Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
WC: 7.4k ch7
“I don’t know how it works!” You whine, holding the controller in your hands. You’re plopped comfortably on Satoru’s bed, he’s sitting next to you, teasing you. Even laughing at you. That prick!
“Well, I’ve explained it like four times!” He chuckles, “it looks like you aren’t good at everything you do, hm?” He teases even more, digging his fingers into your ribs. You jerk your body away, not in the mood for another tickling fight. (You always lose it.)
“Listen,” he smiled, holding your hand, “it’s a really old game, but I love it, right? This is PS2, so be kind to it–“ he says, looks at you and rolls his eyes, “–and don’t stress! The controller will break! You’re squeezing it way too tight.”
You giggled, looking at the game. It did look old. “Isn’t this just the Pokémon game, Satoru?”
“It’s not Pokémon,” Satoru says, nudging your knee with his. “You don’t just catch them and throw them into battle. You raise them.”
You frown at the screen. “Raise them how?”
“Like… digital parenting.” He grins. “You feed them, train them, let them sleep, take them to the bathroom so they don’t poop on the ground like idiots.”
Your head snaps toward him. “They poop?”
“Yes,” he says proudly. “And if you ignore it, they get sick. And then they evolve into ugly gremlin versions because you were a bad parent.”
“That’s evil.”
“That’s character building,” he corrects smoothly.
You glance back at the screen as the little Digimon waddles around. “So what’s the point? Just keeping it alive?”
“No,” he says, softer now. “You train it. Build its stats. Depending on how you treat it, it evolves differently. Stronger. Cooler. Or… not.”
“So it’s like… parenting?”
He smirks. “Exactly. You can’t just mash buttons and expect a legendary. You actually have to care.”
You squint at him. “Are you subtly calling me neglectful?”
“I’m subtly calling you impatient,” he laughs. “Relax. It’ll digivolve. Just don’t kill it in the first ten minutes.”
“Oh trust me, I’ll be a good mama,” you spoke proudly, “way better than their shit dad! Just watch!”
Pride in your voice, you moved your fingers carefully on the controller. Your eyes glued to the screen. Satoru looked at you fondly, a small smile on his lips. You, in his bed, playing his favorite game. He couldn’t wish for more.
It felt so domestic. You were frequently coming over, winning over his own family and his own heart. You became a part of his life as much as part of his own body. There was nothing Satoru wouldn’t do for you.
“Satoru!” You squeaked, your fingers wrapped around his arm. You shook him hard, your eyes sparkling with excitement. His gaze snapped towards you. “Hm?” He hummed.
“What is this! I want it! Look at that, it’s a cute little green baby, Satoru, buy it for me, please, please!” You exclaimed, pointing towards the screen. Satoru’s heart warmed so much.
“That’s Palmon,” he informed you, caressing your back with his fingers, “it’s a pink plant baby. Adorable, isn’t it? But once he grows he’s a cactus boxer.”
He laughed at your reaction. Your eyebrows raised up, lips slightly parted. “That… cute baby. Boxer? And who said it’s a man?!”
You smacked his shoulder, “you sexist fuck! That’s clearly a strong woman digi who will box men to prove feminism is real and strong!”
Satoru bursted out laughing, his face pure of joy. He slapped his hand on his thigh, unable to control his laughter. His body shook from it and that made you giggle too.
“Okay, okay. She’s a strong woman! A woman who will become a strong cactus who boxes bad men, happy?”
You folded your arms stubbornly. “Yes. Buy her for me.”
Satoru snorted softly. “You can’t buy Digimon.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have to raise them,” he said, caressing your face, “Stats, care, discipline. If you mess up, they evolve into something ugly.”
You pouted. “So how do I get her?”
“You can’t. Not yet.”
“Excuse me?!”
He leaned back casually. “I’ve been taking care of her.”
“And why can’t I?” You hissed, eyes squinting. “Why you and not me!”
“I knew we’d play eventually,” he shrugged, pretending it was nothing. “So I made sure to get Palmon. No care mistakes. Balanced training. She’s basically perfect.”
“Ooo, my perfect baby,” you said happily, clapping your hands, “she’s so cute! Is she cute as a cactus too?”
“Well–,” Satoru coughed, looking away so you wouldn’t see the blush on his cheeks, “–it depends on how you look at it… I suppose.”
You threw a small pillow at his face, “what does that mean?!”
~
“Do you like it?” Satoru asked you, pointing towards a beautiful purse. You couldn’t see it well, but you still looked at him with a raised brow.
“So your shopping spree meant you wanna see what I like?” You teased, walking over to him. Your eyes scanned the bag. It was beautiful, truly. Leather covering the bottom, the material itself looked very expensive. A beautiful shade of brown.
“What brand is that?” You asked, curiously looking for any sign. “Just Louis Vuitton,” Satoru shrugged. “Nothing special.” He grinned, taking the bag down for you to inspect it.
“Gorgeous, way out of my budget. Wanna check Forever 21?”
“And who said you’re paying?” Satoru asked, raising his hand to call over one of the sale men. You stood in your tracks, looking at him dumbfounded. “Satoru, you are not–“ “Silence.”
He shut you down, wrapping his arm around your waist. He leaned down to plant a sweet kiss in your hair. “Choose more, baby. My card has no limit, just like me when it comes to you. Both are limitless.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you sighed, “but please, do not buy it for me. That’s way too expensive.”
“Nonsense, pretty girl. Absolute nonsense.”
The day went by so fast. Satoru was carrying multiple shopping bags with your clothes and purses. He also bought you some brand new heels. Christian Louboutin heels weren’t on your budget list, but hey- if he wants to spoil you, then he can.
You’ve put the bags back into his car, walked over to the shopping center and had a dinner together. The conversation was warm and easy, the food was delicious and you were faster than Satoru in paying. (He didn’t like that. He’s been pouting at you for the past twenty minutes.)
~
After dropping you back at your home, Satoru walked into the mansion, greeted by his mom. She had a tight smile on her lips. “We need to talk.”
Just with those four words he knew he was screwed.
“Sure, ma,” Satoru said. He walked over to the living room, sitting down on the sofa. “Talk, then.”
She sat next to him, reaching to hold his hand. She swallowed nervously, looking at her son and for the first time in years, she saw a man. Not the little rude boy he used to be, but rather a man who knew what he’s wanted.
“The sweet girl that comes over,” she began and Satoru’s brows furrowed, “you need to stop leading her on. We both know it won’t work for multiple reasons.”
Satoru blinked away the tears forming in his eyes. “Ma…” “No,” she cut him off, “I see you around her. You act so different. I’m happy as a mother, I couldn’t be happier seeing you this way. But I still have to remind you of your duties for this family.”
“But mom, let me–“ “Satoru, I’m talking,” she reminded him, looking away from his hurt face, “you shall marry into a well known family. Unite our family with Zen’in or even the Kamo’s. As much as I like that girl, I can’t let you continue this.”
Satoru shook his head, feeling the familiar burn in his chest. His breathing uneven, he dug his nails into his palm. “You can’t control me,” he choked out, “after years I feel comfortable with someone. She doesn’t see me as a money bank. She sees me as a person and I– I’ve hurt her so much already and I can’t hurt her again, I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose her, mom, please. Please.”
His mother stood up, her face unreadable. Her voice was emotionless. “The Gojo family does not act this way, Satoru. I’ve tried to be nice about it, but you give me no chance. A man in your position can’t choose comfort over responsibility, do you understand?”
Then with a sigh she sat back down.
“I didn’t love your father at first. It was an arranged marriage since the moment I was born. It wasn’t easy, Satoru, but I found my way to him and thanks to that, we have you. Please, understand this.”
“But I didn’t choose any of it,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “I didn’t choose to be born into this family. I can lead well and still have someone next to me who I love. Ma, she makes me want to be better. She stands up to me. She doesn’t let me walk over her. Fuck, she will be a lawyer. A good one at that. Please, ma. We can be good together.”
“Satoru, it’s unavoidable.” “Let me prove you she’s worth it? I mean, we aren’t even dating, mom. We’re friends but I like her, I promise. I’ll do my best and I will tell her everything and I don’t know what to do.”
She sighed, “do what you want. But just know, your duties are set.”
~
The day was rainy. It felt like the world itself was taking pity on Satoru. He arrived late to class, sat down quietly and hasn’t said anything. He was excited to see you. You two promised to meet after your shared class and get some sweets together. He had to get you two alone to talk with you about it. You had the right to know what was going on in his life, the issue is he doesn’t know how to tell you.
He couldn’t just look into your eyes and tell you his family is shit and that your relationship might never work out. It pained him to do so. Satoru simply doesn’t wanna hurt you again and neither see you suffer on his behalf. After all, you are the first woman he is taking seriously.
He’s nudged into Suguru who’s sat next to him. “Can we talk?” He hushed, seeking his friend’s advice. Suguru looked at him, simply nodding.
“My family knows about her now,” Satoru whispered, his gaze stuck on the lector, “my ma isn’t particularly happy about it and my dad is definitely not happy about it. I have to tell her somehow.”
His voice was bare and Suguru could feel the emotions in his voice. He let him speak before giving any advice. (Truth is, Suguru doesn’t know how to help but at least Satoru can vent.)
“I don’t want to hurt her again, Sugu. I feel like I’ve hurt her enough and now, that I spent more time with her… I just can’t simply do it.”
He looked at his friend, his icy blues seeking any kind of advice. Suguru sighed, his hand nervously gripping the back of his neck.
“That’s tough, Satoru,” he whispered, his voice low and soft. Just like always. “I don’t know how to help you. I am not in such a family like yours and if I can be honest with you,” he paused, looked back at the board and whispered, “I like her too.”
~
The library was busy like always. People typing, pages flipping, someone whispering in the back. Satoru was already sitting at the table when you walked in. Laptop open, notebook in front of him, but he wasn’t doing anything.
You smiled when you saw him and sat down across from him. “Hi,” you said, leaning forward. “Why do you look like someone ran over your favorite pet?”
“I don’t have a pet,” he replied quietly. “Okay, then why do you look like you lost custody of one?” you teased, poking his cheek lightly. “Seriously, what’s up?”
He caught your hand gently and then let go. He sighed and looked away from you. His heart tugged in his chest. It was burning hot, it hurt him knowing he’d have to tell you. But when he looked at you, he saw nothing but peace.
Of course you were smiling. Of course you were being soft with him. You had no idea what was going on.
“Nothing’s up,” he said, fidgeting with the hem of his white shirt. His heart pounding faster now, he’d have to tell you any moment now.
The truth was, Satoru didn’t have the balls to do so.
“You’re lying,” you said immediately. “You’re weird. You never act this way and you sure as hell ain’t this quiet.” Your gaze burnt. The way you looked at him as if you were trying to see right through him. It was scary.
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
You leaned closer, trying to read his face. If you moved any closer, Satoru would kiss you. He would. “Did something happen?”
He swallowed. He could tell you right now. He could say everything. About his mom. About what she said. About how complicated things suddenly felt. About his shit family and that he’s not someone you think he is. He could tell you his parents probably chose a wife for him already. Fuck.
But you were smiling at him like nothing was wrong. Like you trusted him completely.
He didn’t want to ruin that. Balls or not, your smile was the most precious thing to him.
“Can we just go eat?” he asked instead, closing his laptop.
You raised your eyebrow up. “What?” You asked, voice confused–just like your face–. “are you running away from this conversation?”
“I’m hungry. Our lunch break is over soon, so let’s eat.”
He stood up, taking his bag and slamming it over his shoulder. He offered you his hand, looking at you.
“Fine,” you sighed. You stood up, accepting his hand, “but you’re paying.”
You and Satoru made your way towards your favorite sushi place. He’s found you two a booth, far into the back, hidden away from random people and loud noises. You appreciated that.
“Order something normal this time,” Satoru muttered as he sat across from you, taking the menu. You looked at him wide eyed, kicking him under the table with your heel. “Ouch!” He scoffed, his lips turning into a pout.
LExcuse me? I always order normal things! You are the one who eats sweet things like a pig!” You accused, squinting your eyes at him. Satoru tried to hold back his smile, but the corners of his lips gave him in.
“You ordered some chocolate sushi last time? I think it was air fried too,” he mentioned, holding back a chuckle. You gasped, locking your arms on your chest, you looked away with puffed up cheeks.
“It was… I was testing things out, okay?” You murmured, looking back at the menu. Satoru snickered, putting his menu down. “It was a crime… really… now that I think about it, the taste had to be disgusting. Fucking hell, who’s the pig here?!”
You rolled your eyes and kicked him again under the table. “You eat raw fish like a pig.”
He rolled his eyes at you. “It’s called taste.”
“It’s called no seasoning. You can’t handle anything! It either has to be sweet or completely plain! Maybe you should get the chocolate sushi I had last time, you pig.”
He laughed, leaning back as the waiter approached. You ordered dramatically, pointing at three different rolls and adding extra sauce just to annoy him. He got the same as always. Plain maki sushi. Such a pig.
When the food arrived, you reached across immediately, stealing a piece from his plate.
“Hey,” he whined, grabbing your wrist lightly. “That’s mine. Eat your sushi, bad girl.”
“Sharing is caring,” you replied, already dipping it in soy sauce.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t answer, but the corner of his lips lifted.
You two ate together, kicking each other under the table and bickering about who’s a bigger pig. (Satoru is, obviously. He either eats a full plate of cake or some unseasoned chicken.)
Then a voice came from behind you.
“Isn’t that the one and only future head of the Gojo estate?”
Satoru froze, then he turned around and forced a smile. “Hey, Choso,” he greeted him, “nice to see you here.”
Choso, as you’ve learned, stood in front of you two. His dark hair made into two buns, tattoos on his face and his arms. He looked like a punk, but the way he carried himself screamed something entirely different.
“Long time no see,” Choso added, offering his hand. Satoru stood up slightly to shake it. “For sure, man.”
You looked between them, confused but smiling politely.
Future head? Is that what he said? Satoru was rich and you knew it already, but… future head?
Choso’s eyes shifted to you then. He looked you up and down, turning his attention back at Satoru, who’s sat back down in the booth next to you.
“And who is this fine lady?” he asked kindly. Satoru’s eyes squinted, giving Choso a nasty look. He held your hand under the table as he spoke, unsure on what to say even.
“Just a friend,” he said finally. You blinked, then laughed softly. “Hi,” you added, extending your hand politely. “Nice to meet you.”
Choso shook it gently. “Pleasure.”
He glanced at Satoru again. “I’ll see you in Kyoto next week, right?” Satoru nodded once. “Yeah.” You tilted your head. “Kyoto?”
Choso smiled faintly, ignoring your question. His gaze still stuck at Satoru. “Big opening. Your father’s new venture. It’ll be impressive.”
You looked at Satoru confusedly. He didn’t look at you back, his eyes met with Choso’s, but his hand was still covering yours under the table.
“Well,” Choso added smoothly, stepping back, “I won’t interrupt lunch. Good to see you.”
“And you,” Satoru replied.
Choso gave you one last polite nod and walked away. You picked up your chopsticks again, pretending to focus on your food. “Future head of the Gojo estate,” you repeated casually. “Wow.”
“So that’s what you’ve been hiding,” you continued lightly. “Should I bow next time?”
“Don’t start,” he muttered, digging his chopsticks into his sushi. He didn’t wanna eat anymore. The food tasteless on his tongue.
“And ‘just a friend’?” you added, glancing up at him with a grin. “I’m suing you for emotional damage, by the way.”
Satoru stared at you. The way you were so sharp and smart. So confident in your future, he might as well–
“You want to come to Kyoto with me?” he asked suddenly.
Oh fuck. Now it’s out. It was a simple thought but as always his mouth is faster than his brain.
You blinked. “What?” “The opening,” he spoke, sitting up straighter. “Come with me.”
You were confused as fuck. You tilted your head at him, raising your eyebrow, you held up your chopstick to take a bite of your sushi. Letting him drown in the silence, you finally spoke. “As a friend? Hm?”
“As my guest.”
You stared at him. That jackass had to be joking!
“Guest?” you repeated slowly. “So what, you’re just going to introduce me as… what? Your plus one? Your emotional support human?” You questioned, leaning forward, “because,my dear Satoru, I ain’t none of that.”
Satoru laughed, leaning forward too. You two were so close, his eyes shining with mischief. “You are such a fierce kitten, do you know that?” He teased and you slapped his arm. “And you’re a pig. Not sure which is worse.”
“I’ll introduce you how you want,” he replied, “Acquaintance. Friend. Date. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“A date, huh?” You mused, poking into his nose, “now that would be a huge scandal, right? Satoru Gojo bringing a date…”
“If that’s what you want,” he shrugged, grinning even wider at you now, “I’ll introduce you as anything you want. I’m comfy with anything.”
You leaned back in the booth, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” he nodded, “but that’s what you love, isn’t it?”
“This is a big event, right? Investors and families and all that?” You asked curiously, tapping your nails onto the table. The rush of the sushi place around you was a good distraction now.
“Yeah.”
“And you want me to just… walk in there next to you?” you asked, biting into your lower lip, “Like I belong there?”
“See, baby? That’s the beauty of it,” he spoke casually, “you do belong there.”
You raised your eyebrows at that, looking away from his face. His damn ego and sweet words.
“Satoru, I don’t even know how to act at something like that. What if I say something stupid? What if I don’t fit in? What if everyone looks at me and immediately knows I’m not from that world?”
“No one’s going to do that.”
“You don’t know that,” you shot back. “You grew up in it. I didn’t.”
He leaned forward now, elbows resting on the table. “You think those people are better than you?” He asked you, reaching out his hand to touch your face. He caressed it with his thumb, his finger grazing your bottom lip lightly.
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you’re implying.”
“I just don’t want to stand out in the wrong way.” Admitting that was worse than you thought, but the look in his eyes was nothing but beautiful.
“You won’t.”
“How are you so sure?” You asked, earning to hear him say that. Hear him prove you wrong, even when you knew you were the one who was right.
“Because you’ll look like you belong there.”
You frowned. “How?”
“You’re going shopping.” He shrugged, leaning back into the chair. He took a sip of his coke, looking at you from under his glasses, “gonna milk my account, baby.“
You stared at him. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” you repeated. “I have my own money. I can buy my own dress.”
“You’re taking my card.”
“Satoru.”
“You’re going to take your girls, go shopping, and buy whatever you want.”
“I am not spending your money on some fancy event just to impress people who don’t even know me.”
“It’s not about them,” he said calmly. You scoffed, replying in a hushed tone, “It sounds exactly like it is.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “It’s about me.” His gaze was intense now, burning into you, “I want to see you dressed like that,” he continued. “I want to see you walk into that room next to me and have everyone turn their heads.”
“That sounds very ego-driven,” you muttered, he grinned and replied softly. “Maybe it is.”
“It would make me happy,” he said more quietly now. “Knowing I bought something for you. Knowing you’re wearing it because I wanted you there. That you’re standing next to me.”
“I don’t need luxury to be worth something,” you bit back. You were annoyed at how easy it came from him. All those sweet words.
“I know,” he said instantly. “You’re already worth more than half the people who’ll be there.”
“Then why does it matter what I wear?”
“Because presentation matters in my world,” he replied. “And I don’t want them questioning why you’re with me.”
“And if they do?” you asked carefully.
“They won’t.”
“And if they do?”
“Then they’ll deal with me.”
He then slipped out his black hard. You didn’t say anything. You took it and both of you acted as if nothing just happened even though you knew it happened and it meant something.
~
“So Kyoto, huh?” Shoko mused as you two walked down the street. Both holding Starbucks in your hand, you sighed. “Ye, full of snobs and Satoru’s family. His mom is lovely but I don’t think they like me.”
Shoko chuckled at that, pulling out the GPS on her phone. You two would be by the boutique soon. “I’d be more surprised if she’s liked you,” she admitted, “she’s never liked any of his friends. Not me, not even Geto. Basically ever since we were kids, his family had that kind of idea in their head–you know like we weren’t worthy of their son?” She mused, “it’s kind of sick if you think about it.”
You drank a bit of your coffee, appreciating the caffeine hit. “See?” You sighed, “and that’s exactly the issue, Sho. I ain’t none of that, my family is absolutely normal I don’t have the same childhood as him and I can’t act like a snob. They legit have no reason to like me! Not to mention we’re friends and he’s pursuing me and lately he’s been acting weird I feel like he’s hiding something from me.”
Shoko listened to you, nodding when he could and sighing when she’s realized the fuck ass situation you were in. “We’re almost there,” she’s informed you, “now forget that topic. Shopping and unlimited limit in one sentence? I’m so in, baby.”
“I feel so bad,” you admitted, “he’s buying me things and all, I feel like a gold digger.”
Shoko shook her head, stopping in front of Chanel. “He gave you the card, baby,” she reminded you, “and I promise to you. Satoru would die to spoil you. He’s just like that.”
You looked up at the Chanel logo above the glass doors and swallowed. The store looked unreal. Clean lines, soft lighting, mannequins standing like they had better posture than you ever would. Even the windows looked expensive. Fuck. You didn’t belong here.
“I’ve never stepped into a place like this,” you admitted, finishing your coffee, you threw the cup in the bin. Your hands were sweaty from the stress, Satoru’s card burning a hole through your purse.
Shoko shook her head. “Relax. It’s just fabric,” she smiled, offering you her hand. You scoffed, accepted it and replied in a very dry voice, “It’s not just fabric. It’s fabric that costs someone’s yearly tuition.”
“Good thing it’s not your tuition,” she shrugged, grinning. “Seriously, girl. Enjoy it.” She took your hand, walking through the glass door.
A saleswoman approached almost immediately. She looked you up and down, you could see the confusion in her eyes but she hasn’t said anything. You didn’t belong here. This just proved it even more.
“Good afternoon. How may I assist you?” Her voice was professional, but kind. She smiled at you two and you found yourself at loss of words. Shoko answered without blinking. “We need something that will survive Kyoto politics.”
The woman’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Of course.” You shot Shoko a look. “Why are you like this?” She shrugged, grinning. “Because it’s fun.”
You looked at a black dress hanging on a rack. Your hand smoothed over it. The fabric felt weird. Not in a bad way, you just weren’t used to it.
“Too stiff?” you asked. Shoko tilted her head. “It’s giving politician’s daughter.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s boring.”
You rolled your eyes, sighing. You two walked even more through the store, the saleswoman approaching you with different clothes. You politely told her you’d choose yourself and thanked her.
A navy piece caught your eye. Clean neckline. Defined waist. You held it up against yourself and looked in the mirror.
“…My ass would look too big in this.” You scoffed, turning around to face Shoko. Shoko didn’t even hesitate. “You have a fat ass.”
“Shoko!”
“I mean it respectfully.”
“You’re supposed to say no.”
She stepped closer, looking at you through the mirror. “Why would I lie? You do. That’s why we balance the waistline.”
You tried not to laugh, however Shoko’s expression made you laugh. You put the dress back, walking away from this type of dress.
The saleswoman came by again, apologizing for interfering. She had one dress on her stretched out arm. You took it into your hands, looking at it. It was rather simple, but that was the beauty. It was tight, showed off your curves with a V-line neck. Decorated by a slit on the back.
You stared at it. It was gorgeous.
“That one,” Shoko said immediately. “I haven’t even tried it.” You tried, but knew she was right. The dress was gorgeous.
“Trust me.”
The moment you slipped it on and turned around to look at yourself in the mirror, your own heart skipped a beat. The fabric clung to your body as if it was your second skin.
You walked out, biting into your cheek. “Well?” you asked, suddenly nervous.
She walked around you once. Slowly. “Turn.” You did so, nervously waiting for her verdict. She exhaled, putting her hands around your waist. “You look like you don’t need anyone’s approval. If you were gay and I was single I’d smash you.”
You blushed and laughed at that. You really did look good. It felt like the dress was chosen especially for you.
You shifted slightly. “My ass?” “Still fat.” “Shoko?!” You giggled but she scoffed, “what? I’m just saying the truth. Ass so fat and good I bet it jiggles when you fall down.”
You rolled your eyes, watching Shoko’s reflection in the mirror. Her phone buzzed and she lit up completely.
“Utahime?” you smiled, walking back into the dressing room to change your clothing. Shoko stood in front of it.
“Yes,” she replied, “She says to tell you to stop overthinking.”
“She’s not even here.”
“She knows you.”
“What else did she say?”
“That if Satoru’s mother even breathes wrong near you, she’ll personally dismantle the Gojo estate.”
You burst out laughing, walking out of the dressing room with the dress in your hands.
“I love her.”
“She knows you’re good for him,” Shoko added quietly. That made you pause.
“…Does she?”
“Mhm. She said you’re the first girl he’s looked at like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s not bored.”
“You think they’ll hate me?” you asked softly.
Shoko crossed her arms. “Probably.”
“That doesn’t make it any better, Shoko,” you sighed, taking her hand with yours, “it stresses me out. I don’t know how to act in such a place. This sucks so much.”
“Girl, you are a strong woman! Hold your head up,” she scolded you, “Satoru is lucky you even agreed on going out with him. Now he’s thrown you into a lion’s den.”
She then walked towards the cash register, a smirk on her lips. “Now, let’s pay. Then we need jewelry, pretty shoes and a bomb bag. And oh? Your nails… also your hair. We could dye it.”
“Noo, I won’t dye my hair,” you rolled your eyes, “plus he’s already bought me a bag. It’s from Louis Vuitton,” you admitted, biting into your lip. Shoko’s eyes widened. “For real?”
“Mhm,” you nodded, “and some expensive heels too. I can’t remember the name but they look good. It’ll look well with the dress,” you smiled, “and jewelry… I’ll take some from my mom. I feel bad about the dress already.”
Shoko rolled her eyes, lighting up her cigarette, “girl, you don’t know how to use men,” she chuckled, shrugging her arms, “he asked you to milk him dry. What you just spent? That’s a penny for the man.”
“Whatever,” you waved your hand, rolling your eyes. You looked at the time. It was only the noon, yet the whole street was busy. “How’s you and Utahime?”
Shoko blushed and looked away, “good. Very good.”
You widened your eyes, nudging into her. “Tell me?? Tell me all,” you demanded, grinning at her, “what happened between you two?”
“She ate me out for the first time last night,” she admitted with a chuckle and you squeaked, covering your mouth, “it was so good. I’ve found out things about myself I’ve never known. As a matter of fact, I’m a messy person. First time it was wet, girl.”
“Fuuuuck, Sho,” you giggled, “good for you!”
~
The morning your parents left felt strangely quiet. You stood by the front door while your mom double-checked her purse for the third time and your dad reminded you — again — to lock the windows at night. Your grandma had been asking for them to visit for weeks, and they finally found time. Which meant you had the house for yourself. Finally.
“Don’t order junk every day,” your mom said, kissing your cheek. You sighed, rolling your eyes but you smiled. Your voice calm and controlled as you spoke, “I won’t.”
“Don’t have people over,” your dad said, hugging you tightly, “study well. Don’t do anything stupid.”
You smiled a little too sweetly. “Of course not.” Your dad gave you a look that said he knew you were just tryna get rid of them, but he hasn’t said anything. After bidding their goodbyes, the door shut.
You stood there for a moment, just listening. The silence was weird, you weren’t used to it. As weird as it was, you found it pleasant. Just you and yourself.
You walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it. Wandered to the living room. Flopped onto the couch. Checked your phone.
No new messages.
You told yourself you’d enjoy the peace. Study a little. Clean. Be productive.
Instead, you ended up lying on your bed two hours later, staring at the ceiling while sunlight stretched lazily across your walls. Bored. You missed noise.
You rolled over and grabbed your phone. You sighed dramatically, then opened Instagram. Scrolled. Closed it. Opened Netflix. Nothing felt interesting without commentary.
By late afternoon, you were pacing your room like a restless cat. You opened your drawer, looking for something to entertain yourself. Instead, you found something far more interesting.
The unfinished joint from last week.
You picked it up between your fingers, turning it slowly. You shouldn’t. You absolutely shouldn’t. You stared at your phone. Picked up and typed:
you: u busy, Gojo?
You didn’t expect an immediate reply. He responded in under thirty seconds.
gojosatoru: depends
gojosatoru: why
gojosatoru: are you alone 👀
You rolled your eyes.
you: don’t make it weird
you: parents gone
you: bored
Three dots.
Then:
gojosatoru: I’m on my way
You blinked.
you: ?? I didn’t invite you
gojosatoru: you don’t have to💋💋
You stared at the message longer than you should have. What else have you expected? Plus… you kind of wanted him to come.
Twenty-five minutes later, your doorbell rang. You rushed downstairs, fixing yourself one last time in the mirror. You had an oversized T-shirt on and your pyjama shorts that were ridiculously short. You opened the door, staring at the man in front of you.
He stood there in a hoodie, hair slightly messy from the wind, holding a plastic bag.
“You look like you expected me,” he said with a smirk. He looked you up and down, a knowing look on his face. You turned your own face away, biting into your cheek. The you replied, your tone biting, “I didn’t.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
He stepped inside without waiting for permission. “What’s in the bag?” you asked, closing the door behind him. You curiously eyed the bag, trying to get it from him.
“Sushi. And sodas. I assumed you forgot to eat.” You stopped in your tracks, his words hitting you right into your face. You were at loss of words, then you spoke softly, “That was sweet.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he smirked, wrapping his free arm around your waist. You nudged him lightly as you walked toward the kitchen.
The domesticity of it hit you in waves. Him setting the bag down. You grabbing plates. The two of you bumping into each other in your small kitchen like you’d done it a hundred times.
“You live like a normal person,” he commented, glancing around. You furrowed your eyebrows, throwing daggers at him just with the look on your face.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can find the light switch without a map.”
You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”
You carried everything upstairs to your room, settling on the floor instead of your bed. He sat cross-legged, opening containers while you flopped onto your stomach.
“Don’t steal my pieces,” he warned.
“Sharing is caring.”
“Not in this economy.”
“As if you care about economy,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. Satoru laughed, lightly slapping you on your ass. That made you pause, looking at him wide-eyed. He shrugged, pretending nothing happened. “Shouldn’t we eat?” He asked, stuffing his cheeks up.
After eating, you grabbed the remote.
“What are we watching?” he asked, curious. He plopped himself down on his tummy next to you, wrapping his arm around your waist, once again. You looked at him, smiling.
“Bridgerton.”
His lip lifted in disgust. “Absolutely not.”
“You have no taste,” you sighed, “come on, please?” You pouted, fluttering your lashes at him. He just sighed.
“You watch dramatic people in corsets pine for eight episodes.”
“And you watch animated men punch each other.”
“That’s culture.”
You ignored him and pressed play anyway.
Fifteen minutes in, he was invested. “Wait,” he said suddenly, pointing at the screen. “He’s lying.”
“Obviously,” you rolled your eyes, “it’s painfully obvious he will fall in love with Daphne! I mean, come on, are you trying to tell me he’s just punched that man because he mentioned his shit ass father?” You asked, hands thrown out dramatically. Satoru sat up, nodding.
“Exactly! That’s what I’m saying! He’s like a mad cat, he already stormed off when the guy said he will marry Daphne!” Satoru said, pointing towards the TV.
“Yeah, watch him and Daphne ending together by the end of the series. I’m betting on that.”
You both leaned against your bed eventually, shoulders brushing occasionally. It was subtle at first. Accidental.
Then less accidental.
When the episode ended, you turned to say something and realized he was already looking at you..
You swallowed and looked away first. Light flush on your cheek, you didn’t dare to look at Satoru. However, if you did… you’d see he’s blushing even more than you.
He reached for your phone and opened it without asking. That’s on you for not having a passcode.
“What are you doing?” you asked, trying to reach for your phone. He slapped your hand away, grinning. “Educating you.”
He connected to your speaker and scrolled through Spotify. Then, he finally found the song he was looking for. He closed your phone, looking at you in the dim lighting.
