you have invited suguru geto ([email protected]) to join the event: ‘having sex hehe’ from 7:00 to 10:30 pm.
SUM. you’d never so much as gone out on a date before. kissing? not on your radar. but somehow you got the bright idea to go on a dating app—matching with suguru geto.
CONTAINS. 18+ content, MDNI. 6.3k words. x slightly awkward fem! reader. non canon complacent/au. cat dad geto. inexperienced reader. consent checks. dry humping. bit of boob play. oral (f + m receiving). unprotected p in v. missionary. pull out. cum eating. aftercare. stupid humor. use of pet names. scientology visit.
A/N. couldn’t go without reposting my baby, sorry
“you brought cookies.”
you held out the tupperware container filled to the brim with recently baked chocolate chips—the sweet, warm scent wafting through the plastic. "i did, yes. though i wasn't sure if you had any allergies, so don't feel any pressure to eat them or anything. i just thought it'd be rude to come over without bringing anything."
oh great. less than five minutes into this conversation and you were already rambling.
suguru took the container of baked goods from your hands with a wary look, bringing it up to his nose. "you're not a serial killer by any chance, are you?"
you blinked. "if i was, wouldn't it defeat the purpose of telling you now?" not very reassuring.
regardless, he gestured for you to come inside. you stepped inside the apartment and slid your shoes off at the door, taking in the sight of his living room.
the space was bathed in a dark red light accompanied by sonder’s one night only playing in the background and a couple candles flickering from the coffee table—the warm richness of sandalwood permeating through the air.
“you.. uh.. you really planned this out, huh?” why couldn’t you just have said it looked nice and moved on?
now it was just plain awkward.
well, awkward-er.
sure, you knew the concept of sex and how it was supposed to work, but what every hookup guide always forgot to cover was the before. even if you'd talked before this, the two of you were just strangers. what were you supposed to talk about with him?
how were you supposed to skip this part and go to where you were riding him like a pony?
suguru shrugged, padding over to the kitchen to leave the container of cookies on the counter. “did i do too much?”
“it’s just your apartment and all, but the lights seem a little.. excessive.” that was putting it as nicely as possible.
he took the criticism in stride, grabbing a remote from the counter and turning them off before flicking a lamp on, painting the room in a dim orange light. the room was immediately much more warm and welcoming than what’d you first walked into.
you stood at the door, taking a look at the little bits of decoration that you could now see more clearly. a couple figurines, expensive, if you had to guess, a couple books strewn around his coffee table, and a cat tree perched up near the window.
you remembered the small bag in your pocket. digging it out of your pocket, you held it up in between your fingers. “i saw your cat on that one thirst trap,” he didn’t bother protesting—it was a thirst trap, “so i got some treats on the way here. i hope you don’t mind.”
either you were a psychic or you just naturally had a knack for this sort of thing. “they’re her favorite, thanks. take a seat, we don’t bite.”
the previous girls that came over to his apartment usually just gave the cat a little coo or downright ignored her, but you seemed like you wanted to get to know her more than you did him.
suguru wasn't sure if he was amused or if his ego was slightly bruised. (hint: both.)
you took a seat on the black leather couch like you owned the place, patting your lap. “what’s your cat’s name?” you questioned, the cat peering up from her paw at the noise before going back to grooming herself.
“that’s sage.”
you lightly shook the bag of treats, trying to beckon the very uninterested cat with the promise of food and an unconvincing baby voice. your efforts were working. somewhat.
sage lazily trotted her way down from the top of the cat tree before making her way over to you, sitting at your feet. her eyes were calculating, analyzing if you were worth her time. you didn't dare move a muscle when she leaned in to sniff at your socked feet and legs.
just when you were convinced that you'd gotten a big fat F on her evaluation, sage seemed to decide that you were harmless enough. she hopped up on your lap and settled down like the self proclaimed royalty she was, nudging her head against your hand in demand for head pats. you complied.
your fingers ran through the soft black fur while the cat purred like a lawn mower underneath your touch.
"she normally doesn't like strangers," suguru noted, plopping down on the couch cushion next to you.
"do you use that line on everybody that steps foot in here?" well.... yes!
and it usually worked like a charm, thank you very much.
"wait, what, really?" the last girl he'd brought over to his apartment remarked, the very same girl that signed him up for lifelong scientology visits and the army two weeks later after he failed to respond within five minutes, staring at him like he'd hung up the moon and the stars.
"yeah." the cat in question, looked at him with as much disdain as her little body could muster. suguru made a mental promise to reward the cat with catnip and treats for helping him spit out the first bullshit that came to his mind. the girl seemed too happily convinced, going as far as calling herself sage’s step mom.
needless to say, the cat hadn't been all too happy about getting squeezed and cradled around like a baby by a woman she'd never seen before and never saw again after. her displeasure was obvious if the broken flower vases and scratches on his leather furniture were anything to go by.
he'd stopped using that line. or so he thought.
"...no."
you raised a brow, gaze full of suspicion as you stared at him. barely applying any pressure. and just like a rubber band, he ended up snapping within seconds, “…yes, fine, i have. but it’s the first time i’ve meant it.”
you weren't sure if he was full of shit. but the cat seemed to like you decently enough, starting her own biscuit factory on the fabric of your jeans with each ear rub. “how’d you end up getting her?”
suguru looked over to see you and his cat getting along decently well, finding himself a little lost in the scene when your question finally registered and you were staring at him.
“i found her locked up in a cage close to home. her owners called her a devil and all kinds of names, their own negligence, really,” he rolled his eyes, reaching out to pet her chin, “anyways, they were all too happy having someone to hand off the cat to.”
the two of you sat in a comfortable silence after a few questions from one another, getting to know each other a bit better apart from late night conversations. only the sounds of sage’s purring and the outside world filled the apartment.
that was until, "c'mere." suguru lazily spread his legs on the sofa, patting his lap.
“you do realize i’m not your cat right?” as if proving your point, sage got up from her spot on your lap over to his.
“fine, can you please come here?” he gave the cat one last scratch before setting her down on the floor, asking a little nicer. you got up from your spot, standing in between his legs before you lowered yourself onto his lap.
"hi," he murmured once you settled onto his lap, his hands instinctively moving down to your hips.
"hi." you braced your hands on his shoulders to keep your balance, suddenly feeling the reality of the situation crashing down on you. the pretty man underneath you wanted to have sex with you. you were going to have sex tonight.
sex and your first kiss, apparently. (you refused to count the time you'd gotten kissed as a dare in middle school.)
and as if he could read your mind, suguru took a hold of your chin and gently tilted your head up to face him, "can i kiss you?" you didn't miss the way his gaze flickered from your eyes down to your lips every .5 seconds.
you met him halfway, pressing your lips against his own. trying to go with the flow as many people said (what flow? you weren't completely sure yourself).
"close your eyes, i can feel you staring at my soul.” he pulled away, whispering the words against your lips and leaving you chasing behind his.
you let your eyes flutter shut, leaning into the kiss slowly. even going as far as tilting your head a little so you wouldn’t— “ow!” — do exactly what you just did. bump your nose straight into his.
you opened them back up to see suguru was more amused than hurt, a stupid smile on his face as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “try closing them when you’re already leaned in, hm?”
rolling your eyes, you shifted a bit on his lap before giving it one last go. one of your hands came up to cradle his soft cheek, leaning in and shutting your eyes at the last second. he tasted like mint and something else you couldn’t decipher.
his lips molded against your own in a languid kiss, each touch an experiment to know your body better. suguru’s hands moved down your body, each one resting on your ass like he wanted, no needed, you all that much closer. the exchange grew heavier, sloppier, messier.
everything was heightened—you could feel every single little thing. from the slight hitch of his breath when you captured his lip in between your teeth to your own traitorous heart thumping underneath your rib cage.
his lips moved from your own to the corner, down to your jaw, until he finally reached your neck. then that’s where he went ham. sucking, licking, kissing on whatever inch of skin was at his disposal all while taking note which spots had you shivering and squeezing your thighs together.
latching onto the sensitive skin of your collarbone, suguru placed a kiss out of reverence before he started to suck. he was practically in bliss all without taking his clothes off. if he were a weaker man, he would’ve shot his load the minute you’d settled onto his lap and got a whiff of your sweet, sweet perfume.
his hands moved up from your ass up your back, probably going to take your shirt off before his phone got the bright idea to interrupt the moment: want a break from the ads?
suguru had never regretted not investing into spotify premium as much as he did in this moment.
is your girlfriend unsatisfied in the bedroom? your stamina not being what it once was? if these symptoms sound familiar, you might suffering from erectile dysfunction. ask your doctor about levitra—
that was enough to get him up to his feet, crossing over to the kitchen counter in three strides. suguru quickly got his phone from the counter before the ad could continue, deciding that the ambiance was ruined and shutting the music off.
"do these symptoms sound familiar to you?" you teased, resting your cheek on your palm as you watched the scene with mild amusement.
"you could come to my room and find out." not nearly as smooth as he usually was, but good job suguru!
"are you really getting me into your bed with an erectile dysfunction ad?"
suguru tilted his head, "is it working?"
and you really wished it wasn't, but it was. you were quick to get up on your feet, padding over to where he stood and reaching your hand out. "let's go find out then."
his bedroom was much like the living room—a minimalistic design with a couple pictures hung up on the walls. his friends, if you had to guess. he led you over to the bed, sitting down on the edge.
not nearly enough bed-pouncing as you were expecting.
suguru spoke up, his hands resting on his lap, "you're allowed to change your mind, don't feel pressured to do anything you don't want to do. i’m here to please you.”
“i want this,” you responded, moving up the bed to rest against the headboard. he followed, keeping a reasonable distance between you two, “i want to have sex with you, suguru. let’s just take it slow.”
closing the distance, you straddled yourself over his lap, each of your legs next to his own. you lowered yourself down and placed your hands on his shoulders under the guise you knew what you were doing. and then, you started to rock and gyrate your hips against his clothed leg.
you rubbed and grinded your hips harder, faster against his leg in an attempt to feel something other than the friction of his sweats rubbing against your shorts—unsure of what to do other than rut yourself against him like a dog. maybe he was liking this?
should you start moaning?
“o-oh fuck.” a, what you hoped was realistic, moan left your lips, your fingers digging into his shoulders to really sell the point. suguru looked at you, wondering if he really looked that stupid.
you weren't sure what you were doing—that much was obvious. you were humping his leg, your rhythm too quick to be pleasurable for either one of you at this point.
"have you ever done this before?" were you really that obvious?
the question had your hips stilling their movement, your gaze falling down to his face. when you shook your head, suguru let out a small tut, holding your chin between his fingers, "that's okay, baby. we'll take it nice and slow, just follow me."
his hands splayed on your hips, slightly moving you up his lap before he started to guide your movements. and oh, now you felt it. his cock strained against the material of his sweats, each ridge rubbing against your warm heat.
well, at least now you knew the ad wasn't meant for him.
"oh yeah, that feels better huh?" he cooed in your ear, his cock twitching in his pants just by feeling how wet you were getting already.
you were dripping, slick stringing and sticking to your panties with each roll of your hips. he wasn’t much better—cock prodding against your entrance like it was begging to be released. “uh huh, better,” a breathy whisper left you, your back arching against his fingertips.
when he kissed you again, it wasn’t soft and gentle like he’d been at first. no, he’d tested the waters already.
now he was kissing you like he needed you, like he needed air to breathe. each breath grew labored like he couldn’t bare being apart. his tongue moved in a synchronized dance with yours, tasting and absorbing everything you had to give.
your lips moved with the same desperation, fingers gripping against the material of his shirt. trying to take it off before he seemed to catch onto your unspoken hint. he reluctantly pulled away before sliding his shirt off in one fluid motion, letting it fall onto the mattress beneath. and… wow. beautiful was an understatement when it came to him.
you let your fingers trail down his abdomen, the muscles tensing underneath your featherlight touch. tracing and poking whatever little beauty marks you found on your way down. he was just so.. pretty.
“you really think so?” his voice brought you out of your reverie, and oh shit, you’d said it out loud?
“like you don’t know it already,” you retorted, trying to downplay the situation.
suguru shrugged, watching your fingers intently as you traced and gently scratched down his pecs, “i like when you call me pretty.”
you rolled your eyes but gave in anyways, “you’re very pretty, suguru geto.” you felt his cock twitch underneath at the compliment. leading his fingers towards the hem of your own shirt, you guided him into taking off the flimsy article. he seemed all too eager to revere your body the same way you had his.
mumbled compliments of you’re so beautiful and so soft left his lips until he looked up at you, his hands gliding up and down your hips, "do you want me to keep going or do you wanna stop here?"
you grabbed his hands, bringing them up to your chest. “i want this, suguru. i want to go all the way with you, i promise.” his fingers tweaked and squeezed at your perked nipples, his lips ghosting above the left before he swirled his tongue around it. latching his mouth onto the sensitive flesh and sucking, working the other with his fingers.
strings of saliva connected his lips to your tits when he finally pulled away—deeming that he’d given them enough attention for now. suguru flipped the two of you over, hovering above you before slowly kissing his way down.
peck. your collarbone.
peck. your tits.
peck. your navel.
peck. the waistband of your shorts.
“you can take it off,” you assured him before he even had the chance to ask the question. suguru didn’t hesitate once he got the thumbs up, hooking his fingers onto your belt loops before sliding your shorts down your legs and shaking them off.
you could’ve sworn you caught a hint of drool once you were all exposed for him.
suguru kissed his way up your leg, each one leaving behind a slippery trail behind him. “so pretty,” he mumbled, sucking onto your calf before moving further up to your knee, “so perfect laid out for me.” each one sounded like a quiet admission to himself.
despite how desperate he seemed, suguru took his time when it came to finally undressing you. his teeth sunk into the lace of your underwear, your hips lifted when he moved down the offending material at the pace of molasses. trying to savor as much as he could.
he let them fall onto the pile of clothes next to you before admiring his meal. your cunt clenched around nothing when a slight breeze came in the room, your slick glistening against your folds, clit practically throbbing his name out in morse code.
but suguru prided himself on having some semblance of patience. thinly veiled patience, but patience nonetheless. he wedged himself in between your legs, his lips hovering dangerously close to your entrance before moving down to your inner thigh. repeating what he'd done earlier on your leg.
he pressed featherlight kiss after another onto the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, occasionally biting hard enough to leave behind a nice lil' memory for tomorrow. your legs instinctively spread, every sensation sending your body through a livewire and yet.. you were lost in thought.
you wondered how many people he'd had in this room, how long this would take, what'd you eat for breakfast tomorrow, and—"focus on me, pretty girl."
immediately broken out of your endless string of questions, you looked down to see suguru already peering up at you. "talk to me, what's going on in that head of yours?"
you shook your head, "just got lost in thought, i guess."
"then we'll just have to make it to where you can only focus on me, angel."
and then he dove in like he was a man starving.
his big hands gripped your legs and spread you apart like a feast, tongue flicking out to taste the slick dripping down your folds and thighs. "taste so good, thank you, thank you," he babbled, swiping his tongue up and down your folds before flicking it inside of your pussy.
your cunt gushed like an open sink against his mouth and chin, the man practically nose deep as he thrusted his tongue in and out of your sopping pussy. his jaw went slack, sucking and tracing your folds with the tip of his tongue before going back to eating you out.
soon, two of his fingers took place of his mouth. two long and thick fingers. your juices ran down to his knuckles while he spread you open, his fingers curling and hitting that one spot inside of you with ease. "fuck, it feels so good," you whined, bucking your hips up to meet his fingers.
"i knoww baby, just needed suguru to take care of you." he didn't let up, much too starved himself to even think about doing so. his lips latched onto your swollen, throbbing clit and sucked lightly onto the nerves. your grip on his hair tightened, a broken moan leaving from his lips.
