LO TIENES BIEN MERECIDO, Y HEMOS DE DARNOS UN BESO
YOU CAN CALL ME ROCKY! 24. she/her. mexican american. miguel o'hara enjoyer. bradley bradshaw enthusiast. clark kent fangirl. welcome to my little corner of the universe!
fratjo never goes down… unless its you, of course ! (⸝⸝> ω <⸝⸝)
the first rule of being satoru gojo was simple: you never, ever went down on a girl.
“it’s undignified,” he declared, leaning back in the worn-out frat house armchair, one leg slung over the arm. a bottle of cheap beer dangled from his fingers. “like, biologically, it makes no sense. you’re putting your face in a swamp. a swamp.i have standards.”
his friends—a chorus of nodding, beer-addled bros—laughed and clinked bottles in agreement. “preach, man!”
“seriously,” gojo continued, warming to his theme, his white hair glowing under the shitty fluorescent light. “what’s in it for me? the view is mid. the taste is questionable. naaah. my talents are better utilized elsewhere.” he gestured vaguely with the bottle. “let them worship me. that’s the natural order. i’m a giver, sure, but that’s just… not in my repertoire. ever.”
he said it with such absolute, unshakeable conviction that it became gospel in the frat house. gojo doesn’t eat pussy. it was a known fact, like the sky being blue or his ego being planetary in size.
cut to three hours later.
the same satoru gojo is currently buried so deep between your thighs he might need a rescue team. the arrogant smirk is gone, replaced by a look of single-minded, desperate devotion. his glasses are discarded somewhere on your bedroom floor.
“fuuuhhck,” he slurs, the word muffled against your skin as his tongue—that clever, wicked tongue he claimed was too good for this—lashes your clit in tight, frantic circles. “fuck, fuck, fuck… mmmh, so good…”
he’s not just doing it. he’s feasting. one large hand pins your hip to the mattress, the other is tangled in the sheets like he’s holding on for dear life. the wet, obscene sounds filling the room are coming from him as much as from you— slurps, groans, hungry hums that vibrate straight to your core. each flick of his tongue draws a new, breathy moan from him, a symphony of whines and low, possessive growls.
you card your fingers through his sweaty white hair, tugging gently. “t-thought you didn’t do this,” you gasp, arching into his mouth.
he pulls off just enough to growl, his lips and chin glistening. “shut up,” he breathes, pupils blown wide, looking utterly pussydrunk. a string of saliva connects his lower lip to your folds. “you taste like fucking heaven. ‘s different.” he nuzzles back in, inhaling deeply with a shuddering sigh. “god, you smell so good… mmph…” then he dives back in with a needy whimper, his nose pressing against you as he laps at your entrance, drinking you down like a man dying of thirst. every swallow is punctuated by a soft, satisfied groan from the back of his throat.
he’s lost all composure, all his cool, frat-boy posturing dissolved into a primal, whimpering mess. he moans into you, a continuous, low-pitched moans synced with the thrust of his tongue, his hips grinding uselessly against the mattress. when your legs start to shake around his head, he lets out a muffled, encouraging “yesssss, c’mon, baby, g-give it to me— n-need it s'bad—”
when you finally come, crying out his name, he doesn’t pull away. he rides out every pulse with his tongue, swallowing every drop, a deep, resonant sigh of pleasure vibrating against your oversensitive flesh until you’re pushing his head away, trembling and spent.
he collapses beside you, breathing raggedly, a dazed, blissed-out smile on his slick lips. he looks ruined, triumphant, and utterly, completely yours. he lets out a long, shaky exhale that’s almost a laugh.
“…okay,” he pants after a minute, turning to nuzzle your shoulder. he presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. “maybe i do go down. but only for you.” he licks his lips, still tasting you, and lets out another soft, involuntary sigh. “and you better not tell anyone.”
"we'll see about that," you just smile, running a thumb over his swollen lower lip.
you wanted to start to undress, lifting your shirt over your head when choso stopped you. “maybe you can… stay dressed?”
you eyed your boyfriend who sat on the edge of the bed completely naked, his cock twitching and leaking against his stomach after all the heated kisses. his cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy.
“you want me to stay dressed?” you asked, surprised.
“mhmm.” he nodded shyly, biting his lip. that’s how you ended up dry humping choso’s bare leg.
your soaked panties dragged slowly against his thick, muscular thigh, the friction making you sigh softly. choso whimpered beneath you, hands trembling as they rested on your hips.
“feels so good…” his cock lay heavy and untouched against his abs, leaking messily every time you rolled your hips. “you’re so wet… i can feel it all over my leg.”
you braced your hands on his shoulders and ground down harder, the wet patch on your panties growing darker as you rubbed your clothed pussy against his bare skin. choso’s head fell back with a moan, thighs flexing underneath you.
“please… don’t stop,” he begged quietly, looking up at you with needy eyes. “use me. use my leg however you want… i just want to feel you.”
you moved faster, grinding your swollen clit against the firm muscle of his thigh. choso was panting now, chest heaving, cock twitching helplessly as it continued to drip precum all over his stomach. he looked so pretty like this—completely naked and desperate while you stayed fully dressed, using him for your pleasure.
“you’re making such a mess.”
choso whimpered, fingers digging into your hips. “i’m sorry… can’t help it. you feel too good. i’m so hard it hurts but… fuck, i love when you use me like this.”
you leaned forward and kissed him, still grinding on his thigh. choso moaned into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours obediently as his cock continued leaking, completely ignored between you.
“please…” he whispered against your lips. “keep going. make yourself cum on me. i want to feel it.”
you smiled against his mouth and rolled your hips harder, soaking his bare leg even more while choso trembled and whimpered beneath you.
“i’m close—”
“yes— please cum on me,” choso whispered. “i want to feel it. please—”
your orgasm hit you hard, riding out every wave while choso watched with wide eyes. he couldn’t look away from the sight—the way your soaked panties rubbed against his thigh, the shiny wetness on his skin, the way your body trembled on top of him.
“oh god—” without any touch to his cock at all, choso suddenly came.
thick ropes of cum spurted from his untouched cock, painting his stomach and chest in messy streaks. he whimpered your name, completely lost in the sight of you cumming on his thigh. his cock continued twitching and leaking even after he finished, still painfully hard.
you slowed your movements, breathing heavily as you looked down at him. “you came…” you whispered, a little stunned.
he nodded weakly, cheeks burning red. “couldn’t help it… you looked so pretty cumming on me.” and then he pulled you down into a messy kiss, still trembling from his untouched orgasm.
︵ ೀ mdni. casual with satoru ( but it’s actually not casual at all )
“stop talking and take off your clothes.”
you cut satoru off, staring at him from the edge of the bed. he showed up at your place talking about some mission, some curse, some dumb shit that happened with his students like you two were actually dating.
“why are you telling me this?” you ask, again. “we’re here to fuck, right? not play boyfriend and girlfriend.”
satoru pauses, then that lazy smirk spreads across his face. “yeah. you’re right.”
he doesn’t waste time. he pulls his shirt off, drops his pants, and pushes you back onto the bed. before you can say anything else he’s between your thighs, spreading them wide. he drags your panties down and buries his face in your pussy like he’s starving.
“fuck,” you moan as his tongue slides up and down, hot and wet. he licks broad and messy, then sucks your clit between his lips. you grip the sheets, hips bucking against his mouth. he eats you like he always does—greedy, sloppy, perfect.
but something feels different tonight.
every time you look down, his bright blue eyes are locked on yours. he doesn’t close them. he watches you the whole time, pupils wide while his tongue works your clit and two thick fingers push inside you. there’s heat there, sure, but something softer too. something that looks way too much like love.
you try to ignore it, but you can’t. not when he stares at you like that.
satoru curls his fingers and sucks harder. you whimper, thighs shaking around his head. without breaking eye contact he reaches up and grabs both your hands, locking his long fingers with yours. he pins your hands to the bed beside your hips and holds them tight while he devours your pussy.
“satoru—”
he hums against your clit, the vibration making your back arch. his grip on your hands stays firm, warm, almost possessive. those eyes never leave your face, even when your thighs squeeze around him and you start grinding against his tongue.
you can’t shake the feeling. it’s not just hunger in his gaze. it’s more. and it scares you how much you like it while he fucks you with his mouth and fingers, holding your hands like he never wants to let go.
★ . . being stuck with frenemies with benefits!satoru in a packed car
the car is way too packed.
windows fogging up from bodies crammed into a space that’s definitely not meant for this. you’re stuck on satoru’s lap in the back, your friends loud and distracted up front with music blasting and snacks being passed around.
at first, it’s subtle when his hands settle politely on your hips. but after a few minutes you feel him shift, spreading his thighs wider so your core presses firmly against one of his thick thighs. his fingers flex, slowly starting to guide your hips in tiny movements.
you turn your head slightly and glare at him hard over your shoulder.
“satoru, stop,” you hiss under your breath, eyes narrowed in warning.
he just smiles that tiring, infuriating smile, lips brushing your ear. “what? i’m just trying to get comfortable.”
you try to stay still, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but he keeps rocking you subtly, the firm muscle of his thigh dragging right against your clit through your thin shorts.
heat builds fast between your legs no matter how much you fight it. you dig your nails into his wrist, trying to still his hands, but he only tightens his grip and pulls you down harder.
“behave,” you mutter, shooting him another sharp glare.
satoru chuckles quietly, breath warm against your neck. “you first.”
bitch.
you hold out for a few more minutes, jaw clenched, but the constant pressure is too good. eventually your hips start moving on their own, small, reluctant rolls that turn into slow, needy grinds. you hate how quickly you give in, but the way his thigh feels against your soaked pussy is addictive.
“that’s my girl,” he whispers smugly, one hand slipping under your hoodie to palm your breast while the other keeps guiding your movements.
you’re grinding properly now, dragging your clit along his leg in steady circles, trying desperately to stay quiet. your shorts are getting soaked, the wet patch growing on his sweats with every roll of your hips. satoru’s cock is rock hard against your ass, twitching every time you press down.
you don’t notice how, suddenly, your friend in the passenger seat turns around, eyebrows furrowed.
“hey, you okay back there?” her concerned face would’ve made your heart melt if you weren’t humping satoru’s thigh under you. “your face is super red and you look kinda hot, you getting carsick or something?”
your heart jumps, whole body freezing mid-grind, still flushed and breathing heavier than you should be.
well fuck.
before you can answer, satoru jumps in smoothly, voice casual and unbothered.
“yeah she’s good.” you feel his thump caress the skin under your breast. “she gets motion sickness really easily on these winding roads.” he says. “plus she wore that hoodie even though i told her it’s warm in the car. stubborn as hell.”
he gives your thigh a little squeeze under the hoodie, like he’s comforting you. you let out a weak chuckle, playing along even though your pussy is still throbbing against his thigh.
“yeah… i’m fine,” you manage, voice a little strained. “just warm. that’s all.” you drag the last part, turning to the side which is enough to give him a glare.
your friend nods and turns back around, satisfied. the second the whole attention is gone, satoru’s hand slides between your legs from the front, pressing two fingers against your clit through your soaked shorts while you keep grinding.
“close call,” he murmurs, amused. “now be a good girl and finish what you started.”
you’re too worked up to fight anymore. you ride his thigh harder, hips rolling desperately, chasing that tight coil of pleasure building fast in your stomach. satoru keeps rubbing your clit in tight circles, lips pressed to your shoulder to hide his own heavy breathing.
when you cum, it hits you hard. your thighs shake around his leg as you bite down on your lip to stay silent, pussy clenching and soaking his thigh completely. your whole body trembles in his lap while he holds you down, making sure you ride every wave.
after a long moment, satoru kisses the side of your neck softly, voice low and satisfied.
“good girl… look at the mess you made on me.”
you stay slumped against his chest, still breathing hard, knowing this stupid friends-with-benefits thing is getting way too dangerous.
i didn’t know this could be an option.. frenemies with benefits and satoru combo??? 😃
₊ ݃ ࿔ྀིྀ ꒰ 𓈒 NANAMI KENTO might be the pettiest man alive . . .
⎯⎯ ꒰ 1.3k ! ꒱ 💭
contrary to outsider belief, your marriage to nanami worked remarkably well. too well.
a shocking revelation, considering you were “ill-tempered” while nanami had the patience of a saint, allegedly . . . .
the truth of the matter was that beneath the all the composure, politeness, and that expensive wristwatch kento always wore on his wrist, your husband unfortunately was just as much of a brat as you were.
if not, worse.
the two of you held grudges over the stupidest things imaginable: once, nanami corrected your pronunciation of “espresso” during breakfast. so? you didn’t kiss him goodbye before work for three whole days.
in retaliation, your coffee that he would make you each morning mysteriously happened to arrive without the three ounces of sugar you so adamantly required to — “balance out the armpit taste.”
petty. childish. ridiculous.
yet somehow, these cold wars became the foundation of a deeply functional marriage.
“kento dear,” you began, soft steps quietly thudding against the wooden floors as you made your way to him, who was fully dressed: soft charcoal sweater hanging off his frame, pushed up revealing his forearms, reading glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose while his sandy locs unstyled in a way you almost never got to see outside these walls.
which, unfortunately, was the problem. he was far too comfortable for the atrocities he had just committed against you whilst you slept.
“did you touch it?” your voice coming out suspiciously calm.
nanami doesn’t even look up from the cup of jasmine tea he was nursing. “no.”
you only narrow your eyes as you finally end up next to him. “kento.”
that bratty tone of yours was enough to earn you a glance now, hazel eyes tired yet sharp all the same. “i told you, no.”
“yeah, well,” you huff, crossing your arms, looking up at him expectantly, “waking up feeling like i got left in a meat locker says otherwise.”
he shuts his eyes as he takes a slow sip of his tea, setting it down with a soft clink, the steam curling between you. “interesting,” he begins, voice flat with quiet amusement.
“you seem quite functional for someone who claims they’re—” he pauses, unimpressed, before lifting his hand and giving your forehead a quick, precise knock with his knuckles, withdrawing before you can even think to catch his wrist. “—frozen solid.”
“ugh!” you huff, hands missing his wrist and instead clutching your forehead with an adorable frown. “i’m not frozen solid, but i’m going to be. i don’t know why you just can’t leave it on 72.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, “you know i get hot. i shouldn’t have to strip to be comfortable in my own home,” he says flatly.
his hand lifts without much ceremony, gently replacing yours on your forehead. he briefly rubs the spot he’d knocked before his fingers slip down to tug lightly at your ear, earning an immediate, indignant whine from you.
“or would you prefer i start walking around the house naked instead?”