“…Brooklyn Baby?” you asked slowly. He didn’t look embarrassed, more so he looked in love with the song the more it played.
“Yes.”
“You listen to Lana del Rey?” Voice full of curiosity, you scooped closer to him. He smelt so good and was so warm, it felt comforting.
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that illegal?”
“You act like you only listen to rap and weird indie techno.”
“I beg your pardon?” He exclaimed, lips parted, “I shall let you know I’m the biggest fan of Lana, okay?”
You laughed softly as the song filled your room. He leaned back on his hands, watching you instead of the ceiling.
“You’re so beautiful,” he complimented, “just like this song.”
You slapped his hand away, suddenly realizing how close the two of you actually were. The joint on your desk caught his attention.
“You were going to smoke alone?” he asked, looking at you with raised eyebrow. You looked away, suddenly the decor of your room far more interesting.
“I wasn’t sure.”
He reached for it casually. “Light it.”
“Shit, we doing this?” You chuckled and he nodded. You then reached for the lighter, lighting the joint up. You took the first drag, coughing. The first inhale always burned.
You passed it to him. Your body felt the switch, everything disappearing from your brain, your whole body felt so light. Suddenly Satoru’s white hair was the funniest thing you’ve seen.
You both ended up sitting on your bed, closer. You felt his arms around you, the need to touch each other too great.
“So,” he said quietly, smoke curling from his lips. “Why’d you really text me?”
“I was bored,” you answered, biting into your lip. Your own hand squeezed on his shoulder, massaging slowly.
“That’s not it.”
“Maybe I just wanted you here.”
Satoru hasn’t said anything, which was already weird. He isn’t the type to be quiet. You looked at him, realizing he was already looking at you.
“You call me Gojo when you’re trying to get under my skin,” he said suddenly. You smiled lazily, sticking out your tongue.
“Gojo.”
“Say my name.”
“It is your name.”
“You know what I mean.”
You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with your hand. “Why does it bother you?”
“Because it feels distant.”
The honesty caught you off guard.
You didn’t expect that.
You reached for the joint again, buying yourself time. “Fine,” you murmured softly. “Satoru.”
“That’s more like it,” he whispered, his voice lower. He leaned closer to you, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, “that’s my good girl, hm?” His voice was so smooth, you felt it in every part of your body, especially the lower part. He pulled away with a smirk. As if he knew what he’s doing to you, to your mind and your poor body.
You sat up slowly, knees brushing his thigh. The contact wasn’t accidental this time. He didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
“Are you nervous about Kyoto?” you asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“For everything.”
“I can handle myself,” you said softly.
“I know.”
“But?”
“But I don’t trust them.”
You reached for his hand without thinking. He looked down at your fingers wrapped around his. His thumb brushing against your knuckles, he let out a sigh.
He leaned closer to you, his eyes stuck on yours, noses touching, your lips almost touching. His breath fawning over your lips. It was warm. Too warm and all you wanted was a kiss.
“Gojo,” you whispered, teasing him. You licked your lips, staring down at his full plush lips. His hand moved to your jaw, he wasn’t rough, but he squeezed enough to have you in place.
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
WC: 7.4k ch7
“I don’t know how it works!” You whine, holding the controller in your hands. You’re plopped comfortably on Satoru’s bed, he’s sitting next to you, teasing you. Even laughing at you. That prick!
“Well, I’ve explained it like four times!” He chuckles, “it looks like you aren’t good at everything you do, hm?” He teases even more, digging his fingers into your ribs. You jerk your body away, not in the mood for another tickling fight. (You always lose it.)
“Listen,” he smiled, holding your hand, “it’s a really old game, but I love it, right? This is PS2, so be kind to it–“ he says, looks at you and rolls his eyes, “–and don’t stress! The controller will break! You’re squeezing it way too tight.”
You giggled, looking at the game. It did look old. “Isn’t this just the Pokémon game, Satoru?”
“It’s not Pokémon,” Satoru says, nudging your knee with his. “You don’t just catch them and throw them into battle. You raise them.”
You frown at the screen. “Raise them how?”
“Like… digital parenting.” He grins. “You feed them, train them, let them sleep, take them to the bathroom so they don’t poop on the ground like idiots.”
Your head snaps toward him. “They poop?”
“Yes,” he says proudly. “And if you ignore it, they get sick. And then they evolve into ugly gremlin versions because you were a bad parent.”
“That’s evil.”
“That’s character building,” he corrects smoothly.
You glance back at the screen as the little Digimon waddles around. “So what’s the point? Just keeping it alive?”
“No,” he says, softer now. “You train it. Build its stats. Depending on how you treat it, it evolves differently. Stronger. Cooler. Or… not.”
“So it’s like… parenting?”
He smirks. “Exactly. You can’t just mash buttons and expect a legendary. You actually have to care.”
You squint at him. “Are you subtly calling me neglectful?”
“I’m subtly calling you impatient,” he laughs. “Relax. It’ll digivolve. Just don’t kill it in the first ten minutes.”
“Oh trust me, I’ll be a good mama,” you spoke proudly, “way better than their shit dad! Just watch!”
Pride in your voice, you moved your fingers carefully on the controller. Your eyes glued to the screen. Satoru looked at you fondly, a small smile on his lips. You, in his bed, playing his favorite game. He couldn’t wish for more.
It felt so domestic. You were frequently coming over, winning over his own family and his own heart. You became a part of his life as much as part of his own body. There was nothing Satoru wouldn’t do for you.
“Satoru!” You squeaked, your fingers wrapped around his arm. You shook him hard, your eyes sparkling with excitement. His gaze snapped towards you. “Hm?” He hummed.
“What is this! I want it! Look at that, it’s a cute little green baby, Satoru, buy it for me, please, please!” You exclaimed, pointing towards the screen. Satoru’s heart warmed so much.
“That’s Palmon,” he informed you, caressing your back with his fingers, “it’s a pink plant baby. Adorable, isn’t it? But once he grows he’s a cactus boxer.”
He laughed at your reaction. Your eyebrows raised up, lips slightly parted. “That… cute baby. Boxer? And who said it’s a man?!”
You smacked his shoulder, “you sexist fuck! That’s clearly a strong woman digi who will box men to prove feminism is real and strong!”
Satoru bursted out laughing, his face pure of joy. He slapped his hand on his thigh, unable to control his laughter. His body shook from it and that made you giggle too.
“Okay, okay. She’s a strong woman! A woman who will become a strong cactus who boxes bad men, happy?”
You folded your arms stubbornly. “Yes. Buy her for me.”
Satoru snorted softly. “You can’t buy Digimon.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have to raise them,” he said, caressing your face, “Stats, care, discipline. If you mess up, they evolve into something ugly.”
You pouted. “So how do I get her?”
“You can’t. Not yet.”
“Excuse me?!”
He leaned back casually. “I’ve been taking care of her.”
“And why can’t I?” You hissed, eyes squinting. “Why you and not me!”
“I knew we’d play eventually,” he shrugged, pretending it was nothing. “So I made sure to get Palmon. No care mistakes. Balanced training. She’s basically perfect.”
“Ooo, my perfect baby,” you said happily, clapping your hands, “she’s so cute! Is she cute as a cactus too?”
“Well–,” Satoru coughed, looking away so you wouldn’t see the blush on his cheeks, “–it depends on how you look at it… I suppose.”
You threw a small pillow at his face, “what does that mean?!”
~
“Do you like it?” Satoru asked you, pointing towards a beautiful purse. You couldn’t see it well, but you still looked at him with a raised brow.
“So your shopping spree meant you wanna see what I like?” You teased, walking over to him. Your eyes scanned the bag. It was beautiful, truly. Leather covering the bottom, the material itself looked very expensive. A beautiful shade of brown.
“What brand is that?” You asked, curiously looking for any sign. “Just Louis Vuitton,” Satoru shrugged. “Nothing special.” He grinned, taking the bag down for you to inspect it.
“Gorgeous, way out of my budget. Wanna check Forever 21?”
“And who said you’re paying?” Satoru asked, raising his hand to call over one of the sale men. You stood in your tracks, looking at him dumbfounded. “Satoru, you are not–“ “Silence.”
He shut you down, wrapping his arm around your waist. He leaned down to plant a sweet kiss in your hair. “Choose more, baby. My card has no limit, just like me when it comes to you. Both are limitless.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you sighed, “but please, do not buy it for me. That’s way too expensive.”
“Nonsense, pretty girl. Absolute nonsense.”
The day went by so fast. Satoru was carrying multiple shopping bags with your clothes and purses. He also bought you some brand new heels. Christian Louboutin heels weren’t on your budget list, but hey- if he wants to spoil you, then he can.
You’ve put the bags back into his car, walked over to the shopping center and had a dinner together. The conversation was warm and easy, the food was delicious and you were faster than Satoru in paying. (He didn’t like that. He’s been pouting at you for the past twenty minutes.)
~
After dropping you back at your home, Satoru walked into the mansion, greeted by his mom. She had a tight smile on her lips. “We need to talk.”
Just with those four words he knew he was screwed.
“Sure, ma,” Satoru said. He walked over to the living room, sitting down on the sofa. “Talk, then.”
She sat next to him, reaching to hold his hand. She swallowed nervously, looking at her son and for the first time in years, she saw a man. Not the little rude boy he used to be, but rather a man who knew what he’s wanted.
“The sweet girl that comes over,” she began and Satoru’s brows furrowed, “you need to stop leading her on. We both know it won’t work for multiple reasons.”
Satoru blinked away the tears forming in his eyes. “Ma…” “No,” she cut him off, “I see you around her. You act so different. I’m happy as a mother, I couldn’t be happier seeing you this way. But I still have to remind you of your duties for this family.”
“But mom, let me–“ “Satoru, I’m talking,” she reminded him, looking away from his hurt face, “you shall marry into a well known family. Unite our family with Zen’in or even the Kamo’s. As much as I like that girl, I can’t let you continue this.”
Satoru shook his head, feeling the familiar burn in his chest. His breathing uneven, he dug his nails into his palm. “You can’t control me,” he choked out, “after years I feel comfortable with someone. She doesn’t see me as a money bank. She sees me as a person and I– I’ve hurt her so much already and I can’t hurt her again, I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose her, mom, please. Please.”
His mother stood up, her face unreadable. Her voice was emotionless. “The Gojo family does not act this way, Satoru. I’ve tried to be nice about it, but you give me no chance. A man in your position can’t choose comfort over responsibility, do you understand?”
Then with a sigh she sat back down.
“I didn’t love your father at first. It was an arranged marriage since the moment I was born. It wasn’t easy, Satoru, but I found my way to him and thanks to that, we have you. Please, understand this.”
“But I didn’t choose any of it,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “I didn’t choose to be born into this family. I can lead well and still have someone next to me who I love. Ma, she makes me want to be better. She stands up to me. She doesn’t let me walk over her. Fuck, she will be a lawyer. A good one at that. Please, ma. We can be good together.”
“Satoru, it’s unavoidable.” “Let me prove you she’s worth it? I mean, we aren’t even dating, mom. We’re friends but I like her, I promise. I’ll do my best and I will tell her everything and I don’t know what to do.”
She sighed, “do what you want. But just know, your duties are set.”
~
The day was rainy. It felt like the world itself was taking pity on Satoru. He arrived late to class, sat down quietly and hasn’t said anything. He was excited to see you. You two promised to meet after your shared class and get some sweets together. He had to get you two alone to talk with you about it. You had the right to know what was going on in his life, the issue is he doesn’t know how to tell you.
He couldn’t just look into your eyes and tell you his family is shit and that your relationship might never work out. It pained him to do so. Satoru simply doesn’t wanna hurt you again and neither see you suffer on his behalf. After all, you are the first woman he is taking seriously.
He’s nudged into Suguru who’s sat next to him. “Can we talk?” He hushed, seeking his friend’s advice. Suguru looked at him, simply nodding.
“My family knows about her now,” Satoru whispered, his gaze stuck on the lector, “my ma isn’t particularly happy about it and my dad is definitely not happy about it. I have to tell her somehow.”
His voice was bare and Suguru could feel the emotions in his voice. He let him speak before giving any advice. (Truth is, Suguru doesn’t know how to help but at least Satoru can vent.)
“I don’t want to hurt her again, Sugu. I feel like I’ve hurt her enough and now, that I spent more time with her… I just can’t simply do it.”
He looked at his friend, his icy blues seeking any kind of advice. Suguru sighed, his hand nervously gripping the back of his neck.
“That’s tough, Satoru,” he whispered, his voice low and soft. Just like always. “I don’t know how to help you. I am not in such a family like yours and if I can be honest with you,” he paused, looked back at the board and whispered, “I like her too.”
~
The library was busy like always. People typing, pages flipping, someone whispering in the back. Satoru was already sitting at the table when you walked in. Laptop open, notebook in front of him, but he wasn’t doing anything.
You smiled when you saw him and sat down across from him. “Hi,” you said, leaning forward. “Why do you look like someone ran over your favorite pet?”
“I don’t have a pet,” he replied quietly. “Okay, then why do you look like you lost custody of one?” you teased, poking his cheek lightly. “Seriously, what’s up?”
He caught your hand gently and then let go. He sighed and looked away from you. His heart tugged in his chest. It was burning hot, it hurt him knowing he’d have to tell you. But when he looked at you, he saw nothing but peace.
Of course you were smiling. Of course you were being soft with him. You had no idea what was going on.
“Nothing’s up,” he said, fidgeting with the hem of his white shirt. His heart pounding faster now, he’d have to tell you any moment now.
The truth was, Satoru didn’t have the balls to do so.
“You’re lying,” you said immediately. “You’re weird. You never act this way and you sure as hell ain’t this quiet.” Your gaze burnt. The way you looked at him as if you were trying to see right through him. It was scary.
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
You leaned closer, trying to read his face. If you moved any closer, Satoru would kiss you. He would. “Did something happen?”
He swallowed. He could tell you right now. He could say everything. About his mom. About what she said. About how complicated things suddenly felt. About his shit family and that he’s not someone you think he is. He could tell you his parents probably chose a wife for him already. Fuck.
But you were smiling at him like nothing was wrong. Like you trusted him completely.
He didn’t want to ruin that. Balls or not, your smile was the most precious thing to him.
“Can we just go eat?” he asked instead, closing his laptop.
You raised your eyebrow up. “What?” You asked, voice confused–just like your face–. “are you running away from this conversation?”
“I’m hungry. Our lunch break is over soon, so let’s eat.”
He stood up, taking his bag and slamming it over his shoulder. He offered you his hand, looking at you.
“Fine,” you sighed. You stood up, accepting his hand, “but you’re paying.”
You and Satoru made your way towards your favorite sushi place. He’s found you two a booth, far into the back, hidden away from random people and loud noises. You appreciated that.
“Order something normal this time,” Satoru muttered as he sat across from you, taking the menu. You looked at him wide eyed, kicking him under the table with your heel. “Ouch!” He scoffed, his lips turning into a pout.
LExcuse me? I always order normal things! You are the one who eats sweet things like a pig!” You accused, squinting your eyes at him. Satoru tried to hold back his smile, but the corners of his lips gave him in.
“You ordered some chocolate sushi last time? I think it was air fried too,” he mentioned, holding back a chuckle. You gasped, locking your arms on your chest, you looked away with puffed up cheeks.
“It was… I was testing things out, okay?” You murmured, looking back at the menu. Satoru snickered, putting his menu down. “It was a crime… really… now that I think about it, the taste had to be disgusting. Fucking hell, who’s the pig here?!”
You rolled your eyes and kicked him again under the table. “You eat raw fish like a pig.”
He rolled his eyes at you. “It’s called taste.”
“It’s called no seasoning. You can’t handle anything! It either has to be sweet or completely plain! Maybe you should get the chocolate sushi I had last time, you pig.”
He laughed, leaning back as the waiter approached. You ordered dramatically, pointing at three different rolls and adding extra sauce just to annoy him. He got the same as always. Plain maki sushi. Such a pig.
When the food arrived, you reached across immediately, stealing a piece from his plate.
“Hey,” he whined, grabbing your wrist lightly. “That’s mine. Eat your sushi, bad girl.”
“Sharing is caring,” you replied, already dipping it in soy sauce.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t answer, but the corner of his lips lifted.
You two ate together, kicking each other under the table and bickering about who’s a bigger pig. (Satoru is, obviously. He either eats a full plate of cake or some unseasoned chicken.)
Then a voice came from behind you.
“Isn’t that the one and only future head of the Gojo estate?”
Satoru froze, then he turned around and forced a smile. “Hey, Choso,” he greeted him, “nice to see you here.”
Choso, as you’ve learned, stood in front of you two. His dark hair made into two buns, tattoos on his face and his arms. He looked like a punk, but the way he carried himself screamed something entirely different.
“Long time no see,” Choso added, offering his hand. Satoru stood up slightly to shake it. “For sure, man.”
You looked between them, confused but smiling politely.
Future head? Is that what he said? Satoru was rich and you knew it already, but… future head?
Choso’s eyes shifted to you then. He looked you up and down, turning his attention back at Satoru, who’s sat back down in the booth next to you.
“And who is this fine lady?” he asked kindly. Satoru’s eyes squinted, giving Choso a nasty look. He held your hand under the table as he spoke, unsure on what to say even.
“Just a friend,” he said finally. You blinked, then laughed softly. “Hi,” you added, extending your hand politely. “Nice to meet you.”
Choso shook it gently. “Pleasure.”
He glanced at Satoru again. “I’ll see you in Kyoto next week, right?” Satoru nodded once. “Yeah.” You tilted your head. “Kyoto?”
Choso smiled faintly, ignoring your question. His gaze still stuck at Satoru. “Big opening. Your father’s new venture. It’ll be impressive.”
You looked at Satoru confusedly. He didn’t look at you back, his eyes met with Choso’s, but his hand was still covering yours under the table.
“Well,” Choso added smoothly, stepping back, “I won’t interrupt lunch. Good to see you.”
“And you,” Satoru replied.
Choso gave you one last polite nod and walked away. You picked up your chopsticks again, pretending to focus on your food. “Future head of the Gojo estate,” you repeated casually. “Wow.”
“So that’s what you’ve been hiding,” you continued lightly. “Should I bow next time?”
“Don’t start,” he muttered, digging his chopsticks into his sushi. He didn’t wanna eat anymore. The food tasteless on his tongue.
“And ‘just a friend’?” you added, glancing up at him with a grin. “I’m suing you for emotional damage, by the way.”
Satoru stared at you. The way you were so sharp and smart. So confident in your future, he might as well–
“You want to come to Kyoto with me?” he asked suddenly.
Oh fuck. Now it’s out. It was a simple thought but as always his mouth is faster than his brain.
You blinked. “What?” “The opening,” he spoke, sitting up straighter. “Come with me.”
You were confused as fuck. You tilted your head at him, raising your eyebrow, you held up your chopstick to take a bite of your sushi. Letting him drown in the silence, you finally spoke. “As a friend? Hm?”
“As my guest.”
You stared at him. That jackass had to be joking!
“Guest?” you repeated slowly. “So what, you’re just going to introduce me as… what? Your plus one? Your emotional support human?” You questioned, leaning forward, “because,my dear Satoru, I ain’t none of that.”
Satoru laughed, leaning forward too. You two were so close, his eyes shining with mischief. “You are such a fierce kitten, do you know that?” He teased and you slapped his arm. “And you’re a pig. Not sure which is worse.”
“I’ll introduce you how you want,” he replied, “Acquaintance. Friend. Date. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“A date, huh?” You mused, poking into his nose, “now that would be a huge scandal, right? Satoru Gojo bringing a date…”
“If that’s what you want,” he shrugged, grinning even wider at you now, “I’ll introduce you as anything you want. I’m comfy with anything.”
You leaned back in the booth, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” he nodded, “but that’s what you love, isn’t it?”
“This is a big event, right? Investors and families and all that?” You asked curiously, tapping your nails onto the table. The rush of the sushi place around you was a good distraction now.
“Yeah.”
“And you want me to just… walk in there next to you?” you asked, biting into your lower lip, “Like I belong there?”
“See, baby? That’s the beauty of it,” he spoke casually, “you do belong there.”
You raised your eyebrows at that, looking away from his face. His damn ego and sweet words.
“Satoru, I don’t even know how to act at something like that. What if I say something stupid? What if I don’t fit in? What if everyone looks at me and immediately knows I’m not from that world?”
“No one’s going to do that.”
“You don’t know that,” you shot back. “You grew up in it. I didn’t.”
He leaned forward now, elbows resting on the table. “You think those people are better than you?” He asked you, reaching out his hand to touch your face. He caressed it with his thumb, his finger grazing your bottom lip lightly.
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you’re implying.”
“I just don’t want to stand out in the wrong way.” Admitting that was worse than you thought, but the look in his eyes was nothing but beautiful.
“You won’t.”
“How are you so sure?” You asked, earning to hear him say that. Hear him prove you wrong, even when you knew you were the one who was right.
“Because you’ll look like you belong there.”
You frowned. “How?”
“You’re going shopping.” He shrugged, leaning back into the chair. He took a sip of his coke, looking at you from under his glasses, “gonna milk my account, baby.“
You stared at him. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” you repeated. “I have my own money. I can buy my own dress.”
“You’re taking my card.”
“Satoru.”
“You’re going to take your girls, go shopping, and buy whatever you want.”
“I am not spending your money on some fancy event just to impress people who don’t even know me.”
“It’s not about them,” he said calmly. You scoffed, replying in a hushed tone, “It sounds exactly like it is.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “It’s about me.” His gaze was intense now, burning into you, “I want to see you dressed like that,” he continued. “I want to see you walk into that room next to me and have everyone turn their heads.”
“That sounds very ego-driven,” you muttered, he grinned and replied softly. “Maybe it is.”
“It would make me happy,” he said more quietly now. “Knowing I bought something for you. Knowing you’re wearing it because I wanted you there. That you’re standing next to me.”
“I don’t need luxury to be worth something,” you bit back. You were annoyed at how easy it came from him. All those sweet words.
“I know,” he said instantly. “You’re already worth more than half the people who’ll be there.”
“Then why does it matter what I wear?”
“Because presentation matters in my world,” he replied. “And I don’t want them questioning why you’re with me.”
“And if they do?” you asked carefully.
“They won’t.”
“And if they do?”
“Then they’ll deal with me.”
He then slipped out his black hard. You didn’t say anything. You took it and both of you acted as if nothing just happened even though you knew it happened and it meant something.
~
“So Kyoto, huh?” Shoko mused as you two walked down the street. Both holding Starbucks in your hand, you sighed. “Ye, full of snobs and Satoru’s family. His mom is lovely but I don’t think they like me.”
Shoko chuckled at that, pulling out the GPS on her phone. You two would be by the boutique soon. “I’d be more surprised if she’s liked you,” she admitted, “she’s never liked any of his friends. Not me, not even Geto. Basically ever since we were kids, his family had that kind of idea in their head–you know like we weren’t worthy of their son?” She mused, “it’s kind of sick if you think about it.”
You drank a bit of your coffee, appreciating the caffeine hit. “See?” You sighed, “and that’s exactly the issue, Sho. I ain’t none of that, my family is absolutely normal I don’t have the same childhood as him and I can’t act like a snob. They legit have no reason to like me! Not to mention we’re friends and he’s pursuing me and lately he’s been acting weird I feel like he’s hiding something from me.”
Shoko listened to you, nodding when he could and sighing when she’s realized the fuck ass situation you were in. “We’re almost there,” she’s informed you, “now forget that topic. Shopping and unlimited limit in one sentence? I’m so in, baby.”
“I feel so bad,” you admitted, “he’s buying me things and all, I feel like a gold digger.”
Shoko shook her head, stopping in front of Chanel. “He gave you the card, baby,” she reminded you, “and I promise to you. Satoru would die to spoil you. He’s just like that.”
You looked up at the Chanel logo above the glass doors and swallowed. The store looked unreal. Clean lines, soft lighting, mannequins standing like they had better posture than you ever would. Even the windows looked expensive. Fuck. You didn’t belong here.
“I’ve never stepped into a place like this,” you admitted, finishing your coffee, you threw the cup in the bin. Your hands were sweaty from the stress, Satoru’s card burning a hole through your purse.
Shoko shook her head. “Relax. It’s just fabric,” she smiled, offering you her hand. You scoffed, accepted it and replied in a very dry voice, “It’s not just fabric. It’s fabric that costs someone’s yearly tuition.”
“Good thing it’s not your tuition,” she shrugged, grinning. “Seriously, girl. Enjoy it.” She took your hand, walking through the glass door.
A saleswoman approached almost immediately. She looked you up and down, you could see the confusion in her eyes but she hasn’t said anything. You didn’t belong here. This just proved it even more.
“Good afternoon. How may I assist you?” Her voice was professional, but kind. She smiled at you two and you found yourself at loss of words. Shoko answered without blinking. “We need something that will survive Kyoto politics.”
The woman’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Of course.” You shot Shoko a look. “Why are you like this?” She shrugged, grinning. “Because it’s fun.”
You looked at a black dress hanging on a rack. Your hand smoothed over it. The fabric felt weird. Not in a bad way, you just weren’t used to it.
“Too stiff?” you asked. Shoko tilted her head. “It’s giving politician’s daughter.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s boring.”
You rolled your eyes, sighing. You two walked even more through the store, the saleswoman approaching you with different clothes. You politely told her you’d choose yourself and thanked her.
A navy piece caught your eye. Clean neckline. Defined waist. You held it up against yourself and looked in the mirror.
“…My ass would look too big in this.” You scoffed, turning around to face Shoko. Shoko didn’t even hesitate. “You have a fat ass.”
“Shoko!”
“I mean it respectfully.”
“You’re supposed to say no.”
She stepped closer, looking at you through the mirror. “Why would I lie? You do. That’s why we balance the waistline.”
You tried not to laugh, however Shoko’s expression made you laugh. You put the dress back, walking away from this type of dress.
The saleswoman came by again, apologizing for interfering. She had one dress on her stretched out arm. You took it into your hands, looking at it. It was rather simple, but that was the beauty. It was tight, showed off your curves with a V-line neck. Decorated by a slit on the back.
You stared at it. It was gorgeous.
“That one,” Shoko said immediately. “I haven’t even tried it.” You tried, but knew she was right. The dress was gorgeous.
“Trust me.”
The moment you slipped it on and turned around to look at yourself in the mirror, your own heart skipped a beat. The fabric clung to your body as if it was your second skin.
You walked out, biting into your cheek. “Well?” you asked, suddenly nervous.
She walked around you once. Slowly. “Turn.” You did so, nervously waiting for her verdict. She exhaled, putting her hands around your waist. “You look like you don’t need anyone’s approval. If you were gay and I was single I’d smash you.”
You blushed and laughed at that. You really did look good. It felt like the dress was chosen especially for you.
You shifted slightly. “My ass?” “Still fat.” “Shoko?!” You giggled but she scoffed, “what? I’m just saying the truth. Ass so fat and good I bet it jiggles when you fall down.”
You rolled your eyes, watching Shoko’s reflection in the mirror. Her phone buzzed and she lit up completely.
“Utahime?” you smiled, walking back into the dressing room to change your clothing. Shoko stood in front of it.
“Yes,” she replied, “She says to tell you to stop overthinking.”
“She’s not even here.”
“She knows you.”
“What else did she say?”
“That if Satoru’s mother even breathes wrong near you, she’ll personally dismantle the Gojo estate.”
You burst out laughing, walking out of the dressing room with the dress in your hands.
“I love her.”
“She knows you’re good for him,” Shoko added quietly. That made you pause.
“…Does she?”
“Mhm. She said you’re the first girl he’s looked at like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s not bored.”
“You think they’ll hate me?” you asked softly.
Shoko crossed her arms. “Probably.”
“That doesn’t make it any better, Shoko,” you sighed, taking her hand with yours, “it stresses me out. I don’t know how to act in such a place. This sucks so much.”
“Girl, you are a strong woman! Hold your head up,” she scolded you, “Satoru is lucky you even agreed on going out with him. Now he’s thrown you into a lion’s den.”
She then walked towards the cash register, a smirk on her lips. “Now, let’s pay. Then we need jewelry, pretty shoes and a bomb bag. And oh? Your nails… also your hair. We could dye it.”
“Noo, I won’t dye my hair,” you rolled your eyes, “plus he’s already bought me a bag. It’s from Louis Vuitton,” you admitted, biting into your lip. Shoko’s eyes widened. “For real?”
“Mhm,” you nodded, “and some expensive heels too. I can’t remember the name but they look good. It’ll look well with the dress,” you smiled, “and jewelry… I’ll take some from my mom. I feel bad about the dress already.”
Shoko rolled her eyes, lighting up her cigarette, “girl, you don’t know how to use men,” she chuckled, shrugging her arms, “he asked you to milk him dry. What you just spent? That’s a penny for the man.”
“Whatever,” you waved your hand, rolling your eyes. You looked at the time. It was only the noon, yet the whole street was busy. “How’s you and Utahime?”
Shoko blushed and looked away, “good. Very good.”
You widened your eyes, nudging into her. “Tell me?? Tell me all,” you demanded, grinning at her, “what happened between you two?”
“She ate me out for the first time last night,” she admitted with a chuckle and you squeaked, covering your mouth, “it was so good. I’ve found out things about myself I’ve never known. As a matter of fact, I’m a messy person. First time it was wet, girl.”
“Fuuuuck, Sho,” you giggled, “good for you!”
~
The morning your parents left felt strangely quiet. You stood by the front door while your mom double-checked her purse for the third time and your dad reminded you — again — to lock the windows at night. Your grandma had been asking for them to visit for weeks, and they finally found time. Which meant you had the house for yourself. Finally.
“Don’t order junk every day,” your mom said, kissing your cheek. You sighed, rolling your eyes but you smiled. Your voice calm and controlled as you spoke, “I won’t.”
“Don’t have people over,” your dad said, hugging you tightly, “study well. Don’t do anything stupid.”
You smiled a little too sweetly. “Of course not.” Your dad gave you a look that said he knew you were just tryna get rid of them, but he hasn’t said anything. After bidding their goodbyes, the door shut.
You stood there for a moment, just listening. The silence was weird, you weren’t used to it. As weird as it was, you found it pleasant. Just you and yourself.
You walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it. Wandered to the living room. Flopped onto the couch. Checked your phone.
No new messages.
You told yourself you’d enjoy the peace. Study a little. Clean. Be productive.
Instead, you ended up lying on your bed two hours later, staring at the ceiling while sunlight stretched lazily across your walls. Bored. You missed noise.
You rolled over and grabbed your phone. You sighed dramatically, then opened Instagram. Scrolled. Closed it. Opened Netflix. Nothing felt interesting without commentary.
By late afternoon, you were pacing your room like a restless cat. You opened your drawer, looking for something to entertain yourself. Instead, you found something far more interesting.
The unfinished joint from last week.
You picked it up between your fingers, turning it slowly. You shouldn’t. You absolutely shouldn’t. You stared at your phone. Picked up and typed:
you: u busy, Gojo?
You didn’t expect an immediate reply. He responded in under thirty seconds.
gojosatoru: depends
gojosatoru: why
gojosatoru: are you alone 👀
You rolled your eyes.
you: don’t make it weird
you: parents gone
you: bored
Three dots.
Then:
gojosatoru: I’m on my way
You blinked.
you: ?? I didn’t invite you
gojosatoru: you don’t have to💋💋
You stared at the message longer than you should have. What else have you expected? Plus… you kind of wanted him to come.
Twenty-five minutes later, your doorbell rang. You rushed downstairs, fixing yourself one last time in the mirror. You had an oversized T-shirt on and your pyjama shorts that were ridiculously short. You opened the door, staring at the man in front of you.
He stood there in a hoodie, hair slightly messy from the wind, holding a plastic bag.