"just like that," he hissed out, his hips rutting into the mattress underneath. you noticed a dark patch growing in the front of his sweats. "take what you want from me, y'know how to do it." your hips swiveled and thrusted against his eager mouth, spit and slick drenching his chin and dripping down to the mattress.
it was hard to think about anything other than him, you had to admit that much.
your legs shook with each thrust of his fingers, with each swipe of his tongue. just as you were about to press your legs together, suguru pried them apart once more with ease. "don't interrupt my meal, i'm not done eating." and how could he say that when he already sounded so drunk off you?
his tongue swirled against your clit, the tip drawing circles around the sensitive nub. "f-fuck, gonna cum, keep going," you whined out, nails digging into his scalp. the sound of your pussy gushing around his fingers was all you could hear, and yet, all you were focused on was chasing your own orgasm.
it was so close, you felt a knot building up in your lower tummy. "fu-fuck fuck fuck," broken babbles left your lips, your toes curling and legs shaking the more you felt that pressure increase. with one final thrust of his fingers, you came. the knot unraveled all at once, your release washing over you (and his fingers) like a tidal wave.
he'd never been such at bliss before.
each breath felt like it was splitting your lungs open, your chest heaving as suguru slowly pulled his dripping fingers out of you. he didn't mind staring you in the eye when he put his fingers in his mouth, sucking them off as if no drop could go to waste. "mm, wanna taste you forever." his eyes practically rolled back, his tongue swirling against the two digits.
once you finally regained your bearings, you sat up and asked, "do you want me to return the favor?"
suguru let out an indignant scoff like you'd just insulted his very existence. and in a way, you had. "i did that because i wanted to, because i needed to taste you," he retorted, shaking his head like he wasn't reevaluating his degree in munchology, "not because i was expecting anything out of you."
getting up from your spot on the bed, you padded over to where he was sitting and situated yourself right in between his legs. absentmindedly running your fingers up up up the thin material of his sweats, barely grazing your fingertips against the growing tent between his legs. before you pulled away altogether.
you looked up at him like you were sin incarnate, lashes fluttering against your cheek, "what if i really really want to suck you off?"
suguru swore his soul left his body for a minute. he'd gladly let you keep it if you wanted it at this rate.
“then by all means, go for it.”
that was all you needed to slide the flimsy material of his sweatpants onto the floor, his cock slapping up against his stomach once it was released. now it was your turn to nearly drool. you couldn't have imagined that a dick could be this pretty.
a nice tan color at the base with a hint of red at the tip, a curve settling to the right and precum dripping down his shaft just from having you in his mouth. it was fairly long and thick—as thick as your forearm, you could assume.
all the fanfiction you had saved in your bookmarks couldn't have prepared you for the sight of the twitching cock in front of you.
you stared at his dick like it was something out of an anatomy textbook, trying to figure out the best approach to go about this before ultimately deciding to throw it out the window and just try it out.
"a-ah fuck." suguru practically turned into putty the moment you took him in your mouth, one of his hands coming to rest on the back of your head. not pushing, never that; he'd never risk making you uncomfortable.
thick globs of spit dribbled down to your chin and down his shaft from the corners of your lips. "just like that, yeah, please." suguru wasn't afraid to be loud—letting you know what you were doing right. one of your hands wrapped around his cock, your fingers tightening around the base before you started to jerk your hand up and down.
you could hardly take him in fully—your cheeks hollowing out to make more space and it still wasn't nearly enough. "soo good, please don't stop," suguru’s voice drawled out when you tried taking more of his cock in your mouth.
you could feel tears pricking up at the edge of your waterline, blinking them back quickly. his cock was barely a couple inches in your mouth and the tip was already starting to hit your uvula, your saliva coating around the shaft to mix with the precum spurting out. once you were able to, you started bobbing your head up and down his length.
suguru’s fingers dug into the sheets beside him, his chest starting to feel like he’d run a marathon. your tongue, your mouth, just you, everything felt too stimulating, too good. the hand you’d been jerking him off with moved down to his heavy sack, your fingers rolling around his balls.
and just like that, suguru was a goner. he swore he saw the flickering of a white light above. you felt them tighten up underneath your fingertips, growing heavier and heavier with cum. you looked up to see him completely disheveled, mouth agape to let out shaky gasps and broken moans. and right before you swore you almost felt him cum, he pulled you off.
“did i do something wrong?” your question came out innocent, like you hadn’t nearly sucked the soul out of his body.
suguru let out a disbelieving laugh, pulling you up to your feet before feverishly leaning into kiss you. not seeming to care that he could taste himself on your tongue. “just need to cum inside you, can i do that, please? you still want this?”
he sounded completely and utterly ruined. but you nodded into the kiss, your fingers pressing into his shoulders. “i need you, sugu, need you so bad. please fuck me, please.”
he moved at the speed of light, setting you down onto the comfort of his mattress before he settled himself on top of you. his cock throbbed and twitched at the mere contact with your bare pussy, his fingers wrapping around the base as he swiped the tip through your folds. “you sure you want this?”
just one more time to confirm. you nodded.
“c’mon, use your words for me, pretty,” he whispered, rubbing the tip against your swollen lil’ clit. your throat bobbed as you swallowed back an embarrassing moan.
“i want this, suguru, i’m sure.”
"okay, take a deep breath in for me." you complied, filling your lungs with air before letting it out in a deep exhale. he slowly pushed his cock in, your walls tightening and clenching involuntarily against his shaft.
"there we go, that's it baby. takin' me so well." suguru's voice came out akin to a purr he didn't mention how he'd barely pushed an inch in. once he was certain it was okay, he pushed another and another in.
a choked gasp left your lips when he finally seemed to bottom out, feeling like your body had just been split in half. and maybe, just maybe it was, you wouldn’t necessarily doubt it.
suguru wiped away a couple tears that streamed down your cheeks, standing still while you got used to the intrusion. it was hard, he had to admit, when you felt so warm and wet around him. but anything for your comfort, he wouldn’t risk that.
“you can move, suguru,” you spoke up, one of your hands reaching out to take hold of his. his fingers grasped your own, placing your hand on top of your head before he slowly pulled out and thrusted back in one swift motion. your pussy drenched his shaft each time he pushed back in, each thrust smoother and faster.
suguru leaned down to kiss you, hair falling like a waterfall and covering his face completely before he ever got the chance to get close. you bit down on your lip, trying to keep yourself from laughing in his (hair covered) face before reaching out and moving his hair out the way.
so goes the super suave geto suguru.
a small giggle left your lips at the gesture, slowly starting to feel more and more comfortable being around him. (well how much more comfortable could you really get after having him inside you?) suguru let out a small huff, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance before handing over a hair tie.
you managed to make the world’s messiest ponytail in twenty seconds. go you!
“i’m glad my embarrassment’s amusing, but you okay?” he asked quietly, treating you as if you were a delicate piece of glass. long fingers trailed up your sides like he was admiring a piece of art, not at all like the strangers that you were supposed to be.
“i’m fine,” you assured, wiggling your hips and trying to thrust back into him, “you can go faster, though, please?”
suguru didn’t hesitate to follow that command, hips snapping into you almost immediately. your cunt sucked him in with each thrust, squelching with how much you’d drenched his shaft. his heavy balls smacked against your ass TWACK TWACK TWACK!
your legs wrapped around his waist like you were physically trying to intertwine your body as close as you could to him. “ah ah fuck, sugu, faster, faster!” your moans sounded like the best kind of melody to his ears, and well, who was he really to deny?
suguru hoisted a leg up on the bed for a better angle, hitting that spot inside of you with each quick thrust. your walls clenched around him like a vice, like you wanted to keep him trapped while you gushed and soaked around him.
“pussy’s so good, i’m never letting you go,” he babbled, his other hand gripping your hip to move you up and down his shaft as he pleased.
his middle finger rubbed desperate little circles against your clit, your eyes rolling back from just how good you felt. the hair tie was long since forgotten, hair falling onto his face as he leaned forward to capture your lips in what could only be described as a tangle of tongue and teeth.
everything about him screamed desperate and unhinged—and you weren’t any different.
“make me cum, make me cum, please,” you moaned out against his lips, your chest heaving and your breaths coming out in short pants. suguru nodded like it was his only mission in life, pushing his cock in and out sloppier and messier than he was at first. practically gliding with how wet you were.
your orgasm built up more intense this time, your nails digging into the sheets below as the coil in your tummy began tightening. “please please please,” for what were you begging for? you didn’t know. a scream that would probably wake up his neighbors left your lips as you came, dripping and soaking his shaft in your wake.
“so messy, my messy girl, that’s ittt.” he was a broken pussy-drunk babbling mess. suguru continued to rut into you, chasing his own orgasm while working you through your own. his hips moved desperately, balls twacking against you with each sloppy sloppy thrust until he finally choked out,
“w-where do you hic want it?”
you didn’t give it much thought, “my face, sugu. wanna taste you, come for me, need you.” that was all it took for the last bit to snap, barely managing to pull out in time before he was spurting out drops of cum onto your face and your open mouth.
you swallowed every last drop that landed on your tongue, your features contorting into a slight grimace once the taste settled on your taste buds. and just like you'd come out of a damn porno and his wet dreams, you stuck your tongue out.
"fuck, you're gonna kill me." a breathless laugh left his lips. he made sure to push his hair back this time around before he leaned into kiss you again, his tongue prodding into your mouth.
one time fucking awkward and slightly offputting girl pussy and he was ready to get your finger measurements to buy the most expensive ring he could find at the jewelers. maybe he'd start with just a date once he came back to his senses.
suguru plopped down on the mattress next to you, rubbing a drop off cum off your cheek with the pad of his thumb before bringing it up to his own lips. "was that okay? you need anything—water, a bath, your dignity?"
you let out an amused scoff, turning your head to face him. admiring his features in the post sex glow. you had to admit—to yourself mostly—he looked good worn out and panting. "my dignity's still intact, thank you. but some water and a rag would be nice."
he cracked open the water bottle and left it on the nightstand next to you before disappearing into the bathroom. you could briefly hear the sound of water running before he emerged once more, a wet rag in hand.
each swipe of the rag in between your legs was a gentle one, treating you with the utmost care in the world. “you don’t have to leave right away, if you don’t want to. i can make some mean scrambled eggs.”
“how inviting,” you teased, taking a sip of the water as you mulled it over. how bad would it be to stay the night if he’d already been inside of you? “but sure, i’ll stay. if only for the scrambled eggs.”
you weren’t sure how long the two of you spent up talking about nothing and everything in between, from what you did for school to how you got into baking. it was.. refreshing, in a sense.
you could picture yourself doing this kind of routine with him almost too easily. the last thing you remember before succumbing to sleep was his arms wrapped around your stomach.
holding you like he never quite wanted to let go.
loud knocking woke up suguru at ass o'clock in the morning, long before the sun even started to peek its head from the horizon. a groan left his lips as he forced himself to untangle his limbs from your own and get up.
you didn't seem to notice his absence, in fact, you almost seemed to enjoy it. a little too much, if you asked him. you laid in the middle of the bed, sprawling your arms and legs out like a starfish.
the knocking on the door grew more insistent—determined to get an answer one way or another.
"hi, good morning. i'm from the church of scientology." this time they'd sent a middle aged man to stand at his door and spit out the same spiel he'd heard for the past five months in a row, greeting him with a smile that suguru deemed unnatural this early in the morning.
a smile that quickly seemed to fade once the man took notice of the blossoming hickey on his neck, the scratches that ran down his abdomen.
the man grasped his copy of dianetics like he was clutching his pearls.
suguru would have to eat you out later just for this reaction.
the man cleared his throat, eyes averting down to the book in his hands, before he cracked it open to the first page he could find. suguru wondered how long it'd take the man to figure out the book was upside down.
"i'm here because you signed up to receive visits every weekend. for just the small price of ¥73,300, you could learn all about the church and how to reach enlightenment—" the more that the man rambled, the more that suguru was more inclined to start his own cult than join this one.
but regardless, he let the man finish his spiel before he tapped his chin in faux thought. “to join a cult or not to join a cult, decisions decisions…”
the man raised a finger to protest, pushing up the thick rim of his glasses up his nose, "well actually, we're not a cult, we're a religious group focu-"
the man was left rambling to the front door about the difference between a 'religious group' and a 'cult.'
but he relented, suguru had to give him that at least. the man remained at the doorstep, bringing his fist up to the door but never making contact. probably regretting coming over in the first place.
"who was at the door?" you were barely awake yourself, rubbing at your eyes as the bright morning light peered in through the windows.
suguru pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a small groan, "would you believe me if i said scientology?"
"who'd you piss off?" you questioned, standing by the kitchen with your arms folded.
this time, another groan. though he sounded more whiny than anything, “why does everyone always assume i did something?”
"am i wrong though?" you countered.
no, not at all. and suguru knew he wasn’t getting out of this conversation that easily. "come on, i'll tell you over scrambled eggs and those cookies you baked yesterday."
The first time you called your older boyfriend Sukuna 'Daddy' you were joking.
Then his veiny cock thickened in your slick walls, even as he glared down at you, shoving your thighs up and muttering - 'don't fuckin' call me that'
The second time you called Sukuna 'Daddy' you were teasing him.
You were met with the meanest back shots of your life, messy pussy squelching while he slammed inside you so deep, cock stretching you - 'tch, you're being bratty'
The third time you called Sukuna 'Daddy' he whimpered.
Yes, he whimpered.
He gave you one moment before he glared again, crimson eyes narrowed, a big hand gripping your chin. 'I've had enough of that, you slutty little brat. Time to occupy your mouth."
The fourth time you called Sukuna 'Daddy' he beat your ass with firm smacks, leaving his handprints all over, while you milked his cock.
You didn't call Sukuna 'Daddy' tonight, even after he folded you in half, pressing you into the bed.
'Hah. Not gonna say it?' he's taunting you, pink tip gliding between your messy folds.
'You want me to?' Sukuna just folds your thighs back, cock so deep he's bulging your tummy, you spasm around him.
'Tch. No!?' He's waiting though, lips parted, fucking you deep and slow with filthy strokes.
You smile just a bit - 'Daddy.'
Sukuna busts inside your cunt so quick, ragged breaths and moans, and when you dare to giggle you get a death glare. 'Don't even fucking say it.'
being introverted with a socialite boyfriend surely is something, but 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 never lets you feel out of place.
as the strongest's lover, you're expected to be with him at various events and some meetings— your worst nightmare, really. all the prying eyes tearing you apart like weeding every thread from your dress meant to match his outfit. the expectation. the chatter. and all while your boyfriend dazzled like a star.
he'd find you in the corner when it becomes too much. you'd feel a comfortable weight plop over your shoulders— the warmth of his jacket, before an arm joined to drape over you too.
“doing okay there, sweet girl?” he'd coo with a smooch to your cheek.
“just really tired.” you'd flash him a tired, apologetic smile. you snatched his hand and attempted to pull him. “wanna dance again?”
but he stood firm. hand in yours. fingers laced between your gaps. so gentle, as if he was holding your very heart. then, with a small yank you're back against his warmth.
“actually, how bout we get out of here?” he murmured with a kiss to your temple.
you blinked and slumped your shoulders with the weight of his consideration and your own guilt. “I— but you were having fun. . .”
the warmth of his hands steady on your waist, like an anchor pulling you back to reality. to the comfort of him.
he lowered his face and popped a finger against your lips. all with that charming smile you fell in love with in the first place. “and I'm tired of people looking at my pretty girl anyway. so let me have her to myself, hmm?”
being introverted with a socialite boyfriend surely is something, but 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 never lets you feel out of place.
as the strongest's lover, you're expected to be with him at various events and some meetings— your worst nightmare, really. all the prying eyes tearing you apart like weeding every thread from your dress meant to match his outfit. the expectation. the chatter. and all while your boyfriend dazzled like a star.
he'd find you in the corner when it becomes too much. you'd feel a comfortable weight plop over your shoulders— the warmth of his jacket, before an arm joined to drape over you too.
“doing okay there, sweet girl?” he'd coo with a smooch to your cheek.
“just really tired.” you'd flash him a tired, apologetic smile. you snatched his hand and attempted to pull him. “wanna dance again?”
but he stood firm. hand in yours. fingers laced between your gaps. so gentle, as if he was holding your very heart. then, with a small yank you're back against his warmth.