“what? i’m not answering that.” you say, turning your face slightly away from him, the words coming out clipped as you huff under your breath, “pervert…”, still clearly offended at the recurring offenses.
you manage to slap his arm away. “i don’t see why you insist on wearing long sleeves and then complain you’re hot.” you grumble. “you’re making me hot just by looking at you.”
he scoffs softly at that, as if the answer is obvious. “i wear it because i enjoy being properly dressed,” he replies, smoothing an imaginary crease from his sleeve before leveling you with a look. “and physiologically speaking, it’s significantly easier to warm up than it is to cool down.”
“so, like i said,” he murmurs, reaching for his tea again, “the thermostat stays where it is.”
and just like that, the war begins . . .
the rest of the day was full of quiet hostilities:
the two of you swiping the thermostat in opposite directions each time you walked by, addressing each other by first name as if you were two disgruntled coworkers trapped in an enemies to lovers arrangement rather than of spouses, nanami opening windows for “circulation” while you wrapped yourself in blankets like a victorian child afflicted with a devastating illness, texting each other back and forth instead of verbally communicating.
YOU ‣
my hands are blue and numb. i hope your happy
KENTO ‣
*You’re
How are you texting me then?
YOU ‣
don’t be annoying ken.
that’s not the point
clearly, neither of you were willing to concede. which only meant this was quickly becoming a battle of endurance rather than a dispute about “temperature”. which also meant this was not going to end soon.
or so you thought.
despite the many, many hours of domestic warfare, the two of you still end up in bed the same way you always did, backs turned dramatically beneath the blankets, the thermostat unfortunately still set at 63. which meant nanami was winning.
the cold seeped through the sheets and curled around your legs until your body instinctively tucks in on itself, shoulders hunching deeper beneath the comforter with a quiet frown hidden against your pillow. beside you, nanami remaining entirely unaffected, laid comfortably on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, warmth practically radiating off of him in waves.
it was infuriating.
because no matter how committed you were to the cold war, your body had always betrayed you first when it came to your husband.
sometime somewhere in between stubbornness and sleep, you found yourself shifting toward him subconsciously, inch by inch until your forehead presses against his back, your leg slipping over his beneath the blankets in search of warmth. the soft fabric of the white shirt he’d changed into earlier brushes against your skin, warm from sleep and smelling faintly of cedarwood and tea.
and god, the bastard was warm.
firm beneath your touch too, broad shoulders relaxing slightly the second you curl fully into him with a sleepy little sigh.
you knew he was awake. you could tell by his breathing, it wasn’t the same comforting slow that soothed you once the day came to an end.
for a moment, neither of you said anything, pride still clawing at your insides. then came the soft shifting of sheets before nanami turned toward you, your forehead brushing against his chest as his strong arms came to cage you in instinctively, one settling around your waist while the other tucked beneath your head. his chin rested atop your hair with a quiet exhale, pulling you into his warmth.
your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt, face pressing deeper against his chest despite yourself. somewhere above you, nanami hums softly, entirely too aware of the fact that you were the one to cave first.
an inevitable outcome.
“interesting,” he murmurs into your hair, sleep roughening his voice. “what happened to hating me?”
you grumble something incoherent against him.
“mm?” he asks, entirely too pleased with himself. “couldn’t quite hear you love.”
your brows pinch immediately. “still hate you.”
his chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek at that, amusement subtle but absolutely there. absolutely nanami.
“so, you admit defeat?”
you tilt your head up just enough to glare at him through the dark. “i told you. don’t say anyth—”
you were going to argue. save whatever was left of your pride.
except your words barely make it out before he tips your face up just enough to cut you off with a slow kiss, warm and unbearably smug beneath the blankets.
any and all insults died in your throat as butterflies began to bloom low in your stomach, your leg still hiked around his waist while his warmth slowly melted the last stubborn pieces of your pride away as your lips firmly molded against his own, a soft sigh escaping you. one of spite, obviously.
you could feel the faint curve of amusement against your lips when your annoyed little huff melts into him anyway — the exact outcome the two of you had been stubbornly dancing around all day out of pettiness and “spite.”
nanami pulls away from you before resting his thumb on your lower lip. “there you are love,” he murmurs softly against your mouth, breath mingling with yours: entirely too pleased with himself.
“63 seems perfectly fine to me, no?”
he only watches as your expression softens in real time before giving the faintest nod — mentally noting the effect he had on you.
︵ ೀ mdni. shopping for a new bikini is torture for choso
“are you sure this one looks okay?” you ask, stepping out of the fitting room in a tiny baby-blue bikini that barely covers anything.
choso freezes.
his eyes drag slowly down your body, taking in the way the thin straps hug your curves, the way the fabric barely contains your breasts, the way the bottoms sit high on your hips. he feels his cock twitch hard in his pants, already half-hard since the third bikini you try on.
“it… looks good.” he shifts on the couch outside the fitting room, trying to hide the very obvious bulge growing in his pants.
“you’ve said that about the last four. be honest, choso.”
how can he be honest?
how can he tell you that every single bikini makes him want to drag you back into the fitting room, lock the door, and fuck you against the mirror? how every time you twirl for him, showing off your ass and the way the strings tie at your hips, his mind fills with filthy images of pulling those strings loose with his teeth?
you step closer, doing a little spin. the movement makes your tits bounce slightly, and choso has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning.
“this one makes my ass look nice, right?” you ask, turning to show him the back.
his cock throbs painfully against his zipper.
“yeah.” his eyes glued to the curve of your ass. “it does.”
you smile. “okay, i’ll try the red one next!”
as soon as you disappear behind the curtain, choso lets out a shaky breath and presses the heel of his hand against his cock, trying to will it down. it doesn’t work. he is rock hard, leaking into his boxers and heart pounding like he is a stupid teenager seeing a girl naked for the first time.
every bikini looks unreal on you. every smile you give him while modeling for him makes him want to fuck you right there in the store. he imagines pushing you against the wall, pulling the bikini bottoms to the side, and sinking into your heat while you try to stay quiet but fail miserably.
“choso? what do you think of this one?” you step out again in a deep red string bikini that makes his brain give up completely. he swallows hard.
“…you’re going to kill me.”
you laugh softly, completely unaware that this whole shopping trip is torture for him. and the only thing choso can do is shift again, painfully hard and completely hopeless.
contains: non-canon compliant, MDNI, childhood friends to lovers to strangers, second-chance romance, angst, hurt/comfort, slight miscommunication, fluff, 18+ series, mentions of stalking, mentions of cancer, no mention of y/n, lots of kissing, not edited
authors note: well...i'm back. after that super long hiatus, i've found the inspo to start writing again! i never planned on taking such a long break. though i'm kind of glad to be back into the flow of things. kind of rusty.
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07. through the hourglass
“How did girls night go?”
Penny must have let something slip, since here you were, slightly disheveled after a morning cleaning shift at the Hard Deck, and your mom wearing an all-knowing grin.
You cleared your throat, “It was an utter success.”
“Amelia didn’t press you to hard for questions did she?”
“That girl is too observant for a 14 year-old..” Trailing off your sentence you placed your bag down and gave your mother a peck on the cheek. “I think she gets she it from her favorite aunt.”
Your mother lightly slaps your shoulder, “Oh you stop that…I’m her only aunt.”
Leaving her to own devices, which was fussing with the TV remote and shooting you a small glare, you moved towards the kitchen.
“What time did dad leave for work?” Noticing his coffee cup sitting by an empty plate. He must've been in a rush, the coffee unfinished and was cool to touch as you cleared his setting.
“He was gone before I was even awake, I have no idea what he ate for breakfast.” Your mother continued to sit forward, facing the TV. You can tell she had more to say to you, with her sneaky side-eyes.
You knew she wanted to ask about Bradley. If he was her impending son-in-law or still the object of your anger. You decided to let her stew, pretending not to notice the less-than-sly glances back at you.
She may be sick, but she was always well enough for gossip. A quality you admired.
Waiting her out, you continued tidy up the dishes. Still in ‘work’ mode from the bar. All you needed was a register to check-out.
You’d been working at the bar since you could walk. “Working” may be a bit exaggerated, but once your grubby hands could reach the tabletops, you were causing a fuss behind the counter. The Hard Deck had been the center of many fond memories, your father carrying you on his shoulders as you strolled up and down the shore. Penny “teaching” you how to use the register, even if it was just a plastic Barbie one. Your mother and aunt in-sync as they worked the early evening crowds of stick jockeys and sailors.
Your father, in all his strictness,preferred if your mother kept the visits to early morning, pre-opening. But once in a while you’d get to see the sisters work together, sitting in the back office, nose glued to the window, waiting for your father to come back with a plate of fries and ranch. It wasn’t the easiest to find a baby-sitter for sudden late-night shifts.
Back then your dad wasn’t the man he was now. He hadn’t climbed the ranks as high as he wanted too.
Your mother watched you as you hummed. You’d zoned out for the moment but she was just itching to pop the question. She knew you’d tell her in due time and she didn’t want to pry, but the want to know wasn’t just to be a noisy mom anymore. There was a ball of anxiety that knotted around her heart that rooted itself deep since finding out the cancer came back.
Sometimes, she’d stare at you, stealing glances at you, worried about your future without her. Treatment had been going well so far, but everyday was a gift and every moment with you warmed her bones a little more.
It just would be awfully convenient if the love of your life so happened to be her best-friends son. Her and Carole had joked about it on more than one occasion. While she wanted you to find happiness, wherever it lead you, she always held a little hope that maybe, just maybe, Bradley was the one.
She’d lost hope when he stopped speaking to you both. Her calls going unanswered, him never reaching out. It broke her heart. Carole had asked her to watch out for Bradley and she accepted with open arms, but you can’t force your way into someones life and so she made peace with it. At least until coming home to California.
Things were given new life, and if treatment continued on this path, she would be too.
Just as soon as she was going to find out what happened last night.
Putting the last dish away, you plopped yourself on the couch, turning yourself to face her.
You let her stew in the silence of her own curiosity.
“I did speak to Bradley last night.” You let a few beats of silence pass. Her expecting eyes luring for more information.
You blew air out between your teeth, “We aren’t…anything. We talked about a lot and it’s good. Nothings official.” You give her a cheeky grin, “ Yet.”
You could see the sparks flying in your mothers gaze as she reached to grab your hands. “Did you talk things out? Do you want things to be official with him? Are you good with that?” As much as she loved you two together, you were her baby and she needs to know where you stand first.
“Yes…” You glance away, thinking a little more. “We talked about when he left, why he left…” In due time you’d give her clearer details but right now, you didn’t even want to think about your ex-fiance.
Her hands tightened around yours in anticipation. “He really makes me happy momma.” She squealed, leaping into your arms in a fit of excitement.
“Oh if Carole were here she’d be thrilled to see this. I’m so happy for you baby.” She pulled back, smoothing your hair out as she held your cheeks, “If you’re happy honey, I am thrilled.”
“Thrilled that I’m happy with someone, or thrilled because that someone is Bradley?”
“Both!” The two of you fell into a fit of laughter because she truly means it, she loves Bradley, and it was the cherry on top.
The blush on her face was gorgeous. The treatments had worn down her body, but like this? Your mother shined. The radiance danced on her face and her laugh was full.
Both of you sat in the silence, letting the giggles and hugs warm you.
You could smell her perfume and shampoo as you melted in her embrace.
Trainings had ramped up and Bradley made as much time as he could to see you. Texting you before flight events, calling you as he got out of briefings, and at this point you’d be surprised if there weren’t a couple emails in your inbox.
The mission was taking its toll both Bradley and your father. Your dad hadn’t said it, but you knew. He was sleeping on base, leaving before the crack of dawn or getting home in the dead of night.
At least once a week, Bradley made an effort to come by and have dinner with your mom. A way to make up for lost time. Tonight, your father got off early and Bradley followed right behind him.
He came in with flowers and engulfed your mom in a bear hug. Brought her some of her favorite sweets too.
It wasn’t so much as dinner as both you and your mother nearly having heart attacks from how haggard they both looked. She took your father out to the backyard so they could watch the sunset and you brought Bradley up into your room.
Every time you glanced back at him its like the dark circles got worse.
Now, here you are with a dead man walking, leading him to your bed and pushing him down to sit.
“Bradshaw you need sleep.” You held his face in your hands and he melted into you.
“Oh?” He perched an eyebrow, eyes lighting up.
“Oh, nothing Bradshaw,” You fussed his hair, running your fingers through it and examining his face. You moved his head around to make sure it was still screwed on right.
That was still up for debate.
“Wait here.” You were out before he could even respond.
You were on a mission to the kitchen to make him a mug of warm milk with honey. A tiny dash of cinnamon too.
While stirring the concoction you paused for a second, listening to the sound of your fathers voice coming through the crack in the kitchen window.
“I don’t know if any of them are ready.” He sounds exhausted. His voice low and hoarse.
Your mother didn’t speak, “No one has succeeded in flying the course. No ones made the time limit. I have to send them knowing someone might not come home. Knowing they aren’t ready.” He sighed.
“We don’t have time either, the timeline has changed and I just…”
You peeked a little out the window and you see him hunched over, elbows on his knees and as he massages his forehead. Your mom reaches out, grabbing one hand in hers. You don’t hear what she says as you start to walk away.
You try to pretend you didn’t hear what your father said. You grew up a military brat, the anxiety of your dad being deployed. Crappy phone calls where you could barely him say ‘I love you’ and the pit in your stomach every time someone knocked your front door before the carrier docked.
Your father doesn’t ever talk about work. Military secrets and all. He never wanted it to pollute his home. Ironic how that worked out.
Hearing him frustrated worried you, it was out of character.
‘Someone might not come home’
It echoed.
“Bugs?” You heard Bradley's voice. “Bugs?” He called again. This time standing up to meet you. He could see in your face something was wrong. His stomach twisted a bit.
“Baby what’s wrong?” The weight of his hands on your shoulders grounded you.
“I brought you some milk and honey,” You said with a small smile, “Put a sprinkle of cinnamon like Carole.”
You ignored his question, leading him back to the bed. You just wanted to hold him. Feel his weight next to you.
Bradley may be a bit (a lot) dense, but not with you. He took the mug and took a sip. Letting the warmth relax him.
You just watched him. Your eyes following every move as if he’d vanish. He laid back after a few more sips and you lifted one arm and immediately tucked yourself into his side.
His cheek rested on the crown of your head and his nose buried into your hair. Your scent fully relaxed him and his finger came under your chin to tilt it up.
“What happened Bugs?”
You looked away, eyes fluttering shut and just feeling him next to you. You took a couple deep breaths.
“I overheard my dad talking about…your guys mission,” Your legs tangled with his and you pushed yourself deeper into his side. “Nothing in detail, you know how that goes. He just…he said the timelines changed. That things are…”
Bradley stiffened. He knew the Air Boss wasn’t reckless, but also knew why he was worried. No one on the detachment was successful in the practice runs they drilled. Bradley himself was falling behind. Everyone knew they weren’t ready, but now the mission had been moved up a week.