“You look like you expected me,” he said with a smirk. He looked you up and down, a knowing look on his face. You turned your own face away, biting into your cheek. The you replied, your tone biting, “I didn’t.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
He stepped inside without waiting for permission. “What’s in the bag?” you asked, closing the door behind him. You curiously eyed the bag, trying to get it from him.
“Sushi. And sodas. I assumed you forgot to eat.” You stopped in your tracks, his words hitting you right into your face. You were at loss of words, then you spoke softly, “That was sweet.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he smirked, wrapping his free arm around your waist. You nudged him lightly as you walked toward the kitchen.
The domesticity of it hit you in waves. Him setting the bag down. You grabbing plates. The two of you bumping into each other in your small kitchen like you’d done it a hundred times.
“You live like a normal person,” he commented, glancing around. You furrowed your eyebrows, throwing daggers at him just with the look on your face.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can find the light switch without a map.”
You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”
You carried everything upstairs to your room, settling on the floor instead of your bed. He sat cross-legged, opening containers while you flopped onto your stomach.
“Don’t steal my pieces,” he warned.
“Sharing is caring.”
“Not in this economy.”
“As if you care about economy,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. Satoru laughed, lightly slapping you on your ass. That made you pause, looking at him wide-eyed. He shrugged, pretending nothing happened. “Shouldn’t we eat?” He asked, stuffing his cheeks up.
After eating, you grabbed the remote.
“What are we watching?” he asked, curious. He plopped himself down on his tummy next to you, wrapping his arm around your waist, once again. You looked at him, smiling.
“Bridgerton.”
His lip lifted in disgust. “Absolutely not.”
“You have no taste,” you sighed, “come on, please?” You pouted, fluttering your lashes at him. He just sighed.
“You watch dramatic people in corsets pine for eight episodes.”
“And you watch animated men punch each other.”
“That’s culture.”
You ignored him and pressed play anyway.
Fifteen minutes in, he was invested. “Wait,” he said suddenly, pointing at the screen. “He’s lying.”
“Obviously,” you rolled your eyes, “it’s painfully obvious he will fall in love with Daphne! I mean, come on, are you trying to tell me he’s just punched that man because he mentioned his shit ass father?” You asked, hands thrown out dramatically. Satoru sat up, nodding.
“Exactly! That’s what I’m saying! He’s like a mad cat, he already stormed off when the guy said he will marry Daphne!” Satoru said, pointing towards the TV.
“Yeah, watch him and Daphne ending together by the end of the series. I’m betting on that.”
You both leaned against your bed eventually, shoulders brushing occasionally. It was subtle at first. Accidental.
Then less accidental.
When the episode ended, you turned to say something and realized he was already looking at you..
You swallowed and looked away first. Light flush on your cheek, you didn’t dare to look at Satoru. However, if you did… you’d see he’s blushing even more than you.
He reached for your phone and opened it without asking. That’s on you for not having a passcode.
“What are you doing?” you asked, trying to reach for your phone. He slapped your hand away, grinning. “Educating you.”
He connected to your speaker and scrolled through Spotify. Then, he finally found the song he was looking for. He closed your phone, looking at you in the dim lighting.
“…Brooklyn Baby?” you asked slowly. He didn’t look embarrassed, more so he looked in love with the song the more it played.
“Yes.”
“You listen to Lana del Rey?” Voice full of curiosity, you scooped closer to him. He smelt so good and was so warm, it felt comforting.
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that illegal?”
“You act like you only listen to rap and weird indie techno.”
“I beg your pardon?” He exclaimed, lips parted, “I shall let you know I’m the biggest fan of Lana, okay?”
You laughed softly as the song filled your room. He leaned back on his hands, watching you instead of the ceiling.
“You’re so beautiful,” he complimented, “just like this song.”
You slapped his hand away, suddenly realizing how close the two of you actually were. The joint on your desk caught his attention.
“You were going to smoke alone?” he asked, looking at you with raised eyebrow. You looked away, suddenly the decor of your room far more interesting.
“I wasn’t sure.”
He reached for it casually. “Light it.”
“Shit, we doing this?” You chuckled and he nodded. You then reached for the lighter, lighting the joint up. You took the first drag, coughing. The first inhale always burned.
You passed it to him. Your body felt the switch, everything disappearing from your brain, your whole body felt so light. Suddenly Satoru’s white hair was the funniest thing you’ve seen.
You both ended up sitting on your bed, closer. You felt his arms around you, the need to touch each other too great.
“So,” he said quietly, smoke curling from his lips. “Why’d you really text me?”
“I was bored,” you answered, biting into your lip. Your own hand squeezed on his shoulder, massaging slowly.
“That’s not it.”
“Maybe I just wanted you here.”
Satoru hasn’t said anything, which was already weird. He isn’t the type to be quiet. You looked at him, realizing he was already looking at you.
“You call me Gojo when you’re trying to get under my skin,” he said suddenly. You smiled lazily, sticking out your tongue.
“Gojo.”
“Say my name.”
“It is your name.”
“You know what I mean.”
You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with your hand. “Why does it bother you?”
“Because it feels distant.”
The honesty caught you off guard.
You didn’t expect that.
You reached for the joint again, buying yourself time. “Fine,” you murmured softly. “Satoru.”
“That’s more like it,” he whispered, his voice lower. He leaned closer to you, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, “that’s my good girl, hm?” His voice was so smooth, you felt it in every part of your body, especially the lower part. He pulled away with a smirk. As if he knew what he’s doing to you, to your mind and your poor body.
You sat up slowly, knees brushing his thigh. The contact wasn’t accidental this time. He didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
“Are you nervous about Kyoto?” you asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“For everything.”
“I can handle myself,” you said softly.
“I know.”
“But?”
“But I don’t trust them.”
You reached for his hand without thinking. He looked down at your fingers wrapped around his. His thumb brushing against your knuckles, he let out a sigh.
He leaned closer to you, his eyes stuck on yours, noses touching, your lips almost touching. His breath fawning over your lips. It was warm. Too warm and all you wanted was a kiss.
“Gojo,” you whispered, teasing him. You licked your lips, staring down at his full plush lips. His hand moved to your jaw, he wasn’t rough, but he squeezed enough to have you in place.
a little update about Double Trouble. I won’t do daily updates rn and upload once a week!❤️🙌🏻 The chapter will be way longer and you guys will prolly enjoy it more 💝
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
WC: 2.8K ch6 ch8
happy Thursday!
“You’re right.”
Your voice was quiet now. The whole night drained you. The weed in your system wasn’t helping it, you felt tired. All you craved was your bed and the quiet the night could bring you.
“I didn’t let you talk,” you sighed, “because you proved my assumptions right. Even if those were just gossip talks, you’ve proved me right. Don’t you understand that, Gojo?”
Satoru closed his eyes, resting his forehead against your shoulder. Your smell surrounding his senses, he’s let out a sigh of relief. He let go off the door, wrapping his arms around your waist, he pulled you closer to his body.
“You dumbass,” he whispered, squeezing you tighter. He wanted you closer to him. “I’ve done that, because that’s just me. I’m used to this. I’m used to being judged and misunderstood. The least I can do is prove everyone right, even if it it’s true. I just,” his voice trailed off, letting go off your waist. He stepped back, running his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t expect it from you.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. It was slowly becoming a bad habit of yours. The drum bass from downstairs could be heard, but you ignored it. Your eyes glued to the man next to you.
“So ask me,” he spoke, “I know you want to ask me something. I swear on my name I will be nothing but honest with you.”
You stepped back, looking into his eyes. He looked so sincere, like he’s truly wanted you know the truth, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to know it.
“Did you fuck her?” You asked, looking helplessly at him. His answer made your heart clench. “Yes.”
“But,” he continued, “it’s not like you think. No–don’t shut off, hear me out– I’ve fucked Mei like two days after the class incident. I haven’t fucked anyone during our three weeks phase. When I’ve said I was being good, I meant it. I really tried, pretty girl.”
~
Satoru couldn’t get his eyes off you. He could see the wheels turning in your head, the emotions on your face unstable. He couldn’t even make out if you’ve trusted him or if you just didn’t want to.
“Okay,” you sighed, “that’s… that’s on me I guess. I should have heard you out. I’m sorry.”
Taken back by your response and apology, Satoru reached for your hand. He smiled at you, a hopeful look shimmering in his eyes. “It’s okay, I know I’m not the best to be around and I’m sorry for what I did after you called me a slut. It’s a coping mechanism for me at this point.”
He pulled you towards his body, hugging you. Face nestled into the crook of your neck, feeling your heartbeat, the smell of your perfume and the lingering weed. It was doing things to him. “Don’t fuck Suguru,” he whispered, “please.”
He could feel your goosebumps. His fingers moving lightly on your arm, it brought satisfaction– knowing he made you feel this way. Still, the picture of you and Suguru lingered in his mind. He hated it.
“I won’t,” you whispered. Your voice was small and quiet. “I just really wanna sleep. My parents can’t see me this way.”
Satoru didn’t need to hear anything else. He scooped you into his arms, ignoring your protests. He carried you down the stairs, pushing through the mass of bodies and ignoring everyone’s looks. (Especially Suguru’s. He will have to punch him later)
He sat you down carefully in his Audi. Put the seatbelt on and sat behind the wheel. Satoru was lucky he didn’t drink or smoke, because seeing your asleep form in his car, in the seat next to him was something Satoru could get used to.
He drove slow. He didn’t feel like rushing, especially when you looked so beautiful. Your makeup was a little smudged, your hair messed up but to him, you were even more ethereal than ever. His heart hurt knowing he could have lost you because of some rumor. He would have to find the girls later. Show them who exactly he is and make them apologize to you, even if they didn’t know you were there. No one hurts you on his watch.
Satoru stopped on the red light and pulled out his phone. He took a picture of you, smiling at it. He made it his lock screen immediately. His pretty princess. “Fucking hell,” he whispered under his breath, his fingers grazing your skin.
Then he drove off. Not to your house. Not to anyone else’s house, but his own. He knew it was risky, but he realized it is a risk worth taking. He will tell his parents you are dating (it’s not true yet, technically… how else would he explain bringing a sleepy girl home, though?) And he was somehow sure his parents would like you. Especially his mom.
He drove through the gates, saying hello to the night guard. He stopped the car, stepped out and slowly took you back into his arms. He gave the keys to one of the guys, telling him to park the car. He slowly walked inside the mansion, going face-to-face with his furious mother.
“Why weren’t you in the library as you said you would be?!” She demanded, throwing daggers at him just with the look she was giving him. Satoru sushed her.
“Ma, let’s talk tomorrow,” he whispered, “please don’t wake her up. Get some maid to prepare the guest room. She’s a precious guest of ours.”
His mom looked at your sleeping form and then at Satoru. Confusion written all over her face. “Who is this, Satoru?”
Satoru smiled. Genuinely. “That’s my… mama, this is my future girlfriend if I don’t mess up.”
“Which family is she from? I don’t recognize her.”
His mother’s words were a cold slap to his face. His hands trembled, but he forced himself to stay calm. For you. He’s calmed down for you.
“A good family, ma. She has loving parents, she has good grades and she cares for your son. Isn’t that enough? I’d marry her in a heartbeat.”
She looked taken back by her son’s confession, but she just smiled. “Kyo? Prepare room and some clothes for our guest, please.”
Satoru looked relieved and he was. He looked at you sleeping, smiled even more and slowly walked up the stairs. He chose the guest room next to his own room. He’s put you down slowly, turned and look at Kyo.
“Please, Kyo. Make sure she’s comfortable. Can you take off her makeup? Don’t wake her up, please.”
His voice was sincere and full of hope. Kyo looked shocked by the sudden switch, but she nodded. “Of course, sir. Would you like me to change her clothing too? I’m sure miss wouldn’t sleep well this way.”
“Yes, thank you, Kyo.”
Satoru looked at you one last time and left you in the care of another woman. He wouldn’t want to ruin your trust. So he went back into his room, took a shower and changed into his pyjamas.
Lying down in his bed, instagram opened on his phone, he smiled. He sent the picture of you sleeping to Shoko.
gojosatoru: Sent 1️⃣ time only picture
gojosatoru: loooook shoko🥹 isn’t she just precious!
He locked the phone, throwing it under his pillow. He would sleep good. Way too good tonight, because of certain someone sleeping just a room away.
~
The morning light flickered into the room, waking you up from your sleep. You sit up confused, feeling the silky sheets under your body. You’re also wearing something else than you had on. You looked around, confused as hell. The room is huge, with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows with gorgeous curtains. There’s a chandelier above you, with some crystals. It looked gorgeous and probably expensive as fuck.
You looked further, confused on where you were. Polished wood floors partly covered by a pale blue Persian rug, a marble fireplace with fresh flowers arranged in a glass vase on the mantel, and built-in bookshelves lined with classic novels and art books. A gilded mirror hangs above an antique dresser, and there are more doors than you know what to do with, one probably leads to a bathroom bigger than your bedroom at home.
“Hello?” You called out, standing up from the bed. You turned around to make the bed, but voice stopped you. “No miss, do not. I’ll do it.”
You turned around, seeing an older woman approaching you. “I’m sorry, where am I?” You asked, looking at her. Was she the owner? Did she get you home? Did you wander into her home?
“You are our guest, miss. The clothes are prepared for you in the bathroom, please take your time,” she continued, cleaning the space you’ve occupied, “the family is awaiting you downstairs then.”
Family? What?
You looked even more confused. “Which family?” You asked cautiously. The woman looked at you as if you couldn’t count to five. “Well, miss. The Gojo family! Now hurry, go wash up.”
Gojo family?!
Taking a shower, your mind was on overtime. Sure, you and Satoru talked things out, but! How did you get here? And most importantly – who the heck was Satoru to live in this?!
You looked at all the shower gels and hygiene things prepared for you. You didn’t belong here. You felt like an imposter. At the same time, you’d be a fool to not enjoy such a shower! Especially after last night… also, who undressed you? God, if it was Satoru! It had to be him. This is crazy.
You’ve dried your hair up, taking the bathroom in. It was luxurious. It didn’t help you were holding a Dyson in your hands. It worked magic, it was something on your list you wanted, but who in their mind would spend such money on it? Well, Satoru Gojo– clearly.
Trying to find your clothes, they were gone. Skirt? Non existent. Corset? Non existent. Your phone? Where the hell was your phone?
You sighed, taking on the prepared clothes for you. It was simple. Black leggings with a big hoodie. Not just any hoodie as you could see. The big “LV” logo told you enough and you swallowed down the nervousness. You couldn’t mess it up. The cleaning would dry out your wallet for a week.
Stepping back into the room, you opened half the doors, trying to find exit. First door led to a walk-in closet, next door walked you into a balcony. The third door was a success. You found yourself in the hall, greeted by a huge drawing on the wall.
You’ve observed it. It was a small boy on a horse. The art was beautiful. Upon closer inspection you’ve realized it wasn’t just any boy. It was younger Satoru.
“Miss? This way.”
The woman from before led you down the hall and down the stairs. This was a crazy experience. All luxury. You were afraid to even touch something, hoping you wouldn’t destroy it.
At the long table Satoru sat next to his father you assumed. His father sat at the front of the table, Satoru on his right and his mother on the left side. You sighed, gauging courage to even speak.
“Good morning Gojo-sama,” you spoke clearly, bowing down. “thank you for having me. Good morning, Satoru.”
Their eyes snapped towards you. Satoru smiled brightly, standing up to walk over to you. He took your hand in his, ignoring his parents’ greetings towards you. He sat you down next to him.
“How old are you, dear?” His mom asked and you looked at her. You fidgeted with the hem of your hoodie but on display, you’ve tried your best to look presentable. However, you could feel the cold stare from the older Gojo.
“I’m twenty-two. Thank you for asking, Gojo-sama.”
Satoru snorts and you look at him wide eyed. His father scoffs and looks at you. “What are you studying, miss?”
“I’m studying law, Gojo-sama. I’ll be graduating soon.”
His father nods, a smile on his lips. “Smart girl. How are your grades?”
You look at Satoru, then back at his father. “Thank you, Gojo-sama,” you bow your head, “my grades aren’t the best in some subjects, however I’m trying my best. My parents wish for me to do well and I do not wish to disappoint them.”
“Very well. Enjoy your breakfast and stay. You’re our guest, after all.”
His father stands up, says something to his wife and leaves. You are left alone with Satoru and his mother.
“Eat, dear,” she smiles, pointing towards the full table, “you need a lot of energy after last night.”
You blush, looking down at your empty plate. “Thank you, Gojo-sama.”
~
Later that morning you and Satoru retrieve to his bedroom. It’s still as luxurious, but it has a hint of him. Pictures with his friends hang on the wall, multiple medals from sports, books. His clothes thrown everywhere and a piano.
“Do you play?” You smiled as you looked at him. He nodded, lying down lazily on his bed. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll play for you sometime.”
You chuckle at it and sit down on his bed next to his. Satoru immediately wraps his arms around your waist, plopping his face onto your knee.
“How did we get here?” You asked, playing with his hair. Your nails grazing his scalp, Satoru let out a soft sigh. “Took you here. Don’t worry, one of our maids took care of you. I haven’t seen anything.”
You smile at that, thanking him.
“You are one of the few people my parents have met,” he says, “and you made a good impression. I’m proud of you. My mom seems to like you and it seems like my dad approves of you.”
Your heart warms up immediately. “Well, I’ve tried my best, you know?” You teased, lying down on his bed. “How come you’ve never told me about this? How come I didn’t know you come from… such a place? I don’t even belong here, man.”
“Oh, but you do,” he counters, “you deserve nothing but to be treated as a princess. You’d deserve so much more than this.”
You sit back up, looking at the man in front of you. His cheeks are painted pretty pink, lips shiny from the lipgloss he’s always using. He looks so pretty it hurts.
“And to answer your other question,” he smirks, “it’s easy. You just never asked, pretty.”
“That’s… that’s true,” you admit, drawing circles on his face, “I never expected this, you know?” You giggle and Satoru nods. He’s lost in the sound of your voice, of your laugh.
Having you here, inside his home, in his room. He felt like he’s dreaming.
“Pretty girl,” he whispered, holding your hand on his face, “let’s try again, please?” He looked at you. His blues hopeful, a light pout on his lips.
“Satoru,” you whispered and he kissed your palm, “I need time, okay? This is all too quick…”
“I’ll wait however long you want,” he said instantly, sitting up, “I’ll do anything to prove you I’m worthy of you.”
You believed him. However you also believed you weren’t worthy of him, especially after seeing how he lives.
~
The next week of classes rolled by and Satoru was back to his old self. No one else mattered to him but you. He kept looking for you everywhere he could. Each break he had he had walked by cafeteria, catching a glimpse of you with Kento or Shoko. Your usual coffee order in your hand, sometimes you’d have one of their filled bagels. Each time you looked gorgeous and each time he wanted to hold you and never let you go. He was that deep.
Sometimes he’d catch himself staring at you for the whole class. How you write notes down, the way your facial expressions changed when you understood something, or when you had no clue what was going on. You were the cutest person ever.
At times he’d stare at your Instagram, saving every picture of you. His lock screen was still as beautiful. You soundly asleep in his car.
~
Satoru opened Instagram, finally having the courage to message you. He wasn’t a pussy! He had to make the step. He was a man, after all.
gojosatoru: Pretty princess, what are you doing?
gojosatoru: pretty princess, do you miss meeee?
gojosatoru: cuz I miss you👀❤️
He was down bad. And somehow, he didn’t even mind, or care.
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
WC: 2.5K ch5 ch7
The days dragged by. Each day had a surprise in a form of Satoru Gojo shoving your words back into your face. He was a different man. Not the one you used to know. Not the tall guy with glasses who loved showing off his smartness. The one who would tease and be soft with you. He was someone else now.
Every day a different girl. Dressing himself different, his attitude towards you reserved and cold, even though he had no reason to be so. You were supposed to be mad and hurt! Not him. He fucked some girl on a party while trying to get you on a date. That was his fault, not yours.
You could have let him speak, you could tell him about what you’ve heard and that was what you’d do if he didn’t prove you right. He was a slut and those rumors had to be true. There was no other way, no other explanation.
The air around you was chilly, but it felt good. It was warm outside today and the wind made it better. It flicked through your white maxi dress, messing up with the bow in your hair. You looked so pretty today and you felt pretty. Even though your heart ached, you still took care of yourself and that’s all that mattered.
“Yo,” you heard someone call out behind you. You turned around, seeing Shoko rushing towards you. “Looking pretty, girl!” She complimented you.
“Yooo,” you replied with a grin, “thank you! I appreciate it, Sho. You look so good too.” She just smiled at you, intertwining your hands, you walked through the campus.
“Exams are killing me, bro,” she whined, “I’d rather eat dirt than write another essay.” You chuckled at her, watching the mass of people walking ahead of you. Everyone was present for one thing only. Pass this damn uni.
“I feel you, girl. Today is the shittiest test of all. I gotta do well.”
Shoko looked you, squeezing your hand. She wished you good luck and you parted ways.
Exam season was always shit. You were stressed as hell, knowing one wrong answer could fuck up your relationship with your parents and eventually your future.
Philosophy was never the problem. You loved philosophy. You loved arguing with people over what was right and what was wrong. (Except Satoru, you hated that from him. Dumb smart pants!)
Your grade wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t where you wanted it to be. And with Yaga, who was strict as fuck and expected so much from everyone, you were half cooked. You either do well or you don’t. He did not care about effort. He cared about what you knew and your arguments. Nothing else mattered to that man.
You laid your notebook down carefully, flipping through the pages one last time. Plato’s theory of forms highlighted in pink. Aristotle’s critique written in the margins. Kant circled aggressively because he deserved it.
Yaga entered right on time, placing the stack of exam papers on his desk. The usual poker face back, looked at you and then each of your classmates.
“Phones off. Bags closed. I do not repeat myself.”
The papers were passed down the rows, and when one landed on your desk, you bit into your cheek. You had to concentrate. You had to somehow do well and get a grade better than C.
You flipped it over. Essay questions.
Of course.
You read over them, your bottom lip sucked into your mouth. You could do this.
Compare Plato’s theory of forms with Aristotle’s critique.
Discuss Kant’s moral philosophy and its relevance in modern society.
Is free will compatible with determinism? Defend your position.
A quiet sense of relief spread through you.
You knew this.
When Yaga announced five minutes remaining, you were already reviewing your conclusions. You fixed one of the last answers you gave, proud of yourself.
“Time.”
~
The frat party was way too alive for your liking. It was loud, it smelt like weed, alcohol and sweaty bodies. You scrunched your nose up when someone bumped into you, not even apologizing. You shot the person a mean look, huffing.
You scanned the crowd, looking for some familiar faces. It was a blur of bodies, someone was dancing on the table–god, was it Yuki?!–, then you’ve seen some drinking, some playing some stupid games and tons of shit people dancing in the living room.
Uni life was fun. And you deserved it after finishing your exams. (Your parents thought too! The next semester you can live in dorms. You proved them well enough you are capable of being by yourself. Yay!)
You moved through the mass of bodies, seeing Sukuna with Satoru and some other man with black hair, probably snorting cocaine. Ew. He was worse than you thought.
Finally spotting someone familiar, you jumped on Suguru’s back, cheering a simple “Hi!”
Suguru smiled, instinctively supporting your legs around his waist. “Well, hello there,” he grinned, letting you step down, “I’m trying to look for Shoko.”
“Yooo, me too! She said she was going to be here!” You exclaimed, looking around yourself once more. No sign of Shoko. “You look gorgeous,” Suguru complimented you and you blushed.
You wore a simple white mini skirt with a pink corset that showed your bomb figure. Hair done, makeup done, even your nails done. You smelt good too, you knew that! Gucci Flora never disappoints. Plus the sweet golden hoops you got from your mama and the gold layered necklace just put it all together. A princess.
“Thank you,” you smiled, “you look handsome. Just like always, Sugu.”
Eyeing him up and down, the fitted white gym shirt looked too good on him. You could see the hint of his abs, shirt tucked into his black baggy jeans he was the epitome of sex. No joke.
“You’re too kind,” Suguru grinned at you, taking out the joint from his back pocket. “Want some, pretty? ‘S gonna be fun, trust.”
You looked at the joint in his hand. Milion thoughts in your head, you shut them all out. “Yes.”
Fuck it, you’d regret it in the morning. Suguru lit the joint up, took a hit and passed it to you. “Gotta inhale it inside, pretty. It might burn your throat and you gotta cough, but that’s how you know this shit works, mkay?”
“Okay,” you coughed out, passing the joint to him. You felt lightened in your head, your body felt so light, so carefree. Suguru took another hit, your eyes stuck on his lips, the way they wrapped around it, then he blew out the smoke.
Fuck.
You two smoked the whole joint together. By the time it was finished, Shoko found you and dragged you two to another room, where a game was being played.
Seven minutes in heaven. Fuck.
Now you find yourself sitting on the ground, with people sitting around you in a circle shape. Each one of you wrote a name on the paper, putting it inside a bowl.
Two people are selected to go into a closet or other dark, enclosed space and do whatever they like for seven minutes.
People went in, some came out completely fucked, and some walked out mad. You just prayed your name wouldn't be called.
“Yo!” Satoru called out as he joined the circle, throwing his name inside the bowl. You looked at Suguru, biting into your cheek, you leaned into Shoko’s shoulder.
“Sup bro,” Satoru grinned at Suguru, doing a high five with him, he forced himself between the two of you. You scooped away from him, closer to Shoko. “Hey boo.”
Suguru’s reply was warm. He bumped his shoulder into Satoru’s and you felt uncomfortable. He was so close to you, you could smell him. You could feel his body brushing against yours, and fuck if that wasn’t enough, he kept looking at you.
Yuki called out a name, “Satoru.” He smirked next to you, his eyes stuck on your face, your lips. “You smoke?” He asked you, eyebrow raised up, “since when?”
You didn’t reply. Rather looking at Yuki choosing another name. When you’ve heard Miwa’s name, your heart calmed down. At least you were safe.
For now.
~
What you didn’t expect was to be called in with Suguru. The moment the closet door closed behind you, dark enveloped you. “Can I? Or if you don’t want to, we can keep chatting.”
His voice was low and soft. So kind and so like him. “You can,” you whispered, “I don’t mind.”
And for some reason, that was all Suguru needed. You felt his hands on your face in a second, his lips brushing against yours. Softly first, as if he was testing water, trying to see if you’d move, or not. Seeing you comply into the soft kiss, he’s deepened it.
His lips dancing with yours, it was hot and wet, his hands were everywhere. One squeezing your ass under the skirt you wore, his right hand tugging at your corset, whining about it. “Can I? Please,” he whispered into the kiss and you nodded, your hands tangled in his hair, you pulled at him, forcing his lips down your neck.
His knee went in between your legs, his fingers kneading your ass, he pushed you against his knee, feeling your wet thong against his pants, you gasped. Head thrown back, you let him mark you. Licking and sucking on your skin, teeth grazing the most sensitive areas on your neck, forming hickeys. After each hickey he’d kiss the skin, making you grind your wet pussy against his knee.
“Suguru,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulder. Suguru was lost in the moment, feeling you move against him, his lips itching down to your covered boobs. He reached under your corset, slipping one of your tits out. “Oh gorgeous,” he whispered, “hello beautiful.”
His voice was breathless, his plump lips sucking your nipple out, biting and licking, he sucked on it, massaging it. Your eyes rolled back, his knee pushing right against your swollen clit, his name a mantra on your lips.
The night was turning out way too good.
“No time to eat you out, baby,” he whispered into your ear and your eyes widened, “would pay a fortune to taste you on my lips.”
His whispers gave you goosebumps. You bit into your lip, pulling away from him to fix yourself up. Suguru has done the same, fixing his hard dick in his pants. “Shame,” you winked, your hand reaching down to cup him through the pants. “I’d pay to taste you as well.”
You moved your palm on the bulge, feeling Suguru melt into your touch. He rested his head on your shoulder, his breathing growing heavy. You felt the weight of him in your hand, the need to feel him way too strong.
Then, the door swung open.
And Satoru stood there.
His face was unreadable, his cheeks flushed, lips in a thin line. He stared at you, seeing the aftermath of the action that occurred between you two. “Suguru? Really?” He whispered in a low tone. It was cold, sending shivers through your whole body. You stood, unable to say anything, the heat of the moment and this cold conformation, it was too much.
Satoru hasn’t said anything else. He turned around and stormed off. You gave Suguru one last look as you dashed after Satoru, catching his arm. “What’s up with you?” You demanded, but he didn’t answer.
He squeezed your arm, pulling you through the bodies. Ignoring every look given your way, Satoru moved with purpose.
Alone in one of the rooms, Satoru’s breathing was heavy. You could hear it, see it even in the way he’s acted. “He’s my best friend,” he said, shooting you a nasty look. You looked away from him. “And me and you? We had something going on and what do you do? Almost fuck my best friend? That’s really low. Even for you.”
You looked into his eyes, eyebrows furrowed in a tight knot. “Is that so? If I remember correctly, there was nothing between us yet! It could have been, if someone didn’t ruin it. Someone named Satoru!”
“And how did I ruin it?” He demanded, stepping closer to you, “I’ve been on my best behavior the past three weeks. I’ve tried my best, do you know that? I’ve tried to get to know you and be close to you. So how the fuck did I ruin it?”
His voice was low and cold. You gulped down the saliva in your mouth, not backing down.
“Ask your dick, will you?” You hissed, “you couldn’t even keep it in your pants, yet you’ve tried to pursue me!”
Satoru looked taken back by your words. However, he quickly recovered, his shining blues boring into your face with intensity you didn’t expect.
“And who did I fuck? Hm? Fucking tell me, because the only fucking time my dick was out of my pants was to jerk off thinking about you. So if you’re so smart and you know everything, fucking tell me, will you?”
Shocked on your face was an understatement. Seeing his face shine with fury was another.
“Fuck you, Gojo,” you spat out, pushing him away from you, “go jerk off to Mei. Or you don’t have to, right? You can fuck her anyways!”
You pushed him again, turning around to leave. Tears stinging in your eyes, you held your ground as you reached for the door. Once you’ve opened them, you didn’t get much far. Satoru’s hand came to stop, closing the door. You could see his stretched out arm, his breathing heavy and uneven by your ear.
“And you say I don’t let you talk? You haven’t given me a chance to even tell you anything. Explain myself or ask you something. All you do is run and close yourself off. That’s disappointing.”
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself. this chapter- panic attack!
WC: 2K ch4
Happy Tuesday! xoxo
Do you guys prefer daily updates like this or once a week with longer chap?👀
♡ ♡
Once a song he listened to, now it looked like his life. Sukuna’s recommended song, “Love & War” was currently his song. Just a few days before he finally had the chance to take you on a date, you distanced yourself from him. He had no clue why. It hurt, you wouldn’t tell him the reason and the sudden coldness hurt even more. He’s gotten used to you being in his life and now you were gone, again.
He had to have done something to upset you, but he didn’t know what. He was as clueless as a cat. Satoru was on his best behavior all three weeks. He thought you’ve seen it too. So what happened? What changed so suddenly?
Fingers digging into his thigh, his breath came out shaky. He knew this feeling way too well. The feeling of not being able to do anything, feeling as useless as he’s used to as a child. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, “calm down, Satoru.”
Satoru looked around himself, feeling his own heartbeat in his throat. This wasn’t going well. This was shit. His heart started racing, loud in his ears, beating so fast it made him dizzy. His hands were shaking now. He stood up, paced once, then twice, but the room felt too small. The walls felt like they were closing in.
No. No, no, no. Not this.
His vision blurred at the edges. His breath got shorter, sharper. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. It didn’t help. His chest burned. Okay. Okay. Ground yourself.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to sit down on the edge of the bed. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white. Five things you can see.