“actually, how bout we get out of here?” he murmured with a kiss to your temple.
you blinked and slumped your shoulders with the weight of his consideration and your own guilt. “I— but you were having fun. . .”
the warmth of his hands steady on your waist, like an anchor pulling you back to reality. to the comfort of him.
he lowered his face and popped a finger against your lips. all with that charming smile you fell in love with in the first place. “and I'm tired of people looking at my pretty girl anyway. so let me have her to myself, hmm?”
summary: when your housing falls through, the last person you want to end up living with is your best friend’s arrogant, hockey-playing brother, satoru gojo. sharing a space with him feels like being trapped in the sin bin, but the longer you live together, the harder it is to ignore the fact that breaking the rules might be worth the penalty.
pairing: ice hockey player!gojo satoru x fem!reader
details: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, nipple play, riding, couch sex, shower sex), enemies to lovers au, roommates au, best friend’s brother au, college au. contains: profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of death. art by kynlv1. 16.2k words.
sin bin (n.) – (in sport) a box or bench to which offending players can be sent for a period as a penalty during a game, especially in ice hockey.
01. how to piss off your new roommate 101 (an introductory course).
There are only three rules you asked Satoru Gojo to follow:
No bringing random girls home.
No hockey gear all over the living room.
Do your own laundry.
Sure, it might not be your house, because, technically, you’re the one moving in, but you think you’re being pretty reasonable. It’s just your bad luck that your new roommate happens to be the worst at following rules, because right now, at one o’clock in the morning, you are subject to him breaking rule number one already—and very loudly, at that.
There’s a thud against the wall, and a muffled laugh, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that sends every nerve in your body firing at once—though not in the way Gojo’s current “guest” might be feeling. You clutch the pillow over your head, suffocating yourself with cotton in a desperate attempt to block out the obscene noises. It doesn’t work. Nothing does. Not your loud sighs, not the rustle of your own blanket, not even the way you jam your phone’s speaker against your ear and crank your playlist until the bass rattles.
Your playlist doesn’t stand a chance against Gojo’s bedroom door and his absolute disregard for your sanity.
Rule number one, you think bitterly, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the bare minimum. You had been so clear when you’d moved in three days ago. No random girls; no trail of hockey gear sprawling through the apartment; no mountains of dirty laundry festering in the communal space. Simple, enforceable rules—or so you thought. Apparently, Satoru Gojo is not the kind of man who respects laws, rules, or any other socially acceptable guidelines for how to coexist with another human being. Especially not when he’s this loud.
A particularly obnoxious moan makes you snap. You swing out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and stomp into the hallway. You pause in front of his bedroom door, hand hovering in the air, knuckles inches away from knocking. Maybe you should just let it go. It’s not worth the fight. Not worth seeing that infuriating grin of his, the one that makes you want to throw a shoe at his face.
You hear another giggle from inside.
Nevermind. Definitely worth it.
You pound on the door. “Gojo!”
The noises cut off instantly. For a blissful moment, there’s silence—no laughter, no groans, just the sound of your own shallow breathing and the pounding of your fist against the door. Then comes the telltale rustle of sheets, followed by footsteps, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking his sweet time just to make you more irritated.
“Roomie?” His voice drips with amusement, low and lazy, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Can’t sleep? You could’ve just asked nicely if you wanted me to tuck you in.”
Your jaw drops, heat rushing to your cheeks—not from embarrassment but from pure, undiluted fury. “Rule. Number. One,” you bite out, enunciating every word. “Do you even remember what rule number one is?”
There’s a soft laugh on the other side of the door, and you can hear his guest giggling faintly too, like this is all some joke to them.
“You’re no fun,” he says. The doorknob clicks, turning slowly.
The door swings open to reveal Satoru Gojo, all six-foot-something of hockey-playing, rule-breaking glory, leaning against the frame. He’s shirtless—of course he’s shirtless—skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your brain. His white hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles, like he’s just come off the ice—or, well, not the ice, but something just as irritatingly active.
He smirks down at you. “Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper. Or… Are you jealous?”
“Jealous?” Your voice cracks an octave higher. “Of what, exactly? The fact that you sound like you’re starring in a bad porno?”
His laugh is immediate, loud, and unrestrained. He leans closer, bracing one arm against the frame just above your head, his bare chest far too close for comfort. “If you were watching, it’d be a good one.”
Your face burns hotter. “You’re disgusting.”
He laughs again, and the girl—this poor, probably very lovely girl—steps into the hallway behind him, wearing one of his oversized jerseys and looking anywhere but at you.
“I should… probably go,” she mumbles.
“Yeah,” you mutter before he can say anything. “You probably should.”
She scurries past you without a second glance, and you suddenly feel a little bad for her. Not because of Gojo—though he is the worst—but because she has no idea what she’s walked into. She’s just another girl in a long line of them, another notch on his stick, and probably clueless to the fact that he thrives on the attention, not the intimacy.
Gojo watches her disappear around the corner, then turns back to you, his smile gone slack. “You didn’t have to be mean.”
“I wasn’t,” you snap. “I was trying to sleep. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you and your—whatever.”
Gojo studies you for a moment, his head tilting just slightly as if he’s trying to decipher something written on your face. It’s unnerving, the way his eyes—bright and unnaturally sharp even in the dim hallway—linger on you, taking their time. For the first time tonight, he’s quiet, though not in a way that feels like victory. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of sweat on his skin, his overbearing presence in the narrow hallway.
“Whatever?” he repeats. “That’s harsh, even for you.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“Not really,” he says. “Keeps me young and pretty, don’t you think?”
The audacity of this man. Pretty. He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s fully aware that half the campus would line up just to run their fingers through that ridiculous white hair. You hate that it is a fact, that his lean, cut frame and infuriating confidence somehow make him stupidly, obnoxiously attractive.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “Do you even remember the rules we agreed on when I moved in? Or was I talking to one of your empty hockey helmets?”
“You wound me. I’m a great listener. I heard every word you said that day. I just don’t… care.”
Your hands ball into fists. “You don’t care.”
“Not about rules,” Satoru teases. “You, though? I care about keeping you entertained.”
“Entertained?” you echo, incredulous. “By waking me up at one in the morning with—” You cut yourself off, scowling as the words die on your tongue.
He grins and steps forward. “With what, sweetheart?” he asks, voice dipping into that husky, too-casual tone that makes your stomach do stupid things.
You take a step back; then another, until your back almost hits the opposite wall. “You’re impossible,” you spit out, but your voice is thinner than you’d like.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“Stop saying that!”
“What?” His grin widens. “It’s true. You get all flustered. Bet you don’t even know you’re pouting right now.”
“I’m not—” You snap your mouth shut, realising that you are, in fact, pouting, and that only makes his grin that much more smug.
“Adorable,” he says simply, leaning back.
“You’re annoying as fuck.”
“And yet, you moved in here.”
You inhale sharply, the reminder stinging more than you’d like to admit. He’s right—you did agree to this arrangement. You had convinced yourself it was temporary, a few weeks max while you figured out your own place. Riko’s brother had been the last resort. You never expected it to feel like… like this. The hallway feels too small. He’s too close, too much. You can smell his cologne—clean, a little sharp, something that clings to him even after a game or whatever this was. You hate that your brain even registers the detail.
“Go to bed,” you manage to grit out.
“Careful,” Gojo drawls, stepping back. “Sounds like you’re starting to like telling me what to do.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You spin on your heel, storming back to your room, and slam the door behind you.
You don’t see him again until morning, which, unfortunately, is only a few hours later.
The scent of coffee drags you from your room, bleary-eyed and determined to avoid any and all conversation. But the moment you step into the kitchen, there Satoru is—shirtless again, because apparently he doesn’t own clothes—leaning against the counter. His white hair is damp, still dripping from a shower, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips as he scrolls lazily on his phone.
“Morning, roomie,” he drawls, not looking up. “Sleep well?”
You grab a mug and pour yourself coffee. “You’re lucky I don’t own a bat.”
“Ah, threats of violence. My favourite way to start the day.”
You don’t answer. You can’t, not when he’s standing there like that: hair damp and curling at the ends, little droplets of water slipping down the curve of his neck, trailing over his collarbone. It should be illegal to look that good at 7:42 in the morning, and in sweatpants, no less.
Instead, you wrap both hands around your mug and focus on not throwing it at his stupid, smirking face.
“Awfully quiet this morning,” Gojo muses, locking his phone and tossing it onto the counter. “What happened to the yelling? The righteous fury? The deeply unsexy threats about noise ordinances?”
You take a long, scalding sip of your coffee. “I’m choosing peace today.”
“That so?”
“Yup. Thought I’d try being the bigger person and see how it feels.”
“You sure it’s peace you’re feeling? ‘Cause it kind of looks like repressed rage. Or maybe,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, “you’re just still flustered from last night.”
You nearly choke. “Flustered?”
“Uh-huh. You did knock on my door in the middle of a good time.” He winks. “Can’t blame you for being curious.”
“You’re delusional,” you state.
“Maybe so,” he acquiesces. Gojo’s grin is lazy and crooked, shamelessly amused as he watches you struggle to maintain even a scrap of composure. You busy yourself with sipping coffee again, even though it’s too hot and definitely burning the tip of your tongue. Small price to pay for the distraction.
He shifts his weight and the movement draws your eyes before you can stop yourself—down to where his sweatpants slouch indecently low, the V of his hips on full display. Your eyes snap back to your mug so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash.
“I’m not flustered,” you mutter, mostly to your drink.
Satoru hums, unconvinced. “Of course not. You’re the picture of serenity.”
He reaches for the coffee pot and you realise, with a petty kind of satisfaction, that there’s not enough left for a full cup. You watch, vindicated, as he tips it all into his mug and frowns down at the half-full result.
“You’re the worst,” he says, utterly serious.
“I’m the one choosing peace, remember?”
“That was obviously a lie.”
You shrug and sip. “Maybe I’m just learning from the best.”
Gojo laughs, low and bright, and leans further over the counter, like he’s trying to invade your personal space just for the hell of it. “You’ve got a mouth on you, huh? I like that.”
“Bet you say that to all your roommates.”
“You’re my first,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Be gentle with me.”
You scoff, setting your mug down with more force than necessary. “I don’t even want to know how you ended up on the lease.”
“Simple,” he says, straightening and sauntering toward the fridge. “My old place burned down.”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“Well. Not all the way down. But it did get very, very singed.”
“And they let you sign another lease?”
He turns, carton of milk in one hand, and says, “Yup,” popping the ‘p’ at the end. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars, but there’s a weird warmth curling in your chest now, beneath the irritation and caffeine. Despite yourself, your gaze lingers on him a beat too long—on the line of his shoulders, the relaxed slope of his spine as he leans down to peer into the fridge.
“You gonna keep ogling me or…?” he says without turning.
You startle, cheeks warming. “I wasn’t ogling.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I wasn’t!”
He straightens again, milk in hand, and gives you a look that says he knows he’s won. “You’re bad at lying. Your ears go all red.”
You clap your hands over them instinctively, which only serves to make him chortle. “I hate you,” you grumble, grabbing your mug and heading for the living room.
“I love our morning chats,” he calls after you. “They really centre me for the day.”
You flip him off over your shoulder.
“You’ve got a great energy, roomie! Keep it up!”
It turns into a sort of game, after that: who can rile up their roommate the fastest. Satoru Gojo, of course, plays to win.
He starts small—mild provocations disguised as “accidents.” The shower mysteriously runs cold whenever you step in after him. Your favourite snacks vanish from the cupboard, only to be found later half-eated and crumpled under his bed. He starts setting his alarm ten minutes earlier than yours and singing obnoxiously loud in the mornings. It’s always the same song—something bubblegum pop and irritatingly catchy, like Twice or Britney Spears—and it sticks in your head all day, pulsing behind your eyes like a migraine.
You retaliate, of course. You start leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around the apartment:
Replace the toilet paper next time, you sicko.
If you touch my almond milk again, I will cut off your balls in your sleep.
Why do you shed like a cat? Buy a lint roller. Freak.
You switch the labels on his shampoo and conditioner. You hide the remote. You change the password on the Wi-Fi.
It only fuels him. The worst part is, the bastard laughs. Every time you glare at him, every time you yell his name across the apartment, every time you swear you’re going to murder him in his sleep, he just grins like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, impossibly, he always wins.
Nanami is already at your usual table in the campus café when you arrive, tossing your bag into the seat opposite him with a force that rattles the salt shaker. He doesn’t look up from his coffee when he asks, “What did he do this time?”
“He unplugged the fridge, Kento,” you groan, slumping into your chair. “The fridge. All my groceries are ruined. My oat milk exploded.”
“Did you check the breaker?”
“Do I look like someone who knows what a breaker is?”
“Yes,” he says. “You are a functional adult. You are enrolled in a university. You should know how electricity works.”
“Okay, Mr. Engineer,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I was too busy trying not to throw Gojo out the damn window.”
“I thought you lived on the first floor.”
“Exactly my point.”
You look down, picking at your cuticles. You wish Gojo, your best friend’s annoying brother, wasn’t your last resort. The student dorms were all occupied, and you had to find housing at the last minute. Gojo offered, because he’s known you since you were an acne-riddled teenager in middle school, and also, most likely, out of obligation for his little sister’s best friend. Why else would he put up with you and pay half the rent? You remind yourself that you’re in his house, and not the other way around, and try to stay grateful for that fact.
You also wish you could tell Riko about her older brother, but you can’t because Riko’s dead.
Nanami sets down his cup with a soft clink, eyes lifting at last to meet yours. There’s no pity in them—he’s not the type—but there’s understanding. With every ounce of his understanding nature, Nanami says, flatly, “You’re going to give yourself a stroke before midterms.”
You exhale through your nose, pressing your palms to your eyes. “It’s like he wants me to lose it. He keeps bringing random girls home, Kento. At 3 A.M. And they’re loud. One of them used my toothbrush.”
Nanami looks visibly disturbed. “Why do you know that?”
“Because it was wet.”
“You should throw that out.”
“I did throw it out. And then I wrote a note. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Oh, my bad, was that your toothbrush? I thought it was for guests.’ Guests, Kento. He has a guest toothbrush now, that he keeps in the same cup as mine. I’m being psychologically tortured.”
“He’s always been like this,” Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s the one being victimised.
“You were on the same team as him for three years,” you say. “How did you not murder him in a locker room?”
“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I kept my earbuds in and my mouth shut. You, on the other hand, are picking a fight with a man who once got suspended for pelting a referee with jello shots.”
“That was him?” you gasp.
“Of course it was. Who else brings jello shots to a game?”
“I knew it wasn’t a food poisoning incident,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. “They kept blaming the vendors, but one of those things hit Riko in the back of the head.”
Nanami’s expression softens for a second. He clears his throat, glancing out the window. You follow his gaze, the familiar ache blooming in your chest. It’s been two years since the accident, since the call you never thought you’d get. Since Satoru’s voice broke down over the phone, rasping your name, saying it over and over again like it would change something, like you could undo it just by being there.
Sometimes you forget she’s gone. You still scroll through your photos and stop at the ones of her, still think to text her dumb updates about your day. You still reach for your phone when Satoru does something particularly stupid, your thumb hovering over her name like muscle memory.
It’s worse around him. He reminds you of her—same nose, same stupid grin. Same laughter echoing off the apartment walls, loud and fearless and full of something that’s been missing since she died.
You scrub a hand over your face. “I don’t even know why he let me move in,” you say quietly.
Nanami, annoyingly perceptive as always, says, “Because you’re the only person left who reminds him of her.”
Your throat closes up. You glance away, blinking hard. It’s easier to talk like this with Nanami, with someone who knew her, who understands what’s been left behind in her absence.
It’s just harder when you go home, when Gojo’s waiting in your kitchen, stealing all your forks, leaving crumbs everywhere, making a mess of your carefully managed grief. It’s harder when he smiles at you, wide and unbothered, like nothing in the world could touch him, like he isn’t hurting just as much. Maybe that’s why you haven’t packed up and left, or haven’t demanded he take you off the lease.
“Do you want to come watch us practice today?” your friend asks gently. “You could use the break.”
“Sure,” you agree, nodding.
The rink on campus is mercifully empty, barring the ice hockey players and their coach. You huddle deeper into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your palms as your breath fogs in the cold air. The bleachers are metal and unforgiving beneath you, but there’s something calming about the sharp scent of ice and the dull echo of skates carving into the rink. Nanami’s team is already mid-practice, moving like clockwork in their matching jerseys, passing the puck to each other. Nanami’s form is unmistakable—broad shoulders, crisp turns, no-nonsense efficiency. He’s the kind of player who never wastes energy, never showboats.
Which is probably why it takes you a second to notice the blur of white helmet skating circles around everyone else.