His arms wrapped around you and tugged you onto his chest so your body splayed on top of his.
“Yes,” He confirmed. “The timeline is tighter than we initially thought.” He watched your eyes water.
“Bradley?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll come home to me right?”
His chest ached. The parameters this mission left little room of error. Two miracles. Back to back. Everyone knew the risks of the mission and they accepted that. He accepted that.
Bradley loved flying. It was what connected him to his dad, and nothing could describe the feeling of being air borne. Up there, he was free, but this mission made him anxious. He has you now. He’s not sure flying can measure up to that.
His hesitation worried you. You sat up, straddling his lap and he followed you up immediately.
“I know. I know what you do has risks. I’d never ask you to give up flying…” You trailed off, eyes downcast. “But I just got you back.”
“I just got you back, you’re here. I can see you, I can touch you. You’re real.” Tears pricked your eyes and your cheeks warmed bright red as you tried not to cry.
“You have to come home. Do you understand?” You finally look up and something inside him breaks a little.
“You have to come back to me.” His hands are on your cheeks as your breathing picks up.
“You can’t leave me here alone, you need to come home. You aren’t alone anymore.”
You start to ramble, mumbling and repeating yourself over and over. He can’t keep up but his heart is pounding and your holding back silent sobs and he can’t breathe watching you break.
“Shh,” He tries to calm you, his lips in your hairline, “I’m coming home to you Bugs. I’m always going to come home to you.”
You’re still rambling and he’s not sure you can hear him and he repeats himself over and over until your breathing begins to even out.
“I’m coming home to you.”
“I’m always going to come back. “
“I understand. I’ll be back.”
Your sobs turn into sniffles and he continues to hold you. Chests pressed together.
Bradley lays you both down and you press your ear to his heart, listening to it beat. He caresses your hair and lets you. He knows what you’re afraid of.
He’ll admit he might’ve been a bit careless on past missions. He didn’t have anyone to wait for him if he burned in. Thats all changed.
He’s scared and Bradley hasn’t been scared in a long time.
“I want you to wake me up before you leave.”
“Baby I have to leave early for train—”
“I don’t care.” You say.
He sighs. “I have to be back on base soon.”
“No, you can sleep here.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he teases you. He’s not leaving, the thought didn’t even cross his mind but he loves seeing you clingy. He even brought his spend the night bag. What can he say, he likes to plan ahead.
“You can sleep here every night until you deploy.” You look up at him, “Welcome home Bradshaw.” A small smile sits on your face and you crawl up to kiss him.
It’s slow. Both of you tasting each other and savoring it. You sit up more to give better access and his hands grip your waist.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He jokes, “I don’t think my boss is gonna be thrilled about sharing a commute.” You burst out laughing and he soaks it in. The redness on your nose and slightly swollen eyes make him ache but your laugh patches him right back up.
He pulls you into another deep kiss.
“C’mon Bugs, lets get ready for bed. We have an early morning.” He grins as he pulls you up.
“I want you to wake me up with a bunch of kisses.” That earns you a hearty laugh and you throw your body weight on him, “Yeah fine lets get ready for bed.” You look up and he pecks your nose.
It feels so domestic. It feels so natural.
Bradley’s touch is on you the entire time. From washing your faces, brushing your teeth and changing into proper pj’s. He doesn’t let up for a second. Pulling you into bed and pressing his body into yours.
Just as promised, he wakes you up bright and not as early as you thought, with a shower of pecks all of your cheeks. You pretend to sleep a little longer as he gives you popcorn kisses.
Both of you know that you’re awake, but he lets you bask in it a little longer.
“C'mon sweets, let me see your eyes.” He kisses your chin.
“Kisses for breakfast, just liked I promised.” He pecks your cheek several times.
“Captain called, training has changed today, I’m bringing you with me.” He licks a little strip on your mouth.
You open your eyes and wrap your arms around his head. Pulling him in as its now your turn to leave pecks all over his face.
The morning sun does him wonders. His bed head a little wild, eyes a little squinted from the rays and the warm glow on his cheeks. You. hadn’t really thought about it, but his skin had been tanned from all the hours of flying.
“G’morning Bradley.” Using his first name prompts a toothy grin to spread across his face.
“I’m not in trouble am I?” Recalling that his first name is being used because 1) he’s in trouble 2) he made you mad 3) he did something to upset you.
“M mm. Let me think about it.” You say with a smile, pulling him back in to kiss you.
It doesn’t last for too long. “Okay pause, I need to brush my teeth.” His laugh is quiet, like he’s trying to avoid getting caught.
Nevertheless, he follows you through your morning routine. “We got lucky. Late morning, and training has been changed to the beach.”
“The beach?”
“Something about team building.”
“Does this mean I get to watch some steamy beach drills?” A coy smile sits on your face as Bradley pokes his head out of the bathroom, eyebrows furrowed.
“Steamy?” he questions.
“Yes,” You nod. “Steamy.” Resting your chin on your hand you pretend to zone out. “Think about it, all those shirtless military men and women doing exercises.” You release a little hum as you fake imagine it.
Bradley pops an eyebrow. A smirk pops onto his face and walks toward you.
“Why do I have a feeling I’m going to regret bringing you?”
You scoff, slightly offended, “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior sir.” You add a mock salute for good measure.
“Besides, why would I miss the chance to see my man shirtless and sweaty?” You poke his chest through his shirt and look up through your lashes, “Can’t blame a girl for having priorities.”
“Your man?” The smile that lights up his face is so big its beaming.
“Mhm.” You nod. Not in the least bit bashful.
“Hmm, I like the sound of that,” He lifts you off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist. “Don’t get too comfortable.” You run a finger over his lips, “Status is still pending.”
He lets out a little hum that almost double as a whine, “Tease,” He hisses out while he rubs his nose onto yours.
He gives your butt a quick pat as he lets you down, “C’mon. We have a small drive up to North Island.”
“Wait is this training going to be by the hard deck?”
Bradley shrugs, “Knowing Mav, probably.”
Your mouth gapes, “Mav? As in Maverick?” Bradley realizes he never mentioned how his teacher was.
“Yup.” He pops the 'P’.
“As in, my aunts old fling Maverick?” Dots start to connect, you knew that man from the bar looked familiar.
He’s also the same man who pulled Bradleys papers for the Naval Academy.
Talk about awkward.
“How has that been going?” You grab your beach bag and start to head down stairs.
“Oh its uh, it’s going.” You don’t press him any further. Maverick was an extremely sore subject for him.
Your mother greeted you both with a peck on the cheek and a little bag of lunch.
“Your father and I are going to head out after you, he has things to take care of at the office first.”
“Alright, I’ll see you there.” You kiss her cheek and follow behind Bradley to load his Bronco.
You can tell he has a couple questions on his face. He knew your parents didn’t have the best relationship, and truth be told, they had almost no contact for over a decade.
Things weren’t magically smoothed over. You knew they didn’t separate for a lack of love. The way your father looked at your mother never changed, but you needed stability and she couldn’t handle the flying. Things were bound to give.
“I’m not sure how, but they’re…good?” You say while opening his back door and tossing your bag back there.
“Good?” He questions.
You shrug, “I’m not sure either. I still don’t know how he got her to come back. But yes, they’re good.”
His head bobs as he takes in the information.
“Wait,” You pause your movements, “Who’s gonna get aux?”
authors note: this kind of feels like filler but i swear it isn't. we are approaching the end-ish of the fic, i have a general outline. also i promise mc is gonna stop crying, i didn't realize it at first but omg homegirl is written to cry almost every chapter </3 im excited, i originally wrote parts 7 and 8, hated them both, scrapped them and started fresh. i really wanted to include the beach scene hehehe.
SUMMARY Since he first came into your life, two things have always been true: you've been in love with Bradley Bradshaw from the moment you laid eyes on him and he's been in love with your sister from the moment he laid eyes on her. But passing years and unforeseen circumstances find you and Bradley married—unfortunately, both your truths remain the same.
CONTENT little women au, fem reader (no use of y/n, but reader has a last name), angst, fluff, slow burn I guess, historical inaccuracies (read: I kinda just made up a time period that's whatever I want it to be and we're all gonna go with it <- it's so prevalent in this part I'm sorry lol), mentions of minor character death, blood/small injury, Bradley getting socialized like a new puppy, very brief allusions to underage drinking, barely edited
WC 4.8k
A/N part two!! part two!! (daily updates are probably going to be highly unlikely, but I'm in the zone right now so I'm just riding this wave till it's over lol) I just wanted to say a big thank for everyone's kind messages and wow the amount of people who remember this series and are excited about its return are making me 🥺🥺 so please enjoy and let me know what you think <3
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There was nothing about the Mitchell estate that felt much like home to Bradley. Not the large rooms that all feel too wide and too empty, not the never-ending halls or intricately threaded bedding. Not the maids that scurried around him like field mice—the younger ones often giggling and whispering to each other if they passed him, always glancing in his direction—or the chef that had yet to learn how much Bradley detested blackberry jam. The whole house felt more like Bradley himself than a home, hollow.
He said as much to his uncle Tom after their third night at the estate. They had now spent multiple evenings sitting uncomfortably between Pete and his wife during dinner, utensils clinking and conversation brief. He slept on too soft, cotton sheets, in a bedroom that felt much too empty yet much too small all at once. It’s over breakfast—imported cheeses and freshly sliced bread slathered in blackberry jam—that Bradley finally voices his concerns.
“Uncle?”
Tom Kazansky hums softly, hardly looking up from his book. Since they started their trek to the Mitchell estate, Bradley hadn’t felt much like talking and so his uncle had become accustomed to spending time with him in silence, and bringing something else of interest to pass the time.
Bradley hesitates. “Must I stay here?”
This causes Tom to look up, his eyes meeting Bradley’s with a gentle understanding and not a hint of surprise. There’s a spot of blackberry jam stuck at the corner of his mouth and he wipes it off with his handkerchief methodically before replying.
“It’s rather big, isn’t it?”
Bradley nods.
“You know,” Tom looks at his nephew thoughtfully, leaning back slightly in his chair. “It’s not all too different from your parents’ estate.”
“Yes, but—,” Bradley wants to argue that it is different. That, while the memories of his childhood home have somewhat dimmed with time, he knows that it didn’t feel like this. Like this all consuming loneliness. And the parts that do feel familiar are still devoid of homeliness. He can recognize some of the basic architecture but it’s not his mother’s garden or his father’s piano, just an empty replica. It’s like all the worst parts of the house he hasn’t dared to entire since his mother passed. It’s not too different from his parents’ estate, and yet it’s a foreign place haunted with ghosts. “Why can I not just keep staying with you?”
It’s a question that has been running through Bradley's head constantly. He’d escaped this fate the first time, though it had been little consolation at the time. His parents’ deaths were unexpected—his mother’s even more so—and, while it had always been understood that the responsibility of his care would next fall to his aunt and uncle, the suddenness of it meant that they were not the least bit ready. He would need all the things that a boy would need—a tutor most importantly—all of which the Mitchells did not yet have prepared.
At the time, Tom Kazansky had just retired from his position as a military physician, an old leg injury flaring up to the point that it could not be ignored any longer. While not technically an uncle by blood, Tom Kazansky had been close to Bradley’s father for as long as he could remember, and it was he who tended to Bradley’s mother as she was succumbing to illness. To Bradley, Tom Kazansky was far more of an uncle to him than he ever considered Pete Mitchell to be.
It had made enough sense to everyone at the time—Bradley did not wish to live with the Mitchells so suddenly, the Mitchells themselves weren’t ready either, and Tom Kazansky was not only educated enough to take on Bradley’s schooling but also in need of some practical help around the house with his limited mobility. And so Bradley went to live with Tom instead, spending years under his tutelage until his inevitable return to the Mitchells could no longer be avoided.
“Because, Bradley,” Tom lets out a soft sigh, not at all a stranger to this conversation. “There are things that you need to know that I am not in the position to teach you.”
“Like what?” Bradley challenges.
“Like…” Tom waves him off with his hand. “Like business things, high society things, I don’t know! Don’t question me so early in the morning!”
Bradley huffs, stuffing a piece of bread in his mouth in frustration, and only remembering a moment too late that it’s covered in blackberry jam. He grimaces, but chews and swallows it anyway.
Tom softens at the sight of his nephew, letting out a breath before squeezing Bradley’s hand comfortingly. “I know it’s not the most ideal of circumstances, but I do think you’ll come to enjoy it in time.”
In response, Bradley huffs a soft breath of acceptance.
“Now.” Tom grabs his book again, seemingly uncaring of the jam staining his fingers as he grabs the pages with them. “Go out and explore, while you’re still young and spry, and leave this old man to his thoughts.”
After another slice of bread—with all the jam painstakingly scrapped off—Bradley takes his uncle’s advice. He dresses himself in the high quality pants, shoes, and jacket Pete had had tailored for him in preparation of his arrival, wraps a far too expensive scarf around his neck, and sets out into the quiet, cold morning.
He’s still growing accustomed to his aunt and uncle’s exorbitant wealth. He knows that his own parents were quite wealthy as well—and left all of it to him after their deaths—but his mother had always been more comfortable speaking the language of subtlety and much of his day-to-day life and belongings reflected that. Tom Kazansky was quite well off in his own right, but not nearly to the level of the Mitchells. Bradley supposes that it’s something he’ll have to get used to quickly, and one of these supposed reasons he has to live with the Mitchells in the first place. For, as soon as he is properly educated, he will be given the rest of his inheritance and be expected to continue his father’s businesses—for the time being, Pete Mitchell had been overseeing them—and this level of wealth will be the standard for him and his peers.
A seed of blackberry stuck between his teeth makes itself known by protruding itself into his gums—one of the many reasons Bradley hates blackberry jam in the first place—and he wrinkles his nose in disgust, pausing his walking to try to get it out with his tongue. As he stops, he looks around, truly taking in his surroundings for the first time since his walk began—not exactly the ‘exploring’ his uncle was urging.
He wouldn’t resolutely call it a forest, though there are many trees surrounding him, it’s not so far removed from society as he usually considers forests to be, he’d only been walking for a couple minutes. It still fills him with some sense of seclusion though. A few yards away, the trees clear out around a giant lake, completely frozen over from the winter weather. The morning air is still and the ceasing of his shoes crunching in the snow makes way for the soft sound of sniffled crying to cut through the silence.
It won’t be until many years later that Bradley finally admits to himself that the blackberry jam he’d always hated so much is the sole reason he’d met you in the way that he did.
“I see you’ve brought a wounded, little bird home.”
Though the statement is directed at Bradley, it’s the timid, shaking girl clinging to his arm that Tom is smiling kindly at.
It hadn’t taken Bradley much looking to find his uncle once the two of you had entered the house and currently all three of you were standing in one of the many downstairs rooms of the Mitchell estate.