He opened his eyes, even though they stung. Looked around the room.
The black piano bench by the wall. The half open window, curtains moving slightly. His phone on the bed, screen dark. A hoodie thrown over the chair. The stupid ceiling light flickering a little.
Four things you can feel.
The mattress under his hands. The fabric of his shirt sticking to his skin. The cool air from the window on his neck. His heartbeat, pounding, real.
Three things you can hear.
The song playing quietly. A car passing outside. His own breathing, rough but slowing.
Two things you can smell.
Laundry detergent on his clothes. Mint. His gum from earlier.
One thing you can taste.
Metal. From biting the inside of his cheek.
His breathing started to slow, just a little. Still shaky, but not spiraling anymore. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. Fuck. That was close.
He stayed like that for a moment, letting the feeling pass instead of fighting it. His chest still ached, but he wasn’t drowning anymore.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes burned. He laughed once, quietly, but there was no humor in it.
“All this,” he muttered, voice tight, “over one girl.”
~
You sat like a ghost among your friends. The conversation flowing through your ears, you couldn’t even pay attention to what they are saying. It felt numb, it felt dumb and it felt incredibly rude, you knew that, but still. You couldn’t listen. Too lost in your thoughts, too lost in the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.
You couldn’t face him. You wanted to, but you knew it would do no good, especially hearing what he’s done at some party. You knew he attended sometimes, but you didn’t expect that. Him just fucking random chicks. In uni he’s a nerdy boy, but it looks like you were wrong about him. It looked like you were wrong about everything you thought of this man. And that sucked.
And hurt.
Just thinking about him kissing some other woman, let alone fuck her made your heart clench and hurt in the worst way possible. He’s tried to be so good for you and he still ruined it. Maybe you were naive.
Your eyes glued to the ground down, light wind playing with your hair. The smell of weed reached your nose and you instinctively scrunched it up. Ew.
“Are you listening, girly?” Shoko tapped your shoulder, looking as worried as always. You nod weakly, giving her a small smile, “I said Sukuna is coming with the others, you cool with it?”
You look at everyone around you. “I don’t know him,” you answer, “if he’s cool, I don’t mind.”
Shoko grinned and threw herself back at Utahime. Kissing her on her plump lips, she sighed happily. You gave them a smile, watching Kento and Haibara’s awkward touches. That brought your mood up, quite a lot.
“Prettyyyy!” You heard behind you. You turned around, seeing Suguru approaching your party. You grinned widely, standing up to hug him. He looked so good, just like he always did. Black basic pants with a white tee, it was a basic fit but he was the perfect accessory for it.
“Sugu,” you smiled, “you look so nice today! I love the bun you always make,” you grinned, squeezing his hand. He looked at you with a warm smile, joining you and the others, he sat down next to you. “Where are the others?” Shoko asked, casually taking a drag of the joint.
“Eh, Satoru is really down. He doesn’t talk with anyone these days,” Suguru sighed, taking out a cigarette to light it up, “and Sukuna won’t come without his homie, you know that. Not even Sukuna managed to get Satoru out of his house. Something really messed him up.”
As he finishes talking, he looks at you for one second. The look he gave you is everything you needed to know. Suguru knew it had something to do with you.
He didn’t say anything though. It wasn’t his business to tell and ask. He just took a drag out of his cig, squeezing your smaller hand in his. It fit perfectly. Kento noticed that, nudging Utahime and Haibara to look at you two.
“If yall wanna make out, go ahead yo. I won’t mind,” Shoko chipped in, laughing. You blushed, glancing away, but not saying anything. What were you even supposed to answer? “Ya go ahead,” Haibara joined in and Suguru shook his head.
“You guys are just something else, for real.”
The talk went on and on. Everyone had a good time, laughing at fried Shoko who was even more affectionate towards Utahime (if that was even possible honestly) and Kento told everyone about him and Haibara. You and your friends were supportive, because that’s what friendship is for. To love and support each other at any time we need and you were lucky enough to have an amazing friend group.
Then in distance, you could hear a very loud noise. Your attention has snapped that way. Squinting your eyes, you’ve seen a tall buff guy coming towards you. Tattoos everywhere on his skin, his face, his hands. Pink hair with a mean grin on his face. Next to him was Satoru and your heart sank.
He looked like he hasn’t slept for days. His glasses were gone, dark circles way too visible on his pale skin. Bitten plush lips, he’s looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. The worst thing is he still looked as pretty as ever.
Everyone around you seemed to notice too. Hushed whispers echoed in your little circle, commenting on Satoru’s current state. It looked like no one was used to seeing him that way.
“Which one is it?” You heard the buff guy ask Satoru–probably Sukuna, who’s asked–and Satoru shook his head, whispering something towards him. You forced yourself to look away, deciding to ignore him. Yes, that was for the best. Ignore that man.
“Hey Satoru.” everyone spoke as the two men joined your little circle. You couldn’t force yourself to look at him. Your body was way too stiff and Suguru noticed, drawing smoothing circles on the palm of your hand.
“Hi,” Satoru whispered, leaning closer to you. He put his hand on your shoulder and you gulped. His touch felt way too familiar, way too sweet. Something you found yourself dearly missing, but it still was a temptation you had to run away from. “Can we talk? Please, pretty.”
His voice sounded so sincere, his eyes were dull. Usually shining blue was dulled blue. You sighed, shaking your head. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Your voice was emotionless. Cold. At least, you hoped it came out that way. You tried.
And it probably worked seeing the look on his face. Eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip shaking. He looked hurt.
“What have I done, pretty?” He demanded in a whisper, “why are you shutting me out? Why are you so cold towards me?”
“Because you’re a slut.” That came out of nowhere and you knew it way too well. Your eyes widened the moment those words left your lips, but there was no coming done. What was said has been said.
Satoru’s looked expression instantly changed. He looked at you with nothing but plain, cold look. “Is that so?” He asked, “I’ll show you how big of a slut I can be, huh? Since you wanna judge me so badly, I will give you something to judge me for.”
Satoru knew his actions were childish. But in this exact moment, he didn’t care. He didn’t care about what anyone else thinks, but you. And if you think that of him, who is he to ruin your opinion, right?
Satoru came towards Sukuna, “no homo, bro,” he said with his voice flat. Sukuna looked at him dumbfounded. What happened? But he hasn’t said anything, letting Satoru pull him down into a heated kiss.
Everyone cheered. No one but you knew why.
Satoru pulled away, cheeks flushed. He shot you one mean look, looking you up and down. He scrunched his nose, turning away. Sukuna watched your reaction, then moved closer to you, a big shit grin on his face.
“Relax, princess, your boyfriend’s got soft lips. 10/10, would not recommend. He’s too moody for me.” His voice was a tease and you knew he wanted a reaction out of you. “Couldn’t give less of a fuck,” you muttered under your breath, “I don’t care, Sukuna.”
“Fierce kitten,” he hummed, “be careful what you say about Satoru, though. You have a problem with him? You have a problem with me too. And I’m not nice to have problems with, sweet girl.”
His reddish eyes locked onto your face, then he stood up. His back on display, covered in tattoos aswell. He looked around your friend group, clear disgust on his face. “All of you know Satoru here,” Sukuna spoke, voice calm. He pointed towards Satoru, “I’m sure you know him way better than this chick right here. And none of you defend him?” He asked, his gaze sweeping over to Suguru, “not even you, Geto? That’s low, man. Shame on you all.”
Five minutes later Sukuna and Satoru left. Awkward silence stretched across your group. “I’m sorry.” Your voice was low as you stood up and walk away.
~
The upcoming week was something else for Satoru. He would prove you right. He was used to this. Always misunderstood, no chance to explain himself or not given any reply back. Satoru was simply used to it.
On Monday, he’s left his glasses off. Blue baggy jeans that cost probably more than someone’s rent, white sweater on top. A black cap on his white hair, he completed the look with dark rimmed round glasses. It was so different from how he’d represent himself in uni, but he didn’t care. He walked into the classroom with confidence. Winking at girls, giving them a huge smile. It was too easy for him to fall into his persona.
Tuesday rolled by and he knew he would meet you by the cafeteria. You needed your daily caffeine and he needed you to see him. It was simple. He walked past you with a girl he didn’t even know the name of. Miwa? He didn’t know and didn’t care to be fair. His hand squeezing her ass, he gave her a lazy smirk.
By Wednesday you’ve caught him with another girl. In women’s restroom, she was pushed against the cold tiles, Satoru’s lips hungrily on her. He was devouring her while practically grinding against her.
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself. this chapter- panic attack!
WC: 2K ch4 ch6
Happy Tuesday! xoxo
Do you guys prefer daily updates like this or once a week with longer chap?👀
♡ ♡
Once a song he listened to, now it looked like his life. Sukuna’s recommended song, “Love & War” was currently his song. Just a few days before he finally had the chance to take you on a date, you distanced yourself from him. He had no clue why. It hurt, you wouldn’t tell him the reason and the sudden coldness hurt even more. He’s gotten used to you being in his life and now you were gone, again.
He had to have done something to upset you, but he didn’t know what. He was as clueless as a cat. Satoru was on his best behavior all three weeks. He thought you’ve seen it too. So what happened? What changed so suddenly?
Fingers digging into his thigh, his breath came out shaky. He knew this feeling way too well. The feeling of not being able to do anything, feeling as useless as he’s used to as a child. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, “calm down, Satoru.”
Satoru looked around himself, feeling his own heartbeat in his throat. This wasn’t going well. This was shit. His heart started racing, loud in his ears, beating so fast it made him dizzy. His hands were shaking now. He stood up, paced once, then twice, but the room felt too small. The walls felt like they were closing in.
No. No, no, no. Not this.
His vision blurred at the edges. His breath got shorter, sharper. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. It didn’t help. His chest burned. Okay. Okay. Ground yourself.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to sit down on the edge of the bed. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white. Five things you can see.
He opened his eyes, even though they stung. Looked around the room.
The black piano bench by the wall. The half open window, curtains moving slightly. His phone on the bed, screen dark. A hoodie thrown over the chair. The stupid ceiling light flickering a little.
Four things you can feel.
The mattress under his hands. The fabric of his shirt sticking to his skin. The cool air from the window on his neck. His heartbeat, pounding, real.
Three things you can hear.
The song playing quietly. A car passing outside. His own breathing, rough but slowing.
Two things you can smell.
Laundry detergent on his clothes. Mint. His gum from earlier.
One thing you can taste.
Metal. From biting the inside of his cheek.
His breathing started to slow, just a little. Still shaky, but not spiraling anymore. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. Fuck. That was close.
He stayed like that for a moment, letting the feeling pass instead of fighting it. His chest still ached, but he wasn’t drowning anymore.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes burned. He laughed once, quietly, but there was no humor in it.
“All this,” he muttered, voice tight, “over one girl.”
~
You sat like a ghost among your friends. The conversation flowing through your ears, you couldn’t even pay attention to what they are saying. It felt numb, it felt dumb and it felt incredibly rude, you knew that, but still. You couldn’t listen. Too lost in your thoughts, too lost in the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.
You couldn’t face him. You wanted to, but you knew it would do no good, especially hearing what he’s done at some party. You knew he attended sometimes, but you didn’t expect that. Him just fucking random chicks. In uni he’s a nerdy boy, but it looks like you were wrong about him. It looked like you were wrong about everything you thought of this man. And that sucked.
And hurt.
Just thinking about him kissing some other woman, let alone fuck her made your heart clench and hurt in the worst way possible. He’s tried to be so good for you and he still ruined it. Maybe you were naive.
Your eyes glued to the ground down, light wind playing with your hair. The smell of weed reached your nose and you instinctively scrunched it up. Ew.
“Are you listening, girly?” Shoko tapped your shoulder, looking as worried as always. You nod weakly, giving her a small smile, “I said Sukuna is coming with the others, you cool with it?”
You look at everyone around you. “I don’t know him,” you answer, “if he’s cool, I don’t mind.”
Shoko grinned and threw herself back at Utahime. Kissing her on her plump lips, she sighed happily. You gave them a smile, watching Kento and Haibara’s awkward touches. That brought your mood up, quite a lot.
“Prettyyyy!” You heard behind you. You turned around, seeing Suguru approaching your party. You grinned widely, standing up to hug him. He looked so good, just like he always did. Black basic pants with a white tee, it was a basic fit but he was the perfect accessory for it.
“Sugu,” you smiled, “you look so nice today! I love the bun you always make,” you grinned, squeezing his hand. He looked at you with a warm smile, joining you and the others, he sat down next to you. “Where are the others?” Shoko asked, casually taking a drag of the joint.
“Eh, Satoru is really down. He doesn’t talk with anyone these days,” Suguru sighed, taking out a cigarette to light it up, “and Sukuna won’t come without his homie, you know that. Not even Sukuna managed to get Satoru out of his house. Something really messed him up.”
As he finishes talking, he looks at you for one second. The look he gave you is everything you needed to know. Suguru knew it had something to do with you.
He didn’t say anything though. It wasn’t his business to tell and ask. He just took a drag out of his cig, squeezing your smaller hand in his. It fit perfectly. Kento noticed that, nudging Utahime and Haibara to look at you two.
“If yall wanna make out, go ahead yo. I won’t mind,” Shoko chipped in, laughing. You blushed, glancing away, but not saying anything. What were you even supposed to answer? “Ya go ahead,” Haibara joined in and Suguru shook his head.
“You guys are just something else, for real.”
The talk went on and on. Everyone had a good time, laughing at fried Shoko who was even more affectionate towards Utahime (if that was even possible honestly) and Kento told everyone about him and Haibara. You and your friends were supportive, because that’s what friendship is for. To love and support each other at any time we need and you were lucky enough to have an amazing friend group.
Then in distance, you could hear a very loud noise. Your attention has snapped that way. Squinting your eyes, you’ve seen a tall buff guy coming towards you. Tattoos everywhere on his skin, his face, his hands. Pink hair with a mean grin on his face. Next to him was Satoru and your heart sank.
He looked like he hasn’t slept for days. His glasses were gone, dark circles way too visible on his pale skin. Bitten plush lips, he’s looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. The worst thing is he still looked as pretty as ever.
Everyone around you seemed to notice too. Hushed whispers echoed in your little circle, commenting on Satoru’s current state. It looked like no one was used to seeing him that way.
“Which one is it?” You heard the buff guy ask Satoru–probably Sukuna, who’s asked–and Satoru shook his head, whispering something towards him. You forced yourself to look away, deciding to ignore him. Yes, that was for the best. Ignore that man.
“Hey Satoru.” everyone spoke as the two men joined your little circle. You couldn’t force yourself to look at him. Your body was way too stiff and Suguru noticed, drawing smoothing circles on the palm of your hand.
“Hi,” Satoru whispered, leaning closer to you. He put his hand on your shoulder and you gulped. His touch felt way too familiar, way too sweet. Something you found yourself dearly missing, but it still was a temptation you had to run away from. “Can we talk? Please, pretty.”
His voice sounded so sincere, his eyes were dull. Usually shining blue was dulled blue. You sighed, shaking your head. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Your voice was emotionless. Cold. At least, you hoped it came out that way. You tried.
And it probably worked seeing the look on his face. Eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip shaking. He looked hurt.
“What have I done, pretty?” He demanded in a whisper, “why are you shutting me out? Why are you so cold towards me?”
“Because you’re a slut.” That came out of nowhere and you knew it way too well. Your eyes widened the moment those words left your lips, but there was no coming done. What was said has been said.
Satoru’s looked expression instantly changed. He looked at you with nothing but plain, cold look. “Is that so?” He asked, “I’ll show you how big of a slut I can be, huh? Since you wanna judge me so badly, I will give you something to judge me for.”
Satoru knew his actions were childish. But in this exact moment, he didn’t care. He didn’t care about what anyone else thinks, but you. And if you think that of him, who is he to ruin your opinion, right?
Satoru came towards Sukuna, “no homo, bro,” he said with his voice flat. Sukuna looked at him dumbfounded. What happened? But he hasn’t said anything, letting Satoru pull him down into a heated kiss.
Everyone cheered. No one but you knew why.
Satoru pulled away, cheeks flushed. He shot you one mean look, looking you up and down. He scrunched his nose, turning away. Sukuna watched your reaction, then moved closer to you, a big shit grin on his face.
“Relax, princess, your boyfriend’s got soft lips. 10/10, would not recommend. He’s too moody for me.” His voice was a tease and you knew he wanted a reaction out of you. “Couldn’t give less of a fuck,” you muttered under your breath, “I don’t care, Sukuna.”
“Fierce kitten,” he hummed, “be careful what you say about Satoru, though. You have a problem with him? You have a problem with me too. And I’m not nice to have problems with, sweet girl.”
His reddish eyes locked onto your face, then he stood up. His back on display, covered in tattoos aswell. He looked around your friend group, clear disgust on his face. “All of you know Satoru here,” Sukuna spoke, voice calm. He pointed towards Satoru, “I’m sure you know him way better than this chick right here. And none of you defend him?” He asked, his gaze sweeping over to Suguru, “not even you, Geto? That’s low, man. Shame on you all.”
Five minutes later Sukuna and Satoru left. Awkward silence stretched across your group. “I’m sorry.” Your voice was low as you stood up and walk away.
~
The upcoming week was something else for Satoru. He would prove you right. He was used to this. Always misunderstood, no chance to explain himself or not given any reply back. Satoru was simply used to it.
On Monday, he’s left his glasses off. Blue baggy jeans that cost probably more than someone’s rent, white sweater on top. A black cap on his white hair, he completed the look with dark rimmed round glasses. It was so different from how he’d represent himself in uni, but he didn’t care. He walked into the classroom with confidence. Winking at girls, giving them a huge smile. It was too easy for him to fall into his persona.
Tuesday rolled by and he knew he would meet you by the cafeteria. You needed your daily caffeine and he needed you to see him. It was simple. He walked past you with a girl he didn’t even know the name of. Miwa? He didn’t know and didn’t care to be fair. His hand squeezing her ass, he gave her a lazy smirk.
By Wednesday you’ve caught him with another girl. In women’s restroom, she was pushed against the cold tiles, Satoru’s lips hungrily on her. He was devouring her while practically grinding against her.
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
wc: 3.7K ch3 ch5
happy Monday!💋❤️
Satoru pulls off another practice easily. Playing a piano has always been a hobby of his and it’s actually one of the things his parents approve of. He loves to pour his emotions into the keys, feel the beautiful melody his skilled fingers are managing.
His brain keeps going back to you. The hurt in your eyes when he’s bickered with you in the class. Was he really that blind to not see? You’ve always tried to befriend him more. Be a bigger part of his life and now he’s ruined it.
Suguru was right. Satoru has said he likes you. Ever since you’ve transferred from Kyoto, he’s found you interesting. For one, you didn’t know about his family (he doesn’t understand how. Everyone knows his family) but you didn’t. You were so clueless about it, it was kind of adorable.
By no means, you weren’t all cute though! You spoke like a road man at times and had no issues comforting someone about their behavior. That’s what Satoru liked about you too. You stood your own ground. It was almost as if you didn’t need anyone next to you but he wanted to be next to you. But he knew it was just a thought.
You and him would never work out in the end and that saddened him. As much as he hates the way his family is, he knew he has to marry someone in his league (he hated saying that), but he had to be a realist for once. And being together for a few years and then breaking your heart? It wasn’t worth it.
Not to mention he’s already ruined the chances of getting you know on that level (if he had any to begin with) and that somehow saddened him even more.
“Well, fuck.” The whisper has gotten lost in the expanse of Satoru’s room. He looked down at the piano, sighing. It doesn’t matter anyways. He’s Satoru Gojo, he has to get through this.
Right?
~
The weekend came by and that meant Satoru had time for himself. His parents were away on a business trip and it was only him and the workers at home. He smiled. Tonight, he’d go out. Forget being the nerd everyone takes him for. Be someone who enjoys life, even if it’s under a mask of pretending and for a night only.
The lights were already flickering, music loud and rooms full of people when Satoru arrived. He came in with his usual swagger, wearing low rise baggy jeans with an oversized tee on top, black cap siting backwards on his white hair, he walked in like he owned it.
“Yooo, my man,” he greeted Sukuna, giving him a high five. “Where’s Geto?” Sukuna asked, handing Satoru a joint. Satoru shrugged. He actually hasn’t even asked Suguru if he’s coming, especially since the last time they attended together it ended up quite badly.
“Not sure,” he answered, “he wouldn’t come anyways, honestly. He’s trying to secure a job somewhere after uni, I think.”
Sukuna nodded, taking a drag out of his joint. “Won’t believe this, Gojo,” Sukuna laughed, “my lil bro, remember him? Yuji? He’s secured his first girlfriend. It makes me emotional, man.”
Satoru laughed, patting Sukuna’s back. “Come on, ‘Kuna. He’s thirteen. That’s a big love right there!” He screamed over the music with a grin on his face. Sukuna shook his head with laughter, slapping Satoru on his shoulder.
“I know, hell I’m proud of him! But fuck man, I still see him as a sloppy kid.” Satoru nodded, he understood that. He himself had no idea how the fuck is he almost twenty-three. Time flies by and no one seems to even realize.
“This is crazy, ‘Kuna. If someone has seen you this way,” Satoru laughed, looking at the man in front of him. Pink hair, huge biceps and tattoos, but emotional for his younger brother. “Ignore that,” Sukuna dismisses, “why the fuck do you have a black eye? Want me to kill someone?” He asks and Satoru smiles. Honestly smiles.
He lights up the joint, taking a drag out before speaking. “Ah, I took care of it. But thanks man.”
Sukuna nods. He looks around, spotting Toji by the snack bar. He calls out to him. “Isn’t he Zenin?” Satoru hisses at Sukuna but he shooks his head. “Not anymore,” he assures him, “Toji left when he turned 18. He hated the way they treated him.”
Satoru feels a surge of empathy for the man. Seeing the scar on his lip he wants to ask, but he knows it’s not his place to either ask or know. Some things are better unknown.
A hot minute passes whe Satoru finds himself on the couch, two chicks on either side of him, clinging to him. He’s absolutely fried and he loves it. Seeing Sukuna and Toji fried makes it even better.
“Yooooo!” He laughs as he spots Sukuna kissing Toji. “Since when? Since when?!” He exclaims, laughing even more. Sukuna grins, leans over the table and looks at Satoru. “It’s a delicacy of ours when we’re fried. Want a kiss too, huh? Jelly, Toru?”
Satoru laughs even more at that. He’s pretty confident in his sexuality and he’s even more confident in his masculinity, but who is he to reject such an offer? With a grin he leans over, giving Sukuna a quick kiss on his lips.
“Come on, man! That was a bitch kiss!” Sukuna exclaimed, squeezing Satoru’s cheeks. With a chuckle, he gave him a huge kiss. Not making out, but rather their lips connected, squeezing them together. They both laughed even more as they pulled away. Satoru’s cheeks were flushed, Sukuna’s fingers leaving a red fingerprints on his pale skin. “And now where’s my kiss?” Toji sneered. Satoru shook his head with laughter, and kissed him the same way he kissed Sukuna.
The night was wild, but he loved it. He loved every second of it.
“No homo,” Sukuna says, looking at Toji, “but I’d suck your dick, bro. Next time we do molly, I’ll suck your dick. On word.” Toji looks at him dumbfounded, then bursts out laughing. “On word, bro. No homo, but I’ll let you suck my dick. No homo tho.”
“Imma record y’all’s confession and use it as a blackmail to get Sukuna’s stash of sweets,” Satoru remarks with a smile, patting the girls’ backs. Sukuna’s eyes flash with mischief. “No homo, but you’d be a godly bottom,” he winks at Gojo. He laughs even more. What even is this conversation?
He doesn’t wanna know. All he knows he feels really good with Sukuna and now the addition of Toji to this unusual friendship is great. He’s lucky to have such good friends. He realizes he’s not as lonely as he believes he is. And that’s a good thing.
~
The upcoming weeks are stressful. Exams are back to back, late nights spent at the library don’t even feel real anymore. Social life is kind of gone as everyone is trying their best to pass. For you, especially, this is a stressful time, knowing your relationship with your parents was the stake. You had to get good grades, even if you didn’t like it.
Shoko was nose deep into her books, brows furrowed in a tight knot. Medicine was shit as it was, but remembering 200 pages of pure medical stuff was a torture. You looked at her with pity, unable to imagine what she has to go through. The human body is hard subject as it is but knowing everything about it? Yeah. Can’t imagine that.
The library is quiet except the occasional paper shuffle and pen clicking. It’s the noon and not many people are in, so it’s the perfect kind of situation. At least for you.
“I’m giving up for today,” Shoko sighs and closes her book. “It’s frying my brain. I’ll see you tomorrow, girly. Same time?”
You nod, smiling at her. You give her a small wave and continue studying. Philosophy was your absolute favorite class, but it was a tough one. Professor Yaga was hard to impress and if you wanted a perfect A, you had to try your best. And so you did. This week’s topic was especially heavy—the philosophy of personal identity. What made a person the same over time? Was it memory? Consciousness? The continuity of the body or the soul?
You stared down at your notebook, a spiderweb of scribbles—Locke, Parfit, the Ship of Theseus. What if a person changed every cell in their body, every thought in their mind? Would they still be the same person? The readings pressed in on you, philosophical arguments looping endlessly, but you loved it—the feeling of swimming in questions with no easy answers.
Somewhere in your notes you’d written, “If I forget who I was, am I still me?” The question stuck to your brain like a burr. Maybe that’s why you loved this topic so much. There was something comforting about the idea that a person could change and still be themselves. Maybe you, too, could survive a thousand versions of yourself and come out whole on the other side.
You’re halfway through an article about memory and the self when the chair across from you scrapes against the polished floor. You glance up, already annoyed, until you see white hair and those stupid glasses glasses. Satoru drops his bag on the table with a dramatic sigh.
“Library’s empty and you pick the one spot with a view,” he says, lips curled in that signature half-smirk. “Lucky me.”
You roll your eyes, clutching your pen a little tighter. “I’m trying to work, Gojo.”
“It’s Satoru,” he reminds you, voice lower, softer. His eyes scan the open book in front of you, then your tired face. “Philosophy of identity, huh? You know, I actually ace this stuff. Want a hand?”
You chuckle, keeping your eyes on your notes. “I’m good. Thanks.”
He grins wider, leaning in just enough that you catch a whiff of expensive cologne and mint gum. “Come on, let me make myself useful. I can explain Parfit in a way that won’t make your brain melt out of your ears.”
You shake your head, but your lips twitch in almost a smile. “I said no, Gojo. I’m not in the mood to get shown up again.”
He laughs, low and genuine. There’s a beat where neither of you move, but his knee bumps against yours under the table. “Your damn long legs,” you complain, swinging your right leg over your left knee. “You love it, eh?” He snickers, pinching your thigh.
Your eyes widen at that. You stare at his hand on your thigh. His hands were huge too, fuck. The way he held your thigh, his fingers brushing against the inner skin of the thigh. A light blush appeared on your cheeks and you looked away, brushing his hand away. “No touching.”
He smiles, but doesn’t move his hand. He rather squeezes your thigh, watching your reaction, drowning in the way you gasp at it. The blush spreading down your neck, Satoru is a dead man. He quickly moves his hand away, hiding his own blush. His hands on his neck, he’s trying to hide the blush that crept up on his pale skin. “I’m sorry.”
His voice is sincere, but your thoughts are gone. Fried. It felt wrong, all about it. You’re still upset at him, not as much, but you are. But goodness, his hands… on your skin. Fuck. You bit into your lower lip, trying to go back to studying, but you couldn’t.
Not when you felt his gaze on you. He pretended to look into his own notebook, but how could he? His ocean blue eyes kept looking at you. The way you were concentrating, the way you bit into your lip or the inside of your cheeks. He had something else in mind, a place where you could use your pretty lips, but she shoved that thought away. You still hated him.
“You’re absolutely breathtaking today,” Satoru compliments, “mind if I borrow a pen?”
The duality of this man has you dumbfounded. “Sure?” You whispered, looking at him. The way he reached his hand over yours to take a pencil, his hand brushing against yours. Your skin burnt from the contact. A beautiful, satisfying burn you wanted to feel again.
“I knew you would be here,” Satoru says, “I was hoping Shoko would leave. I’m one lucky bastard she’s left. I can’t catch you alone, no matter what I do, or try. You don’t even sit next to me anymore.”
His gaze is locked on you now. Fingers impatiently tapping on the desk. “I’ve wanted to apologize for what I’ve done, really. I miss you, sweets. I know I can be a dickhead but if you… still wish to get to know me, then I’d love to get to know you more.”
You’re at loss of words. You look at the man in front of you, offering you his private life, and not only that. He looks sincere. His tone is stripped away, bare and vulnerable. No teasing, nothing.
“Satoru,” you finally say and that makes him get goosebumps. His name on your lips, it sounds so velvety. It’s his favorite thing to listen to, he decides. “I need time, okay? I appreciate this, but I need time. I can sit next to you, but I need time if you wanna get to know each other more.”
He nods along as you speak, his lips widening into a grin. He’s showing off his whites, the dimples on his cheeks are adorable. “Okay.”
He leans closer, “so it’s a date. In three weeks I’m asking you out. No is not an option, pretty girl.”
“I haven’t agreed!” You hiss in a low voice, but it does nothing to the man. He just grins even more, returning to his studying.
“You will eventually. Give it time, I’m just that good to pass on.”
~
Utahime and Shoko sat on the bench together, hand in hand. Complaining about the newest thing they’ve learned. You sat next to them, sighing.
“Sup girl?” Shoko asks, “you look down today.” Utahime just nodded along. You looked at them.
“Sho, yesterday when you left, Satoru came by.”
“No way?” She exclaims, “I haven’t even seen him when I left!”
“Yeah,” you sighed, “he came and sat next to me. We spoke for a little but then he said something and it’s kind of rotting in my brain.”
She looks at you with a worried look. She knows Satoru way too well, but nothing comes to her mind when you say those words. What could he possibly say?
“What did he say?”
“Well, he said he’s sorry. That was actually nice of him, I could see he’s sincere about it you know? But then he’s said he misses me and he wants to get to know me,” you spoke, fidgeting with the white hem of your dress, “what’s kicked me off was when he offered for me to get to know him.”
“Well that’s good, isn’t it?” Shoko asks with a smile on her lips. You shake your head, “it’s not. In three weeks he wants to ask me out. I don’t think I’m ready to step into his world.”
“I feel like you’re just making it harder than it needs to be,” Shoko says honestly and looks at Utahime, “sometimes we meet people who disappoint us but if you give the person a chance, your life might change.”
Of course she’s talking about her girlfriend. You know that. But you also know that you don’t want to get necessarily burnt to learn a lesson. And Satoru Gojo himself is one hell of a lesson.
“Babe, but Satoru is a catch, seriously! If I didn’t enjoy pussies as much I think I’d fuck him, no lie. He looks like a little bottom,” Shoko says mindlessly and Utahime makes a gagging face. Even fake gags to show her reaction. Oh right. Uta doesn’t like Satoru as much. Sometimes you wonder if it’s one sided. Shoko looks at both of you and continues, “I’d buy a strap to fuck him. He would deserve it.”
You laugh at her last comment, leaning back against the bench. It’s way too hot today to talk about fucking–especially fucking Gojo Satoru– but who are you to judge?
“I don’t do one night stands,” you chuckle, “but I’d prolly let him eat me out. At least put that useless mouth of his to a good cause, eh?” You wiggle your eyebrows and Shoko nods, grinning.
“Now, that’s what I call good argument! Keep it up babe, make him your little bitch.”
~
Satoru sits on his bed, AirPods in his ears, he’s listening to some songs Sukuna picked out for him. He scrunches his nose a bit, but it sounds good. He can’t lie.