Even from here, you can tell it’s Gojo. Nobody else plays like that—reckless, fast, stupidly dramatic. He doesn’t pass so much as he dares his teammates to keep up with him. One second, he’s flicking the puck behind his back to someone mid-sprint; the next, he’s skating backwards while taunting the goalie, stick dragging lazy arcs on the ice. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But it’s also hypnotically, infuriatingly graceful.
You watch, arms tucked tight around your ribs, as Gojo ducks past a defender and pivots sharply on one skate. The move is flashy, unnecessary, but completely effective. He spins just out of reach, like he’s showing off for a crowd that isn’t even there. Then again, knowing him, maybe the absence of an audience is what makes it fun.
He catches the puck again mid-glide, lets it roll across his blade for the briefest second, and sends it arcing across the ice with a lazy flick of his wrist. It lands right where he wants it—at Nanami’s feet. Nanami redirects it into a clean slapshot that smacks against the boards with a heavy thunk. The coach blows his whistle and yells something you can’t quite make out, and the players all begin to split into drills.
Gojo circles back to the bench, tugging off his helmet. His hair is damp and flattened at odd angles, cheeks flushed red from exertion, but he’s smiling. He laughs at something one of the younger players says, throwing his head back like everything in the world exists solely for his amusement. His grin is sharp and his posture is loose with confidence, like he’s never known a moment of self-doubt in his entire life. He stretches his arms overhead, the hem of his jersey riding up just a little over his pads, and you force yourself to look away before your eyes linger too long.
It’s stupid. You’re here to support Nanami. You’re here because your friend thought you needed fresh air, something different, something other than the quiet churn of your own thoughts. You’re not here for him.
But when Gojo finally turns, like he’s felt your eyes on him all this time, and spots you across the rink, he smiles—wider this time. Brighter. You look away too fast to know if he waves.
The drills resume. They’re brutal, repetitive, the kind that test stamina more than strategy. Nanami is steady and solid, the way he always is, never showy but always in the right place at the right time. Gojo, by contrast, is everywhere. He darts around the rink, weaving in and out of formations, making near-impossible shots just to see if he can land them.
You settle into your seat, arms hugging your knees, and try not to think too hard. But it’s hard not to, especially when every stupid little memory rushes in like floodwater. The way Gojo always takes the last Pop-Tart in the box but leaves the wrapper on the counter; the way he sings obnoxiously loud in the shower and always, always manages to steal your charger right when you need it most; the way he tilts his head and looks at you, eyes too blue and too knowing, like he enjoys seeing how close he can get to pissing you off before you snap. Perhaps worst of all: the way he never apologises, just looks at you, smug and smugger, until you roll your eyes and pretend you weren’t mad in the first place.
Asshole.
You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring blankly, wrapped up in your own thoughts, until someone else joins the bleachers. The guy’s tall, wrapped in a wool coat and beanie, sipping a coffee that steams in the cold air. He glances at you briefly, offers a polite nod, and turns his attention back to the rink.
Gojo’s still showing off. The team’s moved to scrimmage now, red versus blue, and he’s the first one to score. He raises both arms in triumph, sticks his tongue out, and skates backward toward the bench, basking in invisible applause.
You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands. “God, I hate him.”
The guy next to you chuckles. “You know him?”
“Yeah,” you say looking up.
“He’s not so bad. Bit of a drama queen, but he’s good. Probably the best player we’ve got.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction, even by proxy. Instead, you wait for the moment he inevitably catches sight of you again—because of course he does, because nothing in his life is ever subtle. His head tilts. His grin turns sharklike. He lifts his stick and points it right at you, mouthing something across the rink. You groan again and pull your hood up.
Later, when you’re halfway back to your shared apartment, your fingers still freezing from the cold, your phone buzzes.
Gojo: you looked cute freezing your ass off up there
Gojo: want me to warm you up? 😇
You: 🖕
02. the beginnings of affection (an existential crisis).
In high school, you made the grave mistake of telling Riko you thought her older brother was hot. It wasn’t a lie, because he was—tall, lean, unfairly pretty in that model-off-duty way, with a smile that had left many a classmate in a state of ruinous delusion. But back then, he was an idea, a rumour, a hallway myth in an expensive uniform and designer sneakers.
Now you live with him. Now you know better. Underneath his veneer of hotness lies a cold, twisted soul incapable of feeling remorse.
Yet. This morning, you catch yourself staring.
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Roommate. His hair’s still damp from a shower, falling in soft curls over his forehead, and he’s wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. Yours, actually—the one you thought you lost three weeks ago. It fits him, though it’s oversized on you, the faded design on the front nearly unreadable. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and one of the pant legs is tucked into a sock for some godforsaken reason. There’s a smear of toothpaste on his cheek.
And yet you think: cute.
Which is concerning.
You frown into your cereal, spoon halfway to your mouth, and try to rationalise it. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the new shampoo he’s using. Maybe you’ve finally been broken by the sheer absurdity of sharing space with him. That must be it. A slow descent into madness. Like Stockholm Syndrome, but for roommates.
He catches you looking and grins.
“What?” you snap.
“You were staring,” he says smugly, raising his mug to his lips.
“I was zoning out,” you lie. “You just happened to be in the way.”
“Mhm. Don’t worry,” he says, winking. “Happens all the time.”
“You’ve got toothpaste on your face, weirdo.”
He wipes it off with the sleeve of your hoodie. Not his hoodie. Yours. You make a mental note to burn it.
“I’m going to start charging you rent for borrowing my clothes,” you mutter, standing to rinse your bowl.
Gojo hums. “Then I’ll start charging you for moral support. You know, the way I bring light and laughter into this apartment.”
“You bring irritation and trauma.”
He laughs. You pause, hand on the faucet. You shouldn’t feel warm. You shouldn’t feel anything. But there it is again—that awful flutter in your chest; that twist in your stomach like you’ve just misread a question on an exam and realised too late. You stare down at the water running into the sink and think, no. No, no, no. Not this. Not him.
Your hand tightens on the faucet. You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll see it: the flicker of something not quite annoyance, the hiccup in your heartbeat. The very beginnings of affection—or, worse, the remnants of it you thought you’d long since buried.
“You’re being quiet,” your roommate observes, voice languid with interest.
“I’m thinking about how I’ll kill you,” you reply. “Maybe poison. Something slow. Arsenic in your overpriced protein shakes.”
“Ooh. That’s hot. Do I get a last meal?”
“You already ate the last of my oats yesterday.”
“Untrue,” he says cheerfully. “I gave it to my teammate—”
You finally turn to glare at him, but it’s a mistake. He’s still wearing your hoodie, still smiling with toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and hair curling at his temples. His mug is held loosely between his fingers and he taps it against his hip like he’s about to say something clever.
He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you. You blink first.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to say something stupid and ruin my morning.”
Satoru grins. “I was gonna say you look nice. But I see now that would be stupid.”
Your cheeks burn. You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that, despite all the bickering and unsolicited borrowing of clothes, you still feel something twist inside when he looks at you like that. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. “I’m going to be late,” he announces, stretching until the hem of your hoodie rides up and reveals the slope of his back. You look away like you’ve been burned.
“Don’t forget your umbrella,” you say, because it’s drizzling outside.
He grabs the umbrella by the door. “I’ll be back around seven,” he calls, halfway out. “Don’t wait up.”
“I won’t.”
But the door shoots behind him before the lie is even fully out of your mouth. There’s no point denying it. The problem isn’t that he’s hot. It’s that he’s warm, sometimes; thoughtful in ways you don’t expect, and annoyingly perceptive. The problem is that, in the hazy moments between arguments and insults and irritation, you’ve let your guard slip.
God. You’re so screwed.
“Hey. Hey. I thought I told you not to wait up.”
“I didn’t wait up for you.”
He toes off his shoes with a grunt, dropping his keys into the dish by the door and pulling off his jacket in one fluid motion. The collar of his t-shirt is wrinkled, stretched a little too wide at the neck, like someone had tugged at it—maybe he had, or maybe it was already like that. His hair’s a windblown mess, strands sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are rimmed with red like he’s either been up too long or had one too many drinks. Or both.
But he’s still Satoru, still maddeningly good-looking in that careless way of his, still the same insufferable guy who leaves the toilet seat up and sings Twice songs in the shower.
You’re curled up into the far corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around you, half a bowl of popcorn abandoned on the coffee table. You weren’t waiting up—really, you weren’t—but the TV is playing some old sitcom on mute, the light from the screen flickering across your face in soft, silvery flashes. Your phone is dark in your lap. You’ve read the same sentence in your book five times. You glance up when he speaks, and he stops mid-step, tilting his head at you.
“I didn’t wait up for you,” you repeat, quieter this time, and go back to pretending to read.
He smiles faintly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push. “Right,” he says, voice low. “Of course not.”
He throws his jacket over the back of a chair and pads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You try not to follow him with your eyes. Try not to notice the way his shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way he hums softly under his breath as he opens the fridge and lets the light spill out across the tiles.
“You didn’t answer my text,” you say after a moment, tone sharper than you mean it to be.
“My phone died.”
You nod, once. Stupid. You don’t say anything else.
Satoru walks back into the living room, glass in hand, and sinks into the armchair opposite you with a groan. “Rough night,” he says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Didn’t think it would go that late.”
“Didn’t think you were going out at all.”
That makes him crack an eye open, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Jealous?”
You snort. “Of your terrible taste in dive bars and worse taste in company? Never.”
“I didn’t stay long,” he says. “The music sucked.”
“You go for the music?”
“I go for the distraction.”
Outside, it’s started to rain again, a slow, gentle drizzle against the windows. You stare at the pattern of drops sliding down the glass, trying to ignore the shape of him in your periphery—broad shoulders and long legs and bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. He’s too close and too far all at once.
“Do you… want some popcorn?” you ask eventually.
Satoru opens his eyes again and blinks at you. “Is this the part where you admit you were waiting for me?”
You scowl. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding.” He sits up, leans forward slightly, eyes warm now, too warm. “I’d love some.”
You push the bowl towards him, watching as he picks out a piece and pops it into his mouth.
“This,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “would be the part in a romcom where we kiss.”
“This,” you say, rolling your eyes, “would be the part in a horror movie where the protagonist makes a terrible decision and dies five minutes later.”
“That’s just rude.”
“Good.”
But he smiles at you, bright and boyish, like there’s no place he’d rather be than in this shitty living room at one in the morning with rain tapping against the windows and you scowling over a bowl of popcorn. You hate that it makes your heart ache; hate that, for all your better judgement, for all the times he’s made you want to scream into a pillow, there’s a part of you that softens around him. A part that keeps watching the door when he’s late. A part that stayed up, no matter what you said.
“We should bond,” Satoru says suddenly. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”
You blink. “Bond?”
“Yeah. Like team-building. Except we’re not a team, and there’s no building.”
“That’s the worst pitch I’ve ever heard,” you say, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards despite yourself.
He shrugs, leaning back into the armchair again and tossing a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it clumsily with his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ve been circling each other. Might as well make it official.”
“Make what official?”
“This thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Our roommate truce-slash-rivalry-slash-situationship.”
You nearly choke on your own breath. “What—what situationship?”
“Okay, fine. Maybe not that last one.”
You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it with one hand, laughing. The room is too warm, or maybe that’s just your face. You glance away, shaking your head.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I was thinking. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, and we’re both obviously in need of deep, soul-cleansing joy—”
“You mean you want to avoid your hangover.”
“—we should go skating.”
“Like, on the ice?” you ask.
“No, on a frying pan,” he says. “Yes, on the ice.”
“Come on,” Satoru calls. “It’s just frozen water.”
“I know what ice is,” you hiss.
He skates back toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and a beanie pulled snug over his snowy hair. Of course he makes gliding over a frozen lake look like second nature. He probably was born skating. You glare at him from your self-imposed prison at the edge of the ice. Your fingers are locked in a white-knuckled grip on the guardrail, your knees slightly bent like your body already knows it’s about to betray you.
Satoru stops a few feet away, his skates coming to a perfect halt with the faintest spray of ice. “You’re going to have to let go eventually,” he says, amused but not unkind.
You shake your head immediately. “I don’t trust frozen water. Or you.”
“That’s fair.” He shrugs. “But one of those things is going to get you moving, and it’s not the ice.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Doesn’t have to. Come on,” he coaxes, holding out a gloved hand. “I’ll go slow. Promise. Baby steps.”
You glance down at the ice, then at his hand, then back at the ice. It’s unfair, really, the way he looks so annoyingly trustworthy in moments like this. As if he hasn’t spent the better part of your shared time together being the most irritating man on the planet. As if he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes zipping across the lake like a show-off while you contemplated your mortality from the safety of the shore.
Still, you let go of the guardrail. Just a little. Your hand slips into his, and his fingers tighten reassuringly around yours. He doesn’t tug; he waits, steady and warm and patient, until you peel yourself entirely away from your comfort zone and step onto the ice.
You immediately regret everything. Your foot slides, your balance tips, and you let out a strangled noise as you clutch at him with both hands now, absolutely abandoning any pretense of dignity. Satoru laughs, open and delighted, the sound echoing across the lake like it belongs in a different world.
“I’ve got you,” he says. His grip is solid, his body a firm counterweight to your graceless flailing. “Just stand. Don’t try to walk yet. Feel how your skates sit on the ice.”
“I hate this. I hate you,” you mutter, clinging to his coat.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says, and you scowl because he’s grinning now, and it’s not helpful at all.
Slowly, he eases you forward, step by wobbling step. The cold nips at your cheeks, your breath fogging between you in soft white puffs. Every movement feels like a gamble, your muscles tense with the knowledge that at any second, you could end up flat on your back.
“You skate like Bambi,” he observes cheerfully.
“Say that again and I’m taking you down with me.”
“You’d have to catch me first,” he says. “And given your current progress, I’d say that’s not happening in this lifetime.”
You lurch at him, purely out of spite, and he lets out a surprised yelp as he stumbles back a little, catching you both from falling with more grace than you’ll ever possess. You end up in his arms, your face smushed embarrassingly against his chest, heart pounding from more than just the cold.
“You’re not bad at this,” he murmurs near your ear. “For someone who looks like they’re skating on stilts.”
You pull back to glare at him, but his smile softens into something almost fond, and you blink. He’s still holding you, hands braced at your waist now, fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. His touch is warm through the layers. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you can.
He leans back, clears his throat a little, and says, “Alright. Lesson one: don’t look down.”
“What?”
“No, seriously. Head up. Trust yourself a little. If you stare at the ice, your body will think you want to meet it.”
You lift your gaze slowly, reluctantly, and focus on the horizon instead: trees dusted in frost, a sky bruised with early twilight, and Satoru’s impossibly pale eyes, sharp and bright and filled with something you can’t name. He starts guiding you again, his hands still at your waist, your balance a little steadier now. Each glide is cautious; it’s progress, however painstaking.
You’re still clumsy—more shuffling than skating—but the panic has dulled, replaced by a nervous sort of awareness: of your feet, of your breathing, of him. The cold cuts through the air with a crispness that sharpens everything, from the bite in your lungs to the sting in your cheeks, but somehow, with Satoru’s hands anchoring you, it all feels a little softer.
“Look at you,” he says, low and a bit smug. “You’re a natural.”
You snort. “I’m one step away from death.”
“Death by ice is very poetic,” he muses. “We’ll put it on your tombstone. Beloved roommate. Skated once.”
You elbow him weakly, the motion throwing off your centre of gravity just enough to send you pitching forward—again. You gasp, arms flailing, but he catches you effortlessly, laughing as he draws you back upright like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to steady you.
“That’s lesson two,” he says, grinning down at you. “Don’t do that.”
“You are the worst teacher.”
“And yet,” he says, steering you in a slow arc, “you’re still standing.”
The lake is quiet, save for the dull scrape of blades against the ice, the rustling of wind in the trees, and the shouts and hoots of a group of teenagers skating on the other end. You imagine the rink gets really crowded later in the evening, but for now, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in shades of silver and slate, the world narrowed down to the stretch of frozen water and the steady cadence of his voice in your ear. You take another step. Then another. Satoru doesn’t let go, even though you think you could maybe handle it on your own now. But you don’t ask him to.
“This wasn’t just about the skating,” he says after a while.
You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, the teasing stripped back to something quieter. You try for lightness. “Oh? Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?”
“No. I did that last week. You were too busy yelling at me about the dishes.”