“She fell and cut her hand open,” Bradley explains and you hesitantly hold out your scarf-wrapped hand as if to corroborate. “I was hoping that you would be able to help?”
“Of course.” Tom agrees in a gentle tone, he gestures to a soft looking chair. “Why don’t you sit down, darling, and let me take a look at it? Bradley, will you go upstairs and fetch my supplies?”
“Yes, Uncle.” Bradley gives you, what he hopes is, a reassuring smile.
Since you both stepped foot over the threshold of the house, you’ve looked downright petrified and certainly the cold weather and crying has caught up to you. He isn’t too worried about leaving you—albeit briefly. Tom Kazansky has always had a calming presence and, already, it seems that some of your fear has lessened. He drops your satchel near the chair and hurries out of the room to follow his uncle’s orders.
It doesn’t take him long to find his uncle’s medical bag and, by the time he returns, Tom has already unwrapped his scarf from your hand and began examining it. The splotches of blood are evident on the new scarf, even against the gray of the fabric, but Bradley hadn’t been that attached to it in the first place. He wonders briefly if Pete will be angry with him for ruining it, but he honestly finds little interest caring about that either.
After a short time, Tom looks up at you with another gentle smile. “Well, the good news is it doesn’t seem deep enough to require any stitching,” he assures you before he starts looking through his medical bag. “I think that a proper cleaning and bandage should do the trick.”
Both you and Bradley watch as he does just that with a refined precision he’d mastered from his years in the army. Throughout it all, he makes casual conversation with you.
“What’s your name, darling?”
When you murmur it out shyly, he looks up again, a flash of recognition in his eyes.
“Ah, you must be one of the Simpson girls, I presume?”
You seem surprised that he knows, nodding, and Bradley realizes with a sudden sheepishness that throughout this whole ordeal, he’d forgotten to ask your name or introduce himself. His uncle is already doing it for him though, kindly giving you both of their names as he finishes off the last bandage on your hand.
You don’t react the way he’d come to expect from the people he’d met here, like he’s some mythological creature or a new, interesting fixture in this otherwise boring town. Instead you only meet his eye briefly before quickly looking back at his uncle with a shy, but more comfortable smile.
“It’s lovely to meet you.”
It takes Bradley exactly one day and half an afternoon to see you again.
After Tom tended to your hand—and you thanked him profusely for it—you left the Mitchell estate quickly. Bradley had offered to walk you home but you assured him that it wasn’t far and that you’d already taken up far too much of his morning. Bradley wanted to argue that, actually, you had been one of the most interesting mornings he’d had since he arrived, but it was kind of hard to relay that message to you when you were actively fleeing from the front gates. You were a surprisingly fast runner, which meant that you had left little time for him, and you, to realize that you’d forgotten your satchel before you were already gone.
It took a short and somewhat tense conversation with his uncle and aunt inquiring about your family, a handful of minutes getting lost in town, and far too much time than he will ever admit of confusing himself with different houses, before he is finally standing at your door with your bag and an embarrassed disposition.
“Hello?” A woman opens the door, eyeing him somewhat warily. She looks to be a few years older than him and is wearing an apron dusted in flour, that clings to the fabric the same way the beginnings of exhaustion cling to her features. She shares an apparent resemblance to you and his aunt Penny had informed him enough about your family for him to surmise that this must be your eldest sister Margo.
“Hello.” He starts to bow, before stopping himself, not quite sure, in the rules of society, if his gentlemanliness is more important than his social status or if it isn’t. This leaves him in an awkward, half-bent position and he straightens himself quickly. He lifts up the satchel in his hand “I believe I have something of your—,”
“Rosie, do not touch that, it’s still hot!” The woman—Margo, he corrects himself—whips her head back into the house suddenly, interrupting him with a shout and a stern expression.
“—Sister’s…” Bradley finishes, your bag swinging by his head from where he’s holding it.
There’s, what sounds to be, the whine of a child in response from inside the house, though he can’t quite make out any words from the doorstep. After a moment—and the distinct sounds of someone stomping away—Margo turns back to him with a strained smile.
“I’m sorry. What was it that you were saying?” Her eyes land on the satchel in his hand almost as soon as she finishes speaking, lighting up with recognition. “Oh, I see! Thank you, my sister has been looking everywhere for that.” She looks back into the house. “Just give me one moment, I’ll fetch her.”
The door closes before Bradley can even speak, leaving him to, again, stand awkwardly alone outside. It takes him longer than it should to realize that he’s still holding your bag up and he drops his arm quickly into a more relaxed position. He waits for enough time to sincerely consider if he should simply leave the bag at your doorstep before Margo opens the door again. This time, you’re standing next to her.
“I apologize for the wait.” Margo subtly pushes you in front of her, causing you to stumble. “It took me quite a few minutes to find her.”
Whatever had happened inside the house had left you sheepish and Margo slightly out of breath.
When Margo nudges you again, you clear your throat softly, before looking up at Bradley. “Thank you for returning my bag.”
Bradley can’t help but smile. “It was my pleasure.” He holds the satchel out for you, your fingers brushing his as you take it from him. “I would be remiss if I let an artist be without her tools for too long.”
You almost drop your bag at his words, a strained squeak coming out of your mouth in lieu of a response. Margo is barely concealing laughter from behind her hand. It takes a few more moments of stuttering before Bradley mercifully decides to take pity on you and reaches into his coat pocket to produce the second reason for his visit.
“I was also hoping to formally invite your family to the Mitchells’ soirée tomorrow evening. I am having a, uh, belated introduction to the high society here and it would be an honor to have the Simpson family in attendance.”
Margo’s lips part in shock and she takes the invitation from him hastily, eyes widening when they land on the emblem on the wax seal.
“Oh my—You’re—?” She stops, quickly composing herself before smiling at Bradley politely. “It would be our honor to attend, thank you for this gracious invitation.”
“Wonderful.” Bradley nods.
The three of you stand in silence.
“Well, then,” Bradley clears his throat. “I will—I will take my leave then… I will, uh, I will look forward to seeing you all tomorrow!” He, again, does his graceless half-bow that he fears may almost be becoming habitual and quickly walks away.
He’s beginning to think that his uncle may have a point when it comes to the importance of the new things he needs to learn.
If Tom Kazansky was not a distinguished doctor, Bradley thinks he would have tried to fake having a plague. The further along he gets into his introductory soirée, the more he’s considering trying to regardless of his uncle’s expertise.
He’d spent the entire morning in Pete’s study, going through the monotonous ordeal of learning the names of different important figures in the upper class, and who to greet, and who not to greet, and how to greet them, and how to speak to them, and which fork to use for which meal, and when to dance, and when not to dance, and how to dance, and who to dance with.
His uncle had been very clear about how important this evening—and Bradley’s behavior this evening—was, and the whole thing had left him with an ever looming sense of dread and an only half memorized list of expectations. He lets out a shaky breath as yet another person he doesn’t recognize enters the ballroom.
The beginning of the evening hadn’t gone terribly—but that was mostly because he didn’t have to do much of anything. Then he had his aunt and uncle to make introductions for him and prompt him in what he was supposed to do and say next. By this point in the evening, Pete had retreated into his study with some of the other men to talk about some kind of complication regarding an import—or export, or something equally hard for Bradley to understand—and Penny had stayed with him for as long as she could and now needed to go and properly greet and mingle with some of the women in attendance.
Tom had been with him briefly, but the cold, winter weather of the past few days had caused his knee injury to flair up and he retired early. Bradley is suddenly struck with the realization that his uncle might have also decided to fabricate an aliment to get out of having to attend the soirée.
But now Bradley was left to navigate this precarious, new world that he didn’t understand alone. Worse still, he thought that he’d be granted at least some reprieve once the Simpson family arrived—obviously they were all still strangers to him, but at the very least they were strangers he’s met before—but either they hadn’t yet arrived or they’ve already blended into his group of guests, because he has yet to have actually found them.
“Mr. Bradshaw, how lovely to meet you—!”
Bradley suppresses a sigh, plastering a polite smile on his face and turns to his guest, trying to remember all of the rules his uncle taught him.
The conversation is, unsurprisingly, dull, much like every conversation he’s had tonight. If it’s not gentlemen showering him in superfluous compliments and anecdotes he’s too young to remember, it’s young women batting their lashes at him in an obvious attempt to draw his interest, and if it’s not them, then it’s their mothers on their behalf—or worse, attempting to do the very same.
Bradley is finally granted the slight reprieve from conversation he so desperately craved when the orchestra started to play and couples started making their way over to the emptied floor—because this was when everyone is expected to dance as if it made any more sense than any other time in the evening—but the feeling was short lived once he remembered that this also meant that he was required to find a dance partner.
His eyes dart around the room tensely, searching for what, he’s not quite sure. They land on people who he only knows by name, and some that he’s already forgotten, and with every passing second his body fills more with dread. Around him, more and more people are finding dance partners, which is making his lack of doing so more and more obvious. Running out of options, Bradley decides that he must simply grit his teeth and ask the first woman he sees.
It’s then that he finally spots you.
As soon as he recognizes you, he’s hit with a rushing sense of relief. He doesn’t even get the chance to revel in it though, because the feeling is quickly overpowered so intensely by a different emotion—one that has him wishing that he could go back to his feelings of dread.
The first time Bradley had met you, you had been slightly overshadowed by the fact that you were bleeding and that your face had become quite puffy from crying. The second time he had met you, you were too shy to even look at him for very long and he had gotten a better view of the top of your head than your face, as you had refused to look anywhere but your feet.
It was only now, his third time meeting you, that Bradley is struck very suddenly with the realization that you’re quite beautiful.
His feet feel planted to the ground as he stares at you, eyes unable to stop drinking in your features. His hands feel clammy suddenly and, as he wipes them without thinking on his pants, he starts to lose his nerve to ask you to dance. Around him, he can tell that some of the other young women are beginning to realize that he has yet to find a dance partner and have already started to subtly circle him like vultures. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll be forced to face that problem.
Bradley rips his gaze away from you, before you fluster him further, shaking off his nerves and gathering his courage. When he lifts his head to look back at you, though, you aren’t there anymore.
Before he can find you again, a young woman is approaching him. He recognizes her physically and thinks he can remember her parents, but her name has completely slipped from his memory.
She looks up at him with a coy smile. “Would you like to—?”
“I’m terribly sorry. I have to…” Bradley doesn’t even finish the thought before he’s racing out of the ballroom.
He knows he shouldn’t—that Pete had told him explicitly the importance of acclimating himself with all the high society people here. He will go back, Bradley assures himself. He won’t even be gone for very long. He just needs a few moments to gather himself, to collect his bearings. If anything, it should help his endeavors. He’ll be less likely to panic and do something he’s not supposed to once he returns.
Unsurprisingly, the more Bradley walks the long, quiet halls of the Mitchell estate, the less he wishes to return to the soirée.
As he walks, Bradley is struck again with just how empty and hollow this house is. It all just feels so ridiculous, meaningless. All these things he’s supposed to do and not do, all these people he’s supposed to pretend to like and pretend he doesn’t know are doing the same. It’s only been a week and he’s already tired of it.
In front of him, light spills into the hall from an opened door and Bradley pauses. He was sure that the door to that study had been shut before guests had started to arrive at the house. Suddenly curious, he holds his breath. In the quiet of the hall he can’t hear anyone, but it doesn’t stop him from moving closer, his footsteps soft as he nears enough to peer into the room.
Almost immediately, he can see the person inside. She hasn’t noticed him yet, too immersed in the large map unfurled on the table in the center of the room. It had caught Bradley’s attention too, the first time he saw it. It’s big enough that you don't have to have to squint to read it, covered in detailed illustrations of mountains and rivers and drawn out routes for sea travel and trade. She’s bent over the table to look at it, her eyes full of awe, tracing different paths with a light fingertip. Bradley watches as her lips move to silently mouth the name of each country she passes with her finger.
As Bradley looks at her, he tries to place her in his mind amongst the other names he has memorized, sifting through all the new faces he’s seen tonight. There’s something familiar about her, something that pricks at something in the back of his brain, but nothing substantial springs to the forefront of his mind. He feels like he’s seen her before, and yet he equally feels like he hasn’t.
There’s an air about her that almost makes her look like she’s wearing her dress haphazardly—which Bradley didn’t even know was something a woman could look like. Her hair seems to have, at one point, been pulled up into some kind of intricate style, but has now been taken out, falling just above her shoulders.
Curiosity once again getting the better of him, he clears his throat. “Excuse me.”
She lets out a loud yelp, nearly knocking over a stack of books as she whips around, clutching a hand to her heart. Upon laying eyes on what had so rudely startled her, she glares. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”
Bradley fights the urge to smile. “Do you always sneak around houses that aren’t yours?”
She scoffs, crossing her arms defiantly. “That is hardly what I was doing.”
“No?” Bradley raises an amused brow. At this point in every conversation he’s had tonight, someone has said something superficial about him, or his parents, or his uncle. It feels almost like a soothing balm to have someone so openly seem annoyed by him.
“To sneak implies that I cared if someone caught me,” she lifts her chin up proudly. “And I hardly consider myself scared of the Mitchells. I’m not scared of anything.”
“I’m pretty sure I just scared you, did I not?”
Bradley lights up when she glares at him again. “Do you think you’re clever?”
Bradley shrugs playfully, leaning comfortably against the door frame and crossing his arms. “Only just.”
“What’s your name then?” And Bradley has to hide his surprise at the fact that she somehow doesn’t seem to know it yet. “Clever men can only have clever names,” she challenges.
“Bradley Bradshaw.” This time he can’t hold back his laugh when her eyes widen to saucers at his words. He grins cheekily. “And yours?”
“Oh…” She trails off, clearly embarrassed, seemingly not prepared to have her own question used against her.
Bradley watches as she looks down, the inside of her cheek caught between her teeth as she thinks. She looks up at him suddenly, squints, shakes her head, and then goes back to thinking. Bradley’s grin grows at how oblivious she is to her own transparency.
He cocks his head teasingly. “You don’t know your own name?”
“Of course, I know my name!” She snaps at him. “Don’t be stupid, I just—Would you believe me if I told you my name is Archie Ringwald?”
Bradley snorts and then shakes his head with a chuckle. “You’re quite odd, do you know that?”
“Well, you’re quite boring. Has anyone ever told you that?” She bites back with another scoff.
Pushing himself off the door frame, Bradley enters into the room with the only person in this whole house who doesn’t seem to remotely care who he is. “I can’t say anyone has, Archie.”
“Funny.” She shoots him a dry look. “But perhaps they should because, currently, you’re the most boring thing in this room right now. So if you don’t mind…” There’s a dangerous smirk on her lips as she speaks and then she’s turning back to the map on the table.