Love & War by… “who is it from?” He hums, looks at his phone and smiles. Right. Kodak Black, Sukuna’s favorite artist. Satoru sighs and lies down on his bed, his thoughts are a mess.
The song is catchy, it’s somehow intimate despite the lyrics. Satoru can imagine fucking you while listening to it. Yeah, he would fucking destroy you.
He covers his face with his hands. He’s such a pervert when it comes to you, but he can’t help it. You’re just so perfect and pretty, he has to hold back each time he sees you otherwise he would just eat you out. Right on the spot.
Satoru Gojo would drop down to his knees, beg you to let him taste you. Just a taste of you would drive him nuts. The issue is, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He wouldn’t let you go, let alone let anyone else get a taste of what he considers his.
You would be his, sooner or later, he would prove you he’s worth your time. He doesn’t know how, but he will manage.
~
The first week of Satoru’s “waiting period” drags. He said he’d give you space, but he’s always somewhere in the background. Like, you’ll walk into the library and there’s a coffee at your usual spot—your exact order, always, with some stupid sticky note doodle. Cats with sunglasses, frogs, once even Yaga as a devil. No name, but he doesn’t need one. You act annoyed, but honestly? You kind of look forward to it. Not that you’d ever tell him.
He’s in every lecture too, right next to you. It’s weird, because he actually shuts up for once. No making the whole class about him, no showing off. If he points out a mistake in your notes, his hand will brush yours and your brain will go blank for a second. You hate it. Or at least, you’re supposed to.
You keep telling yourself you won’t look at him, but you always do. The smell of his cologne, that clean laundry vibe, the way he leans back in his chair like he owns the world. You’re so mad that he embarrassed you, but it’s getting harder and harder to stay mad when he’s suddenly… not so insufferable. He’s still a menace, but you feel like you’re seeing the other side of him, the one he doesn’t show everyone else.
By the second week, your parents have gone full pressure-cooker. Your mom calls nonstop, dad lurking in the background, both acting like your entire life hangs on these exams. It’s stressful as hell. Sometimes you just stare at your book and nothing makes sense.
One afternoon you’re outside on a bench, book open but your brain is fried. You’re just staring, thinking about philosophy and this whole “bundle theory” thing and how you’re supposed to figure out who you are when everything feels like a mess.
Then Satoru shows up, drops down on the grass like it’s totally normal. He’s not wearing his glasses and his eyes are way too blue in the sun. You get annoyed because you were just starting to vibe alone, but he doesn’t even bother with a cheesy line this time.
"You're overthinking the 'bundle theory' of the self again," Satoru said, nudging your shoe with his hand.
"I'm not overthinking it," you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite. "I'm failing it. There's a difference."
"Hume says we're just a collection of perceptions, right? A flash of light, a memory, a feeling of cold. If that's true, then you aren't the girl who failed that test three weeks ago. You're the girl who’s sitting here right now, being brilliant and stubborn."
He reached up, his thumb grazing the side of your knee, just a light, fleeting touch. "The 'F' doesn't define the bundle, sweets. It's just one shitty perception in a sea of great ones."
"Ten days left," he whispered, his grin returning, the dangerous, predatory one that made your stomach flip. "I'm already picking out the restaurant. Hope you like lobster."
"I haven't said yes!" you called out as he stood up and started to walk away, backward, with his hands in his pockets.
"You will!" he shouted back, his laughter echoing across the quad. "You're already halfway there, and you know it!"
~
The third week started and you were happy with how it was going so far. You were actually understanding the material, your notes were organized, and the constant presence of Satoru in your life had started to feel… natural. It was weird, but you were actually excited to see him. To hear him, brick around with him.
You were in the locker room after gym class, pulling your sweater over your head, when you heard voices from the other side of the row.
“Did she tell you about Friday?” one of them giggled, the sound of a locker door slamming shut punctuating the gossip. “At Sukuna’s? I saw her and Gojo disappear into the upstairs bathroom for like, forty minutes.”
Your eyes widened lightly. You gripped the edges of your sweater, hoping they weren’t talking about your Satoru.
“No way,” the other girl gasped. “I thought he was actually being serious about that girl in philosophy. He’s been following her around like a lost puppy.”
“Please,” the first girl scoffed. “It’s Satoru. He doesn't do 'serious.' Mei said he was… well, let’s just say he wasn't thinking about philosophy when he had her against the sink. He’s a beast when he’s had a few drinks. He probably doesn't even remember the other girl's name when the lights go down.”
They walked out, laughing about the latest gossip. Your heart was beating so fast you were afraid it would jump out. You bit into your lip, taking your bag over your shoulder.
What did you expect? He’s Satoru Gojo. Of course he wouldn’t settle down for you, right? Not when he has other girls. Not when he has other options.
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
WC: 4.2K ch2 ch4
“Shit, let me take one more,” Gojo grins as he picks up another shot of vodka. He downs it in one go, his head spinning. Even after all this time, his alcohol tolerance is so low– even one drink gets him fucked up. He looks around the room, everyone is looking right at him.
Shit yeah, he’s the center of attention. He always is.
Gojo smirks, rolls up his shirt and takes it off. He hears a few gasps from people nearby. “Those abs.” He hears some girls whispering and he grins. “You enjoying the show?” Geto whispers, wrapping his arms around Gojo’s waist. He just laughs, letting Geto pull him away.
“Satoru, I know you’re drunk, but we need to talk.” Suguru glances at him from the side, already lighting up a cigarette. The smell is horrendous, but the addiction is worse. I hope he will listen, Suguru thinks. The moment he looks at his best friend next to him, he frowns. Gojo is leaning against the wall, his gaze stuck on some girl. Geto thinks he knows her.
It’s gotta me Mei. Upperclassman.
“Satoru, listen to me, for once,” he sighs, “I’m tired of you and your womanizing. Drop it for once and listen to me.”
That gets his attention. Satoru winks at Mei and turns his attention back to Suguru. He tilts his head, scanning his best friend’s facial features. Suguru is mad, that’s what Satoru can see. He also looks really good with his long hair down, the piercing on his lip looks even better under those shitty lights. But the cigarette ruins it. “I’m listening,” Satoru sighs, “go on. Lecture me, pretty boy.”
Suguru frowns even more at that. Of course Satoru isn’t taking him seriously. What else would he do, right? It’s Satoru.
“Satoru, you need to open your eyes, seriously,” Suguru starts, tapping his nails nervously on the concrete wall, “you’ve told me you like her, right? Now you’ve messed up the chance to even be her friend. That was really messed up.”
Suguru looks at him, hoping Satoru realizes the weight of his words, but as always– Satoru just smirks. He looks Suguru up and down with his blues, sighing.
“Listen,” he starts, “if she can’t handle a little competition, that ain’t on me, Suguboo. I’m fucking Satoru Gojo, who am I to behave for some chick’s feelings?” He shrugs, the grin widening. “I’m smart, I’m rich, I’m handsome. Do you think I’ll change for someone who can’t handle me the way I am? Sure, she’s pretty and yeah, I’d bang her,” he continues, “but guess what? She knows the good me. The fake me. The real me? She knows nun.”
Suguru’s fists clench and he’s breathing heavily. Trying to hold himself to not do or say anything. Satoru doesn’t respect you, clearly. It’s clear as a day. It might be the alcohol talking, sure, but even the he shouldn’t say such things.
“You know what’s your biggest flaw, Satoru?” Suguru says, turning around to walk away from him, “it’s your ego. And it won’t be long before you drive everyone away from you. Your biggest fear is being alone, right? Continue this way and it might become real.”
He walks away, feeling his stomach turn. The ache in his chest feels real. He would do anything for Satoru, knowing him since his early childhood. It’s always been the two of them, then they met Shoko and they were three. Attached by their hips, doing everything together. He doesn’t understand what changed, what changed the bratty teen into this… version of himself. The older version who doesn’t respect anyone, not even himself. It hurts, but what can he do? It feels like he’s talking to a wall. The people’s face mix, he can’t see anything as he gets through the mass of the crowd. The smell is horrendous, alcohol, drugs, sweat, people. I hate this. I hate this. Suguru thinks he’s done for the night. All he wants is to be in his dorms, away from this, from Satoru and his stupid ego.
Satoru just stands there, replaying every scene. Every word from Suguru and he feels nothing. He should feel something, but he feels nothing. He expected this from anyone but hearing it from Suguru? Doesn’t he know him? “Fuck,” Satoru cusses under his breath, closing his eyes, “fuck!”
He walks back into the crowd, needing a distraction. Anything to not think about his best friend’s words. He spots Mei in the corner of the room and smirks.
Here’s my pretty little distraction.
“S-shit,” Satoru gasps as he rolls his hips against Mei, his dick was so deep in. Balls smacking against her ass, her nails grazing his back. His eyes were cloudy as he tried his best to look at her face, see her parted lips, gasping for air. “G-Gojo,” she loaned, her long nails reaching down to play with her clit.
Satoru’s eyes widened at that, a huge grin spreading on his face as he slapped her hand away, whispering, “who allowed you?” He exchanged her fingers with his, his thumb circling her clit as his hips rolled into her, touching– no, absolutely kissing her cervix.
Sweat dripped down from his forehead as he leaned down to suck on her nipples, holding her in place, playing with her little pussy.
It wouldn’t take long before he’d bust.
~
Shoko stepped out of the uber, watching the house you live in. She didn’t know your parents yet, but she wanted to see you. To make sure you are okay. You haven’t replied to any of her texts and she realized she messed up.
She knocked on the door, nervously tapping her leg against the concrete step. She bit into her lip, awaiting someone to answer the door. When the door swung open, a woman appeared. Your mom, most probably.
“Hello, good evening!” Shoko bowed politely, “I’m Shoko, your daughter’s friend. I have some homework we would like to work on together and she hasn’t replied to my texts so I just… stopped by.” Her gaze locked onto your mom, hoping she would let her in.
“Come in.” Your mom said and Shoko thanked her, bowing once again. Once she told her where your room is, Shoko knocked on your bedroom door.
“Hey,” she said, unsure if you’re going to kick her out or not. She glanced around your room, noticing the interior. It was so like you. The books, philosophy books and quotes on walls. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
You looked up at her, sighing. Shoko stared you down, noticing the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hair looked messier than she’s ever seen. “Are you okay?”
Fuck. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, tapping the spot next to you. “Sit.” Shoko obligated, sat down and reached out to hold your hand. “You don’t look exactly fine. What happened with you?” She sighed, her thumb drawing circles on the palm of your hand. You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek.
Of course she noticed. How wouldn’t she? You looked like a ghost. I’m cooked.
“Well,” you sighed, “it’s just a lot of things going on right now.” Shoko didn’t buy that. She furrowed her eyebrows, leaning closer to you. “Talk to me, what’s up?”
You pulled your hand away, hugging your waist. You licked your bottom lip as you began speaking. “I’ve gotten an F on the test. My parents aren’t exactly happy. I don’t have my phone and I have to fix the grade somehow. The issue is, I don’t know how. I don’t understand the topic, I don’t even understand the whole class. I have a really tough professor too… it’s not like I could ask him, or I could but then I’d have to spend more time with him and that’s not what I wish to do. He’s rude as hell.”
Shoko listens and nods when she feels like it’s appropriate. She reaches for your hand once more but instead of holding it, she pulls you into a hug. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes widen and you sob softly, wrapping your arms around her torso. Your whole form shakes while Shoko pats your back lightly, comforting you. Your face is hidden in the crook of her neck and you sigh. “I’m sorry for what I’ve said,” Shoko whispers, “I didn’t know it hurt you that much. I’ve thought it was the heat of the moment. Please don’t drift away from me.”
Her whisper is calm, her presence is a soft beacon of light, helping the feelings you’re feeling right now. “I know Satoru can be a dick. He’s rude. I thought you knew it that way too. It was so wrong of me, I’m sorry.”
You two talked things up and by the end of her visit, you were giggling and happy. She really brought your mood up and not only that, she explained the whole subject to you, which helped incredibly.
Now that you understood what you were reading and doing, studying was easier than before. You knew you could fix your grade. No– you would fix it. No matter what. And while you’re at it, you’ll prove the damn Gojo you are a smart girl. Smarter than he thinks.
Because– who does Gojo Satoru think he is? No one to you now!
The morning light woke you up way too early. What sucked about warm months was the early sun in the morning. You whined unable to even get up. You forgot to close your blinds last night. Fuck!
You rolled in your bed, staring into the ceiling. Normally you’d scroll on social media, seeing the newest gossip– now you couldn’t. Not until you fix that damn grade. With a groan you stood up, stretched and went over to the bathroom.
A quick shower woke you up pretty fast. You sat at your vanity, listening to Lana’s Brooklyn Baby as you did your makeup. Rollers in your hair, you wouldn’t let no one to ruin your day. Especially not when you have new goals to reach. Finishing the light makeup you put on, you went over to your dresser. Scanning the clothes, you smirked.
That’s the one.
Walking out of your house, you felt invincible (and pretty especially… the black pencil skirt and white blouse really suited you…). You took the bus into the uni, smiling at everyone you knew.
“Shookooooo!” You called out happily as you skipped towards her, locking your arms with hers. Shoko grinned at you, her lit up cigarette chilling in her mouth. “‘Sup pretty girl? Looking good today.”
You blushed at her compliment, thanking her. Today was going to be a good day. You just knew it.
You’re sitting in class again, highlighter clicking nervously between your fingers. The ache in your chest from last night still lingers, but you’ve decided you won’t be embarrassed again. Not today. It’s a fresh new start.
Professor Yaga is writing something dense on the board Locke versus Hobbes, Social Contract theory,. He pauses, turns, and his eyes settle on you. The room gets quiet.
“Miss yn,” he says, tone neutral, “could you walk us through the main difference between Hobbes’ and Rousseau’s view of human nature, and which you think is more realistic?”
A few people glance over. You sit up straighter, nerves thrumming, but your voice comes out steady.
“Hobbes believed people are inherently selfish and driven by a fear of death and a need for self-preservation. That’s why he argued for a strong, central authority, so society wouldn’t collapse into chaos and violence. Rousseau, on the other hand, thought people are basically good, but that society and inequality corrupt them. He said true freedom comes from following the general will, not just obeying one ruler.”
You take a breath, feeling bolder. “Personally, I think Hobbes is more realistic?At least, in terms of how people act when they’re desperate or scared. But I like that Rousseau believes we can build something better, even if it’s idealistic. In reality, maybe the truth is somewhere in between: people want to be good, but self-interest wins when they’re pushed.”
There’s a pause. Yaga actually smiles, faint but real. “Excellent summary. And a thoughtful answer. You’re right. Most political philosophy lives in the tension between idealism and realism. Well done.”
You smiled even more, nodding. “Thank you, professor!” You said proudly, your chin held up high.
Eat that, Gojo.
Walking out of the classroom, Geto is already waiting for you. He looks you up and down, nodding approvingly. “You look so pretty today.” You smile, thanking him. “You too. But that’s nothing new, eh? You always look good.”
You two fall into a comfortable conversation, walking next to each other outside to spend your little break together. You notice the way Suguru’s eyes scan the crowd. He’s looking for someone.
But you ignore it, rather admiring the beautiful color of the nature. That’s a perk of warm months. The world looks brighter. You sit down on the bench, pulling out your lunch box. “Want some?” You smile at Suguru, offering him sushi your mama made for you.
“No, thank you,” he says with a smile and instead lights up a cigarette. You scrunch your nose at the smell, but don’t say anything. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “it’s a bad habit. Don’t wanna ruin your pretty vibe with the smell.”
You laugh at that, waving your hand. “That’s okay! It fits you. Makes you that bad boy, you know?” You giggled and Suguru snorts at that. “Bad boy my ass. I’m happy being invisible.”
You raise your eyebrow up but choose to keep quiet. Suguru is definitely not invinsible. Especially when he’s one of the most known people at your university.
Oh well. What a day.
~
Kento brings you an iced frappe as you sit down in the little cafe near your university. You thank him with a smile, taking a sip of your coffee. Kento sits down, looking distressed just like he did before. “Hey,” he says softly, “can I ask you something?”
You look up to him, nodding. Kento takes a huge breath. Here it comes. No going back. “Would you… would you be disgusted by me if I told you I’m gay?” He whispered anxiously, fidgeting with the coffee mug. You widened your eyes, putting your frappe down, you reached out to take his hand.
“Disgusted?” You questioned, “how could I? I’d support you, like I always did, Ken. Your sexuality doesn’t define you as a person,” you shook your head dismissively, “you’re my friend no matter what. I’d love you the same even if you told me you fancy trees.”
Kento let out a shaky breath. Squeezing your hand, he smiled at you brightly. “Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you, thank you.”
You smiled, squeezing him back. You winked then, leaning closer. “So Haibara and you. Am I correct?” You teased, grinning at him. Kento blushed lightly and nodded. Seeing the stoic man act this way was adorable. “Congrats!” You smiled, leaning back.
“You’re the first one to know,” he admitted, “I’m happy it’s you.” Your heart skips a beat at that admission. You sigh, pouting your lips slightly as you whisper a soft “thank you.”
Kento leaves not too long after, leaving you alone with your thoughts. It’s not like you didn’t know about them two, but you didn’t want to jump into conclusions. You’re very happy for them. Especially Kento telling you first… awh, he’s just the best.
With a sigh, you finish your frappe and stand up. The whole day ahead of you, you walk out.
After you take the uber to get to your uni, you’re almost late for your class. Bumping into someone, you hastily apologize and rush off to manage be on time. Universe doesn’t like you, because a hand appears on your shoulder, stopping you in your track. You look up, instantly frowning your eyebrows.
“What do you want, Gojo?” You bite out, shaking his hand off your arm. He looks taken back by your tone but as always, in a second he shows no emotions, only that awful grin of his. “Told you to call me Satoru, pretty.”
You scrunch your nose, trying to walk past him, but he doesn’t let you. “Move, I’ll be fucking late,” you hiss under your breath, but he doesn’t move. He just stands, looking down at you. “Can we talk?” He asks and you raise your eyebrow up.
Here? In the middle of the hall? He sure has balls trying to talk to you after everything he’s done.
“No, fuck off,” you dismiss, trying to push him away, “seriously, Gojo. Move. I can’t afford a late attendance.”
He sighs, turning away from you a walking away. You look at his retreating form but don’t say anything. You walk ahead, happy he’s left you alone.
The day went by fast. You managed to get some extra points from your teacher, slowly recovering the F you’ve gotten on your test. You can do it. You were so sure of it. When you managed to get home and tell your parents about it, they looked please. It’s gotten so far your mother has given you your phone back when you’ve explained to her the whole subject (thanks to Shoko who taught you and you finally understood it).
Now you felt like you could really relax. Without anyone and anything disturbing your mind & peace.
~
Satoru is losing his patience with himself. Staring into Naoya’s eyes, forced to wear the traditional kimono once again, he’s felt hopeless. Naoya looked at him with pity. “You’re useless,” he sneers, “a disappointment to the Gojo family. What good are you? Your parents would be happier if it were me who was their son. You do nothing for them yet you gain everything from the name you have.”
Satoru stared at him. ‘Take it’ he wanted to say. He didn’t want it. The constant pressure, the constant nagging, not being able to do anything he wants because his fate has been decided the moment he was born. Everyone knows him – or they swear they do – but no one knows him. They know the name and the history but who knows him? Who knows just Satoru?
He used to think Suguru knew the real him. That Suguru knew him behind all his masks and the given name. But he was wrong and Suguru proved it.
No one knew Satoru. Frankly enough, he didn’t know himself anymore.
He stared into Naoya’s eyes, those fox eyes that now looked at him with disgust. “You know, Naoya,” he said with a sly grin, “it almost sounds like you’re jealous, hm? Jealous you have to hide behind your papa? You haven’t accomplished anything by yourself, you know?” Satoru says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You didn’t even attend any university. What a scandal. The heir to the Zen’in empire… without a degree?” He gasped falsely, watching as the younger man’s breathing fastened. “And not to mention… I think Megumi will rather be the head, hm? At least I know this will be mine one day.”
Naoya’s face crumpled with rage. He took Satoru by his collar, leaning impossibly closer, “You don’t know anything about me,” Naoya hissed, “but I do know everything about you. Do you think your parents know about your late night escapades?” Naoya smirked, clearly knowing he had him in the palm of his hand.
Satoru stayed calm. For a hot minute, he hasn’t said anything. He shrugged Naoya’s hands away. “Naoya,” he whispered lowly, “do you think you won?” He questioned him, leaning against the wall.
“What would your papa think knowing you fucked your cousin Mai, hm? You sick fuck.”
Satoru knew he won that round. Naoya’s eyes widened, his bottom lip shaking. “You-how,” he whispered, “how the fuck do you know?!” He hissed, throwing a punch at him. Satoru didn’t expect that.
He couldn’t even dodge in time, it was too late. Satoru’s face crumpled in pain, Naoya’s fist connecting with his face. “You-“ Satoru screamed, throwing a punch back at him. He pushed him onto the ground, both exchanging punches, kicks.
His father had to get them apart. He was a dead man.
Later that evening, Satoru sat in front of his father with an ice pack on his swollen face. “He hit me first,” Satoru defended, “and I’m going to defend myself. I won’t let him walk all over me all the time. Like it or not, I hate that guy.”
His father just looked at him. His gaze was unreadable. It looked like he was disappointed, but then it looked like he was rather angry. What Satoru didn’t expect was his soft tone. “Satoru,” he spoke lowly, “listen. This won’t fix anything. I’m just happy you’re okay and not hurt much.”
He stood up and walked away. Satoru sat there dumbfounded, the ice pack cooling his face. His lips parted in shock. He expected everything, but this wasn’t it. His father– the father who forced him to study since the ripe age of two, the father who would beat him for a bad grade, the father who would throw away Digimon figures if he got a grade worse than A to be soft.
What has just happened?
He closes the door to his bedroom, not caring about a single thing in the world. He throws the ice pack away, the only thing on his mind is how he wants to fuck someone. Angry fuck is the best and god, he would absolutely demolish someone right now.
He strips down to his boxers, feeling the bruises bloom on his ribs, the pulse of the fight still alive under his skin. He hates this—hates feeling anything this much. Hates that Naoya got to him. Hates that his father didn’t yell, didn’t punish, just looked at him like he was already broken.
He drops onto his bed, head spinning, body buzzing. He palms himself through the fabric, feeling the outline of his dick. Satoru gasps, teasing himself, feeling the mushy head of his pretty dick. “Aah fuck,” he whispers, unable to hold on any longer, he reaches under his pants, taking his hard dick out.
“Fuck,” he whispers as he sees how hard he is. Already leaking precum, his tip angrily red. He brushes his thumb across it, shivering from the sheer sensitivity. He holds his balls with his other hand, massaging them, feeling the weight of them in his hand.
His mind is cloudy, the only thing on his mind is how good a tight pussy would feel. On his face or on his dick, he would come either way. Satoru whimpers as he fists his dick, moving hard and quick, unable to control his own legs he straightens them, head thrown back. His tongue lolling out of his mouth, he can’t stop thinking about a good pussy. Fuck, the warm, tight feeling.
“Ahhh f-fuck,” he gasps out, he’s so close. His balls are twitching, he’s itching for the release, the need to cum, to feel your pussy on his face. Wait–
Wait.
Wait.
Your pussy on—and that’s it for him. He’s cumming, thinking about your face, your pussy.
He’s never going to live it down.
~
Satoru has to ignore you. He isn’t sure how, but he can’t see you. The post nut depression is real, because why has he imagined you on his dick? That’s sick of him! He feels sick of himself. God.
“Earth calling Satoruuu,” Shoko sings, bumping into him. Satoru looks down at her, sighing. “Yes, Sho?” He gives her a small smile, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
Shoko smiles at him, “Geto is waiting for you,” she says casually and Satoru stops in his tracks. “Sho..” “I don’t wanna hear it,” she interrupts him. “Either go now or I’ll tie you down and force you two to talk.”
So that’s how he found himself with Suguru on the infamous bench. He fidgeted with his fingers, the silence between them uncomfortable. “Suguru,” he spoke first, “I’m really sorry about what I’ve said that night.”
Suguru finally looked at him and sighed, “I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t had brought it up when we both were drunk. That’s… that’s on me too,” he apologized. Satoru nodded, “I was drunk as hell. Of course I care about yn. I just didn’t expect her to take it that way, you know? I tried to apologize, but she won’t even talk to me.”
“Can’t blame her,” Suguru snorts, “you’re a dick.”
Satoru smiled at that. “You know what? You’re right. I am a dick.”
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
WC: 2K ch1 ch3
Satoru sat in the classroom. His head resting on his arm, he was falling asleep. He was so tired. Last night, his parents really did a number on him. The meeting went on forever and by the time he’s gotten into bed it was almost 3 am. He couldn’t sneak out to meet with his friends, that’s what hurt him the most.
“You okay?” You whispered and he looked at you. A small smile on his lips, he nodded. His eyes tracking your face, your lips. The way you were lightly pouting as you spoke, but he wasn’t listening. He was fixated on the way your lips moved, the way your facial expressions changed.
“You’re really pretty.” He said out of the blue, closing his eyes again. You were star struck, staring at him in disbelief. “Thanks?” You mumbled, your attention snapped back to your professor.
Satoru was a somehow weird individual. You didn’t know him that well as Shoko or Geto did, but still. You couldn’t make up your own opinion about him. He was smart, yes. He was good looking too, he was cocky and everything a man like him should be, yet you still felt like something was missing. There had to be something you were missing out on. Something this man is battling against but you couldn’t put your finger on what it exactly is.
It doesn’t help much that he doesn’t tell you about things. At times he’s closed off, his bad mood or his mood swings are blamed on extra studying yet you’ve never seen this man study. If he doesn’t blame studying, he laughs it off. That’s just who Satoru Gojo is.
With a sigh, you push his glasses aside, writing notes down. Gojo might not need them but you sure as hell do. Not everyone’s blessed with smartness like he is. Professor Yaga is at the board, explaining the finer points of social contract theory, something about Rousseau and the “general will.”
You clear your throat, hand raised before you can second-guess yourself. “But if Rousseau says freedom is found in obeying laws you set for yourself, then wouldn’t a society full of self-interested people just fall apart? Doesn’t that mean no one actually has to compromise for the common good?”
Professor Yaga’s eyes flick to you, then to the rest of the class. Satoru doesn’t look up. Yaga starts to answer. “Rousseau’s social contract relies on—”
But Satoru interrupts, not even glancing your way. “That’s not actually how it works, you know. The point isn’t that everyone does whatever they want. The ‘general will’ means people agree on what’s best for everyone, not just themselves.”
You wheeze. “I know what Rousseau said, Gojo. I’m saying it doesn’t work. People always act for themselves in the end. If anything, the ‘general will’ just ends up being the strongest person’s will.”
He turns, looks right at you now. “Except you’re forgetting the part where the process of reaching consensus is supposed to filter out selfish interests. That’s the whole theory. You’d know if you actually read the text.”
Heat rises in your cheeks. You shoot him a look. “I did read it. I just don’t buy it. Not everyone lives in Gojo-land, where everyone magically agrees with you.”
Someone snickers. Satoru’s lips curl into a smug smile. “That’s a bold theory. Maybe you should actually finish the reading next time before you try to tear it apart.”
You glare at him. “Maybe you should try letting other people talk for once.” The professor coughs, trying to hide a smile. “Alright, that’s enough! Let’s move on.”
Satoru leans in closer to you, that dumb smirk back on his place. “I do listen to you and I do indeed let you speak, but hey. I’m just helping you be smarter.”
“I’m going to smack you,” you hissed, bumping into his shoulder, “seriously! You just embarrassed me in front of the whole class! Fuck you.” You looked away, but from the corner of your eye you could see him grinning at you. That stupid fucking grin!
“By the way,” he whispers as he leans in closer to your ear, “it’s Satoru for you. Don’t call me Gojo.”
~
“So yeah, he absolutely fucked me up in front of the whole class! He also knows philosophy is my favorite class but guess what? He had to ruin that one for me too!” You complained as you sat next to Shoko, your pencil digging into the paper. Shoko lazily looked at you, taking a drag out of her cigarette. She hasn’t really said anything. She just studied you, trying to gauge your reactions. Trying to see how your body reacts whenever you mention Gojo. By now, it was a hobby of hers.
“Don’t be mad,” Shoko simply said, “you’ve started a discussion. You should be happy he joined in, after all– he helped you understand it better, didn’t he? And also, Satoru enjoys going all out. He’s smart as hell, you know.”
You scoffed, throwing daggers at her with your eyes. Of course she would take his side. Doesn’t she see it hurt you? It felt humiliating. Yes, you’ve started a discussion, but! It was with your professor. Not damn Gojo Satoru.
“I hate him sometimes,” you mumbled angrily, “he does this and then has the balls to call me pretty? What is up with him! God!” You hissed angrily, standing up. “Whatever, I’m going to find Kento. He’ll understand me better.”
Shoko raised her eyebrow up, but hasn’t said anything. She just shrugged, giving you a small wave as you left. Then she picked up her phone, smirking even more.
From: Shoko
To: gaybeat geto
raising the stakes. fifty bucks they’ll fuck in a month💋
~
Kento stood by the vending machine, talking about the newest math homework with Haibara. He felt warmness in his chest he couldn’t explain, just watching his best friend breathe. He adored him. His huge brown eyes, the way they light up when he mentions something he likes.
“Here,” Kento says calmly, tossing him a can of coke, “your favorite, isn’t it?” He hums, sitting down on the bench next to Haibara. Haibara looks at him with a slight blush on his face , biting the inside of his cheeks. “You know me so well.” And that, that makes Kento smile.
“Of course I do,” kento nudges him, smiling still. “Can’t wait for our date, Hai.”
Haibara looks away, trying to hide his shyness. He nods, opening the can of coke. “Do you think… do you think our friends would approve of us?” He suddenly asks. Kento looks at him with a different kind of look.
“You know,” he sighs, reaching out to hold his hand, “I thought about it too. But honestly, I don’t wanna rush anything, Hai,” he continues, brushing a few hairs off his face, “you mean so much to me. I’m lucky you even agreed on going out with me!” He chuckled lightly, looking into the distance.
“To answer your question – yes. Yes I think they will accept us and to be fair? I think they already know. Us confirming it would just make them happier. After all, Shoko has her hands on Utahime.”
Kento looked around, spotting you further back. He called out your name, waving. “I’ll let you guys be. See you Ken,” Haibara grinned. Kento wanted to say something, but Haibara just turned around and left.
What was that about? Kento furrowed his eyebrows, eyes stuck on his retreating form. Have I said something wrong? Kento wasn’t so sure anymore.
“I’m going to kill Gojo Satoru and you will listen to me vent and don’t you dare take his side because this white haired freak is really getting on my nerves!” You hissed as you plopped yourself down next to Kento, angrily taking a bite of your sushi. “He literally fucked me up in a class in front of everyone!”
And that’s how it went. You’ve told Kento everything about what happened in the class. Kento tried his best to not laugh or tease. Seeing you were genuinely upset, he sighed. “Listen,” he started, “I think you’re too harsh on him, you know? Yes, of course he shouldn’t had embarrass you like that, but isn’t that what you wanted? A conversation with someone?”
“Kento! Not you too!” You huffed as you stood up, “seriously, no one sees it the way I do!”
You stormed away, leaving him behind. Am I overreacting? You sighed, but then shook your head. Hell no, he should’ve been quiet. You walked out of the uni grounds, still upset at the whole day. “Need a shower,” you mumbled under your breath, “or maybe a hot bath. Or both. Fuck.”
~
By the time you came home, you felt even worse than before. Greeting your parents downstairs, you tried to slip away, but of course– it wouldn’t be as easy. “Come here, will you?” Your father asked, looking at you expectantly.