You huff a laugh, but it catches in your throat, because he’s looking at you in that way again—like you’re the only thing in focus. Like the cold and the ice and the time you called him a walking disaster don’t matter.
“I just wanted to do something with you,” he says. “Riko—Riko and I used to do this all the time as kids.”
“...Oh,” you say dumbly.
He doesn’t look away when you say it. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and you realise, belatedly, that you’re not gripping onto him anymore. You’re standing.
“She used to hold my hand like you’re doing now,” he continues, a half-smile flickering across his face, wistful. “Only, she had these tiny little gloves with cats on them, and she’d nearly pull me down every time she slipped.”
You can see it, easily—Riko as a small blur of determination, dragging her too-tall older brother around a rink, shrieking with laughter while he pretended not to be terrified of falling. You wonder what it was like, growing up with someone like that; with someone who looked at Satoru and saw more than the smirking exterior, who loved him before he learned to weaponise his charm.
“Is this where you guilt-trip me into being nicer to you?” you ask.
“No,” he says. “You being mean to me is the only thing that keeps me grounded.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not when your chest is doing that awful thing again—that fluttery, traitorous ache that started as irritation and now feels like something worse. “Do you ever stop being—” you begin, but you don’t finish.
Because he lets go. Just like that.
Your breath catches, skates faltering as your arms instinctively reach for him—but you don’t fall. Your legs wobble, sure. Your equilibrium protests. But you’re still upright, and still moving, slowly and awkwardly and without grace. And he’s just standing there, a few feet away now, watching you with a look that’s proud and amused and terribly fond.
“You’re doing it,” he says, and the words hang in the air like steam, like warmth in the cold.
You stare at him. “You tricked me.”
“Obviously.”
“You let go.”
“I did.” Satoru’s smile is maddening. “But look. You’re fine.”
You aren’t sure if you’re grateful or angry or both. The lake is wide around you, open and echoing, and your arms feel empty without his to cling to. But you’re skating. When you reach him again—because of course you make your way back, clumsy half-glides bringing you close enough to grab his coat again if you want to—he doesn’t move away.
“I hate that you’re right,” you mutter, breathing hard.
“I’m always right.”
“You’re never right.”
“You’re right,” he says solemnly. “I’m only ever hot and devastatingly charming.”
You shove him. It doesn’t do much; he’s solid, annoying, smug. But he laughs, and it echoes across the lake again, bright and honest. Then his hands find yours once more. “Next time,” he says, leaning in close, “we’ll try a spin.”
You gawk at him like he’s insane. “I will murder you on the ice.”
“I’d die happy.”
You should pull away. You should say something cutting, something that reestablishes the boundaries he’s always so eager to toe. But you don’t, because he’s warm even through your gloves, and the sky above you is bleeding into a soft lavender dusk, and his breath is a whisper against your cheek when he adds, “You were really brave today.”
“Don’t make it weird,” you mumble.
“Too late.”
You close your eyes, just for a moment. Without warning, you tug his hand and take a step back on the ice, away from him. It’s shaky. Messy. Maybe even stupid. But you don’t fall, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already following.
You don’t end up at the ice hockey team’s practice on purpose. It’s all a matter of circumstance: you’d forgotten to bring your keys, and Satoru had practice immediately after classes, so you decided to pay him and Nanami a visit because you’re meticulous and already ahead of all your assigned readings, so you have some free time anyway.
Your boots squeak faintly against the rubber mat lining the entrance as you step inside, the sharp scent of ice and that weird rubbery tang from equipment stinging your nose. It’s colder than you expect it to be—not just chilly, but biting—and you hug your coat tighter around yourself, muttering under your breath about your own stupidity for forgetting your keys.
Through the glass panels that separate the stands from the rink, you catch sight of the team already in warm-ups, skating brisk laps along the boards. Nanami is easy to spot, with his clean-cut form and too-serious expression, weaving between teammates. Satoru, in contrast, is a blur of motion and colour—grinning, flippant, always moving like he’s daring gravity to catch him. You know it’s him even with the helmet on. There’s something unmistakable about the way he skates, fast and loose like he was born with blades for feet and no sense of self-preservation.
You slip into the bleachers, choosing a middle seat and tucking your hands between your thighs for warmth. Your breath fogs in front of you in soft clouds. Below, the players yell instructions at one another, the thud of pucks hitting boards punctuated by the scrape of blades on ice. You expect to be bored within ten minutes, but strangely, you’re not.
You catch yourself watching Satoru more than you should.
He’s wearing a dark jersey with the number six on the back, paired with white hockey pants. He skates like he owns the ice, like the world is some elaborate game designed for his entertainment, and he’s the only one who knows all the rules. He’s obnoxiously good, of course. His passes are sharp and clean, his puck handling seamless, like the stick is an extension of his arm. He doesn’t celebrate the goals he scores, but you can tell he enjoys each one. It’s in the way he glances towards the stands after every shot, like he’s half-expecting applause. Like maybe—just maybe—he knows you’re watching.
And, of course, the one time you lean forward with genuine curiosity, Satoru catches your eye. You immediately sit back and pretend to examine the very interesting metal railing in front of you. When you look up again, he’s skating backwards towards the centre line, grinning like a lunatic. You roll your eyes.
Practice drags on, but in that weird hypnotic way that makes time pass fast. The drills shift from technical to scrimmage-style, players darting about, sticks clashing, shouts echoing through the space. Nanami plays with all the joy of someone forced into it by obligation, but you admire his skill all the same. Satoru, on the other hand, is infuriatingly smooth, darting past defenders and spinning to block shots.
At some point, you begin to lose feeling in your toes. You pull your legs up into your seat and burrow deeper into your coat. Satoru scores another goal with a fancy little flick of his wrist and has the nerve to wink at you through the glass. You flip him off, and he beams like you’ve handed him a bouquet of roses.
When practice ends, the players skate to the benches, pulling off their helmets and guzzling water. You consider leaving before Satoru can come find you, but by the time you make the decision, he’s already peeled off his gear and is jogging toward the stands, a towel slung around his neck and his hair a snowy mess of sweat-damp curls.
“You stalking me now?” he calls up, voice echoing through the cavernous space.
“I forgot my keys,” you reply flatly. “Trust me, if I had other options, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Aw,” he says, leaning on the railing in front of you. “So you missed me.”
You stare down at him, unimpressed. “You smell like a wet dog. I can smell it all the way up here.”
“Still came to see me, though.”
You open your mouth to reply with something scathing, but the words don’t quite come. Not when he’s standing there with flushed cheeks and a grin that’s more sunshine than snow, squinting slightly because of the overhead lights. Not when you remember, fleetingly, that Riko once told you her brother was really quiet, and you remember, again, that he changed after she died. The thought vanishes before you can dwell on it.
“We’re out of milk, by the way,” you say instead.
Nanami skates over. His jersey is soaked through, but his hair remains irritatingly neat under his helmet. He slows to a stop beside the boards, stick tucked under one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting. You nod back.
“She came all the way out here just to tell me we’re out of milk,” Satoru says.
“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale and gesture vaguely in his direction. “Why do you talk like that?”
“He talks like that because he has no concept of shame,” Nanami says.
“You wound me, Nanamin.”
Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response—just raises a single brow and skates off toward the locker room. You watch his retreating figure for a second, then glance back at Satoru, now balancing precariously with one arm out.
“You are so dramatic,” you mutter, standing and starting down the bleachers.
“I prefer being called expressive,” Satoru calls after you, hopping off the railing and jogging to meet you at the base of the stairs. He smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever chemical funk lives permanently in every locker room, but he’s grinning so widely you almost forget to wrinkle your nose. Almost.
“I can see your hair freezing,” you say as you fall into step beside him. “That’s disgusting. Go shower.”
He throws an arm around your shoulders; the gesture makes your skin bristle from the chill still clinging to his clothes. “But you like me gross,” he says, bumping your side with a playful swing of his hip.
You scoff and shove him off, barely managing to keep your balance as your boots skid slightly on the damp rubber flooring. “I like you better when you’re not radiating the scent of boiled socks.”
“So specific,” Satoru laughs. “Were you composing that one in your head the whole time I was on the ice?”
“No,” you mutter. “It came naturally. Like an allergic reaction.”
You follow him through the back hallway toward the locker rooms. It’s quieter here, the sounds of the rink replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. The linoleum floor is scuffed and water-stained, and everything smells like damp towels and disinfectant. You slow your steps, lingering near the door to the players’ lounge while Satoru pushes through the locker room entrance.
He peeks back before disappearing inside. “You waiting out here, or are you coming in for the full experience?”
“I value my life,” you deadpan.
“Suit yourself,” he singsongs, tossing the towel from his neck over your head before ducking inside with a grin. You yank the towel off with a sound of disgust and drop it on the floor. A few minutes pass. You idle on your phone, scrolling through old messages, then flick over to your calendar. Everything’s already done: papers outlined, deadlines logged, readings colour-coded and annotated. You’re bored.
Ten minutes later, the door creaks open and Satoru emerges, hair damp and pushed back from his face, now in grey sweats and a university hoodie two sizes too big. He looks softer like this, more human, like he could’ve been anyone else, if the world had been a little gentler.
“What?” he says, catching you staring.
You blink. “Nothing.”
He tosses his duffel bag over one shoulder and jerks his chin toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s hit the store. You said we’re out of milk, right?”
“And bread,” you add as you fall into step beside him again. “And you used the last of the eggs and just… put the empty carton back in the fridge.”
“False accusations. I plead innocent.”
“You plead lethargy.”
03. conflict resolution (the eternal affliction).
Christmas comes and goes, and the new year begins with you and Satoru deciding to sell the TV. It had been half-broken for weeks anyway—Satoru insisted it gave the screen a “vintage haze,” but you insisted it gave you migraines. So, on the second day of January, in a rare moment of mutual decisiveness, you both posted a picture of it on Facebook Marketplace with a joke caption, and watched the replies pour in. Some poor soul came to pick it up that evening, and just like that, your living room was quieter than it had been in days.
Maybe you needed the quiet. The holidays had been a blur of noise—family phone calls, missed trains, clinking glasses, and Satoru’s very enthusiastic and very drunk rendition of Last Christmas that made your upstairs neighbour leave an aggressive Post-It on your door.
Now, it’s snowing—thick, slow flakes that coat the windows and silence the city. You’re curled up on the couch with two blankets and a cup of peppermint tea you don’t really like, watching Satoru fiddle with the thermostat.
“It’s broken,” he says for the fifth time, shirt riding up slightly as he bends down to look behind the radiator. “I’m gonna sue the landlord.”
“You say that every week,” you reply, blowing on your tea. “You’ve never sued anyone in your life.”
“I could,” he says indignantly, standing upright. He looks infuriatingly good in sweats and a hoodie, even with socks that don’t match and a piece of tape stuck to his elbow from when he tried to fix the window seal this morning. “You don’t know what I get up to when you’re asleep.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re usually asleep before me.”
Satoru points a finger at you. “Exactly. That’s what I want you to think. But maybe I’ve been moonlighting as a lawyer in the dead of night. Ever think about that?”
You take a long sip of your tea to hide your smile. “You can’t even read the rental agreement without getting a headache.”
“You said you’d never bring that up again!”
“You were crying, Satoru.”
“It was printed in a size 10 font, what do you want from me?”
You laugh. Outside, the streetlights blur into glowing halos. Inside, it’s dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and laundry detergent, and something you can’t quite place—Satoru, probably, who always smells like something slightly sweet, like sugar cookies and whatever shampoo he uses when he forgets yours isn’t his. You look over the rim of your mug at him. His hair’s messier than usual, falling into his eyes. You’ve told him to get it trimmed. He hasn’t listened.
“It’s still getting colder,” you say quietly, watching the snow. “You think we’ll get snowed in?”
Satoru flops onto the couch beside you, his body warm where it presses against your blanket-wrapped one, his knee knocking lightly into yours. “God, I hope so,” he mutters, tugging the throw off your legs to cover himself. “We could use the time off.”
“You don’t even work a real job,” you remind him.
He frowns, the expression exaggerated and pouty. “Excuse me. I’m a public servant. I’m out there risking life and limb every day, for our stupid old landlord. Or did you forget who shoveled the steps this morning?”
“Badly,” you point out. “You missed half the landing.”
“I was conserving energy,” he says primly, “in case we do get snowed in. You’ll be thanking me when it’s day four of no groceries and you’re chewing on the couch cushions.”
You scoff, curling your feet under you. “We’ve got food. I made sure.”
“I saw.” He grins, tilting his head to rest against the back of the couch, blue eyes sparkling. “I saw you hide the good snacks in the cereal box. You’re so sneaky.” Satoru reaches for the remote out of habit, then remembers the TV is gone. “Oh. What are we supposed to do now? Talk to each other?”
You smile around the rim of your cup. “We could play cards.”
“We could commit tax fraud.”
You nudge his leg with yours. “Satoru.”
“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “But only if I get to cheat.”
“You always cheat.”
“You always let me.”
He says it quietly, but he looks at you like he’s talking about something else entirely. Maybe he is. You set the mug down carefully, your fingers too warm now to keep holding it. You’re suddenly aware of everything: how his thigh brushes yours, how he’s slouched so far down the cushions that his hoodie’s ridden up again, showing a sliver of pale skin and the waistband of his sweats; the scar on his hip he told you he got from an ice hockey accident; the way he shifts when you don’t say anything, like he feels your gaze and likes it.
The peppermint flavour in your mouth goes sticky and sweet.
“I’m bored,” he says again, softer. “You wanna do something stupid?”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Like take a really hot shower. Together. For environmental reasons.”
You huff, trying not to laugh, even as your stomach does a slow somersault. “Very eco-conscious of you.”
“Exactly. I’m a hero.”
You roll your eyes, but the thought lingers—his body wet and close, fogging up the glass, your cold skin pressed to his. It lingers longer than it should. You lean your head back against the couch and try to chase it away, but Satoru leans closer, propping his chin on your shoulder, voice lazy and low, as he says, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
You shoot him a look, about to say something, but it dies on your lips. He’s close. His eyes are sleepy but sharp, his breath warm where it brushes your cheek. You blink slowly. You think you could kiss him and he’d let you. You think if you said please, he’d let you crawl into his lap and never leave.
“I don’t even like peppermint,” you deflect, mostly to yourself.
“Riko used to say you always drank it in winter.”
“It’s supposed to feel festive.”
“You’re festive,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like the words slipped out without thinking.The snow falls harder. The pipes groan, and the heater hisses weakly. You pull the blanket higher around your neck. “You’re not warm enough,” he observes.
“Thanks for the update.”
“I’m just saying. We could fix that.”
“Is this you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?”
You stare at him. He’s gorgeous like this—half-lazy, half-serious, the kind of effortless pretty that shouldn’t be allowed in sweats and two-day-old hair. You think about the way his voice goes low when he’s teasing you, like it is now. The way he always runs a hand down your back, firm and gentle, when he knows your day’s been long. It’s unbearable, sometimes, the want. The wanting him like this.
“I could be convinced,” you say quietly.
“Oh, yeah?”
He doesn’t move right away; he watches you—searching, maybe, or waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t. He shifts to face you more fully, and leans in slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away. His fingers brush your jaw, warm and careful, and then he kisses you.
It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. You answer with a small sound at the back of your throat, leaning in, tilting your head, letting your mouth part just slightly under his. Satoru deepens it with a low noise that vibrates between you, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to anchor your close. His lips are warm, his mouth sweet—peppermint and the leftover hint of something honeyed from dinner. He kisses like he does everything else—wholeheartedly, a little cocky, and all-consuming. Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as he presses in.
His other hand slides beneath the blanket, settling against your waist. You’re still bundled up in layers, but you feel the heat of his palm through the cotton. Your whole body reacts to it: shivering, softening, leaning closer. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just barely, his nose brushing yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown, a flush high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. “You sure?” he asks roughly. “Because I’ll stop. I’ll stop right now if—”
You kiss him again, quick and firm. “I’m sure.”
Satoru lets out a breath, then nudges the blanket off both of you. The cold air hits your skin for half a second before he’s pulling you onto his lap, coaxing you into straddling him. You go willingly, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. It’s clumsy at first—your feet slide, your knee bumps the coffee table—but he steadies you with both hands on your hips, and it stops being funny.
