stop. then take a breath and decide to be brave. “because you sleep with everyone. and i thought if you wanted me, you would’ve... i don't know, stopped.”
ouch, but deserved.
“fuck,” he says quietly. “i hated that you saw me like that.”
“i mean,” you shrug weakly. “it’s kind of hard not to.”
he laughs. “yeah. fair.”
he presses his forehead to yours. “that shit was never about wanting other people, y/n. it was about not knowing what to do with wanting you.”
your head just went really fuzzy at his poetic expression.
“i made a promise to myself,” he continues. “after i realised i was gonna lose you if i didn’t get my shit together. i’m done with it. all of it. i don’t wanna be that guy anymore.”
you search his face, looking for the joke, but he's dead serious.
“i didn’t think i deserved you,” he admits. “so i kept proving myself right.”
for a moment, neither of you speak. then you reach for his hand and hook your pinky around his.
“okay,” you say. “then let’s just… talk. no more of this back and forth.”
“pinky promise.” he smiles and seals it, then leans in and kisses you again. he pulls back for a second then begins to pepper your face in sweet little pecks, making you giggle at the ticking movement.
“i’ve wanted to do this,” he says between kisses, grinning like he can’t stop himself. “just whenever. whenever i felt like it.”
you laugh, hands in his hair now, tugging him back down. “you’re so silly.”
you end up tangled on his bed, just talking. his legs are weaved through yours as he kisses your face occasionally. you tell him you'd been feeling for the past, what, two years? you tell him how the women always made you jealous, how you'd wish it were you he wanted. he spills his guts just as much. he tells you how they never meant anything, how he knew he had a problem and he was working on it, for you.
three hours of straight yap fly by.
he eventually goes really quiet and clears his throat out. “hey.”
“hmm?”
“would you wanna,” he hesitates, suddenly adorably shy, “go on an actual date with me? like. flowers. dinner. me trying really, really hard.”
you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. “yeah. i would.”
his grin is blinding, him and his stupidly perfect teeth.
“holy shit,” he laughs, pulling you close again. “i got the girl.”
you smile, then drift off wrapped up in each other, both of you finally feeling secure in your feelings for one another.
"night, toru."
"good night, sweetheart."
A/N: i'll be writing some spicy/dating headcanons for this fic !!
Sometimes, Suguru can’t find it in himself to sleep.
It’s when his mind is louder than he anticipates, and it’s too late for him to take an aid to knock the thoughts loose and free into the night sky. His legs shake, he tosses and turns every five minutes, he feels sick to his stomach as his body becomes with fatigue worse than being physically sick, and sometimes, he gets so frustrated he screws his eyes shut and wants to scream, throw a tantrum to release the feelings that claw his heart.
He’d never do it though. Not with you next to him.
Not as your own mind swirls in dreamland, deep and secure and safe in bed next to him. He reaches out to gently thumb your bottom lip, and when you grunt softly at him, he chuckles and sits up.
He could get up. Call it a night, get started on work for tomorrow and try again tomorrow night. He can watch tv, see if there’s any news on, or perhaps read until his eyes burn like he’s done the past three nights.
“Suguru?”
Your sleepy voice shudders him out of his thoughts, your voice wobbly and not ready to face the day in the cutest way possible.
“Sugu?” You sleepily mumble again, brows pinched in the center as you knuckle an eye, “what’re you doing?”
“Nothing.” It’s not really a lie, is it?
You hum and sit up, and he’s quick to try and coax you back to lay down. You shouldn’t have to be awake for his sake, not when it’s his mind that betrays him in such ways; you deserve to relax and be restful.
You don’t have to be awake for his sake.
You mewl and rest your head on his shoulder, “can’t sleep?”
“No, baby… not tonight.” He laces his fingers with yours and brings your knuckles to his lips for a loving kiss, “but I’ll be okay. You go back to bed, yeah?”
“Don’t want you to be alone,” you pout sleepily. He laughs again before wrapping an arm around you, tugging you close while you curl into his warm side.
“Wanna hear about my dream?” You ask, barely even functioning.
“Sure. Lay it on me.”
“I dreamt I was with Shoko,” you yawn, eyes rolling back in exhaustion. “And we… were walking… I had chicken legs…”
He tries his hardest not to laugh, fingers massaging the muscles at the base of your neck lovingly. “Then what?”
“Gojo… was a pig.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He chuckles and burrows his nose into your warm scalp, relishing in the feeling as for the first time that night, his mind shuts the hell up, as if the loud thoughts from his head would wake you up.
You start to snore softly, mouth slacked and eyes rolling back exhaustedly. He guides you both to slowly lay back down, not wanting to wake you up again because of his inability to sleep. Your body lets him manipulate you into a laying position, but your arms stay wrapped around him.
“I love you,” he whispers against you, squeezing you close.
You grunt back at him, and he closes his eyes to try and let your comforting, sleepy embrace lull him to a semblance of sleep.
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 watches & admires his lover from afar, with this awestruck look in his eyes. It doesn't matter what you're doing; his eyes stay on you—like you'd hung the goddamn stars
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 lies awake whenever you sleep in his bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, propped up on an elbow, listening to the quiet snores that escape.
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 writes love letters, he doesn't write them often—but when he does make you one, they're multiple pages long, always accompanied by a bouquet of roses, & lit candles
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 still has the first photo you ever printed out of the two of you, tucked away safely in his wallet
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 lets you comb through his hair and braid it however you like and doesn't take them out unless he genuinely has to—taking comfort in your presence with him even if physically parted.
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 who loses his mind when he hasn't seen you in more than a few days—driving his friends up the wall to the point they're as relieved as he is whenever he sees you again.