Bradley lets out a laugh of disbelief. “You really aren’t scared of anything, are you?”
“That is what I said, isn’t it?” She scowls at him over her shoulder.
Bradley holds his hands up in mock surrender until she turns her attention back to the map. Truly, he thinks, she could not care less if he left right now—he honestly thinks she’d prefer it. Bradley can’t help but be enticed by how casually indifferent she is to him.
“You know,” he takes a step closer to her. “He keeps all his best maps in there.” Bradley gestures towards one of the large cabinets with his head.
He watches as she pauses, body frozen as it’s hunched over the table, the debate between ignoring him or letting him lure her into conversation evident on her face.
“Fine.” She decides. “I suppose you can stay if you know where all your uncle’s things are…” And then her eyes light up wickedly. “You don’t happen to know where his liquor is too, do you?”
In that moment, Bradley decides he likes this “Archie Ringwald” very much.
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
nerdy camboy satoru uses you as a teaching prop. 18+
camboy satoru had made a name for himself all over the internet. his digital footprint consisted of scathing factitious self-sex and cliche titles, deliberately curated, to earn the most clicks from his viewers.
people watched. they paid. they requested. and mostly, they were interested. in him. who was he? what was he like outside of this?
a daytime nerd with the way his glasses hid those blue orbs of innocence. chapped lips bitten out of sheer anxiety. stutter whenever he talked to you, girls or anyone in particular. vast knowledge that was presumed to be innate because how could such talent exist?
but at nighttime, a whore in front of the camera.
and he somehow had you, his study partner, complicit in his promiscuity.
it had innocently began with you groaning about your low grades in physics because of which you brought up a deal. if he helped you earn at least a pass in the test, you would do whatever he asked. no bounds, no backing out.
and now you were here. all because of your oath.
your legs were unsurely open, tremors with trepidation. “trust me on this, hm?”, satoru comforted with that little awkward smile of his where one corner tilted higher than the other. his eyes gleamed despite the barrier of his glasses, as if unearthing a sly indulgence of the situation.
the camera, seemingly branded, tilted to only show the body—respected your wishes of remaining confidential. the red flare indicated its broadcasting, thousands of viewers already garnered.
“hey guys, upon tons of requests i received from last time—today’s video will be focused on how to pleasure a woman”.
it was as if he was a different person. as if skin was sloughed rebirthing someone new.
“here, i’ve got a pretty girl with me. she’s a little camera shy so pardon us”, he tipped his head forward, encouraging. with a bashful nod, you hesitantly waved a little at the camera.
“so, firstly you need to be gentle with your lady. she is a human, not a toy. build the tension” with that, his fingertips traced the outline of your pussy through the dampening panties.
“tease her just a little. make her want it. want you. don’t force yourself” the middle finger of his rubbed at the overly saturated spot as your breath hitched out of sheer want. a chuckle from him.
“hear how her breathing changed? yeah, she wants it”. you whined, feebly, when you felt a dollop of your arousal cascade down. self consciousness nurtured your body as you squirmed in your position.
his lone hand switched from holding your pelvis in position to the meat of your breasts, a squeeze too firm.
“don’t just focus down there, play with the rest of her body. worship the temple you’re blessed with.” his breath licked the heated skin of your ears, a sugary tone of profane grating words that were sure to exile a saint.
“p-please–”, a pleading too weak, consumed by another porny moan.
“yeah, baby. i got you” he pulled the sticky fabric to the side, caressing and pacifying your soaked folds with his fingers. he traced the pattern of your mound down to your inner lips, each labia lulled by his feathery rubs.
a bloom of writhing butterflies in your abdomen erupted from sensuous want, a subconscious grind of yours on his fingers signified the requirement. his fingers. inside of you. right now.
“baby’s a little impatient huh?” he placed a chaste kiss on your cheek, clutching your thighs from closing.
a slender, bleak skinned finger inside of your wet hole. his fingers tried to open you up for another, simply rutting his pointer in and out of your pussy.
“don’t go all two or three at once. it might hurt her. get her to open up more. loosen her up, tightness hurts”. he placed more plumose kisses on to your temple, in order to distract you from the abruptness of the second finger he slipped in.
two fingers conjoined to go in and out of your pulsating hole. two fingers that came out sleek, drenched and went inside again in the same state.
squelches of his fingers stroking the inside your cunt was too loud, obscene echoes of water gushing and moans formed from the scorching heat. his other hand kept torturing you by moulding your breasts—rubbing the nipple between his thumb and pointer—swiping upwards on the tip making you jolt at times. “yeah, you are doing so good. taking my hand so good, hm?”
his fingers lurched in to your pussy deep. staining the walls with his imprints, denting crescents inside of your raw cunt. “yeah, are you about to cum?” he grunted against your ears, cauterising blood rushing through your head, burning your senses.
you moaned as you felt them curl, again. he had buried his fingers in to the hilt, you felt the heel of his palm grind on your clit, incessant lapping on the overtly sensitive clitoris bud. “yeah—she’s close. and when she is, focus on her clit. stimulate it more and more”
his two fingers wiped from your secreting hole and your bud, hasty and careless in spreading your sweetness all over. on the spur of the moment, you squirted out your orgasm in gushes—all over his working fingers, far enough on to the camera lens.
the sticky residue clung on to the skin of your thighs, breathing erratic from the arduous action only to be interrupted satoru’s sharp intake of air.
cc x·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ thinking about…reader trying to break up with yandere gojo
minors / ageless blogs / blank blogs - do not interact.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tags: yandere; dub con; lovesick gojo & he’s obsessive/toxic about it; he’s mean but yummy, okay?; size kink (ish?); gojo showing off his strength; sex without protection
notes: I had this written as an idea right after I wrote my hc’s for the jjk men in their yandere version. twylm readers, please forgive me for not posting the next chapter. I am working on it but I am really struggling - I had the worst burn out after the last chapter, and have been having a hard time trying to get back into the story >.<
wc: 1,228
gojo plays with the hem of your skirt - the flat expression on his face telling you that he’s listening but appears unbothered by your statement. you can see the annoyance in his eyes, the irritation that you would say something so ridiculous in the middle of a make out session.
his hands find the back of your thighs and with one swift motion he pulls you over his long legs so you’re hovering above his lap. the imbalance forces you to clutch onto his shirt with frustration, and he mindlessly reaches to undo his belt before tugging your underwear aside with his long, slender digits.
“toru, are you listening to me?” you whisper in a small voice.
they should make a version of socializing that doesn’t make you feel like you’re still the weird 12 year old kid that doesn’t know why she’s not normal like the other kids
Toji Zenin is incomprehensibly powerful due to his Heavenly Restriction, granting him superhuman abilities that reflect in his strength, speed, and even… senses.
Yet it isn't until he goes out on a date with his first girlfriend at the ripe age of 22 that he realizes how exceptional his prowess really is when it comes to surpassing the average human.
His nose twitches. “You get a new perfume or somethin’?” he inquires as you pull him back into your apartment, kicking your shoes off at the entryway impatiently and standing on your tip toes to pepper kisses along the column of his throat, teeth grazing his carotid.
You shrug absentmindedly like you can’t quite hear him through the haze of your lust, fingers curling into the supple feel of his leather jacket and peeling it off of his sturdy shoulders.
As if he can’t get undressed fast enough, or slip his cock into you sooner.
“Nope. Shut up and kiss me,” you headily groan out, voice breathy and body emanating a heat that has him cocking an eyebrow.
Things shifted from then on, Toji picking up on the minute details.
Every couple of months, when he’d be in close quarters with you, you’d start nuzzling against him like a whiny mutt and exude a fucking scent that had him itching his scalp. He’d barely rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes and you’d be canting your hips back against his crotch, whimpering in your groggy state at the asscrack of dawn about how he needed to "kiss your cervix."
Whatever that meant.
At first, he chalked it up to you being horned up and ready to go—but coupled with the scent? It had him reeling.
Toji is a smart man, and he isn't incognizant with the female body. But he is still a man—one who needs to do his research and allow someone to explain whatever he’d missed out on puzzling together on his own.
r/SexEd - 3 hr. ago
tojiz
I (22M) have run into an issue of sorts with my girlfriend (22F). Her body emits this weird smell when she’s horny and trying to mount me. Anyone know what this is?
—
sixeyesandsixabs - 1 hr. ago
lmfao. sounds like she’s in heat.
Toji’s fingers twitch against his phone screen.
Heat? As in the fucking wattpad shit you made him read?
He audibly scoffs at the guy’s piercing blue eyes in his profile picture. No, you weren’t in heat, a cramping omega in need of their fucking alpha to soothe their pains, and this wasn't fucking Omegaverse. There was no fantastical sweet scent like pastries that trickled from your glands to make his mouth water.
It was more… primal. A feminine musk that radiated from you when you were needy. It’d last for around a day or so, then be gone with the wind along with your incessant need to have him stuffing you with his cock.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face, before his phone notifies him of another comment.
leopardprint - Just now
Maybe you’ve just got a knack for sensing her ovulation.
“Huh,” he breathes out, mind now churning like an oiled cog in a rusty mechanism.
He tosses his phone aside noncommittally and quickly paces over to you. You have your legs tossed over the side of the couch, bleakly flipping through his ancient television with no streaming options and only droning cable. You're wearing his shirt, perky nipples pressing through the flimsy fabric. Mascara from the night before and a bare face. The kind of look he'd prefer over anything else.
“When was your last period?”
Skeptically, you drag your gaze up to him. “Well, hello to you, too,” you scrunch your eyebrows, squinting at him before pinpointing an answer. “Uh. Like a week ago. Why?”
A quiet hum of realization hits him. That makes perfect fucking sense. Women typically ovulate about two weeks after their period starts, giving him… not long until your next ovulation period.
He cocks his head down at you, hungry gaze trickling over your form. You’re in his boxers like a fucking tease.
Maybe he was the one ovulating and needing to paint his biological needs on your insides with the way blood was rushing south like molten lava.
You hadn’t been pawing at him in a bit, a hint that you should be starting it up soon.
He’d just jump the gun before you could squeeze the trigger.
Your boyfriend leans over you, splaying a hand over your lower abdomen and adding a bit of pressure. Playful intent and all, the corner of his lip twitches upwards and you feel skittish. “You feel anything here, darling?”
His voice is gravelly and thick, the tone he reserves for the bedroom, and the timbre is sent straight to your core to pool heat in your loins.
You swallow thickly, orbs darting between his jade irises before nodding.
He inches forward, bringing his nose towards your neck and inhaling the scent covering your skin.
Affirmed, you’re ovulating.
He chuckles low, knowing, pressing a tender kiss against your jugular.
呪術廻戦 after overhearing you playing piano, satoru seems to have fallen hard for you. the only problem? he's not allowed to date. but who's to stop him.
TAGS ⎯⎯ pianist f! reader & soccer player! gojo ┆ 9.7k words . fluff , a bit of angst , unsupportive parents , geto will be ooc (?) college au , brief smut, gojo falls first and hard . fic reupload art by @/soyboba91 on twt
If you were to tell gojo three years ago that he had fallen in love during college, the boy would have laughed in your face.
But it's true, Gojo is in love.
And not with a cheerleader from his games, a sorority he'd hooked up with or a stripper he'd have charmed with his stupid grin.
But with a pianist.
A very gorgeous and talented one who he would sit down next to hours on end, listening to the new song you had learned to play. a beauty he would die for. And most importantly, the girl that he is one minute away from getting down on a knee for.
And it all started with a forgotten notebook.
⟢
"Where the fuck is my notebook." Gojo muttered, searching his backpack twice. Then he looked in his locker, his gym bag, under the bench, even. His eyebrows furrowed until a groan left his lips.
It wasn't like it magically grew a pair of legs, but he still looked behind the vending machine as well. Just to be extra sure.
"This cannot be happening.." The last he needed was losing the one journal he actually used and the one that had his homework in it, especially not after a long night of practice that had his limbs feeling like spaghetti noodles. He just wanted to go home and drool into his pillow, sleeping off into another world.
"Looking for something?" Suguru chimed in, watching as his friend pulled out everything from inside his locker. His soccer uniform dropped onto the floor but Gojo was too exhausted to even care.
He shot a scowl towards the pierced boy. "My notebook man.. I lost it."
Gojo tried to recall where he had last used it. But there was no hope with how fried his brain was. He dropped his body dramatically onto the bench with a whine that sounded like it had come from a child.
"I have Monday's assignment in there."
"For what class?" Suguru slipped on his shirt over his body, closing his locker shut before turning to Satoru. "Biochemistry.." That’s when the memory hit him straight in the face.
He had left the notebook in his class, on the desk he sat in right next to the window.
Gojo immediately stood up, causing his head to feel dizzy, grabbing his bag to place on his broad shoulder. "Gotta go, see ya." He gave his friend a quick harsh pat on his back, rushing towards the door.
How could he be so dumb to leave it behind?
He has been so focused on his upcoming winter game that he was in a rush to get to practice on time.
You’re late three times to practice? You’re out.
The walk to his science class was a blur. Dodging small talk from other teammates and the cold weather practically freezing his balls off.
By the time he reached his biochem room, the hallway was eerily quiet as he slipped into the classroom.
There it was, sitting right there on his desk.
He could almost cry tears of joy.
Gojo let out a breath of relief, retrieving back the journal full of doodles and important notes. But most importantly, a poorly drawn portrait of his professor as a disgruntled frog that would definitely get him in trouble if said professor got his hands on it.
He clutched it close to his chest dramatically.
The door clicked quietly behind him. He was about to head towards his car that was parked in front of the field when a sudden sound floated down the hallway, reaching his ears.
It was music.
Well, a piano.
That's what it was.
The notes were as delicate as the raindrops that were hitting the window.
His head tilted to the side, following where the tunes were coming from in between the crack of the door.
Gojo knew he should have just gone home and attempted to get more than four hours of sleep for once, but the sound had him entranced like a siren call.
And that's when he saw you for the first time.
You looked so focused, eyes locked on the keys under your pretty fingers. You haven’t noticed him yet, peeking through the crack of the door like a creep.
Gojo held himself closer, steadying his body on the door, trying to get a good look at you. Maybe he could make out your face if he leaned in just a bit closer. But he only managed to fall, causing the door to open wide and for you to freeze.
Your fingers hovered over the piano, eyes blown wide completely startled.
"Oh my gosh- I am so sorry!" he exclaimed, pushing himself off the ground, wincing at the feeling of a now forming bruise on his knee. He was tripping over his words, trying to explain why he was even peeking in the first place, but he fell silent when you approached him.
You had to be an angel with the way you were staring up at him. "Are you alright?" your voice was even better. It was so gentle.
'Angels play the piano.. I had no idea' gojo thought.
"Uhhhhh, yeah. yeah, I'm alright." He answered quietly, eyes drawn to your lips. "You play really beautifully"
"Oh, thank you."