Your faces are inches apart. You can see every speck of silver in his eyes, the pink curve of his bottom lip, the threadbare collar of his hoodie that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat. Your fingers slip under the hem of it, and he shudders.
“This okay?” you ask quietly.
He nods, but adds, “Don’t ask like that. Like I’d ever say no to you.”
You kiss him again. His hands move—up your back, under your shirt, leaving trails of heat where they go. You’re both flush with warmth now, the kind of warmth that fills your chest and settles low in your belly. The radiator’s broken, and your tea’s gone cold, but it doesn’t matter, not with his body beneath yours, not with his mouth at your neck now, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the place where your pulse beats.
“Satoru,” you whisper, and he groans softly against your skin like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. You tighten your fingers in his hoodie, tugging just slightly, and he lifts his head to look at you. You run your hands down his chest, over the soft cotton. “This has got to go.”
He grins, crooked and flushed. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”
You tug the hoodie up, and he raises his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. His hair is mussed even further, sticking up in a dozen directions, and you can’t help smoothing it down with your hands. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the planes of his chest scattered with faint scars.
“You’re staring,” he says, softer now.
“You’re pretty,” you reply, just as quiet.
His smile falters—not in a bad way, but in that way it does when you say something that actually gets to him. He swallows, reaches up, and brushes your hair back behind your ear. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when I’m trying to be cool.”
“You’re never cool,” you whisper, leaning in again. “I’m on birth control. Just so you know.”
His laugh is rough, but it dies in his throat the second you crush your mouth to his again—all heat, no patience now, just the wet slide of his tongue against yours. His hands are already pushing under your shirt, fingers tracing every rib, until his thumbs drag slow circles under your breasts. You arch into his touch.
“Off,” he says, yanking your shirt up. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, leaving you in just your bra—some flimsy lace thing he’s already eyeing like he wants to tear it off. The cold air hits your skin, but you barely feel it, not with the way his gaze burns over you. His hands are on you again instantly, palming your tits through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper. His thumbs flick over your nipples, already stiff, and you gasp when he leans down to lick a hot stripe over the fabric.
“So beautiful,” he says, teeth catching the edge of the cup. He tugs it down, freeing one breast, and seals his mouth over it with wet, filthy pulls of his lips while his tongue flicks the peak. You moan, thighs clenching, already grinding down against his lap where his cock strains against his sweatpants.
“Satoru—” Your fingers twist in his hair, holding him to your chest as he switches sides, biting lightly at the other nipple through the lace before dragging the cup down to give it the same treatment. His free hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your pants, and you shudder when he presses the heel of his palm hard against your clit.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans against your skin, fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles. “Can feel it through your pants.”
You’re panting now, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction. He undoes the string of your pants with one hand, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear. His breath hitches when he sees how wet you are, glistening and swollen.
“Look at that,” he rasps, dragging two fingers through your folds, spreading your slick. He slides one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, teasing. “Already so fucking tight—how’re you gonna take me?”
You whine, hips jerking, trying to him deeper, but he just chuckles, adding a second finger, curling them just right to make you gasp. He pumps them slowly, his thumb circling your clit in time, until you’re trembling, your thighs shaking around his wrist.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a filthy sound. You nearly sob at the loss, but he unbuckles his jeans, shoving them just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking.
“Ride me,” he orders, voice rough.
You don’t hesitate. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and lower yourself into him inch by inch. The stretch burns, the way he fills you so perfect, it steals your breath. Both of you groan as you take him to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. His hands roam your body—squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to grip your ass, urging you faster. You comply, bouncing on his cock now, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Every thrust drags him against that perfect spot inside you, and you can feel the coil of pleasure tightening, your clit throbbing with each movement.
“Gonna come,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Satoru, I’m—”
“Let go,” he urges, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock.”
The orgasm crashes through you—your back arches, your walls clamp down on him, and you cry out, shuddering as pleasure rips through every nerve. He fucks you through it, his hips jerking up to meet your frantic movements, until he groans and spills inside you with a low moan.
You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and spent. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. He tilts your chin up, after a moment, kissing you slow and lazy.
“So,” he mumbles against your lips. “About that shower.”
“Yes, please.”
He peels you off the couch with a groan, your legs shaky, your skin still fever-hot where his come drips down your inner thighs. The bathroom tiles are cool under your bare feet as he guides you in, his palm never leaving the small of your back, like he can’t stand not touching you for even a second.
Steam fogs the mirror before the water even hits your skin. Satoru adjusts the spray with a rough twist of his wrist, testing it with his fingers before pulling you under the warm heat. The water sluices over your shoulders, your breasts, his hands following its path like he’s trying to watch every inch of you with his touch instead.
“You missed a spot,” you tease, breath hitching when his thumbs drag over your nipples, already stiff again from the contrast of heat and his calloused fingers.
“Fucking smartass,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it—not when his cock is already thickening against your hip, the tip flushed and leaking. He crowds you against the tile, his mouth searing a path down your throat, sucking bruises into the tender skin below your ear. Water beads on his lashes when he looks up at you, fingers hooking under your knee to hike your leg over his hip.
“Turn around,” he orders, voice frayed with want.
You obey, bracing your palms against the slick wall as he presses flush against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not quite inside it—just rutting against your slick folds, teasing. The head catches on your entrance, the stretch just shy of unbearable, and you whimper, pushing back.
Satoru chuckles, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head aside. His other hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your slick over your clit. “Still dripping,” he says, circling that swollen bud just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “Like you’re fucking made for me.”
You gasp when he finally pushes inside—slow, deliberate, stretching you with every inch until his hips meet your ass. The water cascades over both of you as he starts to move, deep, rolling thrusts that have you arching, your nails scraping against tile.
“Look at you,” he groans, tightening his grip on your hip. His other hand leaves your hair to grab your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good.”
It’s too much—the drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of skin, the way his teeth sink into your shoulder. You’re babbling, half-formed pleas and his name, your thighs trembling with every thrust.
“Gonna make you come again,” he grits out, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing circles. You come with a cry, your walls fluttering around him as your climax crashes over you. Satoru fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as his own release hits—a harsh groan against your neck as he spills inside you.
He holds you up when your legs give out, turning you in his arms to kiss you slow and filthy under the spray. His tongue licks into your mouth, while his hand drifts down to your ass.
“Clean now?” you mumble against his lips, dazed.
He laughs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Dirty as hell.” His other hand slides between your thighs, gathering the mix of water and come dripping down your skin. “Gonna have to do this again.”
You shiver as he brings his fingers to your mouth, watching your lips part to suck them clean.
Spring is sprung, but nothing changes between you and Satoru. It’s as if the two days you spent snowed in right after New Year’s are just that—two days that exist outside of your usual periphery, kept locked away in the recesses of your mind like a dream you can’t decide whether to revisit or forget. The world has thawed and so, seemingly, has he. No more late nights curled together on his couch. No more cereal-for-dinner declarations or tangled limbs under too-warm blankets. That strange liminal space you existed in, suspended in the hush of snowfall and the hum of radiator heat, disappears as soon as the city begins to bloom again.
Instead, things shift back into old rhythms.
You start finding mismatched socks in the laundry again. His cereal bowls accumulate in the sink in quiet protest of dishwashing. You bicker over the thermostat settings like you always used too—Satoru insists that 24°C is the perfect temperature while you’re constantly reaching for the dial to turn it down. He steals your phone charger without asking. You use his shampoo out of petty revenge. He hogs the bathroom mirror every morning, combing through his hair with a devotion that borders on tragic. And you… you go back to pretending that none of it ever meant anything more.
You try not to notice how careful he is now, how his gaze lingers a little too long but his fingers don’t. How he keeps his distance—playfully, almost purposefully. As if closeness is a privilege that’s been revoked. As if intimacy was a mistake that neither of you are willing to acknowledge.
And because it’s easier this way, you don’t ask.
Instead, you both fall into the easy charade of Just Roommates, the same performance you perfected before that blizzard rewrote the script. It’s familiar, comfortable—until it isn’t.
Because one night, he doesn’t come home.
You notice it sometime around 11:30 P.M. His shoes aren’t by the door, his keys aren’t clattering into the dish like they usually do. The apartment is quiet in a way it hasn’t been for months. You try not to worry. He’s an adult. He disappears sometimes. That’s just Satoru being Satoru. But something in your chest prickles with unease, and your thumb hovers over your screen for a good five minutes before you finally open your messages.
You: hey, you coming home tonight?
No reply. The text sits there, read but unanswered. You sit on the couch for another half hour, idly scrolling, not really seeing anything. Your eyes keep darting to the door like he might waltz in with some dumb excuse and a bag of chips. When the clock hits 1:04 A.M., you give up pretending and text Nanami.
You: do you know where satoru is?
Nanami: hold on.
Nanami: yeah. unfortunately.
Two seconds later, an image pops up.
It’s a picture taken at a frat party—one of those messy, overcrowded events where the music’s too loud and the floor’s sticky with God-knows-what. There’s a blur of colour and movement, people crowding the frame, but it’s not hard to spot him: Satoru, in the centre of it all, unmistakable even with the grainy quality of the photo. He’s half-sitting on the back of a couch, red solo cup in hand, sunglasses perched uselessly on the bridge of his nose despite it being well past midnight. His head is tilted toward a girl beside him—brunette, bright lipstick, her arm draped over his shoulder.
You stare at the image for longer than you mean to.
The girl’s laughing. Satoru’s smiling. And not that small, soft sort of smile he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking, but wide and lazy, the kind he usually wears when he’s trying to charm his way out of something.
Your stomach curls, cold and unpleasant. You shut your phone off. The apartment is still too quiet. You brush your teeth with shaking fingers, climb into a bed that feels a little too big, and press your eyes shut like that might block out the sudden ache in your chest.
It shouldn’t matter. You’re just roommates.
You think about the girl he’d brought home that day, three days into your moving in. You’d felt bad for her, knowing that she was just a notch in his over-filled stick. Is that what you are, too? Just another person he slept with? His little sister’s best friend, who’s never been the same after she died, just another name on his list?
Maybe it’s your own fault. You knew what he was like.
The morning after, you don’t reach for your phone. You don’t check to see if he came home sometimes after you fell asleep. You don’t look for his shoes by the door. You just go about your day like you’ve got somewhere to be.
It’s easier this way. To keep moving. To stay busy. To pull your focus away from the image etched into the backs of your eyelids: the shape of him in someone else’s orbit, grinning like he didn’t have your heartbeat tucked between his palms only a few weeks ago.
When you finally do check your phone, there’s no apology. Just a half-hearted “my bad lol” text that arrives sometime around 10 A.M., flippant and thoughtless, as if it never even occurred to him that you might’ve waited up.
You don’t answer. He doesn’t push. The silence becomes your new rhythm.
Where once there was casual ease between you, there is now only space. Deliberate, careful space. You start closing the door to your room whenever he’s home. You keep your headphones in, even when you’re not listening to anything. You stop making dinner for two. You stop leaving him notes on the fridge. He seems to notice, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe he’s too oblivious to put the pieces together. Or maybe this is just easier for him, too.
You start planning your exit. You don’t tell him. You don’t know how to. You start searching on your laptop late at night, under the covers like it’s something shameful. Studio apartments, room shares, sublets posted by strangers who spell everything in lowercase. Nothing looks promising, but you scroll anyway, determined to find something, anything, that doesn’t have him in it.
You start making lists in your notes app. Things you’ll need: a kettle, your own set of plates, a bathroom rug. Things you’ll miss: the way he sings when he’s in the shower, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway, the smell of his shampoo. And then there are the things you don’t let yourself write down. Like the way his arms felt around you that night on the couch. Or the look in his eyes when he thought you were asleep. Or the fact that, for a brief few moments this winter, you really, truly believed he could be something more.
You don’t talk about any of it. Not to him, not to Nanami, not to your friend who sits next to you during class. You just swallow it down like a bitter pill and keep moving.
Some nights, he comes home late and you pretend to be asleep. Some mornings, he lingers in the kitchen a little too long, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, but you never do. You sip your coffee in silence, watch the steam curl up, and keep your eyes fixed on the window. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him. It’s that you don’t trust what you’d say.
Because the truth is this: you’ve overstayed your welcome, not just in this apartment, but in the idea of him. You let yourself want, and now you’re paying for it.
And Satoru—he’s still Satoru. Beautiful and reckless and untouchable in the ways that matter most. He flits around you like he doesn’t notice you pulling away. Or maybe he does, and he’s letting you go. So you send in applications. You tour a too-small studio with cracked linoleum and convince yourself the peeling walls are “charming.” You lie on your bed at night and stare at the ceiling and imagine what it’ll feel like to live in a place where his laugh doesn’t echo through the walls.
Spring has sprung. The world is warm and blooming again. But you—you’ve never felt colder.
When you tell Nanami you’re moving, he doesn’t chide you for it. Just shrugs, and asks if you want any help with packing. You nod, grateful, and ask if you can accompany him for their ice hockey practice that evening. You need to give Satoru your keys back, and you would prefer to do it with your friend next to you.
The rink is always colder than you expect. Even in the early blush of spring, when your jacket is too light and the wind a little gentler, the ice rink clings to winter. Nanami doesn’t say much on the walk over. He’s not the type to pry unless invited, and you’ve been… quiet, to say the least. A silence cushioned in resignation more than sadness. As if the version of yourself who cried into her pillow over Satoru in January has finally dulled into someone softer, steadier.
You sit in the bleachers with your arms tucked close to your chest as Nanami skates onto the ice. The boys are already roughhousing, and Satoru—he’s grinning. Always grinning.
You spot him the moment he hops the rail. His hair is a mess under his helmet, and his jersey hangs a little lopsided over his pads, but there’s that same carefree energy, as though nothing in the world has ever really touched him. Not even you.
You fold your fingers around the keys in your coat pocket and press them tight into your palm. Practice is what you’ve come to expect. Fast. Loud. A blur of bodies in motion, blades on ice, the occasional thud as someone crashes into the boards. You watch the way Satoru moves—like he owns the rink, like gravity is just a suggestion. You realise, belatedly, that you are looking. Maybe too hard.
When the whistle blows and the scrimmage ends, the team filters off the ice in staggered waves, peeling off helmets, slapping shoulders, shouting about drinks and dinner plans. Nanami nods at you from the bench, motioning that he’ll meet you outside. You’re halfway down the bleachers when you hear his name.
“Hey!” Satoru’s voice cuts through the buzz of conversation. You turn. He’s jogging over with that same impish grin, helmet under one arm, hair sweat-damp and eyes far too blue. “You came.”
You blink. “Yeah.”
“You missed me, huh?” he teases, bumping your shoulder with his. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you love watching me play.”
There it is—that familiar tilt of his head. A part of you wants to smile back, the way you always do. Fall into the rhythm again. Pretend.
But not this time.
You pull your hand from your coat pocket and extend it toward him, fingers curled around the small, silver ring of keys. “Here,” you say simply.
Satoru stills. He looks at your hand like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing, like the keys might bite him if he takes them. “What…?” his voice falters. “What’s this?”
“Your spare,” you reply. “I’m moving out.”
He doesn’t take the keys right away. He stares at you, the confusion sharpening into something quieter, something more serious. “You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
You don’t say I wouldn’t have watched you skate around like nothing ever happened if I wasn’t. You don’t say I wouldn’t have dragged myself back into this space, this icebox version of our past, if I didn’t want to close the door for good.
He finally reaches out and takes them, curling his fingers slowly around the metal like it might dissolve. You notice the way his smile has faded. The rink is suddenly very quiet.
“I see,” he says. It’s the most subdued you’ve heard him in weeks.
You take a step back. “Good game, by the way.”
You walk away.
04. the end (happily ever after).
“You can’t leave until the end of the month,” Satoru says by way of greeting, toeing off his shoes at the entrance. “You signed the lease with me. You have to stay until April.”
You pause halfway through stacking one of the moving boxes, fingers curled around a stack of your dog-eared books. “Are you seriously quoting the lease at me right now?”
Satoru shrugs out of his jacket. “I’m just saying. It’s legally binding.”
You set the books down a little too hard. “What, so now you care about the rules?”
“I’ve always cared,” he says.
“No, Satoru. You care when it’s convenient. You care when it means getting the last word. You don’t get to act like this now, after weeks of pretending I don’t exist.”