You sighed as you walked to the kitchen, sitting at the table. You looked at both of your parents, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “Did I… did I do something?” You asked. Your mother just sighed, giving your father that look.
You knew the look way too well. He was mad.
“Care to explain the F on your test?” He asked, patiently. You looked down on your legs, biting the inside of your cheek. “Reply. I thought we’ve talked about this.”
“I–,” you sighed, looking away from your legs. You looked out of the window, watching the tree’s breaches move in the light wind, “I’m sorry. I swear I’ve learnt but it’s a hard subject, really.”
Your mother shook her head disapprovingly, holding out her hand. “Give me your phone,” she said, “you will only get it for school. I’ll wake you up in the morning. Maybe this will teach you to study and not spend your time on useless things.”
You felt yourself grow smaller. I disappointed them. I fucked it up. All of it. Tears sting in your eyes as you handed her your phone, suppressing a sob, you stood up, trying your best to not cry. “Hey, we’re not done yet!” your father shouted but it was too late. You were already on the way to your room, tears going down your cheeks.
Just how much worse could this day be?
~
Satoru sat down on his bed, looking at the newest grade. Of course he had an A. What else could he have?
He sighed as he lied down. Still, he was the best in the class, yet it wasn’t enough for his parents. It’s never enough. “Get more after school activities.” They said, “maybe economy? So you know how to work the Gojo empire.”
“I hate this shit,” he mumbled under his breath, closing his eyes. His phone rang.
Shoko.
“Hey Sho,” he said cheerfully, putting on a happy tone. He heard her sigh on the other end. “What’s up? All good?”
“No!” Shoko hissed and Satoru sat up, eyes widening. He wasn’t really used to Shoko being like this. “I need to win one bet and if you keep acting like this my moneys fucked!”
Satoru raised up one eyebrow, a cheeky smile on his face. “A bet, hm? What kind of, my dear friend?” He grinned, his fingers drawing circles on his sweatpants.
“Oh you don’t need to know, pooks. Just be a good boy for a while. I’ll split.”
“Hah,” he chuckles, leaning his head back onto the pillow, “whatever you say, pretty.”
Warnings: smut, angst, double life, Gojo is so misunderstood, talk about politics, naoya zenin is a warning itself.
ch2 ch3
chapter one, wc: 1.4K
The bell rang signaling the end of the lecture. Everyone was in motion, getting out of class. “Have you heard about the frat party? Sukuna is hosting it,” Shoko said casually, plopping herself down next to Satoru. He looked at her, glasses perched up high on his nose, he smiled. “Ya, I heard about it. You comin’?” Shoko nodded, “Sure as hell I am.”
Satoru smiled, taking his backpack. He took his textbooks, put them into it and stood up. “I’ve gotta study for the test first though,” he sighed, “my parents want me to do perfectly. As always.” His grin was malicious. If Shoko hadn’t known him for years, she would think he isn’t serious about it. “Ah,” she waved with her hand, “I got you. Gojo empire and all that shit. It’s not like you need to study anyways, nerdy boy.”
Satoru laughed at that, walking next to her out of the classroom. “You’re right. I don’t need to study.” Shoko rolled her eyes at that. “You’re so cocky! And for what?” She questioned, bumping into his shoulder. “Eh? I’ll have you know I have every right to be cocky! I mean, I’m smart, I’m rich and attractive as fuck. There’s no one who would say no to me?!”
“I know a few people who have said no to you,” she reminded him with a roll of her eyes, “one of them is Suguru.” Satoru gasped at that. “You witch!” Shoko laughed.
They continued talking while walking out of the door. The weather was way too hot that day and Satoru regretted his choice of clothing. “Yo, Satoru!” Suguru called out, you smiled next to him, waving at both of them. Satoru and Shoko joined you, walking next to each other.
“How was your test? Did you do well?” Satoru asked you. He tried his best to brush his arm against yours, craving the feel of you, your warmness. “It was fine,” you sighed, “I hope I at least passed. Can’t afford to fail this class. The professor is awful.”
“I feel that,” he replied. His attention stolen by the beautiful color of the nature. “Yaga can be cruel at times, but you know what the say? If you pass his class, you’re basically the next Einstein.”
~
The dining room is too quiet. Satoru’s fingers tap the underside of the table, just out of his mother’s sight. He’s supposed to be listening, but all he catches is “grades,” “midterms,” “the Gojo name.” He glances at his phone, hidden under his napkin. Shoko’s message is still there:
Shokochaaaan: sukuna’s party 10 pm, comin?🙌🏻
He bites back a smile. Of course she knows he’ll try to bail. He always does. He looks up, pretending he’s interested in his father’s story about some meeting. All he wants is to be out of here.
“I’ll be in the library tonight,” he says, voice steady. Not technically a lie, just not the whole truth. His mother looks at him, her expression soft but expectant. “Absolutely not,” she says, “you’ve been there yesterday and you need to listen to your father’s presentation today.”
“Sure,” he says. Inside, he’s sick. He’s feeling sick just looking at the dinner table, seeing everyone bow down to him just to make him like them more. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it. What good is he good for? He feels like he isn’t good for anything but his given family name. Fuck.
Dinner drags. He nods, says the right words, waits. When he’s finally free, he heads upstairs. He sits on his bed, trying to calm his thoughts. His fingers wrapped in his silk white hair. Why me? Why couldn’t they let me be, for one night? Fuck. He sighs as he reaches for his phone.
From: Satoru
To: Shokochaaan
Can’t make it. Don’t wait for me.
He tossed the phone aside, lying down on his back. Just what is he supposed to do?
~
“Gojo isn’t coming,” Shoko says, lighting up her cigarette. Geto sighs at that, leaning against the wooden frame. “Of course he isn’t. He’s either lazy or papa Gojo got him down.”
You look in between them, an eyebrow raised up slightly. You don’t say anything, but they can tell you wanna ask. Somehow though they don’t say anything. After all, it’s not their place to talk about Satoru’s life.
“No time to sulk. The night is young and I’m feeling extra freaky tonight!” Shoko announces with a grin. She throws herself over you and Geto, dragging you into Sukuna’s kitchen.
“Yo!” You exclaim, meeting Kento by the fridge. “What are you doing here? I wouldn’t expect you to step a foot in!” You shout over the music, laughing as you catch Kento taking a shot of some transparent liquid. Vodka maybe? The way his face crumbles tell you enough and you burst out laughing.
“Haibara.” Is all Kento says as he drowns down a cup of juice. “Oh god I still feel the alcohol, yuck!”
Kento is currently trying to rinse his mouth out with an orange juice, going as far as spitting it into the sink. You shake your head in disbelief. “Don’t drink anymore, Kento.”
He just nods, rambling about you being right. You sigh, attention stolen by Geto who happily points towards Shoko who’s sat on Utahime’s lap, hearts in her eyes. Oh she’s down bad.
~
He doesn’t even get a choice. The yukata is waiting for him on his bed, crisp and blue and impossibly expensive. His mother fusses over his collar, smoothing it flat, pinching a stray strand of his white hair behind his ear. “You need to look presentable, Satoru. There are important guests tonight.”
He wants to protest. Say he’s got homework, or a headache, or anything at all. But the words die somewhere in his throat. He catches himself in the mirror. The Gojo heir. Dressed like a relic. He hates how well it fits.
Downstairs, the main hall is full. Zenin family, Gojo family, even a couple of random old men who speak in numbers and politics instead of real words. Satoru stands beside his father at the long table, back straight, trying not to look bored out of his mind. He can feel Naoya Zenin watching him from across the room, the same smug look he always wears, the one that says “you’ll never be enough.” Satoru bites the inside of his cheek.
His father starts to talk. The room quiets. Satoru’s job is to nod in the right places, smile when the business partners joke about mergers and old feuds. He can hear them:
“Gojo will inherit soon, won’t he?”
“Much more promising than the last Zenin boy…”
“Already top of his class, isn’t he?”
He wants to disappear. Every compliment feels like a stab in his gut.
Naoya leans over, his voice low. “Try not to embarrass your clan tonight, Gojo.” The smile he gives is all teeth.
Satoru’s grip tightens on the table. All he can think about is the music he’s missing, the way Shoko would have laughed at his outfit, the way he could just be himself and not this.
He forces himself to listen, but the words blur together, something about trade deals, expansion, legacy. His father looks at him. “Satoru, why don’t you explain your vision for the future of the company?”
All eyes turn. He’s supposed to have an answer. Supposed to act like he cares. He clears his throat, voice steady even as his chest feels tight. “Our generation needs to focus on innovation and international partnership,” he says, the words practiced, perfect. Not his.
Everyone nods, satisfied. Satoru feels numb.
Hours drag. By the end, his jaw aches from smiling. He bows at the right time, thanks everyone, lets himself be dismissed. Back in his room, he strips off the yukata, tossing it onto the bed. His phone buzzes again, another message from Shoko.
He doesn’t bring himself to read it. Instead he just sits there, staring at his reflection, the echoes of his father’s words bouncing around his head. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next time.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes salt on his lip.
gyno! Gojo getting distracted by his patient's coochie (you) inappropriate workplace behavior, breaking oaths, they're awkward lol, fingering, orgasms, spitting, talking you through it, nerdjo, he's shy even knuckles deep inside you <3 (3k)
"Are you comfortable?" Doctor Gojo asks with a friendly smile, washing his hands and looking over his shoulder at you.
Are you comfortable when you're in nothing but an open hospital gown and your feet are in stirrups!? In front of the most gorgeous man you've ever seen!?
No, you're not. You're flustered and embarrassed despite his calm demeanor and how he does everything with ease. You bite down on your lower lip, clutching the little sheet thrown over your lap, nodding.
He dries his hands that you can't help but look at a little too long. Elegant fingers, thick ones that make you blush thinking of going inside you. It's got you swallowing nervously. Trying to remember it's a check up not a damn date.
He's just doing his job, slipping you a little smile, blue eyes glimmering in a myriad of shades. "Latex allergy sweetheart?"
"Huh?" How long are his fingers!?
"Do you have an allergy to latex?" You flush again, shaking your head. "Perfect."
Doctor Gojo sits in front of you, slipping on those gloves and then putting a comforting hand on your thigh. You fucking moan.
You moan.
This is so embarrassing!?
"Sorry," you whisper, shutting your eyes.
"Is it the cramps? I saw you were having some issues with that," he asks softly, white hair falling just a bit over his brow.
"Um. Yes." You have been cramping alot, but this was definitely not that. You try to remember why you're here, looking at him again, almost unable to handle the eye contact. "Really bad ones before my period."
"Scans were all good," he lifts your sheet up and pauses just a moment, eyeing your cunt in what he attempts to do professionally. Yet he can't help but almost spill out how pretty it is, that would not be okay to say, even if he is an expert. "Everything looks great actually."
Yiur thighs clamp shut. He raises a brow. "Sorry!"
"Relax," he gently helps you spread your thighs, blushing himself when he sees you're glistening already. He can't mention it of course but it's dripping between your lips. "Have you had an exam?"
"Of course, just... um... nervous." He hums a bit to himself, parting your folds with soft gloves, you almost moan again, biting down hard. He looks up at you, leaning down just a bit, far too close to your cunt.
You're suddenly so insecure! What if it looks weird to him!? What if he can freaking inhale it, does it smell good? You washed it before coming but what if-
"Take a breath," he murmurs, inspecting your insides and almost whimpering when he sees your hole fucking wink at him. "You're tense, and it'll hurt if you're this tight."
Fuck.
Dr. Gojo just called a patient tight.
"I mean... tight muscles," he's stammering for a moment, you're just too pretty and now you have him nervous. "That's good though, are you um... doing kegals."
You blink.
"Yes? Can you just... tell?" He sighs, trying to remember why the fuck you're here, slipping a finger inside to just the tip, and you clench him over the glove, soaking it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Yes your muscle response is impeccable," he wants to feel it clenching his tongue, gather all those juices and suck them off his fingers. "Try to relax because for this exam I have to get two fingers inside you. "You're small down there."
"Oh of course," you want to fall off the face of the earth when he pulls his finger back. You feel slippery arousal pouring down your slit, his soft sigh tickling your thigh. "Did you already put that gel stuff on?"
"No," you blush again, so hot your cheeks are on fire, realizing that's all you. "I can but you seem to have a good amount of... natural lubricant."
You're gonna die.
"Want me to grab the cold gel?" He teases, plump lips curling up, you almost ask him to spit on it, but you manage some sense.
"No, it's okay, I trust you," you shouldn't, not when he leans down and spits right on his fingers and watches his own spit move on puffy lips.
He can't do that he's a fucking doctor. How many pussies has he seen!? But the thrill of knowing it's on you had his cock throbbing underneath those purple scrubs, he covers it with his labcoat, watching the bubbles dissolve on your glistening cunt.
"How do you usually loosen up? Don't want to hurt you." You shut your eyes, spreading your thighs more for him.
"Like how do I..."
"You can feel comfortable with me, we need to find out what's making you cramp up too."
"I tense really bad before sex too, it doesn't feel the best."
"Oh..." Satoru eases a finger inside again, curving it up and watching you jerk. "When is the last time you had sex?"
"Like a year or two, I just use my rose - Oh my god!" You cover your face again, eyes rolling back when he crooks those fingers. "Mmh!"
"Don't be shy, masturbation is normal and healthy even. Orgasms are good for you," Dr. Gojo pulls his finger out to watch you drop down onto the thin paper you're laying on, exhaling against the sight. "Clitoral stimulation helps you?"
You nod, gasping when he slips a finger and finds it, the sounds of your wet cunt echoing in the room. "Yes, it does."
"Is it all right if I stimulate it to loosen you up? If not tell me."
You arch your hips, lashes fluttering, it takes a lot for Gojo not to yank off his gloves and fuck into you. "Yes um if you think it'll help?"
"It might," he runs a circle and watches that clit twitch against his thumb, more slick pouring from you. "You do respond well to it. Did your partners do this?"
"No they sucked," Satoru chuckles a bit, and the mood lightens, he acts perfectly professional while he's pressing on your clit, pleasure rushing through you. "That is relaxing."
"I want my patient comfortable," he murmurs, he shouldn't be allowed to look like that and sound like that. Your cunt is spasming when he slips his finger back in, the messy sounds so loud you bury your face. "It's a good thing, when your natural lubricant flows. It means your hormones are doing a good job."
"Oh," Satoru crooks his finger up, eyeing you under snowy lashes then, your breasts rising and falling, thighs trembling. "I do feel um... more... relaxed."
"That's good. You're doing such a good job for me," you're done for, his finger hitting that spot in slick walls, thumb still massaging your jumping clit. "Orgasms can help cramps too, even during your period."
"I can't um touch it during that," You're arching for more, thighs spread so wide, hands damn near ripping the paper underneath you, it tears just a bit and echoes in his impeccably clean office.
"That's understandable but your partner could," you laugh a little.
"None of them would have fucked me on my period - I mean!? Um, stimulated me."
"Some people are squeamish," he starts to ease two inside, you're trembling at the stretch. "It's natural, periods. And it's normal to get cramps, we just have to find a good way to help them."
"I see, ngh!" He pauses at your little moan, juices flowing down his fingers, tall body hunched just a bit over you. "Oh my god I'm so sorry."
"It’s too much for you, sweetheart? Two?"
You nod just a bit, and he sighs, pulling back his hand then.
"You're too tight, that could be why you don't find sex so enjoyable if you're not getting off first - I mean, having orgasms before intercourse."
"That could be um, I'll loosen up so you can do the exam," you hear his glove smack then.
"It may help if I don't wear a glove, are you okay with that? It may help your nerves."
Satoru needs to feel your gummy walls without a dumb fucking barrier. You're blinking at him, seeing him take one off, then the other.
"My hands are sterile," he tries to hide his feral grin, knowing he's fucking depraved for this, but his cock is just leaking too much. "I'll try and you tell me what you prefer."
"Yes, of course," Satoru's fingers brush down your slit into your hole, sinking in - slippery from you, buried to the knuckle suddenly. It feels so good you can't hold back your little whimper, hips bucking up. You feel every line and callous of his thick fingers, cunt gripping him like she's scared he'll leave. "Oh!"
Satoru's cock leaks at the sight of your pussy sucking his fingers in like that, the sight of it so greedy, stretched around his bare hand is too much. His fingers pull back and then insert again, and again, a messy squelch echoing in the room, gossamer swirls of your arousal coating his fingers.
Fuck he's going against every oath he took and looking for more to break.
Is eating out patients not a good method of exam? Surely your taste -
He can't do all that! He shouldn't even be fingering your messy cunt like this, pads of them curving up in that spot that makes you twitch and gush. Your cheeks are flush, eyes rolling back, hips just rolling when he runs a thumb over your clit once more.
"Eyes on me, sweetheart," you barely focus, stretched so full and stuffed more from him than you had been any man. Your lashes flutter at his command, he leans down just a bit as he works you. "There you go, you're loosening up for me. Does it feel good like this?"
Are you having a filthy daydream of the pretty blue eyed doctor, or is he talking you through an orgasm?
"I... um... y-yes," your whisper escapes your lips with a sigh, Doctor Gojo's expert fingers curling up with precision, feeling you spasm and tighten, slick and hot around his digits. You're pulsing already, making him have to palm himself to adjust, before darting his thumb back to your clit. "Mnh... Doctor Gojo, I..."
"Your muscles are responding so well," fuck is everything sexy from his mouth? You're trying not to cum, but failing spectacularly, a dripping wet mess soaking his bare hand, the sounds of his fingers and your needy cunt loud. "Your pussy- I mean, um!? Vagina/vulva ah it's very um... pretty - healthy!?"
Satoru Gojo's glasses fog up just a bit, sweat beading on his brow, he doesn't know what's come over him - but he knows he needs you to cum for him, and he's not stopping until you do. Do you squirt, do you drip, do you get creamy?
Fuck he must know - for scientific purposes, that's why he's a doctor, right? Love of science and medicine?
How many oaths would it break if he were to breed his patient?
"I'm... your fingers ngh they're thick and - I mean!? Thorough! They're so thorough," you're rolling your hips up for every filthy thrust, Satoru leans low and practically inhales you, you feel something wet slap your clit, his eyes feral and black then behind lenses. "F-fuck... I mean!?"
"S'okay, we're - hah - helping the cramps, r-right?" He's scissoring his long fucking fingers in and out of your now sloppy little cunt, your nails press into his forearms, just making him moan softly.
"Yes, helping them, mhm," your eyes roll back in your skull, nails digging in his pale skin and leaving cresenct marks, the sweet scent of your arousal filling his senses, overtaking the sterile alcohol in the room. God if he could bottle your pussy juice he would. "You're s-such an amazing um... d-doctor!"
"Thank you, I t-take my... career... so seriously," he's about to bust in his pants, damn near acting as if he's never seen a pussy before yours, but he's not ever been affected. You're pulsing and tightening down then, clamping his fingers and sucking them inside, teeth clenched. "Remember, eyes on me, sweetheart. For... medical reasons."
Your eyes focus on his, he crooks those fingers up one more time, a mess pouring as he does, and he watches his pretty patient cum on his fingers. You're so loud he has to pull up, slamming a big palm on your cute lips, muffling your desperate cries as he shoves them in fully, heel of his hand massaging your needy clit.
"Mmph!" You're blacking out nearly, hardly able to keep that eye contact, with the doctor whose glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, his lips spit slicked. You're gushing down his fingers, louder and louder as he eases them in and out slower, pushing you over the edge again.
"Fuck," he murmurs, cursing at his lack of professionality, leaning back to see just how you cum. "Creamy, fuck."
"H-huh?" Your voice is still muffled, he moans, looking and the milky ring formed at the bottom of his fingers, he almost sinks to his knees with you still in that fucking hospital gown, instead gently easing them out, watching your hole twitch as he spreads your lips.
"Your response to stimulation, it's scientific you see - creaming or squirting."
"Oh, it is?" He feels himself pressing hard against his boxers, leaking through and leaving a wet spot in his scrubs, blush furiously smattered on his cheeks. "Which is better?"
Anything you do.
"They're both healthy responses," he wants to suck his goddamn fingers so badly, but he has already crossed every fucking line known to man, so instead he hovers a moment, wanting to ask about you. who are you, are you single - it says yes on your chart sure, but still. What do you like? Do you play video games?
He's imagining a date right now - him, Doctor Gojo, a man who's all about his business can't stop getting flustered from your pretty little pussy that's leaking your cum still. He turns then, unsure of what to say, as your thighs tremble, your breath quickening.
You feel so embarrased! You're thinking he wanted you to cum, what if he was just... like helping? Examining? You've never even really been to a gyno before! You hastily put a sheet on, looking down nervously as he stands there, fingers still in your slick.
"I'm so sorry!"
"What!? Why? Did you um... enjoy the exam?" He asks, you nod shyly, he is so close to busting he has to do something. "I'll be right back with your uh... results, just hold on, okay?"
He rushes to the bathroom, leaning back and shutting the heavy door, sucking your juices off his fingers and moaning, using his other hand to free his aching cock. God it's hard, sticking to his boxers, he has to tug it free and slowly stroke it, moaning softly.
"Go ask her out," he whispers to himself, with every stroke of his hand, every glide around the thickness he almost stuffed inside you on that patient bed. He can't with himself, what is going on, he's never like this!?
God your taste.
"Maybe we could hah go to a movie?" He practices in the mirror, seeing his disheveled appearance, cock loud with every fwap as he jerks it quickly, trying to finish before he looks more suspicious. He whimpers your name and flutters his eyes shut, picturing your cunt grippin' his cock like a vice, moaning as he cums.
White spurts everywhere, all over his hands, all over the sink, he curses with a shaky breath, cleaning it frantically when he rushes back out, and you're all dressed, holding your purse. He falters, suddenly shy as you tuck your hair behind your ear, the taste of your cunt still coating his tongue.
"I ah... think your cramps could be a lot of tension," he manages to say softly. "And elevated hormones, just a bit too much estrogen, but not enough for concern."
"Thank you so much, um, what should I do for them?"
"Warm compress, a hot bath, ibuprofen," his dick, his mouth, his fingers, god use him. "All of that should help a long with..."
"Orgasms?"
"Y-yes, they can help," you rush off suddenly then, and Gojo curses, pacing back and forth in his office.
God why couldn't he ask you out!? After he sucked your cum off his fingers no less?
Suddenly, Satoru has quite an idea - his fucked out brain thinks so, at least. He sits at his little desk and pulls up his laptop, starting to type notes into your patient portal, smirking as he does. He's sure you're the type to check them, so he wonders if you'll get the code here.
***Patient comes in with an exceptionally tight set of muscles, and was having some trouble with cramping, as well as pain during sex. She was a good girl for me beautiful example of a patient, her responses were so good, she listened to all instructions from the doctor. Her cunt vagina was a pretty shape, color, and had a lovely taste consistency.***
Satoru grins, inserting his phone number throughout the message in little places, heart racing.
God he wonders if you like Digimon or Pokemon? He could handle either, if it meant being with you.
***The patient should come back for more visits to work on relaxing her stupidly tight vagina, she took well to treatment, she should cum come more often to make sure she's comfortable and resolves any cramps in the future. Patient should contact me with any questions are you free on friday? or concerns.***
He's sure you never saw the damn notes when a week goes by, when he gets a call, answering it in the middle of lunch. "Gojo speaking."
"Um... hi... it's..."
"Oh my god!? Hi!" He almost knocks his coffee over, so fucking excited he's grinning, he can't see your nervous blush on the other line, chewing your thumb and taking shaky breaths. "How are you?'
"I'm good, I am uh... maybe insane but, would you like to go out-"
"Yes."
You blink then. "Um, I didn't say where?"
"Anywhere." You giggle, and he throbs from that, sighing and shutting his eyes. "I'll take you anywhere."
"All right, Doctor Gojo I'll send you where to pick me up," you hang up shakily, and Gojo makes quite a loud shout that the entire office hears.
"Back to work, ahem." He says, stepping out, but he cannot keep the smile off his face.
Perverted and cute???? bahaha this was a Patreon idea actually those chats get a little insaneee
Your boyfriend has been waiting for this moment, but when you see what he's packing!? You're a hundred percent sure this just won't work, he just simply won't fit. But Satoru Gojo is anything if not one to make sure he wins - and that includes proving you wrong.
pairings - Satoru x reader
warnings - MDNI -size difference, oral (f receiving) fingering, lots of foreplay, he literally is way too big, tummy bulges, creampies, cumplay, spitting, mild degradation/praise, obsessed/ pussy-drunk Satoru
hehe this was a commission piece, and it's an absolutely filthy oneshot - 4k wc - enjoyy! <3 art is by @camy__min on X
“It’s not gonna work,” you’d said it the moment you saw it – Satoru Gojo’s pretty cock – for the first time. “There’s just no way.”
He’d laughed softly, his cock thick and veiny, length slapping his flat belly button then just hanging there so heavy, white drizzles of pre leaking down out of his pretty pink tip. Your core tensed, thinking of the ways he’d just ruin your insides, fuck your uterus up with that damn thing.
You love Satoru, you love his body too, and fuck you want him – you’re always soaking wet any time he kisses you, but there’s just no way that will work. Satoru sighs, seeing your apprehension, he’s got his hands cupping your face almost gently. Even as you shake your head, studying that thick, lengthy cock with wide eyes.
“Baby…”
“Oh no, Toru there’s no way you get that in me, maybe the tip at best!? And I’m not even sure that will.” Your thumb brushes over the tip, swollen, cock so thick your fingers can’t even wrap it completely. “You’re too big!”
“This is a man’s dream," he’s grinning all proud, but when you shake your head again he sighs. “Sure it will, sweetheart, just lemme work my magic.”
“Magic? Mnh!”
Spreading your thighs wide, long fingers slip through the mess that’s pooling out of your soppy hole, your hips jerk up in response. “Mhm – look, she already wants me inside her.”
“Of c-course she does,” you barely manage to breathe the words out, nipples puckered for one of his hands to brush against. “She just can’t, you’re too – ah!”
He’s spitting a gossamer trail down to your puffy lips, it lingers before it disintegrates and lands right on your cunt with a bubbly trail. You could swear Satoru’s grin has become even more psychotic with those sharp white teeth, his blue eyes brilliant and bright, kissing a trail down your body slowly, between your breasts, over your tummy, and lower.
“Aw, she loves it,” he cooes those words practically, spreading those folds and flicking his tongue on your clit. Your hands entangle in his white silky locks, feeling his plump mouth smile on your overheated skin. “Look how cute she is.”
The first wet flick makes even more arousal just pool out of your hole, slick and glittery for his eyes to feast on. They dilate at the sight of your cunt spasming around nothing, he watches it wink at him, watches it clench. He moans softly at how fucking pretty it is.
His eyes dart up to your arching body, gripping a tit while his tongue teases your hole, slipping in, squeezing your tits when they gently bounce with the jerky little motion, your reactions so evident. His breath ghosts teasingly over your cunt again, your flavor earning him even harder, rutting his cock against his mattress, dying to be buried deep in you.
“She can take it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss on your cunt and smiling up at you. “I just know she can.
No, she couldn’t.
Satoru Gojo has been down there for half an hour between your thighs, working your little hole and stretching it on his huge, thick fingers. He started slowly – with just one – and even that hit you so deep you were crying out, so deep just those almost hit your cervix. You’re spasming and drooling down his fingers, now he’s got two fingers slotted inside your slippery walls, curling them up.
He’s been stretching you and trying to work you so that he can fit inside, but every ten minutes when he presses his tip in again to test, it just doesn’t fit. He’s sweating, a little sheen of perspiration on his brow, lifting your thigh and resting it on his shoulder, thick pink tip just drooling white drips as he rubs it up and down your slit, trying tentatively again.
“Fuck,” he’s breathless, shaky on top of you, you’re soaked, your thighs trembling on either side of his narrow hips, he almost busts just getting into your tight ring of muscles, only to be blocked again. “Your pussy, she’s too fuckin’ small for it.”
“Me!? No, you’re too big for me!”
“I didn’t think I’d have this much trouble,” he mumbles, brows drawing together, you cry out and whine when he tries to press in, gripping him so tightly he has to pull it back out, watching your hole drool down, moaning in frustration. “Loosen up, pretty please?”
“Satoru, I am,” you’re exhaling, trying to relax your muscles, but every time he starts to stretch you out it burns, his cock is even thickening more. “Make it stop being so… it’s getting bigger!?”
“Well fuck you feel s’good,” he grumbles, flipping you on your knees now, you gasp as he presses your back down. “Let’s try this, I’ll make you cum again first.”
“It’ll never fit – ngh! S-Satoruuu!” He almost cums just hearing your muffled cries, pressing you down by your pretty face, hand entangled in the nape of your neck, fingers moving up and down, up and down, pressure building in your core.
“That’s it,” he feels her loosening again, your ass arching up, but he doesn’t try again yet, even as his cock is fucking aching, a sticky mess from dying to fill you and being unable to. He exhales, two fingers pressing up until you gush. “There you go, cum just f’me.”
“S-satoru,” your head falls to the side, his fingers slip to your clit and roll in little circles, moaning your name in your ear, tickling the sensitive skin as he blows little baby hairs around. “Mnh!”
“Let’s try this position, hmm?” You nod eagerly, and he’s able to at least get his tip in, the sound of a filthy suctioned pop echoing in Satoru’s room – as it pushes past your entrance.
Oh fuck…
Satoru is gonna cum.
He closes his eyes and tenses – how embarrassing!? He’s not inexperienced but the size difference from his cock to your tight cunt is too much, it’s grippin’ him too good, he tests it and pushes more though, and you tighten up again, gasping.
“Too much, too much!”
“I’m like not even two inches in,” he says, all breathy, pulling out and pushing in again, only fucking you with that pink tip and nothing else. “Fuck you’re doing too much, s-stop.”
“Me!?” You glare back at your boyfriend, pulling off and making him hiss, cock so sensitive. “Y-you’re too much!”
Satoru’s blue eyes flutter shut, a whimper escaping his mouth. “Stop trying to push him out, your pussy is mean.”
You giggle breathlessly, pushing him out again, gasping when you feel him pulse. “Mnh, I made it worse.”
“You did,” his hips jerk – pressing his cock experimentally inside your hole, moaning then. “You’re squeezin’ me too tight, my god.”
Satoru’s cheeks flush, resting his head as his huge, lanky body looms over yours, pulling you further back, hearing your little moan in his ears. He’s never felt something this good, the grip just begging for his cum, as if your cunt was milking him then and there.
“Stop trying to knock yourself up before I even get in,” he bites your shoulder and you giggle again, before crying out, feeling a half inch more in your walls. “I will not bust quick our first time.”
“It’ll never work though,” you’re moaning as he presses in again, deeper this time, stretching you open so much you feel like you’re split in half. “Oh god, you’re too deep, t-too much!”
Satoru looks down, leaning back – he’s got maybe two and a half inches in your puffy cunt. He sighs, gripping your ass cheeks, watching the slick mess run down his veiny length, dripping down balls so heavy that they’re tensing, tightening.
“Not even a quarter of me is in your cunt.”
“Seriously!?” He flips you over again, back on your back with your thighs up, slipping two fingers and spitting down on them, swirling the mess and making your cunt click with every little circle. “Mnh!”
“I’ll fit, I swear, no way I don’t get to feel her around me,” he murmurs, slipping a third finger impossibly, you tighten up, earning a smack with his free hand on your pussy. “Relax, sweetheart.”
“Can’t do three - ngh!” You’re spasming while he gently and easily inserts that third finger, holding your thighs up so you can’t clamp down. You’re gripping those rumpled sheets, body trembling, cunt making a mess. “Oh my god…”
“There you are,” he murmurs, praying that he can just get inside you, like a cruel joke to make you both so anatomically incompatible. “Look at us.”