"Yup!" With that, he rushed out the door, face blushed to the max and heart beating faster than it does when he's out on the field. 'Holy fuck, who was that beauty?' His hand felt light.
Way too light.
He looked down just to see that he had forgotten his notebook, again.
Gojo would rather dig a hole and die in it than go back and face you after his sudden departure.
Your footsteps clicked on the floor, tilting your head to see gojo standing there, contemplating if he should turn around or not. "Hi again, you forgot this.."
You lifted up his journal.
"R-right, I forgot about that." He let out a nervous chuckle, reaching behind him doing a little grabby motion with his hand, back still turned towards you.
You were confused by his behavior but didn't question it, gently placing the book in his hand.
"Thank you." The flushed boy squeaked out.
You bit back a smile, watching as he tried to discreetly sneak a look at you over his shoulder.
"No problem!" you chirped, turning around to walk back into the music room. He let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, body now turned to fully face your figure as you walked away.
"... Wow." he whispered.
⟢
"And then she smiled up at me, like the prettiest smile I have ever seen. I'm not even joking that girl is heaven sent. I regret not running after her because oh my god, Suguru- Suguru are you even listening to me?"
"I’ma keep it a buck, fuck no." Suguru grumbled, scrolling on his phone which was far more interesting than the summarization Gojo has been giving him for the past two hours.
"You're an ass." Gojo grumbled, flopping on his belly on his bed, messing up his navy blue covers. "Let me see if she has instagram.. wait fuck, I dunno her name."
"Wait, you have a crush on a girl whose name you do not know?" The black haired boy stared away from the screen, looking up at his enamored best friend.
"Well like I was saying, she slipped from my fingers last night. I was too shocked from her ethereal face to even process anything"
"Then I don't fucking know what to tell ya, just leave me the hell alone."
Gojo hummed. "Whatever." he swung his feet in the air, twirling around his hair as he thought back to you. His friend gave him a look of disgust because never in his 15 years of being friends with Satoru had he ever seen him in love.
It freaked him out.
⟢
Gojo brought the ice pack to his cheek, mumbling a curse under his breath. The daydreamer was knocked out of his pondering when the soccer ball hit him straight in the cheek bone, smacking him hard enough to bruise.
He received a quick scolding from his coach on how he needed to get his head out of his ass and start playing harder now that the final game was closing in.
One second he was imagining you and your sweet smile and the other he was on the ground. He physically couldn't stop thinking back at you and the events of last night. Gojo threw away the bag with the now melted ice in a nearby trash can, slowly making his way to the music room.
'please be there, please be there, please please please!'
And then..
"Thank you god..." he whispered at the sight of you.
You were walking so peacefully, flipping the pages full of music in your hands, trying to pick which song to practice tonight. A stupid smile grew on Gojo's face. You had on a simple but cute white blouse and a brown skirt, the typical outfit you'd expect a pianist to wear.
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, too focused to notice the 6 foot boy practically stalking you in the dark. He did a little inner cheer, beaming with happiness after you finally looked up, making eye contact with him.
"Oh, hello." You greeted him sweetly. "You're the guy who face planted yesterday, right?"
He froze, embarrassed.
"Yea.. I'm Satoru." He held the door open for you, watching as you entered before closing the door behind him. He flashed you his dorky but genuine smile but quickly regretted it. 'Why the hell did I do that? What's wrong with me?' Any negative thoughts disappeared the second you giggled, making his brain short-circuit.
"I'm y/n."
He gave himself a pat on the back at achieving your name. "y/n, huh?" He tested it out himself, looking around to prevent himself from ogling you.
"So um, last night, I didn't get to listen to you finish playing that song."
You grabbed the back of your skirt, sitting down on the piano chair, patting the fabric down so it didn't stick up awkwardly.
"The one I was doing before you so rudely interrupted me?" Your focus shifted back onto him, scooting on the piano seat to make room for him.
He was surprised at the offer, but quickly acted on it. The muscular boy happily sat down next to his new crush.
"I can play it again if you'd like. It was love me by Elvis Presley." You positioned your fingers on their assigned keys, glancing at Satoru.
The simple eye contact drove him crazy. Gojo could feel the back of his neck heating up but shook it off as you began to play.
Your fingers glided around the keyboard out of pure memory. It made him hold his breath so he wouldn't miss hearing a second. His eyes weren't set on your hands but on your face, fully focused. It was enough for his heart to run wild. Not like it wasn’t already.
You ended the song with one final push on the keyboard, looking up at him and the stupid smile that was plastered on his face.
"That was good.. really good"
"I know." You grinned. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as his tongue darted out to lick his slightly chapped lips.
"Do you play?"
Gojo hummed. "Nah. I’d like to, but I’m too busy with soccer."
"You play soccer?" You asked curiously.
"Yeah, you couldn't tell from my sweat?"
"I thought you just had a bad sweating problem."
Gojo let out a groan. "that's fuckin' embarrassing." He dragged a hand down his face.
a snort escaped you unknowingly, making him turn to look at you again, forcing you to bring your hand up to cover your mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry."
"For what?"
He did not care. like at all.
"Um.. nothing. So, is listening to me play the piano all you came back for?"
The hand that previously rubbed his face now made its way to the back of his neck, nervously rubbing it.
"Sort of, I came back mostly because I wanted to get to know you. I've never seen you before and I just.. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me sometime." His own words surprised him. That is not at all the reason he showed up.
A faint blush attacked your cheeks. "Really?" Your voice softened even more.
"Yeah, really."
You were hesitant, but eventually nodded. "I'd really like that."
But he was thankful his mouth spoke involuntarily. “Yeah? Great, that’s great..”
⟢
Gojo gently closed the door behind him, letting out a tired sigh. His hands were covering the bottom half of his face, not being able to process the fact that he asked you out, and you said yes.
He began walking to his dorm, ready to tell Suguru what happened. His hands were shaky, opening up his phone to stare at the new contact on his list. Yours. He clicked on the edit button, replacing the number with your name.
“Suguru!” Gojo yelled after entering his room. “Bro bro bro,” he smacked the exposed back of his friend, to which Suguru responded by smacking it away. “I did it, I asked her out and I got her number.”
Suguru grunted. “So?”
Gojo rolled his eyes. “Dude, can you at least pretend to be proud of me? Fuck you so negative for?”
Suguru placed his phone down, shifting to lay against his elbow to face gojo. “Just confused and weirded out that you’re serious about a girl. You’re always sleeping around so yeah, it’s fucking weird that you’re suddenly Mr. Lover Boy.”
Gojo’s eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, I'm sorry if it's so "strange" for you to acknowledge that I can actually feel love."
He felt hurt at the fact that he was seen as incapable of feeling such strong sentiments towards someone. Yes, it was right that he used to stick his dick in every girl that would give him bedroom eyes in the past just for fun, but he's calmed down. And right now, he even more so now that you have entered his life, and he doesn't expect you to leave anytime soon.
"Your parents won't like it if they find out you're getting distracted."
Gojo's parents have this stupid belief that if a woman were to appear in his schedule, it would mess up his future. Soccer has been his top priority since grade school, having games every other month and practices every day for hours. Even when he tried explaining that he no longer enjoyed the sport, he got shamed.
"You have talent, son." His father would remind him.
But Gojo didn't want to kick around a ball.
He never wanted to.
He wanted to push his fingers down the keys of the piano, just like you did. He wanted to learn how to read music and to perform on big stages that didn't consist of roaring crowds cheering when a goal was scored, but a quiet audience that appreciated the art he was creating.
That was a dream that he cherished for years, keeping it a secret from everyone, especially from his un-supportive family. If they found out he would rather play an instrument rather than play a sport? He’d be a huge disappointment.”
"They don't have to know." Gojo shot back.
"They'll find out eventually. Just don't waste your time with her, we both know how batshit crazy your family is."
"I'm fucking aware and I don't need to hear it from you right now."
Suguru was sitting properly now, scowling up at the now agitated boy. He knew he was being an ass, but he was just looking out for gojo. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
"You clearly do if you're actually considering going out with her."
"I'm not considering, I am going out with her."
It was a back and forth argument that seemed as if it had no end.
"Whatever, you better not come crying to me when they hear about this. You already know what I will say."
I told you so.
Gojo was already making his way to his room, shutting the door loudly. He hated getting reminded of his parents. Even in college when he thought he'd finally get away from them, they still continue to haunt him.
He fell over his bed, taking off his shirt and bringing the covers up to cover his torso. He took deep breaths, scrolling on his phone before opening up your contact again.
His fingers began moving.
Satoru
'Hellooo. Me, you, cafe tomorrow?'
He held his breath, awaiting your response.
You replied shortly after, which he was thankful for.
You
'Hi! Yes sounds yum! what time?'
Skipping practice shouldn't harm him. He hasn’t missed any yet, so it’d be his first strike. If it meant sacrificing it for you, he would do it.
'Does 3 work for you?'
'Mhmmm, I have to be back before 8 tho!'
He chuckled. Did you have a curfew at 20 years old?
'Alright, noted. See you then.'
'Okay goodnight ! <3'
Oh my god.
You sent a heart and you said goodnight.
That clearly meant something right? You are interested in him, you sent a heart. He bit his inner cheek to prevent a stupid giggle from slipping out. He hearted your message, exiting the app.
From outside his door, he could hear Suguru turn on the tv, probably to play some video game of his. Gojo sighed, standing up to go join him despite the previous argument. He was still his best buddy at the end of the day.
"Make room." He murmured, pushing the black haired boy's feet off the couch to make space for him to sit on.
Suguru handed him the second controller without a question, splitting the screen into two. They played in silence until the sun fully set and the moon rose.
⟢
You patted down your blouse, turning to your side to stare at yourself in the mirror. Is this too little for a first date? Or was it too much? No boy has ever asked you out, not because you were unattractive, far from that actually, but because you always kept to yourself.
Many saw you as boring, shy, timid, unapproachable. But Gojo saw past that.
You did a little spin for yourself, showing off your pretty outfit. This should be good.
Gojo on the other hand was panicking as well.
He didn't know if he should just throw on another of his polo shirts or a sweater. He had his clothes spread out on his bed to make it easier for him to choose.
He settled on a brown patterned sweater with his white shirt underneath and his usual black jeans.
After receiving the message that you were ready, he rushed out the door, bringing the car’s engine to life.
Gojo went over potential lines, like the hopeless romantic he had grown to be.
"Looking as gorgeous as ever." No, way too soon to say that. "Nice rack." No no, definitely not that. Shit, should he have gotten you flowers? Wait, he doesn't know which you prefer. He should first figure that out and then get you some. You looked like a tulip girl, or maybe roses?
His nose scrunched up. Did he put on cologne today? Did he stink? what if you thought he smelt bad.
What about his hair? Did it look greasy? He took a double shower today, shaved his entire body, just in case.
All negative thoughts left his head once he reached your house. You were standing out there waiting for him, looking around cutely with your hair blowing around a bit from the winter wind.
He clenched his jaw close, not wanting it to fall open.
Your eyes landed on his car, face brightening. You gave him a little wave, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder as you made your way down the street to him.
Gojo came back to earth, jumping out of his seat to go over to the passengers side, opening the door. "You're so pretty." he complimented, watching you sit down.
"Thank you!" You happily chirped.
He walked over to his side once again, typing out the location of the cafe on the console, previously where your address was written.
You both began with small talk. How your classes were going, why you even chose the university, all of that.
“So, why soccer?” You asked.
“Well, like I said, my parents wanted me to do something impressive, y'know? I’ve been playing since I was like five. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
“I highly doubt that.”
Your words made his cheeks warm up.
“Why piano?” He forced himself to speak, praying you hadn't noticed the way his hands were gripping the steering wheel.
You hummed in thought. “I don’t know actually. I’ve always liked music and I thought the piano was cool, so I just stuck to it. I tried out guitar before but piano was easier for me.”
Gojo listened intently, almost as if your words were the most important things to ever exist.
“I play for the school from time to time.”
"Is that so? I'll go and support you if you promise to come to my game."
You nodded. "Deal! I'll even wear your jersey."
Fuck. he'd like that. a lot.
"Noted." A breathy chuckle left him.
Your destination wasn't far, but traffic made it seem as if it was. "Think we're here." He looked around, parking the car just as the generated voice set on the map spoke out.
'You have arrived.'
⟢
The date went well, really well.
You even went as far as holding hands as the two of you made your way into the heart of the town center, admiring the Christmas decorations they had set up, laughing at the way they made The Grinch appear.
“Hold on, stand over there let me take a picture!” He pointed over at the cardboard cutout of the character with a silhouette of a person with a hole cut out where the face should be, allowing people to place their head in.
You smiled after posing.
The phone’s camera snapped, taking a couple of pictures.
‘Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.’ Gojo grinned, showing you the captures he had taken to you once you made your way back to him.
“Let’s take one together!” You offered.
His heart beat overtook the holiday music playing, beating loud as hell as you got closer to him for the picture. He gulped, shyly wrapping his arm around your shoulder, forcing himself to look at the camera and not you.
But eventually the day came to an end, and with your curfew hour approaching, he drove you home.
"Hey so um, I was wondering if we could do this again soon?" He internally cringed at how desperate he sounded.
"Of course. I mean, obviously."
Satoru bit back a smile, knowing it was no use with the way his face was shifting to a soft pink color.
He pulled up to your now familiar house, watching you gather your things, unbuckling your seatbelt.
He quickly scrambled out of his seat, rushing over to your side to open the door. You chuckled at how hard he tried, but you appreciated it.
"Thank you."
You both stood in front of each other, the silence heavy. He leaned in, wanting to close the small distance in between you two, but the sound of your neighbor's dog barking snapped him back into reality.
He cleared his throat, taking a small step back. "So um, I'll see you."
"Yeah, see you." You took a couple of steps before turning back around. “I had a lot of fun today, Satoru.”
You reached up on your toes, pecking his cheek gently. A gasp broke from Gojo before hearing the soft clack of your heels disappear with every step you took up to your front door, turning around one last time to wave goodbye at him.
Gojo's hand slowly made its way to touch the area where you had kissed him.
There's no doubt.
He was in love.
Gojo made his way into his dorm room, locking it behind him.
He threw his sweater onto a chair, leaving him in his undershirt, making his way to the couch, plopping down on it. His forearm laid over his forehead thinking back to you and how well your date went.
He smiled softly, clearly satisfied.
Suguru heard the door close, indicating his friend had come home. He went out to greet him but the view of him laying on the couch, eyes closed but smile intact, his face shifted. He knew gojo was in too deep.
And he knew that sooner or later, shit would go down.
⟢
"No no.. that one's an eight note." You pointed at the music sheets in front of you.
"It deadass looks like a sixteenth note." He argued.
"No it doesn't!"