“I wasn’t pretending—”
“You stopped coming home,” you snap, the words catching in your throat like thorns. “You stopped showing up. You stopped talking to me.”
“I needed space,” he says, and you laugh—cold and bitter and hollow.
“From what? From me? From whatever happened that weekend?”
He says nothing. Just shifts his weight and stares at the floor like the grain of the wood might suddenly rearrange itself into answers.
You swallow. “Right. Of course. That weekend didn’t mean anything. Just like everything else.”
“Don’t do that,” Satoru says quietly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what we are,” you retort defensively. “Were. Because you clearly figured it out a long time ago and didn’t bother telling me.”
“It’s not like that.”
“No?” Your voice shakes. “Then what about the girl from the party, Satoru? What was that?”
His head jerks up. “What girl?”
You cross your arms. “Nanami showed me a photo. Some frat party. You and some girl. You looked—happy.”
Something flickers across his face—confusion first, then something like hurt. “You mean Misaki?”
“I don’t know her name. I just know you were smiling. With your arm around her. And I know I don’t sleep with people I don’t care about. So maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me. And you were just going to go back to your life like nothing happened, I wish you’d said so before I gave a damn.”
“Misaki,” he says again, stunned. “She’s dating Hajime.”
You blink.
“She’s my teammate’s girlfriend. He wanted a photo of all of us for her birthday because she’s moving to Osaka. That’s it. We all posed for a stupid picture, and then I left. I didn’t even want to go.”
You want to believe him. You really do. But your chest still aches with weeks of uncertainty, with that night you nearly cried yourself to sleep on the mattress you were already half-packing away. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I thought I already fucked everything up,” he admits. “You stopped talking to me. You looked right through me. I thought I crossed a line, and you regretted it.”
You shake your head, disbelieving. “You—you thought I regretted it? Satoru, I—” You cut yourself off. Swallow it down.
He steps forward, hands out like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed anymore. “I didn’t want to risk making it worse. But then you stopped coming to practice. You stopped leaving your door open. You were just… gone.”
“The only thing we ever had in common,” you say, “was Riko.”
His face falls.
“She’s dead, Satoru. And maybe… maybe we were just trying to hold on to each other because she was the one who tied us together.
“No.” His voice is firm. “No, that’s not true.”
You look away. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe at first,” he says. “But not anymore. Not for a long time.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I had more time. I miss you. Every day. I miss going grocery shopping with you. I miss your hair in the drain and your mugs on the counter and the way you used to fall asleep on the couch back when we still had the TV. I miss you,” he repeats, quieter this time, “so no. You can’t leave. Not until I get to ask you out properly.”
For your first date, Satoru sneaks you into the campus ice rink at one in the morning.
“Nicked the keys from the coach,” he says. “Don’t tell Nanamin.”
The air inside the rink is biting and crisp, even colder than you remember from the times you’d come to watch practice. Satoru flips the lights on, flooding the empty arena with a soft, almost romantic glow—clean white against the polished glass, shadows stretching long along the bleachers. You stand near the edge of the rink, hugging your coat tighter around your body.
“I can’t believe you stole from your coach for this,” you say, though you’re smiling.
Satoru shakes the keys at you. “Borrowed. It’s borrowing if I return them.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m endearing,” he corrects, walking backwards towards the ice, arms spread wide. “And this is your first official date. Has to be memorable.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart is soft and melty, like it always is around him now.
He’s already laced into his skates, having arrived with them slung over one shoulder. You, on the other hand, have to sit at the benches while he kneels in front of you to help you with yours. His fingers are quick and practiced, tugging the laces snug before double-knotting them with a flourish. It should be embarrassing—being fawned over like this—but there’s something reverent in the way he moves, like this is a ritual of his own making, and it tugs at something in your chest.
“You do this for all your first dates?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but failing. You’re too aware of the way his breath fans over your thighs, or the way his touch lingers just a little too long against your ankles.
He glances up at you, bright eyes amused. “You’re my first. Be gentle with me.”
The ice is smooth, freshly resurfaced. Satoru leads you to the centre, gliding effortlessly, show-offy as ever. He does a little spin, throws both arms in the air like he’s just scored, then turns and offers you a hand.
“You know I can’t skate like that.”
“Lucky for you,” he says, stepping closer and tucking his fingers through yours, “I happen to be very good at holding people up.”
You’re wobbly at first, your legs unsure, and he skates backward slowly, pulling you along. His hands are steady on your waist, his smile wide and proud. And once you find your rhythm—still shaky, but upright—you circle the rink together, the only sounds the soft hiss of blades on ice and your laughter echoing against the rafters.
It’s surreal. You’ve seen him like this before: in his element, cocky and sure of himself on the ice. But it’s different now, because now, every glance he throws your way feels like it means something. Halfway through, he slows to a stop and pulls you in close. “You know,” he says, softer now, “I used to dream about this.”
You blink up at him. “About breaking and entering university property?”
“No,” he says. “About you. Being with you. I used to imagine all the ways I could maybe get you to see me the way I saw you. And it always started with something like this.”
You flush. “Satoru…”
“Do you remember,” he says, nudging his forehead against yours, “after the snowstorm? When I told you I wouldn’t regret it?”
You nod.
“I meant it,” he says. “I still mean it.”
The kiss comes naturally, like exhaling. You’re both half-frozen, and he tastes like mind and cold air, but it’s perfect anyway—slow and warm and just a little clumsy, because you’re still in skates and your balance is terrible, and he laughs into your mouth when you nearly topple over.
“I’ve got you,” he says, arms anchoring you close.
When you eventually sit on the benches again, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos he’d smuggled in his bag, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Next time, I’ll bring you here in the daytime like a normal person.”
You hum, smiling against the rim of the cup. “But I think I like this version better.”
Satoru’s fingers find yours and squeeze. “Me, too,” he says.
The final buzzer sounds.
The crowd erupts around you—horns blaring, feet stomping, voices swelling into an anthem of unbridled celebration. On the ice, bodies collide in a heap of jerseys and helmets, gloves flung into the air like confetti. The scoreboard flashes a victorious 5 – 4, and you swear your heart’s beating just as fast as the game-winning slapshot Satoru landed in the final two minutes.
You stay seated in the bleachers, slightly breathless, fingers clenched around the hem of your coat. The whole rink pulses with energy. You could cut the adrenaline with a knife. Students are screaming their heads off. Someone nearby throws a foam fingers into the rink. Your ears are ringing and your eyes are locked on the number 6 jersey, skating lazy circles while his teammates swarm Nanami in a dogpile near the goal.
Satoru Gojo.
You watch him turn, searching the stands. The grin on his face is dazzling, sweat-slicked hair sticking out of his helmet in damp tufts. He lifts his stick over his head like a banner, pointing it directly at you when he finds you in the crowd.
Your heart stutters. You’re not even embarrassed about how wide your smile stretches.
He doesn’t even wait for the rest of the ceremony.
Not ten minutes later, he’s climbed the barriers and jogged up the bleacher steps, ignoring the photographers, the shouts of “Gojo! Pictures!” and Nanami’s loud, “Get back here, Gojo!” He finds you in the fifth row, standing now, half-shocked and half-laughing, and barrels straight into you.
“Hey—” you start, but then he’s kissing you.
It’s not the first time—God knows it won’t be the last—but something about it makes the rest of the world dissolve. Your hands find the sides of his face, fingers catching on the straps of his helmet, as he presses you back gently against the guardrail. He tastes like mint and ice and sweat, and his smile never fully disappears against your mouth.
“I knew you’d come,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough with exertion. “Could feel it.”
You swat him lightly on the chest, breathless. “Of course I came. It’s the finals.”
“You didn’t come to the semi-finals,” he teases, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Thought I’d been demoted.”
“You were in the sin bin for half the game,” you retort. “Not exactly sweetheart behaviour.”
He grins against your cheek, pulling back just enough to look at you. The crowd’s still losing their minds around you, but neither of you seem to notice. His helmet’s off now, clutched in one hand, and his forehead leans against yours.
“You came tonight,” he repeats. “That’s all I needed.”
It hits you, then, just how many people are watching. Phones are out. A chant’s already building in the lower rows—Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!—but he doesn’t care. He kisses you again like you’re the only person in the arena.
Maybe you are.
“God,” he says, breathless as he pulls away, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that after a win.”
You smile, fingers curled loosely in his jersey.
“Well,” you whisper, tugging him closer, “guess you’ve earned it.”
Oblivious!reader who laughs when her friends point out her and Nanami’s relationship. “Oh, he’s just a friend. His future girlfriend will be so lucky though!”
Oblivious!reader who brushes it off when strangers and cashiers assume they’re a couple by the way they act.
Oblivious!reader who smiles sweetly when Nanami picks her up from her job, waving at her coworkers who were glancing at each other.
Oblivious!reader who tells stories about her best-friend Nanami who always gives her gifts, calls her every night and knows her schedule by heart.
Oblivious!reader who meets Nanami’s family, being welcomed with open arms as Nanami’s nephew exclaims, “It’s Nanamim’s girlfriend!” as his mother covers his mouth and shakes her head.
Oblivious!reader who was confused while opening her front door to find Nanami holding a bouquet of her flowers, blinking when he asked to come inside.
Oblivious!reader who’s jaw drops when he admits he liked her since the start of their friendship, and trying to make it clear but she still wouldn’t get it.
Oblivious!reader who confesses that she also liked him for a while, but didn’t think he felt the same.
Oblivious!reader who shrugs when her kids ask why she wasn’t able to read Dada’s hints.
“you’ve never done this before, have you?” sylus asked softly, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh as you lay back against the pillows. you were wide-eyed and pink from cheek to chest. your breath caught in half of a gasp and a soft whimper, and that was all the answer he needed.
his smirk was lazy. full of that dangerous kind of affection. the kind that meant he was about to ruin you sweetly, slowly, and not feel the slightest bit guilty for it.
“didn’t think so,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “you blush too easy.”
you tried to look away, but his fingers caught your chin and tilted your face back toward him.
“no hiding,” he whispered. “let me see it.”
his hand slid down over your stomach again, between your thighs, just grazing the edge of your panties with a feather-light touch.
“look at you,” he purred, like velvet sin. “such a good girl, letting me touch you like this.”
“i–i trust you,” you breathed, voice trembling.
he paused at that. just for a second something flickered in his eyes. a bit of softness. definitely a crack in the heat.
but then he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “you shouldn’t.”
your thighs squeezed together instinctively, and he chuckled, low and wicked.
“mm, too late now,” he said. “you let a wolf into your bed, sweetheart. and now i’m gonna take my time.”
his fingers slipped under the fabric, finally touching you where you were soaked and needy. you gasped too loud, too surprised, and he groaned, dragging his teeth over your throat.
“this wet already? just from my voice?” he hissed. “fuck, you’re perfect.”
you squirmed, overwhelmed and eager, unsure of where to put your hands, but he grabbed one wrist and pinned it above your head with effortless strength.
“don’t move,” he said, kissing your pulse. “i’ll show you how it’s supposed to feel.”
and he did. one finger. then two. crooking them slow, watching you fall apart under his touch like he’d been made to do this. you moaned so sweet for him, and he groaned, teeth gritted, eyes locked on your fluttering lashes and trembling thighs.
“you were made for me,” he growled. “my innocent little angel.”
and when you came with his name on your lips and clutching the sheets, undone by nothing but his fingers and voice, he kissed you so sweet. so gentle.
“say thank you, baby.”
“thank you, sylus,” you whispered with flushed cheeks, and his grin turned into a soft smile.
in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic
pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader
summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved—
until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?
warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied
a/n i'll see u at the end :3
December 23, 2018.
“How do you feel?”
The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.
The stars were really bright that day.
The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.
Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.
“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”
You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?
It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.
He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”
You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.
“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”
What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.
It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.
At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”
You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”
“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”
Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”
“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.”
“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly.
“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.
You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”
There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,
I love you.
It goes unsaid.
Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.
You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.
“Always.”
December 24, 2018.
He looks like he’s watching the sky again.
You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.
But you know better. And still, you wait.
Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.
His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.
The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.
But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.
You were going to plant them for him every spring.
You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.
You were going to grow old together.
Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.
“I’ll go,” you say.
It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.
“I said I’ll go.”
You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him.
You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.
As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.
You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.
You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”
You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.
You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.
Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.
So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.
When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.
You just think: I kept my promise.
I waited.
Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:
Let us try again.
Please—let us try again.
…
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
You wake up from your dream, gasping.
The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.
It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.
What a weird fucking dream.
One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid.
From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?
You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.
Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.
Gojo.
A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.
What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.
Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?
You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—
It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.
Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.
And notice immediately that you are going to be late.
Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet.
When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.
Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.
Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.
You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.
His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?”
“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”
As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.
Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.
You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”
You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.
Gojo.
Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name.
But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—
This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.
Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.
Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”
Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles.
It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.
He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.
But you do.
When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.
Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”
And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.
So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?
Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”
You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.
Respectfully, what the fuck.
As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.
Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”
You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.
His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”
Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.
And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.
It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.
Then, a vision.
It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.
A bed.
It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—
The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.
You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left.
Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.
Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.
In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.
next. the aftermath (soon!)
a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!
to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.
i haven't started reading it but WHY does this remind me of the plot in the drama My Demon, bcs they ARE reincarnated and they get the happy ending they did not get in their first life. This is crazy I know I'll cry already 😭
genre/warnings: friends with benifits, collage au, suggestive comments, situationship, cussing, reader is referred to as babe twice, mentioned of degradations
notes: first gojo fic lets go ✌🏽🤓
your relationship with gojo satoru, fratboy extraordinaire, usually begins and ends with a late-night text to come over. so why does it suddenly feel like he wants more?
sukuna and your kids help you through a slump | f. reader, she/her, burnt-out reader, angst and fluff, estb. rl, ؛ ଓ
the thing about slumps is that you never know you’re in one. not until your own body becomes foreign — your limbs heavy, your eyes always tired, everything feeling a little... bland.
it wasn’t always like this.
you used to love the routine — the mornings, the lunches, the yelling at sukuna to “not let them eat marshmallows before dinner,” the late night runs to get weird snacks, the sunday movie nights where you’d all squeeze onto one couch like sardines.
but lately, you’re just… tired.
not sleepy. tired. in that soul-deep way where even brushing your teeth feels like a whole act.
and somehow, somehow, your kids notice it before even you do.
you're sitting on the edge of your bed, motionless. your laptop's somewhere on the floor, your phone is still buzzing with unread messages, and you’ve been staring at the same spot on the wall for god knows how long. the curtains are drawn. the air's too still.
when your son pads in, it’s not loud. in fact, it’s too quiet for someone who usually announces every room he enters like a little tornado.
“mommy?” he whispers.
you blink. “hm?”
“can i touch your feet?”
you look down. he’s crouched at the edge of the bed, tiny hands already reaching for your ankles. you nod, confused. “why?”
he shrugs. “i saw daddy do it when you were sad that one time.”
before you can even process that, your daughter skips in — not with her usual dramatic flair — but with a thick book clutched to her chest. it’s the kid’s version of greek mythology you bought her from the school fair. she sits beside you, opening it with careful fingers.
“i’ll read to you,” she announces. “because when i feel sad, you read to me.”
you don’t even know what to say as your throat goes tight. you stare down at your son, whose hands are so small and soft, trying his absolute best to “massage” like he’s seen in movies. he’s pressing at your heel with his thumb like he’s kneading dough. your daughter starts reading, mispronouncing “hephaestus” so badly it sounds like “head-pasta,” and she just keeps going, blissfully unaware, or maybe completely aware and trying her best anyway.
you don’t realize you’re crying until a tear falls right on the page.
“m-mommy?” your daughter panics immediately. “did the story make you sad?? i can skip this one! i’ll skip to pers-phoney! pers-phoney is cute, right?”
“did i do it too hard?” your son asks, frozen with one hand still on your ankle. “i didn't mean to squish your bones! i was gentle! i swear!”
you open your mouth to speak — to reassure them — but you’re already crying too much. it’s not loud, just silent sobs that shake you from the inside. it’s the kind of crying you don’t even realize you needed.
“tch, what the hell happened here?”
sukuna’s voice is always a bit gravelly, but right now it’s softer around the edges. when he walks in, he looks at you, then the kids, then the way your shoulders are trembling — and in less than a second, he’s by your side. no words, no questions. just wraps you up like he’s got no bones, just solid warmth, holding you like someone might snatch you away.