He grips your chin, forcing you to look at his tip slipping in and out of your hole, teasing her with it then pulling back, a messy slippery trail falling out with the motion. He uses the pads of his thumbs to hold your swollen folds apart, eyeing the stretch. You suck in a breath, feeling the sting and tightening up as a cock too thick to even exist pushes inside you again.
“Breathe sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, feeling you relax around him and exhaling in relief as you do. Your hands slip up his chest, nails digging into his shoulders while his own fingers digging into your hips roughly, trying to keep himself together. “Eventually I’ll watch this tummy move with my cock.”
“Wha- ah!” You’re lost when Satoru pushes inward, you hear your own gasp, the slick squelch of your pussy as he moves, moaning and leaning back, watching another inch disappear impossibly.
His fingers slip down your trembling thigh, that thumb brushing your twitchy clit, already overstimulated, you’re tensing at the sensation, seeing the filthy sight of his cock pulsing, veins slick from you. You’re trying to tense at it – the thick invasion taking you over, not even half of Satoru – and you swear he’s breaking you.
"Shhh," he murmurs, circling slow, relentless pressure right where you needed it most. "Just focus on that, on your cute little clit."
You arch into his touch, the burn of your stretched cunt easing when you focus, eyes fluttering shut. You feel yourself getting wetter, that hot arousal tricking down him, thumb slipping off for a moment how wet you are. “Oh, mnh! Y-you’re so deep!”
“Yeah,” he’s half in, smirking now as he grips your thigh, glossy with your own messy slick. His cock throbs inside you when you grip him again, spasming this time. His lashes flutter shut, pulling out and still toying your clit. “Ah- ah, don’t tighten up, stop being a brat.”
“Brat?” You giggle, just making him pulse again, but you relax enough he can get a little more inside you, leaning over you now. You feel it – that fullness low in your belly, pressing against your gummy walls that are trying to suck him in. “Y-you’re distracting me…”
“Mhm,” he smirks, far too fucking attractive, pulling out almost completely with a filthy, messy sound, easing back in with his cock pressing easier, watching your tummy move and groaning, hands bruising on your hips. “And you said it wouldn’t work.”
You look down and blush furiously, watching the rise and fall as his cock fills you so full you can’t think, you see there’s still a few inches he can’t get in. Just that wrecks you, tip dragging against your spot. He loses it then, going fucking feral – his eyes are so bright with those shrunken pupils it’s hard to look into them. His lids get heavy, weight pressing over you, thigh shoved up.
“Feel s’fucking perfect,” he’s whispering, a hand cupping your face sinking deeper in your snug little hole. “Stretching her out, huh? Do you feel me?”
You can only nod, eyes rolling back for a moment as he drags that spot again, heavy swollen cockhead pressing until it’s against your cervix. “Ah!”
Satoru’s trying so hard not to slam his cock into you, bottom out and drag your ass to him – use you – but he knows you are just barely taking him in without those damn muscles pressing him right back out. He just can’t stop himself from it when he kisses you messy, when he spits in your open mouth and your tongue is out, thighs shaking.
He shoves them up and folds you in half, getting the best view of those puffy lips all glossy, your hole stretched beyond its means, groaning at the sight. “Look at your tiny cunt getting ruined by me.”
You see it, the moment Satoru gets pussy drunk, but you can’t focus when he slams his cock so deep it hurts, cock gliding in and out easier and easier with how messy you get. You’re gasping out, he’s just grinning, now those damn eyes are black, huge hands pressing your thighs until they smush against your breasts, weight pinning them down.
“Perfect, just look at her, she wants me to ruin her, wants my shape, only mine… fuck…”
“T-toru I… ah!” You can’t talk or form a thought when the sounds of skin smacking and your squelching, sloppy cunt fill the room – mixing with that ache in your core, body shaking as you take more and more. “Ngh!”
“Gonna fill you with s’much cum baby,” he’s chuckling, even buried deep, leaning over you, silky white hair falling over a brow. “That what you want, to drip me all day long?”
You gasp out at the filthy vision, a flush decorating your cheeks that makes him murmur – cute – fucking into you until he bottoms out, balls smacking your ass where the arousal is pooling. “Ah- ah- f-fuc- I… ngh, s’deep!”
You’re too fucked out once that cock wrecks your insides, feeling him everywhere while folded into a mean mating press, your knees damn near on either side of your head, cunt sucking him so good. “Hah, look she can take me, she’s trying so hard, squeezing me – ah.”
Satoru doesn’t stop the babbling that spills from his mouth, a mix of praise, degradation and whimpers.
‘Feel s’fuckin’ perfect baby’ – ‘Slutty hole, she’s so greedy’ – ‘You’re so pretty, god…’ –‘Mnh, does that feel good sweetheart? Hah, of course it does’
Satoru is completely psychotic, lost and on another plane of existence, your cunt is just milking him too good, your pretty eyes glimmering with tears as they try to roll back. Pussy drunk and lost in every sound, every movement.
“Gonna put so much cum inside you, hah…” he chuckles now, letting your thighs ease just a fraction so he can rest his forehead almost lovingly. “M’gonna make sure to fuck it back into you, then fill you up again, aw do you like that?”
You barely nod, he grins against your lips, cock pressing deep and just staying, rolling his hips to nudge his pretty drooly tip, the pressure unbearable. “Toru!”
“You can still talk?” You’re lost in it, as fucked out as he is when he cups your face with your thighs still shoved up, kissing you sloppy messy, cock grinding into your cervix when he finally bottoms out as much as he can. He swallows your gasps with his plump lips, his open mouth, you swallow his moans, struggling for a breath.
He’s dragging his cock head against your cervix over and over, torturous little fucking circles with so much pressure, your nails slip into the skin on his back, leaving little crescent moons. Satoru groans at that, laughing softly.
“Gonna mark me up?” Your nails dig in deeper, leaving their marks, almost drawing blood while that sharp pleasure hits, and you feel yourself about to fade, more intense than his fingers, his mouth even.
“M’gonna… mmnph,” you’re drooling as he slams his thick length in and out of your now sloppy little hole, pummelling it with every snap of his hips, making sure you feel him everywhere. You tighten up and he groans, brushing your hair back and easing up.
“So fuckin’ pretty like this, aww sweets you’re drooling.”
He taunts you, strokes getting slower, like he’s not letting you have it, your thighs pressing tightly then, his thumb swiping the dribbles from your chin. Your pupils are blown out, lips parted, cunt just fuckin’ spasming as if she’s ready for him to cum, but not just yet.
He slowly rolls his hips, fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs, breath ghosting against your lips – swollen from his kisses. “Gonna cum, aren’t you baby?”
You nod in a jerky little motion, unsure how he expects you to even talk, but the nod is enough for his cocky grin, one more roll of his hips that drags on your spot, white hair tickling your exposed clit with how he has you split open. You cry out as the sharp pleasure builds so fast, thighs shaking uncontrollably against him, tears slipping out of your eyes.
“Toru, I’m – nghh, f-fuc- I’m-”
He leans up to get a perfect view of you, driving that fat cock into your stretched, abused little hole, mean with it now – pushing you over the edge. “That’s it, that’s my girl,” he whispers, words making his breath ghost against your skin. “Cum f’me, milk me dry, take all of me in your pretty little cunt.”
Satoru’s balls are coated in your slick, heavy and full, feeling you shatter for him, watching your pretty face with a well satisfied fucked out look on his face, exhaling, gripping you at your waist. He eases your legs to the sides of his hips as you scream out, eyes rolling back in your skull, fucking you through it slow and easy.
“There you go,” he murmurs, taking your fingers and slipping them between you both. You whine out, overstimulated. “Touch it, be good f’me, after she tried so hard not to let me in.”
“Already c-came,” you whimper out pathetically, but Satoru’s not quite done with you, leaning back you watch your fingers slip. “Too wet, mnh!”
“You can cum again,” he orders softly now, sadistic little undertone, his snowy lashes lowering in a movement that makes him look angelic and not the slutty freak he is. “Wanna feel it again, please sweetheart.”
Now he’s needy, desperately watching your movements, your hand stops moving when pleasure hits sharp again, but Satoru moves it for you, watching you fall apart, tacky walls clamping down. He fucks you through your aftershocks until you’re delirious, ready to pass out – drooling with your eyes fluttering shut, but he tilts your chin up with long fingers, making you gasp out.
“Look at me when I fill you up,” he orders, all soft and sweet like he’s not a filthy brat, sucking your little finger into his mouth and moaning around it, making your eyes try to open, but you’re twitching, a mess. “That’s it, such a good girl takin’ me like this, are you ready f’me to pump your cunt so full?”
You nod weakly, and he presses one more time before crying out in your ear – a mix of your name and a desperate little whimper from the six foot four man that’s splitting you apart. His cock throbs and impossibly thickens, heat floods you instantly, so much cum that it’s pouring, coating all of your walls with white.
“Oh f-fuck, take it,” he murmurs, voice breaking with how good your pussy feels just sucking him up. His fingers press into your hips, groaning desperately, lips slipping up your neck – hot, uneven little breaths as more pumps in.
You’re so full, hot warmth spreading with how much cum he’s pouring into you, and more spurts out, trickling down his sticky cock, still hard. “Oh m-my… I… you’re still…”
“I have so much for you, don’t worry,” he chuckles, pulling back and still buried deep, now you feel that pressure again, your cunt trying to clamp down, hips twitching as his cum and yours slips down in strands of white. “You think that’s all, no baby, you deserve all my cum inside you.”
Satoru kisses you slowly, lips pressing yours apart, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, saliva dripping as he moves just a bit, and you’re gasping out. “S-sensitive!”
“I know, sweetheart s’okay,” he pulls out and looks and the fucking filthy mix of both of you, more cum pumping white and milky when he strokes his slick cock. “Hah, slutty cunt is so beat up.”
You can’t tell if he’s sweet or evil.
You hiss as he rubs that shiny pink tip up and down your puffy folds, moaning out at the sight of you. Bruises forming from his fingertips, marks from where his teeth had slid into your skin, lips bitten and swollen. His fingers slide between your thighs, slick with cum traced through your folds, toying with the white creamy mixture and smirking while you twitch and jerk.
“Thought I couldn’t fit?” He raises one of those thin white brows, you manage to shake your head, he gathers his mess and holds up his fingers. “God, look at us together, finally.”
Satoru Gojo is a freak, you knew this when he begged to eat your pussy the moment he met you, and when he would make sure to finger you every chance he got – didn’t matter where. Yet the sight of the light catching those drips of both of you is obscene, and when he puts those thick long fingers in his mouth and sucks?
You don’t even know what sound you make. It’s pornographic, a desperate whine as your cunt tries to recover, and his cheeks hollow.
“Mmm,” he moans as if it’s the best tasting thing – his own cum. “Sweetheart you need to taste this.”
Satoru slips two fingers into your mouth ordering – suck – with a soft voice, those damn eyes just a ring of blue surrounded by the fringe of white. You do as he orders, tasting the salty tang on your tongue. Your eyelashes flutter, sucking him and holding his huge hand.
“Such a good girl, you did so well taking me,” he murmurs, pulling those fingers back, but suddenly his hands clamp onto your waist – lifting you like you’re fucking nothing.
“Mnh! What are you doing!?” You demand, when he’s got you flipped over on top of him, eyeing your tummy and measuring with his fingers. “Toru…”
“I think I’ll hit right here…” He murmurs, dragging you down on that huge cock you barely got to fit to begin with. He lifts you up, your knees sliding against the silk sheets that are embarrassingly wet from you.
“I can’t take you like this,” you grumble, earning his cute little blush on perfect cheekbones. “I can’t! Stop looking all cute like you’re not a deviant.”
“Baby please lemme watch you take me,” he lifts you high. “Put me there.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you huff, already a quivering mess, cunt drooling as you position him there, feeling your stretched out cunt aching. “Oh god…”
“You can take me now, I know it,” he’s literally your slutty cheerleader, batting those lashes with the cutest smile, silvery hair falling over his brow. “Come on, show me what you can do. You’re so good you know.”
“Suck up,” you mumble, but you start to take him, inch by inch, until he angles you so you fall on his cock, stuffing you full again, even more intense. Your nails dig into the perfect skin of his chest as this deviant just grins.
“See?” He touches your belly button, chuckling now.
“S-see what!? Mnh!” He just smiles, fucked out as your cunt drools his own cum down in rivulets of white, pooling on his abdomen and making that white happy trail slick.
“I hit here, I knew it,” he’s measuring something like a psycho, sighing and looking up at you lovingly, hands trailing down your hips until he grips your ass, dragging you down, making you boat moan. “Wonder if I can fit it all inside you like this.”
There’s more inches!?
Oh hell no.
Satoru is so sillyyy I love him hehe
Patreon for more exclusive fics - Kofi link (sommission info there!)
“open up f’me darling, please, just this once, god,” satoru nearly whines, holding your chin between his pointer finger and his thumb. “need to feel you, can i? fuck, sweets.”
he’s destroyed the moment you look up to him with those gorgeous eyes of yours. he watches your lips, the way you part them slowly. he grins at that, showing off his pearly whites. he forces you to open your mouth further, thumb forcing your chin down.
“good girl, such a good girl f’me,” he praises, fisting his cock with his free hand. your eyes travel down his body and you gulp. he was big. so fucking big, your mouth waters at that sight.
pink thick tip, just in the prettiest shape ever. heart shaped pink with precum leaking out already, white trimmed hairs at the base. it was pale, just as his whole body, but the thickness and veins? fuck, you were ruined and he hasn’t even let you taste him.
“please, ‘toru,” you whispered, sticking out your tongue. his eyes widened, sparkles dancing. his grin widened even more, licking his own lips, he smacked your tongue with his thick tip.
synopsis : satoru gojo’s life is a meticulously curated empire of protein shakes, gym selfies, and the unwavering adoration of six million followers. he’s got it all down to a science, a perfect balance of macros and influence that’s starting to feel just a little empty. but when a late-night scroll leads him to your quiet corner of the internet, everything changes. it’s not about your face—he’s never seen it. it’s about your hands, steady and dusted with flour, and your voice, a warm, patient hum that makes him forget all about his post-workout cardio. suddenly, the man who prides himself on control finds himself completely obsessed with a baker who offers something sweeter and far more dangerous than any cheat meal: a little bit of peace.
or: he could break the internet with a single photo, but he’s about to risk it all for a girl who accidentally liked his post one time.
wc ࣪— 39k ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, plot with porn, influencer au, modern setting, fluff, humor, banter, slow burn, food as a love language, mutual pining, eventual smut, sexual tension, making out, food play, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise kink, marking, satoru goes feral, unsafe sex, rough sex, size kink, it won’t fit trope, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, marriage proposal, wedding fluff, happy ending
athy says, hi my lovies, i'm looking at my follower count and i genuinely can't believe we've hit 9k before this little blog of mine is even six months old. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic has been simmering away in my drafts for what feels like an eternity, and i wanted to dedicate it to all of you as a thank you. it's super soft, a little cheesy, and hopefully the perfect thing to curl up with. i hope you all enjoy it!! ♡(ӦｖӦ｡)
satoru gojo has never needed hashtags to break the internet.
he knows this the same way he knows his post-workout selfies could fund a small country’s economy, the same way he knows that the gym mirror loves him more than his own mother ever did.
so when he drops his phone against his sweat-dampened chest and angles it just right—shadows cutting across the landscape of muscle he’s carved with religious devotion, that mess of hair catching the fluorescent light like spun moonlight, eyes the color of winter storms narrowed in that signature smirk—he doesn’t bother with captions longer than “cardio day.”
six million followers don’t need context. they need salvation, and apparently, he’s their god.
the likes pour in before he’s even toweled off. comments that would make his grandmother clutch her pearls, fire emojis that could melt antarctica, marriage proposals in seven languages. satoru scrolls through them with the bored satisfaction of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’s attractive, clocking the trending status of his latest flex, watching the numbers climb.
after a few minutes of basking in the chaos he just unleashed—thousands of girls twisting in their sheets, thirsting themselves half to death—he flicks over to reels. it’s a casual, almost lazy motion, like a king turning away from the adoration of his court once he’s had his fill.
his reels are the usual rotation: endless loops of protein shake hacks, questionable “science-backed” mobility drills, and gym bros flexing in worse lighting than his bathroom mirror. sometimes a cooking video sneaks in—grilled chicken recipes that look like punishment meals, pre-workout snacks no sane person would enjoy, the occasional steak sizzling on cast iron just enough to hold his attention. mindless fuel, background noise for someone who already knows he looks better than half the influencers trying to sell him their macros.
but then, the algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, does that thing where it thinks it knows him better than he knows himself, and suddenly his screen fills with something entirely different. no thirst, no desperation, no familiar symphony of validation.
just hands.
soft, capable hands dusted with flour, moving with the kind of precision that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar. the voice accompanying them flows like honey over warm bread, explaining the mysteries of chocolate tempering with the patience of someone who actually gives a damn about their craft.
“temperature control is everything,” you’re saying, and satoru finds himself leaning closer to his phone screen like an idiot. your hands work magic he doesn’t understand—folding, smoothing, creating something beautiful from nothing. there’s flour scattered across your black apron like stars, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. “too hot and you’ll seize the chocolate. too cold and it won’t temper properly. you want that perfect balance.”
perfect balance. right. satoru gojo, who can bench twice his body weight and has never met a macronutrient he couldn’t calculate in his sleep, suddenly feels like he doesn’t understand balance at all.
he’s three videos deep before his brain catches up to his thumbs. your username—why.en_bakes—sits at the top of each video like a riddle he wants to solve. faceless content creator, obviously skilled, voice that could talk him through a panic attack or into one, depending on the circumstances.
his trainer would have an aneurysm if he knew satoru was mentally calculating the caloric content of buttercream roses at eleven pm.
his trainer doesn’t have to know.
meanwhile, you’re having your own crisis three hundred miles away, curled up in bed with your phone balanced precariously on your chest. you’ve been mindlessly scrolling through instagram, the kind of late-night brain rot that makes you question your life choices and wonder why you’re not asleep like a normal person.
the dm notification pops up from @squatoru—and there’s that little blue checkmark that makes your stomach drop because verified accounts usually mean one of two things: actual celebrities or influencers hunting for free stuff.
squatoru: hey, your hands are so steady, i’m pretty sure you could perform surgery. on my heart, maybe? kidding. mostly. anyway, the real question: do you take custom orders, or am i doomed to just drool over your perfect pastries through ig reels tutorials forever? my cardio needs a reward ;)
you frown, tapping on his profile with the kind of skepticism reserved for men who slide into dms and politicians. probably another influencer looking for free pastries in exchange for exposure. you’ve seen this song and dance before, and your content is specifically designed to avoid this—just your hands, your voice, and your pastries. no face, no personal details, no invitation for this kind of attention.
except his profile loads, and the image that fills your screen is so utterly, aggressively stunning that your breath hitches. your eyes go wide, wider than any pastry plate you’ve ever presented, and you feel a ridiculous, old-fashioned flush creep up your neck. like a victorian gentleman accidentally stumbling upon an exposed ankle, but instead of an ankle, it’s an eight-pack, a smirk, and eyes that could unravel your very soul.
you swallow, hard, your mind temporarily short-circuiting at the sheer, unapologetic perfection. the phone, balanced precariously on your chest, finally loses its grip as your hands instinctively clench in shock, and it falls. with a sickening thud, it smacks directly into your face, the impact rattling your teeth and, far worse, triggering an accidental double-tap right on his latest thirst trap. specifically, right on his absurdly defined abs.
because @squatoru isn’t just any influencer.
he’s all sharp angles and casual arrogance, the kind of beautiful that makes you question whether humans are supposed to look like that or if someone’s been editing reality behind your back. his hair defies every law of physics and good sense, standing up in ways that should look ridiculous but instead look like he’s been personally blessed by some very attractive gods. and his eyes—they’re not just blue, they’re the kind of blue that makes you forget other colors exist, like someone liquefied lightning and poured it into his irises just to see what would happen.
the worst part? he knows exactly what he looks like.
every photo is a carefully constructed masterpiece of casual perfection. gym selfies that belong in museums, mirror shots that probably crash servers, candid photos that are about as candid as a hollywood red carpet. he’s the kind of beautiful that makes normal people feel like potatoes, and he’s just casually sliding into your dms like it’s tuesday.
the little heart icon fills with red, mocking you. you immediately know you’ve made a mistake of astronomical proportions, a digital crime scene of embarrassment. you don’t even look at this kind of content. your algorithm is carefully curated chaos of baking tutorials, cat videos, and the occasional pottery reel.
you wouldn’t know a thirst trap if it personally introduced itself and asked for your number. but apparently, it just did, and you just liked it.
your phone buzzes almost instantly.
squatoru: oh, saw that 😉 figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. it’s okay, my content’s usually pretty captivating. consider yourself caught admiring the view.
you scramble upright, nearly launching your phone across the room in your panic. your heart is doing something between a tango and a cardiac episode, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to die of embarrassment in your own bed, which seems like a particularly pathetic way to go. you wince, rubbing your nose where the phone left a red mark.
why.en_bakes: it was an accident. my phone slipped. literally. it just smacked me.
the response comes back quicker than you’d like, quicker than gives you time to construct proper emotional barriers or remember how to breathe like a normal person.
squatoru: suuuure it did. 😉 a very convenient slip. but hey, thanks for the unintentional validation. speaking of irresistible things... i’ve actually been genuinely obsessed with your videos. that chocolate work? absolutely insane. like, i’m genuinely curious about trying your stuff in person. my cheat day budget just went up.
he’s been watching your videos. this man, human equivalent of a renaissance sculpture, is obsessed with your chocolate work? you, who usually only gets comments from sweet grandmas and fellow bakers, are suddenly being eyed by the thirst trap god himself. you stare at the message until the words blur together, trying to process this information like a computer that’s been asked to run software from the future.
why.en_bakes: well, the cafe info is on my profile if you’re actually serious. we’re open from 8-6 tuesday to saturday. no freebies.
because you’re not about to make this easy for him. you’ve built a whole business on not making things easy, on the radical concept that good pastries require effort and patience and maybe a little suffering. if this man wants to waltz into your world with his perfect face and his ridiculous hair, he can follow the same rules as everyone else.
squatoru: oh, trust me, cupcake. i’m serious about good desserts. and good conversation. and maybe a few other things. consider me booked. see you soon.
cupcake.
he called you cupcake, and something in your stomach does a little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the leftover anxiety from accidentally liking his photo and everything to do with the way that familiar, sweet word, usually piped with buttercream and sold by the dozen, suddenly tasted personal, a secret, delicious indulgence meant just for you.
satoru, meanwhile, is having his own moment of amused contemplation in his ridiculously expensive apartment, a smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his phone. because here’s the thing that’s currently piquing his interest in a way almost nothing else does: you don’t know who he is.
not in the way everyone else does, anyway. you’re not sliding into his dms with marriage proposals or asking him to promote your skincare routine. you’re not breathless with excitement or falling over yourself to impress him. you claimed you liked his photo by accident—a blatant, adorable fib, if your mortified response was anything to go by. you immediately tried to take it back like it was a mistake, but satoru knew better. people didn’t accidentally double-tap his abs. they just got shy when they were caught.
when was the last time someone feigned indifference to his attention?
he can’t remember, and that bothers him more than it should. he’s so used to being wanted, expected, demanded, that your casual dismissal, even if it was just an act of shyness, feels like a puzzle he needs to solve. you’re talented and professional and seemingly unimpressed by the fact that he exists, and something about that makes him want to try harder than he’s tried at anything that didn’t involve weights or protein shakes.
plus, there’s your voice. that soft, warm tone that guided him through chocolate tempering like you were sharing secrets, like you actually cared whether he understood the difference between seeding and tabling methods.
that night, he replayed your videos more times than he’d admit to anyone, and each time he notices something new—the careful way you handle delicate pastry, the little satisfied hum when something turns out perfectly, the genuine enthusiasm when you explain why certain techniques matter.
which is how satoru gojo, influencer extraordinaire and professional beautiful person, finds himself googling the address of a bakery at midnight like some kind of carb-obsessed stalker.
your cafe isn’t far from his gym. isn’t that convenient.
he screenshots the address and adds it to his calendar with the kind of focus usually reserved for competition prep, already planning his route and calculating what time he’ll need to leave to avoid the morning rush but still catch you during business hours.
because apparently, satoru gojo has stumbled upon a new obsession—someone who makes croissants for a living and couldn’t care less about his follower count, pretending she didn't just like his gym selfie.
his trainer is definitely going to have that aneurysm.
he timed it perfectly—after the morning rush had thinned and the café’s cheerful hum had settled into something softer. strategic timing, really. fewer distractions meant more of your attention, and satoru gojo had never been one to settle for scraps when he could have the whole meal.
the bell above the door chimed, small and unassuming, almost absurdly inadequate for the entrance that followed. satoru filled the doorway like gravity had personally rearranged itself around him, a quality white tee draping effortlessly over shoulders that looked like they’d been carved by someone with a personal vendetta against moderation, hinting at the landscape of muscle beneath. well-cut dark cargo pants, practical yet stylish, hung casually on powerful legs that could probably crush watermelons, and his hair—that impossible mess of silver-white strands—caught the morning light like it was showing off.
he walked in with the kind of confidence that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. calculated but effortless, the way predators moved when they weren’t particularly hungry but enjoyed the hunt anyway.
you recognized him instantly, and the mortifying memory of that accidental double-tap crashed through your mind like a wrecking ball made of pure embarrassment. heat threatened to crawl up your neck, but you shoved it down with the kind of ruthless efficiency that came from years of dealing with difficult customers and even more difficult ovens.
“welcome to flour & sugar,” you said, voice carefully steady as you finished wiping down the espresso machine. your movements were precise, controlled, the kind of calm that came from having your hands busy while your brain short-circuited. he caught the swift dart of your eyes, the way they met his for a fraction of a second before skittering away, and a slow, knowing amusement bloomed in his chest. oh, you were definitely lying. “what can i get for you today?”
but satoru wasn’t listening to your carefully rehearsed greeting. he was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with your display case.
“jesus christ,” he breathed, and those storm-glass eyes went wide as they tracked across the pastries like he was cataloging treasures. his hands pressed against the cool glass, long fingers splaying as he leaned in closer. “is that—are those pain au chocolat actually laminated properly or are you just trying to make me cry?”
the croissants sat in perfect golden rows, their surfaces glossy and flaked to mathematical precision. next to them, danish pastries spiraled with fruit preserves that caught the light like stained glass windows. chocolate éclairs lined up like soldiers, their choux pastry shells piped so perfectly they looked machine-made, topped with ganache so mirror-smooth it reflected the café’s warm lighting.
“showing off, obviously,” you replied, corners of your mouth threatening to betray you with something dangerously close to a smile. your fingers found the edge of your flour-dusted black apron, smoothing it down in a gesture that was becoming embarrassingly predictable. “we just brush regular croissants with chocolate syrup and hope no one notices.”
that earned you a bark of laughter, bright and genuine and so unexpected it made something flutter in your chest like a bird trying to escape. his whole face transformed when he laughed—the careful perfection cracking open to reveal something warmer underneath.
“oh, you’re trouble,” he said, grinning as he straightened up from the display case. ran one hand through that gravity-defying hair, messing it up in a way that somehow made it look better. the motion caused the soft fabric of the white tee to subtly shift and stretch over his chest and shoulder, a brief, undeniable testament to the power beneath, and he noticed you noticed. his grin widened almost imperceptibly. yeah, you definitely hadn’t liked his photo by ‘accident’. “i can tell already. so what’s your best ‘i’m definitely going to regret this later but it’ll be worth every minute’ option today?”
“the chocolate tart is popular,” you said, gesturing toward where it sat in solitary splendor—a perfect circle of temptation with ganache so dark it looked like liquid sin. “our kouign-amann sells out by noon.” you pointed to the golden, layered pastries that looked like edible architecture. “and if you’re feeling particularly self-destructive, the salted caramel éclair has a cult following.”
“dangerous recommendations,” he mused, those impossible eyes still cataloging every curve and swirl of your handiwork. his gaze lingered on the fruit tarts, their pastry cream bases topped with berries arranged like tiny works of art, then moved to the cinnamon rolls that spiraled with mathematical precision, their surfaces glazed to perfection.
he was quiet for a moment, just looking, and something in his expression shifted. softer somehow, like he was seeing more than just pastries behind the glass.
“what about you?” he asked finally, those winter-storm eyes finding yours. “what would you eat if calories didn’t exist and your trainer wasn’t going to lecture you about macros tomorrow?”
the question caught you completely off guard. most customers just wanted their order taken, not actual conversation, not genuine curiosity about your preferences. your hands stilled on the apron, suddenly aware of how he was looking at you—really looking, like your answer mattered.
“oh, definitely the chocolate tart,” you said, and a sudden, unexpected spark lit up in your eyes. you leaned forward just a fraction, your voice gaining a soft, enthusiastic edge. “it’s not just chocolate, you know? we use a blend of valrhona guanaja for that deep, almost bitter cocoa base, but then there’s a hint of madagascar vanilla bean in the custard, just enough to bring out the sweetness without making it cloying. and the crust—it’s a sable breton, a really buttery, shortbread-like texture that just crumbles perfectly. it’s about the balance, the way the intensity of the chocolate plays with the richness of the butter and the delicate snap of the shell. it’s… everything.”
you finished with a quiet, almost breathless sigh, a small flush on your cheeks from the sheer passion of your explanation. you hadn’t even realized you were practically lecturing him until you saw the look on his face.
something flickered across his face then, a slow dawning of satisfaction mixed with a captivating curiosity. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, were softened, fixed entirely on you. he hadn’t understood half the technical terms, but he’d understood the passion, the genuine love that radiated from you when you talked about your craft. that, he realized, was even more intoxicating than the thought of the tart itself.
“sold,” he declared, his voice a low, pleased rumble. “one chocolate tart for me. and—” he paused, head tilting as he studied the menu board behind you. “matcha latte. extra sweet, if you don’t mind. gotta balance out all that virtue somehow.”
the way he said it, low and curious, made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “mr. gojo—”
“just satoru,” he interrupted, and that easy smile turned softer somehow, more genuine. leaned against the counter on his forearms, bringing himself closer to your eye level. the sleeve of his white tee shifted, briefly revealing the impressive curve of his powerful biceps, practically begging for your gaze, and you felt that familiar, involuntary tightening in your throat again. he was far too aware of the space between you, of the way the air thrummed with unspoken things. “i’d prefer it if you called me satoru. ‘mr. gojo’ makes me sound like my father, and trust me, that’s not the vibe we’re going for here.”
heat crept up your neck despite every attempt at professional composure. he was close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that probably cost more than your monthly ingredient budget—mixed with the faintest hint of lingering workout endorphins.
“satoru, then,” you managed, fingers finding the register keys with muscle memory while your brain tried to process the way he smiled when you said his name. “find a seat anywhere you’d like. i’ll call you when it’s ready.”
he pushed back from the counter with fluid grace, all loose-limbed confidence and predatory satisfaction. chose the corner table by the window—of course he did—prime real estate for people-watching and and, more importantly, you-watching. settled into the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire building, phone out but screen dark, attention fixed entirely on your workspace.
you tried to ignore the weight of his stare as you moved through your routine, but it was like trying to ignore sunlight streaming through windows. persistent, warm, impossible to escape. steamed milk for his matcha latte, the bright green powder swirling into pale foam like liquid jade, sweetened just enough to match his request for extra sugar.
selected his tart from the display case with the reverence it deserved, the chocolate ganache mirror-smooth and perfect, reflecting the café’s warm lighting like dark water.
“order for satoru,” you called, and watched him unfold from the chair with that fluid grace that made ordinary movements look choreographed.
“that was fast,” he said, accepting the small plate and cup. his fingers brushed yours for just a moment—warm, callused from whatever weights he threw around when he wasn’t terrorizing bakeries. “efficient.”