"This is way too complicated.." Gojo groaned, resting his head on his hand all while he averted his gaze from the papers to your pretty face.
He admired you, hand already reaching to fix a strand of hair, thumb lingering on your cheek.
"Satoru focus.." You whined, clearly distressed that your date couldn't understand the difference between two notes.
"Can't. You're too pretty."
His lips grazed yours for just a second, and in that second alone he was able to tell that one kiss wasn't going to be enough.
Your hands placed themselves on his shoulders, previously on the piano seat, returning the sweet short pecks he kept initiating.
His hands went behind your back, bringing your body closer to his.
"Quarter note.. treple clef-" He mumbled against your lips.
"Treble clef." You corrected him.
"Whatever."
After four successful dates, Gojo finally got what, or who, he wanted. You. He finally got you.
And he was the happiest bastard on earth.
“Want to go to the mall, baby?” He said against your lips, tugging at your lower lip.
“Mmm, yeah okay!” You chirped before wincing at his biting. “Ouch! Toru!”
He grinned, licking at where he bit. “Sorry. I just love these pretty lips so much.”
“Yeah yeah..” You rolled your eyes, laughing at the sudden tickle attack he declared against your tummy, poking at the sides.
“Let’s get going.”
⟢
The shoes were put on display so any shoppers could get a brief glance at it before deciding if it was worth buying or not. You stared at them for a while. They were a pretty pair of Mary Jane's. Low heeled but had some chunk put into the platform part and they had a strap that wrapped around the ankle. The bow in the middle of it was small but it added so much to the design.
You always asked your mom for a pair whenever you went out with her and your sister. She always dismissed it, saying they were too expensive. But here they are, only $40.99. Your gaze turned to look at the big poster they had plastered on the window. a new month's deal. 'Buy one get one 50% off!'
Gojo approached you holding a bag full of pizza bits and a single large cup of lemonade intended for the both of you to share from Weltzels pretzels. He took the sight of you looking at a pair of shoes so intently, almost like you were debating buying them.
"Do you like those?" He asked, offering you the small warm bag of food before he took a sip of the drink in his hand. You happily accepted the treats before shrugging. "Not sure."
He hummed. "You've been staring at them for a while now."
"They just remind me of a pair I used to want when I was a kid. But they were always "too expensive" so my mom never got them for me. But she was always willing to drop a grand on bags she would never even use." You saw at the corner of your eyes Gojo reaching to grab a piece of the pizza from the bag.
He didn't say anything for a while, just staring at the shoes as well as he chewed on his pizza bit. Then, he turned and walked off into the store, leaving you standing confused. Your eyes followed as he talked to an employee, pointing at the pair of shoes displayed on the window. Specifically, the pair you wanted. The clerk nodded before disappearing behind the door that read 'workers only!'
"Um, baby?" You whispered out, following him inside the store to where Gojo was standing, still sipping onto his comically large drink.
"Uh hey what are you doing?" You asked once you reached him. He glanced back at you, reaching to grab another piece from inside the bag. "Checking if they have those shoes in your size."
You mumbled his name awkwardly as you shifted the now empty bag in your hands because that biggie ate them all. He took a bite from the treat before feeding it to you. "Shh, I'm working."
The worker returned with a box in his hand. "Size seven?" Gojo nodded, taking the box in his hands, gesturing for you to sit down on the seats provided by the store. "Hey you don't have to.."
"I know," he interrupted. "I want to."
He got down on one knee, placing the cup he was previously sipping on next to you. His hands moved to open up the shoe box, carefully taking out the pair of black mary janes. "Give me your foot" he patted his knee. "Here."
"I can put them on myself.."
"I want to, love." He said sternly, forcing your foot to rest on his knee. "I'm going to stain your pants-" you mumbled embarrassed. He squeezed your calf before slipping off the shoes you were wearing right now, grabbing the shoe, carefully putting it on your right foot. "Not too loose or tight?"
You shook your head. "No.. they're.. they're perfect." He hummed, his skilled fingers adjusted the strap on your ankle handling you like you were the most valuable thing to him. He looked up at you, his expression softened the second your eyes met. "Just like you." Your eyes widened the second he said that, blush overtaking your face.
You tried saying something but nothing came out. Not like you could with the way your throat was drying up. I mean, your boyfriend of what, a month (?) was offering to buy you these expensive shoes out of nowhere. You reached for the cup of lemonade next to you as he worked on your left foot, only to realize he already finished the drink as well.
Is this the type of greed they talk about in the bible?
"Stand up." he ordered in which you complied. You looked down at the fresh pair on your feet, walking around a bit to test them out.
"You like 'em?" he asked again. You turned to him, walking to be right next to him. "Yeah, I like them. A lot"
He hummed in acknowledgment. "Well, go and look for another pair. They have the bogo discount anyway, so might as well take advantage of it." He stood up, brushing his jeans from the small stain you left behind.
"No.. no that's too much! This is more than enough! Besides, you shouldn't be spending so much on me, you already paid for dinner today-"
"Baby, seriously. I don't care if I drop a grand on you, you can make it up to me by allowing me to kiss you numb. Go get another pair." He looked around the store before his eyes landed on a pair of converse. "Get some converse, your black ones are all beat up."
"I like them that way." You argued as you took off the shiny shoes before replacing them with said beat up converse. "Well I don't. makes you look like a sad homeless lady. I want my girl to have pretty clothes to match her pretty face."
You sighed, feeling your heart warm up.
"I'm not throwing these converse away. They hold too many memories."
His hand reached for yours. "Yeah no, we can burn them ceremonially later." He brought your hand up to his face, kissing your knuckles one by one with his pink tinted lips.
He was so entranced by your face, he failed to notice the pair of eyes staring you both down.
⟢
“Hey baby!” You coo’ed into the phone, hearing your boyfriend's tired grunts from the other side.
“Morning my pretty girl.” He yawned, dragging a hand over his face.
“It’s four toru, did you just wake up?”
Gojo carefully sat up, watching his bedsheets pool down at his lap, exposing his bare chest. His nipples hardened at the cold air, and he didn’t have to be fully awake to know that he was hard.
Rock hard.
Your voice wasn’t helping out at all.
“Just calling to ask if you’d like to come watch me perform later?”
Your question snapped him from his horny ass thoughts. “What? Baby, you’re having a show later? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
Usually, he knew when you had piano practices and performances.
“I just.. didn’t know if you wanted to sit down for two hours.”
Gojo sighed, not liking the way you even considered thinking he could be bored from watching you do what you love.
“If it meant watching my girl play, I’d gladly sit down for more than a couple hours. I can sit for decades.”
“Toru..”
“I’ll be there. When did you say it was again?” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling his crusties fall down.
“Today at seven.”
He froze for a split second, remembering he had practice. It had completely slipped from his mind.
“Seven..” He repeated softly to himself. Practice was at five, and it lasted two hours and a half.
He had gotten in trouble from ditching last time so he could take you out. ‘Three strikes, you’re out.’ But it would only be his second. He could handle another scolding from his coach. His voice was already echoing through his mind.
The pause rushed to fill it. “It’s okay if you can’t. I know I’m asking last minute, it was just-”
“I’ll be there,” he cut in.
“Are you sure-”
“Positive. I'm positive sweetheart.” His voice was firmer now.
“Wait, don’t you have practice today?” You faintly remembered him telling you a couple days back how his schedule had changed from practice going from every even day to every odd day.
“Yeah, but you really think I need it? I’m as ready as ever”
“Toru..”
“Seriously baby, I’ll be there for you.” His eyes shifted back down to his raging boner. “..Can you come over before you go over to set up your piano though?”
“Oh, yeah, is something wrong?”
“... Just need you.”
Gojo wasn’t a virgin, far from that actually. but with the way his body was warming up and heart beating a thousand miles an hour, he could be mistaken as one.
He waited patiently for you to arrive at his dorm.
Fuck.
Would your panties be pink? Or would they be black.
Or better yet, blue?
“Yo.” Geto knocked at Gojo’s door, despite it already being cracked open. “I’m heading out now to go to practice. You coming?”
“Uh, yeah. I just need to do something quick then I’ll make my way over.”
“Don’t miss again. The coach will be on your ass like last time.” He chuckled, waving bye at the white haired boy.
Gojo bit the inside of his cheek, laying back on his arms, deep in his thoughts as always. You were worth it.
That’s not a question.
⟢
“Oh my god, fuck. Yes baby, fuck!” Gojo closed his eyes, panting like a damn dog on a sunny day.
The way your puffy folds were stretched over him only encouraged him to go faster and harder, hitting your cervix at a perfect angle.
“Pretty fucking pussy, you’re so goddamn pretty, look at you.”
Your performance dress was sitting on the ground while your panties were ripped in the middle, right at your entrance.
“Toru!”
You whimpered, hiding your face in his pillow. "Don't hide yourself from me, baby. wanna see ya.”
The headboard was hitting against the wall with a thud and Gojo could only pray that the other students staying at the dorms couldn’t hear them.
He buried himself deeper into your cunt, bottoming out.
“You’re too big…” you squealed, gripping onto the now wet bedsheets.
“I know. And you’re too tight.”
His hand shifted to grope your ass, fondling the plush meat, hips not stopping or slowing.
Your breathless pleas were like music to his ears.
“My pretty girlfriend.. mmm aren’t you so pretty?” he praised. The veins in his arms were more evident now. One was appearing on his forehead in concentration, trying to figure out the best way to make you cum.
You were a virgin after all.
Profanities spilled from both your lips, feeling yourself clench harder around him. A ring of pre was forming just at the base of his cock, like a damn tattoo.
“Babe! T-think I’m close!”
He grunted lowly. “Don’t cum just yet.” The squelches have now turned sloppier, and louder, and hotter.
His white bangs were sticking to his forehead no thanks to the thin layer of sweat that had formed.
“Not done with you yet.”
His hands placed themselves both on your hips, thick fingertips rubbing you lovingly before flipping you over without slipping out.
He wasted no time smacking at your cunt, watching your wetness fly into the air with each spank.
“Satoru…!” You felt lightheaded in the best way possible. Your drool dripped down your chin, watching him thrust in and out. The hair that trailed down his belly button to join his pubes just made you tighten onto his aching cock even more.
How could your boyfriend be this beautiful?
Gojo hesitated, pulling you closer to his hips, latching a hand lightly to your neck.
“Is this okay?”
You nodded feeling him squeeze it.
The sounds of your breathy moans, messy cunt along with the smack of his balls that hit your ass with every thrust had you both in a trance.
So much so that you didn’t seem to notice the door shutting and the sudden appearance of Geto who was frozen in his place, looking absolutely mortified.
“What the fuck.”
His voice broke through your needy whines. “Satoru!” This time his voice sounded harsher, angrier.
Gojo’s movements came to a halt, keeping his grip on your waist. His body covered you, blocking you from his friends' view. But he knew for a fact that Geto already had in mind who was in the bed with him.
You quickly brought the sheets to your chest in an attempt to cover yourself.
“... Ever heard of knocking?” Gojo mumbled.
“The door was fucking open. I could see you from the kitchen.” Geto did not advance from his spot on the doorframe. “Don’t tell me you actually got with her.”
Gojo hasn't told him about the two of you yet. Or anyone really.
You never questioned it, thinking he’d want to take it slow before he introduced you to his friends let alone family. You had just started dating a couple weeks back. But the way his friend said it ‘don’t tell me you actually got with her.’ left a bad taste in your mouth.
What did he mean by that?
“Geto, seriously get out of the room.”
“Your parents are going to kill you Satoru,” He was more animated now, hands waving in the air angrily. His own thoughts didn’t let him process the way Gojo used his last name on him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice right now? What the hell are you doing man-”
“I said get out!” You’ve never heard Gojo’s voice beam like that.
Ever.
It got across though. Geto slammed the door shut, storming off.
Gojo sighed, staring at the wall before averting his gaze down to you, smiling softly. “Guess the moment is over, huh?”
Your fingers twitched on his shoulders, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Why’d he say that?”
His eyebrows furrowed, face shifting to one of concern at your shaky voice.
“Hey hey, baby, it’s okay shh..”
His softening cock slipped out of you with a small pop, arms circling around you to bring you into a hug.
“My family.. Is an ass. A big fucking ass. They’re strict with me, especially my love life. They think they know what’s best for me but fuck, no they dont. I know what’s right for me and that’s you, love. It’s you.”
His lips grazed at your cheek, pecking lightly.
“It’s been you since I laid eyes on you.”
⟢
His words looped over and over in your head as you mentally prepared yourself for your upcoming performance.
From behind the curtain, you peeked out to see him sitting in his designated seat, head tilted down at his digital camera, adjusting the settings, waiting for you to come out so he could preserve the moment forever.
Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek, now becoming a new habit of yours, pacing back into the backstage area.
If you've practiced the song multiple times, you shouldn’t be nervous.
Right?
Wrong.
Because the problem wasn’t the notes or the tempo, it was that you’d chosen this song with him in mind.
“Want to watch La La Land?” Satoru mumbled earlier that month, scratching the back of his neck while the other lazily clicked away at the remote control.
“Sure!” You tossed the blanket over your bodies, snuggling close to his warm bare chest. “How are you not cold?” You pressed your cheek against him.
“Hm?” His eyes landed on you after pressing ‘play’. “I am cold. I just want to show off my amazing muscles to my amazing girl.”
“Weirdo.”
Neither of you have watched the film before. but somehow ended up falling in love with it. You with the music, and him with the storyline.
“I hope we never end up like them.” His voice was a whisper, silently wrapping his arms tight around you.
“Toru-”
“Never, ever leaving you, baby. Fuck soccer and you know what, fuck piano too. Don’t leave me.”
You heard your name be called out, indicating you were next.
You quickly patted down your skirt with trembling hands, stepping in front of the mirror to make sure your hair, makeup, posture, everything was perfect.
The stage manager gave you a nod and you finally stepped out.
His eyes landed on you immediately, smiling lovingly up at you. You could feel your chest tighten as you sat at the piano, fingers already hovering over the keys.
From the distance, you could hear the sound of something clicking, his camera.
You inhaled before pushing down your fingers, allowing the melody to unfold. You’d discreetly look over at him, seeing how he stared at you so preciously.
By the final note, your hands had stopped shaking.
The room erupted in applause, the loudest coming from Satoru. You bowed, eyes never leaving him even when you stepped offstage, rushing towards him.
“Satoru!”
He didn’t let another word come out of you, automatically cupping your cheeks, pressing his lips against yours.
“Such a cruel girl.” He pecked again. “You picked that song on purpose didn’t ya?”
You giggled. “Maybe.”
His thumb rubbed under your eye gently.
“You did amazing, sweetheart.”
⟢
Satoru has come to notice that the only way you were able to practice piano was using the school’s.