“keep reading, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your daughter, tucking you under his chin. “she loves when you read.”
she sniffs. “but she’s crying, daddy!”
“yeah,” he says, kissing the top of your head, “but not ‘cause of the book. keep going. persephone sounds perfect.”
and so she does. voice quivering at first, then steadier, flipping the pages with a little more confidence. your son rests his cheek on your knee like he’s guarding you from sadness itself. and you — caught between two small kids who love you too much and a husband who may not always say the right thing but knows — you realize maybe you were in a slump.
and maybe this is all you needed. not a vacation, not a break.
just a moment.
to be held. to be read to. to cry in peace.
family time, that’s all. just this.
—
it's 30 minutes past curfew. which, in your household, means the kids are practically criminals at this point.
“daddy, i am not leaving until mama sleeps,” your daughter hisses with a level of conviction that could move mountains — or at the very least, her father. sukuna, crouched beside the bed and very obviously out of his depth, mutters back, “your mom doesn’t fall asleep on cue, kid. she’s not a switch.”
“she can be!” she whisper-yells, stubborn arms crossed over her tiny chest. “if i read long enough, she’ll sleep.”
meanwhile, at the foot of the bed, your son is grinning up at you with every single tooth in his mouth on display, thumbs digging into your calves with all the strength his tiny hands can muster. he’s working your legs like he’s been hired. “how’s that, mommy?” he beams. “you feel better now? i think your bones are less sad now!”
you bite back a watery laugh. “so much better, sweetheart. my bones are smiling.”
“i knew it!”
behind him, your daughter stomps her tiny socked foot. “daddy, give me the book. i’ll read. you’re too slow.”
“you have school in the morning,” sukuna says, exasperated. “go to bed.”
“mama’s more important than school.”
he exhales sharply. “...you get that from her,” he mutters, jerking his thumb toward you.
“good,” your daughter huffs, crawling up beside you with the book anyway. “we’ll read the one where the girl becomes queen. that’s her favorite. and you—” she looks at sukuna sharply “—you do princess voice this time. last time you made her sound like a goblin.”
“i’m not doing the princess voice,” sukuna grumbles.
your son pokes your knee. “daddy is good at goblin voice, though.”
“fine. i’ll do the stupid voice,” he sighs. “but only one chapter, and then you kids are going to bed.”
they agree like it’s a peace treaty, and the chapter begins — sukuna reading in the most unconvincing falsetto you've ever heard in your life, your daughter correcting his pronunciation every other sentence, and your son now curled up beside your waist, occasionally patting your stomach like you’re a patient in need of healing.
by the end, your eyes are closed — not from sleep, but from how deeply your heart has been wrung dry from all their care. you’re quiet, not crying, just… absorbing. warm.
your daughter peeks. “mama?”
you hum.
“are you okay now?”
you open your eyes to meet hers. “i’m getting there, baby.”
that’s good enough for her. she climbs onto your chest like a cat and smothers your cheeks with a flurry of kisses. your son follows, planting his own slightly-wet kiss on your forehead before they both hop off the bed.
“night night, mama,” he says. “don’t be sad again, okay?”
“not allowed,” your daughter adds sternly. “we’re not gonna let you.”
“roger that,” you say, voice thick.
“bed.” sukuna finally growls like a tired bear, herding them down the hallway like two giggling sheep. there’s some mild resistance, a little dragging of feet, and a lot of promises to check on you in the morning. but eventually, they vanish into their room.
and then it's just you and him.
he closes the door, walking over and kneels beside you. his hand cups your face with such terrifying gentleness that it nearly splits you in two.
you offer him the smallest, tired smile. just a flicker.
it’s all he needs.
“shift over.”
he climbs into bed behind you, arm snaking around your waist as he pulls you into him like he's magnetized. no questions. no push. just touch. his way of saying i see you. i’ve got you.
your hand finds his.
“you gonna make me do the princess voice tomorrow too?” he mutters into your neck.
you snort, sniffling. “maybe.”
he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “then you better get some sleep, princess.”
Tags: sextherapist!Nanami x fem!reader, nocurse!au, taboo romance, heavy topics such as sexual assault, dead dove due to the power imbalance and heavy conversation.
Synopsis: In which Kento Nanami is a sex therapist, and his client is a young neglected wife with an emotionally absent husband. He teaches you what love is really all about.
An: Was really on the fence about posting the first part to this series. i’m glad most people seem to be enjoying it though :) so sit down and let sextherapist!nanami be your comfort for today
Part one. | Part two. |
‘I guess it makes me feel like I’m not good enough for him. Every time we have sex I try to cater to him, but it just feels like it’s never enough. If he had it his way, we’d probably have sex everyday, but I just don’t have that kind of time, energy, or desire.’
Those words burned Nanami’s ears. He knows it’s only your first session, but he can see that there’s already progress being made just by having these discussions of sex out in the open..
It reminded him just why he was so passionate about safe sex measures.
“I was only going to take the tea to placate you…”
Even if he knew that was the truth behind your answer, it still left a heavy somber feeling on his heart. He nodded, keeping his face trained on an empathetic expression.
“Do you do that often..? Put your needs behind the wants of others..?”
God, why was he reading you to filth right now? You took a deep shaky breath, reaching for more tissues because you’re definitely going to need them.
“It’s just easier..” Your throat feels like it’s trying to close as you’re attempting to force back your tears.
“Shh, let it all out..” Nanami knows that he shouldn’t be taking this tone of voice with you. He shouldn’t be shushing you and cooing to you that it’s okay, but he can’t override his innate biological need to protect and nurture.
The tears begin falling down your cheeks once again, and your shoulders shake with each small sob that wracks your body.
Nanami can’t resist himself. He leans over, and his big thick palm rests on your shoulder, feeling like a secure anchor out in the middle of the ocean.
“Such a kind, caring soul..” he whispers to you, using his hand to rub on your shoulder soothingly.
You feel the urge to press your face into his chest and vent out all of your innermost feelings and thoughts to this man while he strokes your hair lovingly, but you hold yourself still in your chair, knowing it’d be highly inappropriate.
Soon, your tears dry and you take a sobering breath. That was a lot, and the session isn’t even over yet.
“So, what do I do about.. him hounding me..?” For some reason, you still can’t come to terms with using the word coercion. It feels like a betrayal to your marriage, even if you do implicitly know that he’s been coercing you to get what he wants.
“Well, what can you do?” Nanami asked softly. He eased back into his chair, preparing himself mentally to get back in his counselor mindset.
“I guess I could…” you search your mind for answers. The only obviously wrong answer is to continue giving into him. “I could tell him how it stresses me out when he does that.”
Nanami nods his head. Inwardly, he doesn’t think that’s going to be enough. If your husband was anywhere near a halfway decent person, he would be able to understand how asking multiple times is inappropriate.
“What do you think will get in your way from telling him about how it makes you feel?”
You imagine telling your husband and how he’d react. “I guess I can be scared of him going in the complete opposite…”
Nanami’s eyebrows furrow, and he pushes his glasses up on his nose. “What do you mean by that?”
“Like… I imagine telling him, and he’ll probably respond by saying that he’ll never ask again and that I’ll need to initiate sex anytime I want it.”
Nanami can feel his eye twitch. Is there any manipulation tactic that your husband isn’t using? “I can see how that’d be discouraging. You unfortunately can’t control how your husband responds, but you can control how you phrase the question. Let’s roleplay this conversation if that’s okay. Pretend I’m your husband.”
Your face heats a bit. A tiny voice in your head tells you that if Nanami was your husband, you wouldn’t be having this issue. After taking a deep breath, you try and pretend that you’re speaking to your husband.
“When you ask me to have sex with you multiple times in a day, it really stresses me out and puts a lot of pressure on me.”
“So? What do you want me to do, Y/n? Am I suppose to read your mind and know when you want it?” Kento’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp and irritated. He watches your eyes widen in response, hurt coils on your face. “Is that how he’d respond?” he adds in a much softer tone, trying to remind you that this is just a roleplay exercise.
After a long pause, “Yeah, you got it spot on somehow…”
Because I know how narcissistic assholes act, he thinks to himself.
“Let’s try that question again, but this time, I want you to phrase your statement so you put blame on the questions and not your husband, okay?”
“Okay,” you breathe out, trying to find the words to say. “Those types of questions make me feel really pressured and make it hard for me to feel ready for sex.”
“Perfect. You did so well,” Nanami praises you with a warm smile.
Butterflies swarm your stomach. It’s not often you hear those words instead of hearing more things you need to work on. A small, timid smile curls on your lips.
“Do you think he’ll react poorly to that too?” you ask, wanting to know Nanami’s opinion.
“There’s no way for me to know how he’ll respond, but there’s only one way to find out, right? If we get no where with this plan, we’ll do something else,” he assures you, sitting back in his chair.
His eyes flick down to his watch. The session needs to come to an end soon, but the thought of you walking out of his home makes his stomach feel tight. He’s not ready to let you leave yet.
“Let’s briefly touch on the second thing—“
Your phone’s ringtone interrupts Nanami’s words, and you quickly apologize before fishing your phone out of your purse.
“It’s my husband. He’s probably wondering how much longer I’ll be.” You click the reject button and lock your phone, but Nanami can see how the simple act of rejecting his call makes you feel nervous. Your fingers shook lightly, and you gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“That’s okay. We can wrap it up here for today… During our next session…”
The sound of vibration fills the room this time.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Nanami. He gets worried..”
More like controlling. It’s just barely been one hour.
“Send him a small text and let him know we’re almost done.” Nanami gives a kind smile, even while he’s having violent thoughts about your husband.
He watches as your fingers fly across your keyboard, quickly typing out a small message. You then lock your phone again, stow it away in your purse, and you return your gaze back to Nanami.
If you keep your husband waiting too much longer, you’ll hear about it later today.
“During our next session, I want you to tell me how it went with your husband. I also would like to touch base on the next thing you said while we talked about your lack of sex drive. You mentioned that you try to cater to him, but it’s never enough. We’ll get into what that means next time, okay?” Nanami says, finally getting his words out without an interruption.
You swallow thickly, immediately feeling nervous for the next session. You’re not sure if you’re ready to talk about the act of having sex, but you knew it’d come up eventually.
“Okay… I’ll see you then, Mr. Nanami. Take care,” you wish him farewell before rising from the small couch. Nanami rises with you and guides you toward his front door.
His eyes can’t help but glance down towards your figure, and he feels his hatred for your husband grow. He must not truly understand how lucky he is to have a wife like you.
“Take care, Y/n. You have my number if you need to come in earlier than scheduled.”
As soon as the front door closes, you dial your husband’s number, ready to explain that the session went over in timing.
Meanwhile, Nanami also picks up his phone, and he dials a peer’s number, Atsuya Kusakabe. Nanami’s known Kusakabe since they were in graduate school together. They often shared phone calls with each other and their other friend, Hiromi Higuruma. While Higuruma wasn’t a therapist, he did work in legal, which helped Kusakabe and Nanami out a lot with legal questions.
After a few rings, Kusakabe answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, you’re not in a session, are you?” Nanami asks, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder. He pours water into his kettle to start on some tea.
“I wouldn’t have answered if I was in one. I only do intakes today, and I finished those up hours ago. Why? You needing to talk?” Kusakabe’s voice sounds even more gravely over the phone than it does in person. Nanami imagines he’s probably enjoying a cigarette right now.
“Yeah, I just got out of a first session with a female patient. It’s weighing on me.”
“I don’t know how you do what you do, Nanami. You know, you’d probably have a better quality of life if you focused on something else.”
“Not an option. I didn’t spend years of my life researching to do something else. This also isn’t weighing on me like my other cases do.” Nanami leans against one of his kitchen counters, looking up towards the ceiling. He debates on not telling Kusakabe at all about how your case. If he tells him how he feels, that means he has to acknowledge that it’s teetering on breaking ethical code.
“Well? Go on.”
“My client has a piss poor excuse for a husband, and I’m pretty sure the story runs a lot deeper than what is being said.”
“Jeez Ken, you said this was her first session, right? Of course there’s more to the story. That’s a given. You think there’s abuse going on?” Kusakabe flicks his cigarette, looking out into his property. He always enjoyed the quiet life way more, which is why he did career counseling. It was way less stressful.
“I know there’s at least emotional abuse going on. I can tell she’s not even aware of the levels of manipulation her husband is using. I had to bite my tongue several times throughout our session.”
A chuckle sounds from the other side of the phone.
“Don’t tell me you’re already partial to this woman, Ken.”
Nanami doesn’t respond immediately. His jaw tenses slightly. Luckily, the tea kettle whistling breaks the slight tension. “I just care. That’s all.”
“You wouldn’t be doing this job if you didn’t care, but do you care too much to do your job effectively?”
contents : gn!reader but written with f!reader in mind, one description of reader having longer hair, established relationship, insecure reader, vent piece/self insert hehe, comfort, fluff, no use of y/n — wc 0.7k
“you okay?” satoru asked innocently, tilting his head slightly to get a glimpse of you leaned on his shoulder. a small spark of worry had ignited in him when you had very suddenly turned silent.
“do you think i’m too much?”
“what do you mean ‘too much’?”
with a shy shrug of your shoulders, you opened your mouth again to answer, “you know… too much.”
“not to me, you’re not.”
lifting your head to look at him, your eyes locked instantly. he was wearing a relaxed expression, the tiniest smile at the corner of his lips persevering through his concern.
“you sure?” you blinked.
“has someone told you you’re too much?” he suppressed the small chuckle that bubbled up inside him at the share disbelief of the scenario you were hinting at.
again, you shrugged. “something along those lines.”
an aggressive scoff very abruptly shot past his teeth along with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “it’s not you that’s too much, it’s them who aren’t enough,” he said, slowly starting to rile himself up over the fact that someone would even dare think you were too much.
“oh?” was all you managed to squeak out, satoru quickly having you turn speechless.
“i just mean-“ he cut himself off, licking his lips in frustration, haven taken serious offence at the scenario you had presented. with eyes flittering about, he racked his brain to form his explanation further in hopes he could get his point across. “i suppose, in those relationships, you probably were too much. but not because you’re too much, you know?”
you blinked at him rapidly, “nooo?” you dragged out.
“you’re too much in the sense that you’re too much for them, as they are just not able to handle all the beautiful things that make you you!”
somehow, his frantic rambling was slowly starting to make sense, and he was very clearly going into his speech with his entire heart and body. and with the intensity he explained, he caused your own heart to start beating faster against your chest and clenching your jaw shut, curiously waiting for him to continue.
“whoever said this to you is a glass-“ and again he lost you. “say they’re a glass meant to hold ten ounces, then they are simply too small a glass for you to pour yourself into as you are sixteen ounces.”
“i see,” you whispered, nostrils starting to flare as satoru now had your eyes start to water with threatening tears.
your breath hitched when he reached out to grab your hand in his, thumb stroking comforting lines on the back of your hand, softly securing the grip with a light squeeze.
“it’s not your fault when you end up overfilling a glass that’s just not good enough to hold you,” he said, his tone having returned to a more calm rhythm, holding your gaze. “lucky for you, you have a boyfriend who is a twenty ounce glass,” playful pride carrying his words that had the corners of your lips turn upwards for the first time that evening. “which means i have room to hold all sixteen gorgeous ounces of you, and then some.”
a shaky chuckle tumbled out of you, all his words tugging at your heartstrings in all the right ways. as ridiculous as he was, he always knew how to turn a bad situation around. scaring away any negative thoughts before they settled permanently, he proved once again to be the person you could rely on to be your rock — your safety.
“besides,” he sighed, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, “look who you’re dating. you could never be more than me.”
now you let out a genuine laugh, leaning into his hand as he hand moved it to cup your cheek. “well, true,” you played along, continuing to giggle a little when he softly pinched your cheek as ‘punishment’. “but i think i’m a big enough glass to hold you as well.”
a soft smile painted his face. “i’ve never felt as if i’ve spilled over.”
“that’s good,” you whispered, carefully turning your head to place a chaste kiss agains the palm of his hand. “thank you.”
“always.”
author's note : can yall tell someone recently triggered my insecurities hehe... well i'm bringing myself comfort by writing this then. also, this is inspired by a very sweet ig reel i saw
comments and reblogs are appreciated
areudirty
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
dailybridgerton
pixelskylines
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