And with Christmas approaching, he figured it’d only be appropriate if he got you one of your own.
His hands covered your eyes, leading you carefully to the living room where your present was.
“Alright, 3..2..1.”
His hands fell allowing you to see. you blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright lights on the tree.
Your jaw dropped.
In front of you was none other than a console piano. It wasn’t like the one in the music room where you practiced in and the only place you knew that had the instrument available for use, but regardless it was beautiful.
And completely yours.
“You like it?” He asked, rubbing your back. You nodded excitedly. “Of course I do! Thank you!” Your face was as bright as the Christmas lights, beaming at the new piano that sat in your living room.
“I'm glad..” he whispered, letting go of you so you could look at it closer.
You squealed, slightly jumping up and down at it. he groaned at the recoil of your ass which was visible under your plaid skirt.
“It's so gorgeous!” your fingers pushed down on the keys.
“Just like you.”
“So cheesy” You said before bursting into laughter as his hands found your stomach, tickling you. You braced yourself on the piano's surface. That's when you felt it.
His very prominent boner that was straining his pants.
Gojo noticed that you noticed.
A smirk appeared on that stupid face of his. “How about we check how sturdy this sucker is.” He placed a hand on your gift.
Gojo’s hips snapped forward with a ruthless pace, each thrust making you hit against the brand new instrument and begin to rattle with all his strength.
His breath was coming out in short pants, chest pressed up against your back, pinning you harder against the surface of the piano. You whispered out his name like a prayer, every sound you made reached his ears and that only seemed to push him even further.
“So goddamn beautiful.” He praised.
At some point, words became too difficult for you to say, resulting in you answering with only moans and whimpers. gojo’s fingers were digging into your hips, leaving crescent like marks on them. He kept pounding into you harshly, tip already brushing against a sweet spot inside you.
“Right there!” You begged along with a loud mewl.
Your skirt was bunched up in his hands, almost tearing the fabric apart as he felt himself grow closer.
“Here?” he began going deeper, watching you fall apart. The bounce of your ass was not helping, especially with the way it slapped against his thighs. His lower lip was in between his teeth, letting out grunts of his own spill.
You were both thankful your parents weren’t home. He wouldn’t want to ruin the image they had of him this quickly. Of the perfect guy for their daughter already fucking her numb over her christmas present.
“Think m’cummin!” You sobbed out, reaching behind you to grab his waist for support. He coo’ed softly, hand leaving your skirt to hold your hand in his. “Me too baby, let’s finish together alright? I'm cumming inside you. no way am i able to pull out this tight fuckin pussy.”
You nodded.
“Please fill me up!” Gojo grinned once he heard that. “If ya say so darling.”
Your legs gave up on you at the feeling of his warm seed filling you to the brim. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, mouth open with sounds still coming out as your orgasm hit you as well.
“Good girl baby.” His arms were wrapped around your waist, pecking your temple lovingly. “Stay with me..”
You both stayed in that position, dick still twitching inside you before softening, forcing him to slip out with a loud squelch that made you cringe.
“M’guessing you loved your gift?” He reached down for your panties, sliding them back on you but not before watching his semen ooze out of your cunt along with yours. He fought the urge to stick his tongue in you to clean the mess up, but he could tell you were already overstimulated, so he decided to eat you out some other time.
And by that I mean in a few hours.
“Yeah.. thank you.. so much..” You whimpered at the sting on your ass after he slapped it. Gojo quickly zipped his pants back up, pushing his hair back with a pant.
“Of course my love. you better play me every song you know on it.”
“Will do..” you smiled weakly up at him.
“I'm gonna go get ya water, cmon sit down on the couch sweetheart.”
You did as he said, carefully sitting down. The feeling of his cum sticking to your panties just made you clench your thighs.
Why did he have to be so sexy?
You stared back at your piano, admiring it. You were already thinking of all the songs you would play from sunrise to sunset.
Gojo walked back to the living room holding a glass of water, handing it over.
“My final game is coming up.. So I have lots of practice to do. Hope the piano keeps you occupied while I’m away.” His arm wrapped over your shoulder, bringing you closer.
“Mmmm that’s right.”
“Wanna head over to a restaurant, baby?” He never hesitated in asking you, and he urged you to never be afraid in asking him for whatever you desired.
“I’d really love that.”
“Good good, let’s get going then.” He stood up, offering his hand to you.
“Uh, no way am I going out to eat like this.”
His eyebrow twitched in confusion. “Like what?”
You motioned downstairs, lifting your skirt to show off the wet mess.
Gojo laughed, smacking your thigh lightly. “No no, you gotta head out like that.”
“Absolutely not!”
⟢
The dinner consisted of nothing but him staring at you.
“Babe, eat.” You urged.
“Can’t, the view is too nice.”
After eating out, you both settled in heading over to his place.
His laugh quieted down as he pulled into the parking lot, seeing two familiar snow colored haired people. He could feel his heart sink and blood boil.
“Stay here darling.” He ordered you, squeezing your thigh. You mumbled a soft ‘ok’, attempting to look behind you out the window to see what was going on.
He got out of the vehicle, walking around to where the people he wanted to see the least were standing. His mother was biting her nails anxiously like a mad woman. His father had his arms crossed over his chest, a serious look displayed on his face.
Then there was Suguru. looking as guilty as ever.
And it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.
“Is that the girl?” His mother asked. She had never expected her son to be going out with a girl instead of sticking to his schedule. How dare he? “Is that your little girlfriend?” Her voice rose up.
“What did we say about relationships?” his father reminded him.
But all gojo could think about was the fact that they found out because of the tan boy standing not far away.
“Are you fucking kidding me.” He stared at the one person he thought he could trust. His hands shot out to grab Suguru's shirt collar.
“You told them?!” He was practically screaming in his face. But Suguru kept looking unbothered, as if he didn’t practically ruin Gojo’s life right now.
“Son, calm down.” Gojo's father said sternly.
“No, no how the hell am I supposed to calm down. You all keep getting in the way of my life. My life!” He was at the point of crying tears out of frustration.
“She is just a girl, Satoru.” His mother said. “She woo’ed you with a few tunes so what, it’s not going to bring money into the family, is it? You need to find yourself a good woman. But right now, your focus is on your career. Not a girlfriend, and especially not her.”
“You are no longer the one to decide what you think is best for me. I love her, mom. I don't care what you think, just know that I am not listening to anything you say.”
That shut his mom up real quick, shooting him a death glare, one that would have 6 year old Gojo in tears by now. But he kept his head high.
“Satoru, you have to understand that we want what’s best for you.”
“No,” He interrupted, turning to look at his father now. “You want what’s best for you.”
He then turned his head towards Suguru, whose eyes were set on his shoes, knowing he completely lost his best friend's trust. It's not like he had a choice either but to tell the truth. His and Gojo's family were close, and he knew that if he were to lie to Gojos parents when they asked him why the coach had informed them that their son was on the verge of being kicked from the team, the families would have even more conflicts.
Gojo wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead he walked right past the new stranger.
“Can you hear me out for a second.” Geto caught up to him, ignoring the putrid sobs coming from Mrs. Gojo. “Satoru.” he called out.
“Look man, did you really expect me to lie when they came to the dorm, worried sick that you missed two practices? What was I supposed to say?”
“Tell them I was sick, that an emergency came up, I don’t know but you could’ve come up with a shitty excuse.”
“Just for them to find out I didn't tell the truth and have our families fight over me being a liar?!”
Gojo was breathing heavily, eyebrows furrowed and jaw set tight. but his face fell as soon as he remembered you were still in the car.
He shook his head. “They can stay the fuck out of my life. And so can you.”
Geto froze at that. “You don’t mean that.”
“Trust me, I mean every bit.” The air around them felt heavy. “You chose them over me.”
“Gojo, the families-“
“You're just a damn puppet. Same as I was, but I learned to stop playing the role. Do you think they actually see you as their son? They see you as an accomplishment.”
He rushed down the stairs, approaching his car where you were still in, head hung low nervously as you played with the skin around your fingernails, clearly worried. His parents were standing outside the building, shooting dirty looks towards your way.
“I'm driving you home.” Gojo said after entering the car, closing the door shut and clicking his seatbelt on. “Mind if I stay with you for a bit, baby?”
His eyes met yours.
“… Did they want us to break up?” You asked quietly, scared to hear his response.
He immediately grabbed your hand in his to reassure you. “You know I would never ever do that. You're everything to me no matter what they think or say, I'm not letting things end between us. Got it?”
You hesitated, not wanting his parents to hate their only son because he chose you over them. “But what if they’re right? What if you can do better?”
You heard.
Of course you heard. Not like they were being quiet.
His hold tightened. “Don't you start with that.” That's the last thing he said as he drove to yours, address no longer needed on the ups no thanks to the amount of times he’s been over.
You worried over what his family would think of him now.
Would they hate him because of you?
⟢
The bed felt surprisingly cold.
Your boyfriend's back was turned towards you and even though his back muscles were on full display, you couldn’t ogle without having something eating you up from the inside.
“Toru.. baby can we talk about earlier?”
“Love, if you’re going to tell me that they’re right I swear to god-”
“No,” You sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it down to the small of his back. “I just.. I feel like we shouldn’t wait until morning to discuss it.”
Begrudgingly, Satoru turned around, meeting eyes with you. “I will never ever break up with you because my family thinks they know what is best for me. I cut them off on the spot. They’ve got no say in what I do with my life nor with the woman I love. I told you once and I’ll tell you again. I love you, okay?”
Your heart warmed and you felt your worriness ease. “I love you too.”
“I’ve been wanting to get rid of them for a long ass time anyways.” He yawned, throwing an arm around your waist. “Just finally got a good excuse to do so.”
Your lips met in a small but sweet peck.
“Now let’s go to sleep.. Big game tomorrow.”
⟢
Suguru seems to not have caught on to the fact that his former best friend no longer wanted to be a part of his life anymore.
“Satoru, seriously let’s talk.” He begged like a desperate ex.
The white haired boy only rolled his eyes in response, walking past him to reach his locker. “I don’t need you messing with my head before the game. Told you to stay the fuck away from me and I meant it.”
He quickly tugged off his shirt and replaced it with his white and teal jersey before slamming his locker shut and turning to walk out. Suguru’s hand placed itself on Satoru’s chest only to get pushed off almost immediately.
Satoru walked out, hearing the sound of the crowd cheering. He looked around until he spotted you sitting not too far from the front.
He smiled stupidly at himself knowing he was right where he wanted to be.
⟢
You stared at him like he grew three heads.
“Uhh yeah babe, I think I remember our whole love story. I was there.”
“Okay well yes but I’m retelling it because.. Because..” Satrou groaned, looking off to the side where two waitresses were standing, nodding at them.
Before you could look towards the direction he was staring at, a familiar song started playing.
Love me.
The same one you played for him all those years ago.
“Oh, hey-”
“Shhh..” He brought a finger up to your lips before standing up. Satoru reached into his pocket pulling out a small black box. “Baby.. light of my life.”
Your eyes watered, already knowing where this was going.
He got down on one knee.
“Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”
synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. there’s a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?
tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.
word count: 7.1k
a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 – ARSON.
For the record, none of this is your fault.
It’s all Satoru’s fault, and you’re pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and he’s also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.
You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.
And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.
Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.
“I want a divorce,” you tell him.
“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”
“Forty-seven minutes too long.”
“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”
“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”
“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.
“You committed a crime first.”
“Getting married isn’t a crime—”
“Fraud is.”
Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.
Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving where?” you’d asked.
“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.
You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.
So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.
You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.
The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.
After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.
Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.
“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”
“There are photos?”
“Francis had a camera.”
“What?”
“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”
You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.
“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”
“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”
“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.
“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”
“Then we can’t go there.”
“I called ahead.”
You gape at him. “Three months ago?”
“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”
“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”
“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”
“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”
“That’s your fault by proximity.”
“That’s not a legal standard.”
“I’m making it one.”
Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.
“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”
“You’d better not,” you say.
“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re really not.”
“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.
The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.
“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.
“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.
What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.
“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”
“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”
“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“Satoru—”
“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”
“Vegas,” you echo.
“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”
“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”
“I said what I said.”
The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.
“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.
“I was nervous,” he says.
Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!
“Were you,” you say.
“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”
“Of course.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Of course.”
The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.
“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.
“We’ll see.”
“Satoru.”
“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.
The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!
“Fuck,” you groan.
“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”
“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”
You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?
“He might live here,” Satoru says.
“Francis?”
“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”
“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.
“It’s nearly one.”
“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”
“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”
He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.
“No,” you say.
“There’s a window.”
“I see that.”
“It’s open!”
It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.
“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”
“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”
“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”
“Obviously.”
“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”
“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”
“I’m not being a lookout.”
“You just said—”
“I’m coming with you.”
He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.
“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.
The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.
“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.
“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because we’re trespassing.”
“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”
“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.
“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”
You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.
“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.
The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.
Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.
The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.
In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.
Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.
“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.
“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”
“Were you?” he asks.
“Yes. Were you?”
“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”
In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.
“We should take them,” Satoru says.
“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”
“They look pretty developed to me.”
“Satoru, they’re damp—”
“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”
“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”
“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”
There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.
“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”
“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”
“What?”
“I’m asking genuinely.”
“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”
You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.
You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.
You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.
“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”
“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”
You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.
“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.
There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.
The difference is that you are currently married to him.
“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.
“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”
The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.
“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.
“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”
“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”
It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.
“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”
“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”
“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”
You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.
“I want to see them again,” you announce.
Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”
You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.
“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.
“About which part?”
“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”
“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.
“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”
You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.
You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.
“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”
“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”
His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.
You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.
He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.
When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.
“Hi,” Satoru says.
“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.
“I said hi.”
“Hi,” you say.
He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.
“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”
“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”
“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.
The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.
You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.
“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”
You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.
He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.
His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.
He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”
“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.
“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him.
“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”
He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”
“I need you to, hah, just—”
Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.
“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.
He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.
“Satoru… please, I’m—”
“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.
The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.
“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”
He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.
“Not yet,” he whispers.
“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”
“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh.
He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”
Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.
“Ride me?” he asks.
The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.
“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”
“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.
You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.
“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.
You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”
You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.
“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”
You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.
Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.
It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone.
Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.
You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.
The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.
You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.
The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.
You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.
But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.
The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.
“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”
“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”
He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”
You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.
He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last.
“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.
He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.
You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached.
“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”
“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.
Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details.
You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.
Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.
“Morning,” you say.
“My credit card,” he says.
“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”
“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”
“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.
Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”
“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”
“I liked those rings.”
“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”
You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his.
“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”
“Yep.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”
Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.
Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.
“We came back,” you confirm.
Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”
You produce the white box.
“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”
Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:
You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.
Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.
You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.
You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.
Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”
The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.
Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.
Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.
“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”
“We forgot something the first time,” you say.
Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.
a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!