“i try not to keep people waiting.” the words came out steadier than you felt, professional smile firmly in place even as your skin tingled where he’d touched it.
“and here i was hoping you’d take your time,” he replied, that insufferable smirk back in full force. tilted his head just enough to catch your eye, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should’ve looked accidental but absolutely wasn’t. “guess i’ll just have to savor this extra slowly to make up for it.”
back at his table, satoru lifted the fork like he was about to perform delicate surgery. cut into the tart with surgical precision, watched the ganache yield to reveal the perfect custard beneath, dark chocolate giving way to pale cream in a contrast that made his mouth water before he’d even tasted it.
the first bite rewired something fundamental in his brain.
it wasn’t just the flavor—though that was devastating enough, rich and balanced and absolutely perfect. it was the memory that came with it, sudden and overwhelming. his grandmother’s kitchen on sunday mornings, flour handprints on her faded apron, the smell of butter and vanilla thick in the air like incense in a church dedicated to sugar and love.
he’d been a chubby kid back then, all round cheeks and soft edges before growth spurts and gym obsessions carved him into something else entirely. back when sweetness meant safety, when dessert wasn’t the enemy but the reward for scraped knees and hard days and just existing in a world that sometimes felt too big and too scary.
this tart tasted like coming home to a place he’d forgotten existed.
he tried to eat it slowly, really tried. wanted to analyze the flavor profile, identify the techniques, make it last. but his body had other plans entirely. each bite melted on his tongue like a prayer answered, and before he knew it the plate was empty and he was staring at the evidence of his complete lack of self-control.
worth every single burpee he’d have to do tomorrow. worth twice that many.
he pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the crumb-scattered plate in afternoon light. typed out “found heaven” with thumbs that were steadier than they had any right to be, tagged the location, posted it to his story without a second thought.
let his trainer try to explain that one.
when he looked up, you were watching him from behind the counter, expression carefully neutral but eyes curious. caught in the act of caring whether he’d enjoyed it, whether your work had lived up to whatever expectations he’d built in his head.
“verdict?” you called across the space between you, voice carrying just the tiniest hint of genuine interest beneath the professional politeness.
“devastating,” he called back, not bothering to hide his grin or the way he gestured to the empty plate like it was evidence in a criminal trial. “absolutely devastating. i’m going to have to come back tomorrow just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”
“tomorrow’s monday. we’re closed.” the correction came automatically, but there was something softer in your voice now, the professional mask slipping just enough to let real personality peek through.
“then tuesday,” he said without missing a beat, standing up with that fluid grace and reaching for his wallet. “and probably wednesday. thursday’s looking pretty likely too.”
you ducked your head, but not before he caught the small smile you were trying to hide. watched you wipe your hands on that flour-dusted apron in the nervous gesture he was already learning to catalog alongside all your other tells.
“same time tuesday, then,” you said, like you were discussing the weather instead of planning his return to the scene of his carbohydrate crime.
“wouldn’t miss it, cupcake,” he replied, dropping a twenty on the counter for a twelve-dollar order and heading for the door before you could argue about the change.
he walked out into afternoon sunshine already calculating how many extra miles he’d need to run to justify coming back in two days.
spoiler alert: he was coming back regardless, and you both knew it.
the cafe, which once felt like a carefully controlled universe of flour and sugar, now had a new gravitational pull. satoru gojo had become a regular. not just a customer, but a fixture, like the espresso machine or the perpetually overflowing tips jar.
except this fixture came with perfectly tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half the city.
tuesday morning, 10:47 am. the bell chimed and there he was, silver hair catching the morning light like he’d been personally blessed by some very aesthetic gods. today’s ensemble: a loose knit sweater that somehow managed to look both cozy and criminally expensive, draped across shoulders that belonged in a renaissance sculpture exhibit.
he approached the counter with that easy confidence, long fingers already drumming against the glass as those winter-storm eyes conducted some kind of pastry reconnaissance mission.
“just making sure the integrity of your laminated dough hasn’t... suffered since yesterday, cupcake,” he said, leaning against the counter like he’d been doing it his whole life. the casual way he invaded your space should have been annoying. instead, it made something flutter stupidly in your chest.
you barely suppressed an eye roll, busying yourself with restocking napkins because your hands needed something to do that wasn’t embarrassing. “my laminated dough is doing just fine, satoru.”
“is it though?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in a way that was definitely not accidental, studying a pain au chocolat like it held state secrets. “because that one right there looks criminally perfect. almost offensive, really. i might have to do something about it.”
the way he said it, all mock seriousness with those ridiculous blue eyes sparkling with mischief, made your lips twitch despite your best efforts. “such a hardship for you.”
“devastating,” he agreed, pressing a hand to his chest like he was physically wounded. then that grin broke through, the one that made him look less like a fitness god and more like a kid who’d found the cookie jar. “i’ll take two. and one of those.” he pointed to a lemon meringue tart, its peak of toasted meringue golden and proud. “for balance.”
you reached for the pastries, trying to ignore how he watched your every movement like he was memorizing the choreography. “balance?”
“very important nutritional concept. sweet, then tart, then back to sweet. it’s basically science.”
“that’s not how nutrition works.”
“says who? my trainer?” he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid and careless. “he thinks protein powder counts as a food group. clearly not a reliable source.”
wednesday brought a different satoru—button-down with sleeves rolled just so, revealing forearms that should probably be illegal in most countries. he ordered three chocolate éclairs this time, each one a perfect torpedo of choux pastry and dark ganache.
“consistency test?” you repeated, watching him pull out that expensive wallet like he was performing surgery.
“scientific method, cupcake. very important.” he peeled off crisp hundreds with the casual air of someone who’d never met a price tag he couldn’t ignore. the bills looked fresh from the bank, and you briefly wondered if he requested new ones specifically for pastry purchases. “can’t make proper recommendations without thorough research.”
your fingers found the edge of your apron, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. “recommendations to who?”
“my trainer, obviously. gotta give him fair warning about what’s destroying his careful work.” that laugh again, bright and completely unrepentant, the sound warming something deep in your chest. “speaking of which, what’s the caloric damage on these beauties?”
“you don’t want to know.”
“try me.” he leaned forward slightly, chin tilting in challenge, and you caught yourself staring at the way his collar bone disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt.
“about three hundred each.”
he paused, éclair halfway to his mouth, and you watched something flicker across his face. not regret exactly, but the quick mental calculation of someone who’d spent years thinking in macros and meal plans. then he shrugged, a movement that somehow made his shoulders look even broader, and took a bite that was pure bliss.
his eyes actually fluttered closed for a second, and the small sound he made was borderline indecent. you busied yourself with the register before your brain could process the implications.
“worth every burpee,” he declared, and the conviction in his voice made something warm unfurl in your stomach. this wasn’t just politeness or customer service charm. he meant it.
thursday he showed up in a perfectly fitted black tee that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your professionalism took a brief vacation. the fabric clung to every angle and curve like it had been painted on, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending to organize the already-organized pastry display.
he ordered what could only be described as half your case. two kouign-amann, a slice of blood orange tart, three of your dark chocolate cookies, and a danish that had been sitting there looking particularly photogenic.
“research again?” you asked, voice carefully light while your eyes decidedly did not linger on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for his wallet.
“training day,” he said, and there was that subtle flex again, the movement so casual it might have been accidental if not for the way his lips quirked slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing. “need the fuel.”
you handed him his order, fingers brushing his for just a moment. warm, slightly callused from whatever torture routine he put himself through daily. “for what, exactly?”
“deadlifts. squats. the usual punishment for having a sweet tooth the size of tokyo.” he examined the danish like he was conducting a forensic investigation, head tilted just so. “my trainer keeps threatening to fire me, but joke’s on him—i’d just find someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”
the mental image of satoru gojo interviewing personal trainers based on their pastry tolerance made you duck your head to hide a smile. “how much extra cardio are we talking here?”
“for this haul? probably an extra hour. maybe two.” he bit into the danish with the kind of focus usually reserved for important life decisions, and you watched his expression melt into something approaching reverence. “but look at this thing. the way you’ve layered that fruit, how the glaze catches the light... that’s art, cupcake. you can’t put a price on art.”
heat crept up your neck at the genuine appreciation in his voice. “apparently you can. it’s twelve dollars.”
“cheap for a masterpiece.”
the compliment hit different when it came wrapped in that soft tone, without any of his usual performative charm. just honest appreciation, and it made your chest feel tight in ways you didn’t want to examine.
by friday, you’d started doing something incredibly stupid. anticipating his visits with the kind of precision usually reserved for oven timers and proofing schedules. you knew his patterns now—tart first, then creamy, then something with crunch. complex flavors that demanded attention, just like everything else about him.
so when he walked in wearing a cream-colored sweater that made his hair look like spun moonlight, you’d already committed the crime of setting aside a perfect almond croissant and a slice of your new cardamom pear tart. just sitting there on a small plate behind the counter, waiting like evidence of your growing soft spot.
he stopped short when he saw them, and something shifted in his expression. softer somehow, like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “you read my mind, cupcake.”
“just good service,” you mumbled, but your hands betrayed you, finding your apron and smoothing the flour-dusted fabric with nervous fingers.
“is it though?” he leaned forward, elbows finding the counter, bringing himself into your space in a way that made your pulse skip. up close, you could see the faint freckle near his left temple, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. “because this feels suspiciously like you’ve been paying attention to my very sophisticated palate.”
the teasing lilt in his voice made your stomach do something acrobatic. “your very expensive palate, you mean.”
“that too.” those eyes were studying you now with the same intensity he usually reserved for pastries, curious and warm and entirely too perceptive. “so what made you choose these? professional instinct or...”
“or what?”
“or maybe you’re starting to like having me around.”
the question hung between you like sugar dust in afternoon light, sweet and impossible to ignore. your cheeks felt warm, but you kept your voice steady through sheer stubborn will. “you’re a good customer.”
“just good?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in that way that made your fingers itch to brush it back.
“you tip well.”
“ah.” he straightened up with fluid grace, grinning like he’d just solved a particularly entertaining puzzle. “so it is about the money.”
the lie sat bitter on your tongue, but you’d rather eat raw flour than admit the truth. that you looked forward to his visits. that you’d started timing your baking schedule around his usual arrival. that the ridiculous tips were just an excuse to let yourself enjoy his company without feeling guilty about it.
“everything’s about money, satoru.”
“everything?” that voice dropped lower, softer, and you felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with business. “what about the art? the passion? the pure, unadulterated joy of creation?”
your breath caught slightly at the way he said ‘passion,’ like the word meant something more than flour and butter and sugar. “rent doesn’t pay itself with passion.”
“fair point.” he took a bite of the almond croissant, and you watched his entire face transform. the careful composure melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine and absolutely devastating. “jesus. okay, this is... this is stupid good.”
pride bloomed warm in your chest, the kind that came from watching someone truly appreciate your work. “just stupid good?”
“life-changing. earth-shattering. the kind of good that makes me question every life choice that led to me discovering it this late.” he took another bite, slower this time, actually savoring it like it deserved. watching him eat something you’d made with such obvious pleasure did dangerous things to your equilibrium. “where did you learn to do this?”
the question caught you off guard. not his usual surface-level compliments, but genuine curiosity about you, about your story. you found yourself answering before you could think better of it.
“culinary school. then a few years working under other people before i saved enough to open this place.” you gestured around the café, at the warm lighting and carefully chosen décor that had taken months of planning and every penny you’d managed to scrape together.
“other people?”
“a french pastry chef who made gordon ramsay look like a teddy bear. learned more in six months with him than i did in two years of school.” the memory still made you wince slightly, even wrapped in gratitude for everything it had taught you.
satoru’s eyebrows rose, and something shifted in his expression. less playful, more attentive. “sounds intense.”
“he once made me remake the same batch of croissants seventeen times because the lamination wasn’t perfect.” the words came easier now, maybe because he was listening with such focused attention. “i cried in the walk-in cooler.”
“and the eighteenth time?”
“eighteenth time was perfect.” you surprised yourself with how much warmth crept into your voice. “finally understood what he meant about respecting the process. about not cutting corners just because you think you know better.”
“and now?”
“now i can make them in my sleep.” you gestured toward the display case where your croissants sat in golden, flaky perfection, evidence of countless hours and stubborn determination. “muscle memory and spite, mostly.”
that drew a laugh from him, rich and genuine. “deadly combination.”
he was looking at you differently now, those impossible eyes softer somehow. like he was seeing past the professional politeness to something more real. it should have been unsettling. instead, it made you want to keep talking, keep sharing pieces of yourself you usually kept locked away.
“so this chocolate work you do—the tempering, the ganache—that all came from drill sergeant pastry chef too?”
you found yourself actually wanting to explain it, to share the thing you loved most about your craft. “some of it. but chocolate is... different. more temperamental. you can’t bully it into submission like dough. you have to coax it, understand what it needs.”
he leaned closer, genuinely interested, and you caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness from the pastries. clean and expensive and entirely too distracting. “what does it need?”
“patience. the right temperature. respect for the process.” you pulled out your phone almost without thinking, scrolling to a video you’d posted last week. “see this? the way the chocolate looks when it’s properly tempered versus when it’s not?”
he moved around the counter—when had you said he could do that?—to look at your screen. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. “show me the difference.”
your fingers were definitely not steady as you pointed to the glossy, perfectly smooth chocolate in the video. “this one. snappy, shiny, stable. versus this.” another clip, chocolate that looked dull and streaky. “seized because someone got impatient and tried to rush the cooling process.”
“someone like me, you mean.”
the self-awareness in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were much too close to those winter-storm eyes. “someone exactly like you.”
“ouch.” but he was smiling, that soft genuine smile that made your pulse forget its rhythm. “so you’re saying i need to learn patience.”
“i’m saying chocolate will teach you patience whether you want to learn or not.”
“and if i wanted to learn? hypothetically speaking.”
the question settled between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away. your heart did something complicated against your ribs. “hypothetically?”
“completely hypothetical. just curious about the... educational process.”
you studied his face, looking for the usual playful smirk, but found something more sincere instead. something that made your chest feel tight and warm and terrified. “it’s not easy. takes time. messy. lots of failures before you get it right.”
“i’m not afraid of messy.” his voice was softer now, and you realized you were still standing much too close, could see the faint gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.
“no,” you said quietly, taking in his perfectly styled hair, his carefully chosen outfit, the way he carried himself like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved. “i don’t think you are.”
he stayed longer that day, nursing his matcha latte and working through the cardamom pear tart with the kind of focus usually reserved for meditation or very important life decisions. every so often he’d look up and catch you watching him, and instead of that cocky smirk you’d grown dangerously fond of, he’d give you something softer. more real.
when he finally left, he paused at the door, hand on the frame, looking back like he wanted to say something else.
“same time monday?”
“we’re closed mondays.”
“tuesday, then.” that smile again, the one that made your knees forget their primary function.
“tuesday works.”
he pushed through the door into afternoon sunshine, and you watched him pull out his phone to photograph the empty plate he’d left behind. the story that went up an hour later was just the image with no caption, but your café’s location tagged like a promise.
your phone buzzed, not with an explosion, but with another steady pulse in what had become a low, constant hum of new activity over the past few days. each time he’d posted and tagged you, a new wave of curious followers would wash over your small page—a few hundred more likes, a dozen more comments asking who you were. this post felt different, though. more potent.
it felt less like a ripple and more like the tide starting to turn. you stared at your phone screen, watching the new notifications roll in, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach. you realized you were in trouble. the kind of trouble that was only partly about the looming threat of viral fame, and everything to do with the way your heart had started keeping time to the rhythm of a certain someone’s visits.
the cafe visits had become routine, but so had something else entirely. late-night video binges. satoru, tucked into the ridiculously expensive italian leather couch in his penthouse, would scroll through your youtube channel like it was late-night cable, airpods in, the city lights a distant hum.
your voice, a warm honey he’d once only associated with chocolate tempering, now filled his ears, a constant, comforting presence. it was oddly intimate, an exclusive soundtrack to his solitary evenings. he’d watch you explain the subtle art of a perfectly proofed brioche, the meticulous fold of a puff pastry. and as he watched, as your gentle explanations filled the quiet of his apartment, he started associating sweetness with more than just taste.
it was in the warmth of your voice, the patient way you corrected a common baking mistake in a tutorial, the quiet dedication in your hands as they measured flour. sweetness became patience. sweetness became quiet strength. sweetness became you.
he’d drift off to sleep with the soft cadence of your voice in his ears, and that’s when the dreams started. not about gym glory or brand deals, but about pastries that didn’t exist yet. wild, impossible creations: a lavender-infused crème brûlée that shimmered like moonlight, a pistachio and rosewater financier that smelled like spring, a miso-caramel tart with a delicate sesame crust. he’d wake up, confused and disoriented, craving flavors you hadn’t invented yet, a strange, persistent ache in his chest.
and then, the texting began.
it started innocently enough, a playful jab after a particularly indulgent visit.
squatoru: seriously, that pain au chocolat today? should come with a warning label. my trainer cried.
why.en-bakes: glad to be of service 😃
but then, the messages started appearing at odd hours. 1 am, 2 am. sometimes a simple, nonsensical emoji. sometimes a flurry of half-baked ideas.
squatoru: what about a churro croissant? is that legal? asking for a friend. (the friend is my sweet tooth).
you’d wake up to the ping, groggy and annoyed, but then you’d read his absurd suggestions, and a small smile would tug at your lips. sometimes, inexplicably, they were good ideas. too good.
your fingers would hover over your phone, considering the absurdity, then find themselves scrolling through your pantry. a few days later, a churro croissant would appear as tomorrow’s special, flaky and cinnamon-sugared, a tangible reply to his late-night musings.
he’d walk in the next day, a triumphant grin on his face. “i knew it,” he’d say, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling. “you’re secretly taking commissions from my dreams, aren’t you, cupcake?”
you’d just shrug, a faint flush on your cheeks. “just a good baker with good ideas, satoru.”
he began to wonder if this was what inspiration felt like, this constant buzz in his brain, these unexpected surges of creativity that always, always, revolved around you and your world. it was foreign, intoxicating.
the teasing messages started to shift, to soften. the playful jabs giving way to something more sincere, more vulnerable.
squatoru: that apple crumble changed my life, no joke. thought i peaked, then tasted that. turns out i can still be surprised.
a message like that would arrive late at night, catching you off guard. you’d be scrolling through a supplier catalog, exhausted, and then his words would bloom on the screen, a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.
squatoru: didn’t know honey could taste like that. your honey cake. it’s something else.
you’d stare at your phone screen, a strange mixture of fluster and genuine pleasure unfurling inside you. these weren't compliments about his abs or his follower count—they were about your work, your taste, your ability to create something beautiful. when you thought no one was looking, usually tucked under your covers or in the quiet pre-dawn hours of the cafe, you’d screenshot them. little digital keepsakes of his quiet adoration.
squatoru: you made winter feel kind today. the lemon tart. tasted like sunshine.
you didn't know what to do with messages like that. they weren't flirting, not exactly. they were… observations. gentle, heartfelt observations that chipped away at your professional armor, one sweet, unassuming word at a time.
back in the gleaming, sterile environment of his gym, satoru’s performance was, to put it mildly, suffering. his focus, once laser-sharp, now drifted like dandelion fluff on the wind.
he dropped weights mid-set, the heavy clatter echoing through the gym, startling the other lifters. he’d be thinking about the impossibly smooth texture of your lemon curd, the delicate balance of your custard. the way it melted on the tongue. the exact shade of the toasted meringue.
his trainer, a no-nonsense man named masaru who believed in pain and protein above all else, crossed his arms, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple. “satoru. you’ve dropped that sixty-kilo bell three times this week. you sleeping enough?”
satoru grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his mind still halfway back in your cafe. “yeah, fine. just… distracted.”
“distracted by what? another brand deal?” masaru eyed him skeptically. “you’re hitting your protein, right? macros are still on point?”
“yeah, yeah. all fine.” satoru lied, easily, smoothly. he hadn’t logged his macros properly in days. he hadn’t done his usual post-workout cardio in favor of replaying your new almond croissant tutorial. he wasn’t fine. not in the way masaru meant.
he was falling. falling faster and harder than any deadlift he’d ever attempted. and the landing, he suspected, was going to be deliciously, terrifyingly sweet.
satoru’s multiple story posts tagging humble your café’s location, each one a testament to your baking prowess and his insatiable sweet tooth, had brought chaos. glorious, sugary chaos.
by the next morning, tuesday, there was a line winding around the block of flour & sugar—a serpent of eager customers stretching down the street, smartphones out, food bloggers scribbling furiously into notebooks, and a worrying number of local influencers trying (and failing) to recreate satoru’s “found heaven” aesthetic shots outside your unassuming facade.
you opened the doors at seven, expecting your usual tuesday hum. instead, you were hit with a tidal wave. your tiny cafe, usually a haven of quiet contemplation for pastry lovers, became a buzzing hive of anticipation.
by 9 am, the display case was utterly, tragically barren. empty shelves stared back at you, pristine and devoid of life. you were sold out, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unprecedented influx of customers, all asking for “whatever satoru gojo ordered.”
you’d spent the last hour politely explaining that satoru gojo had a different order every day and, no, you couldn’t just whip up a fresh batch of everything right now. the exhaustion was real, but so was the faint, bewildered pride.
when he showed up at his usual, leisurely time, strolling in at 10:47 like he owned the sunshine outside, he stopped short. the bell above the door gave its usual chime, but for once, satoru’s fluid confidence faltered. his storm-glass eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened, then slowly swept across the utterly desolate display case.
the devastation on his face was almost comical—like someone had just told him christmas was cancelled, forever, and replaced it with a mandatory kale cleanse. his impossible silver hair seemed to droop slightly, mirroring the sudden collapse of his shoulders.
you, wiping down the already spotless counter, saw his expression crumble, the playful mischief in his eyes replaced by a profound, almost childlike grief. a genuine wave of apology washed over you.
“i’m so sorry,” you started, stepping closer to the counter, your voice softer than intended. his gaze flickered to you, briefly losing focus on the tragedy before him. “we… we sold out early today. there were just… a lot of new customers.” you gestured vaguely towards the lingering stragglers outside, still hopeful.
he ignored them. his eyes were fixed on the barren shelves, staring at the empty spaces where his beloved pain au chocolat and lemon meringue tarts usually sat in gleaming rows, like they had personally betrayed him. his perfect posture, usually so effortlessly arrogant, sagged just a fraction. “all of it?”
you nodded, a small, sympathetic frown creasing your brow. “all of it. the pain au chocolat, the kouign-amann, even the cinnamon rolls. everything.” you watched him process this profound tragedy, the quick flicker of shock, then disbelief, then a truly dramatic despair. a strange, soft tug pulled at your chest. it was ridiculous, of course, but also… kind of sweet.
you couldn’t help it. his absolute, unadulterated heartbreak over a lack of pastries was surprisingly endearing. “but… i could make you something?” you offered, the words tumbling out before you could fully censor them. “fresh? if you don’t mind waiting.”
his head snapped up, those storm-glass eyes widening again, now alight with a sudden, improbable hope. it was like you’d just offered him the moon, gift-wrapped and topped with ganache. “you’d do that?”
“well,” you said, trying to ignore how his entire face lit up, a blinding sunrise of relief and joy. you felt a blush creeping up your neck. “can’t have you wasting away to nothing, satoru. i imagine your trainer would send me a very strongly worded email.” you added, a small, wry smile touching your lips.
what you didn’t say: that you’d already set aside ingredients for his usual favorites—an almond croissant, a chocolate tart, a couple of those irresistible dark chocolate cookies—before the morning rush hit, carefully hidden in the back like a secret stash, just in case. just in case he showed up, heartbroken, and needed a little private magic.
he seemed to take this as a cue, a permission granted. a wide, relieved grin spread across his face, lighting up the entire cafe. “you’re a lifesaver, cupcake. a literal, delicious lifesaver.” he pushed off the counter, moving with renewed purpose towards his usual corner table, settling in with the patience of a cat waiting for milk. “anything you make will be perfect. take your time. i’m in no rush.”
you ducked your head, a smile finally escaping, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. the cafe was empty of customers, but suddenly, it felt very, very full.
you disappeared into the back, the familiar rhythm of your kitchen a welcome balm after the morning’s chaos. pulling out the pre-portioned ingredients, you began to work, your hands moving with skilled precision. you rolled the pastry for his almond croissant, its buttery layers promising flaky perfection, then assembled a miniature chocolate tart, ensuring the ganache was extra smooth, the sable crust extra crisp. the aroma of warm butter and dark chocolate began to waft through the now quiet cafe, a comforting, familiar scent that promised indulgence.
satoru, at his table, watched the kitchen door, an expectant, almost puppy-like eagerness in his posture. when you finally emerged, a small plate held carefully in your hands, he practically vibrated with anticipation.
“almond croissant and a chocolate tart, fresh out of the oven,” you announced, placing the plate gently before him. the croissant gleamed, its toasted almonds a fragrant crown, and the chocolate tart was a miniature masterpiece, its surface still faintly warm. “and a fresh matcha latte, extra sweet, just like you like it.”
he stared at the plate, then up at you, his impossible eyes wide with genuine awe. “you… you made this? just for me?”
you felt a blush spread across your cheeks. “it’s part of the job, satoru. making people happy with pastries.”
“you’re doing a very good job,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than strictly necessary. he reached for the croissant first, breaking off a piece with careful precision. the warm, buttery scent filled the air around him. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, appreciative hum escaping him as he chewed slowly, savoring every flaky, almond-laced bite.
this wasn't just a pastry. this was a personalized act of kindness from the one person who seemed utterly immune to his usual charms. and it tasted like pure, unadulterated happiness.
he devoured the croissant, then moved to the chocolate tart, taking a huge, satisfying bite. the warmth of the chocolate, the sweetness of the ganache, the unexpected crunch of the crust—it was pure bliss. he ate it with the focus of a man who’d been starving for days, yet somehow also with a deliberate slowness, trying to make the moment last.
when he finished, the plates were impeccably clean, as if licked. he pulled out his wallet again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i’m going to need the damage report, cupcake. and i have a feeling this kind of bespoke service warrants… extra compensation.” he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter, pushing them towards you. “for the trouble. and for the extra miles i’ll have to run tomorrow.”
you stared at the money, then at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “satoru, this is ridiculous. it’s twelve dollars. the ingredients were already here.”
“nonsense. that was a private showing of artisanal genius. worth every penny. consider it a down payment for future emergencies.” he grinned, then stood, stretching with a languid grace that drew your eyes to the way his t-shirt draped over his chest. “so. tuesday, then? same time?”
you watched him, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the oven. “tuesday. we’ll try to save some for you.”
“no need,” he said, a playful wink accompanying his words as he headed for the door. “i have a feeling you’ll make something special just for me.”
and as the bell chimed, marking his departure, you couldn’t help but smile, already thinking about what new creation you could conjure up for his next visit. he was right. you probably would.
the cafe had always run on rhythm. espresso machine hissing, ceramic clatter, quiet conversation hum. but lately, that rhythm had acquired a distinct satoru-shaped beat that threw off your entire carefully orchestrated world.
he’d been coming in daily now, not just tuesday through saturday, but every moment the doors were open. his excuses were increasingly transparent, delivered with charming smirks that you almost bought—would have bought, if you weren’t becoming dangerously familiar with the way his mouth curved when he was particularly pleased with himself.
“needed caffeine,” he’d declare one morning, striding through the bell’s familiar jingle with the kind of confidence that made gravity seem negotiable. never mind that his penthouse probably housed equipment worth more than your monthly rent. he’d stretch deliberately, quality fabric pulling across shoulders that belonged in renaissance sculptures, while storm-glass eyes swept the display case like he was conducting some kind of sacred inventory.
another day brought, “had a meeting nearby.” vague gesturing down the street with long fingers that moved like they were conducting invisible symphonies, as if his presence wasn’t the actual purpose. he’d unwrap an éclair before fully paying, chocolate scent momentarily masking cologne that probably cost more than your weekly flour budget.
then came the most audacious: “thought i smelled something burning.”
perfectly straight face, not even a twitch in those ridiculous cheekbones. dramatic air-sniffing that somehow made him look like a very expensive bloodhound. you’d given him your flattest look, the one usually reserved for customers who asked if your croissants were “really” made fresh daily.
there was, of course, no burning anything. just your patience, slowly crumbling like overbaked cookies.
today was thursday. he walked in wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt that committed actual crimes against your ability to concentrate and cargo pants that somehow looked effortlessly expensive on legs that went on for geological ages. ordered his usual—chocolate tart, almond croissant, extra-sweet matcha latte that matched his ridiculous sweet tooth—but bypassed his customary corner table.
instead, he chose a small two-person spot against the wall. direct, unobstructed view of your main workspace. the audacity was breathtaking, really.
you felt his attention immediately, warm weight settling between your shoulder blades like a cat claiming ownership. moved to the prep station where vanilla cupcakes waited for rosettes, your hands usually surgeon-steady despite the early morning rush. but under his unwavering focus, fingers felt clumsy, disconnected from your brain. delicate buttercream swirls wobbled slightly, and you bit back the urge to hum—your usual working soundtrack felt too intimate with him watching.
annoyance mixed with growing heat that had nothing to do with the ovens. furious blush threatened to betray every professional instinct you’d cultivated.
during a lull, you glanced up, and immediately regretted it. his table sat maybe six feet away but felt impossibly close, like he’d somehow bent space around himself. no pretense today—phone abandoned beside his matcha, screen dark as those winter-storm eyes. just watching. chin propped on palm, elbow on table, head tilted with languid grace that suggested he had all the time in the world to study your every movement.
his expression was soft, unguarded. usual playful glint replaced by something direct, seeing. it made your chest tighten strangely, breath catching like you’d forgotten how to process oxygen properly. awareness jolted through you like touching a live wire.
“you’re staring,” you called across the space, voice steadier than your pulse deserved. the words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against the way he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in his very curated world.
he smiled slowly, easy stretch reaching those impossible eyes. blue depths softened, losing glacial edge for warmth that made something flutter stupidly behind your ribs. lifted his matcha with deliberate grace, sipped without breaking eye contact. the movement was calculated casualness, performative in its confidence.
“just appreciating the artistry, cupcake.” his voice carried new weight today, rougher around the edges. more honest than his usual smooth control, like he’d forgotten to put on his public persona along with that perfectly fitted shirt.
“the artistry of cupcakes?” you countered, fingers tightening around the piping bag until plastic creaked in protest. forced attention back to swirling white frosting, but your mind kept circling back to how his gaze felt like warm spotlight, illuminating corners of yourself you usually kept professionally dim.
he chuckled, low and private, the sound meant for your ears alone despite the public space. head tilted again, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked messy but instead made him look like some expensive magazine’s idea of casual perfection. storm-glass eyes held yours, reflective depth replacing sharp teasing.
“the artistry of you making them.” the words fell between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away.
this compliment rewired something fundamental in your chest. bypassed professional pride entirely, sailed straight past the fluster you’d been fighting, and landed somewhere dangerous. settled like comfortable weight against your ribs, warm and persistent. wasn’t about pastries anymore, or technical skill. about you.
the quiet passion, focused dedication you poured into everything you made. like he’d reached past counter, past flour-dusted apron, past practiced customer service smile, and seen something essential you rarely let anyone witness.
heat crept up your neck in a slow burn, spread across cheeks like spilled cinnamon. you ducked your head, suddenly exposed in ways that made your skin feel too tight. terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously, like standing at the edge of something vast and unnamed.
foolish joy blossomed behind your ribs anyway. he really sees it. sees you.
“well, thank you, satoru,” you managed, voice softer than intended, betraying the carefully constructed composure you wore like armor. squeezed the piping bag, and a perfect rosette bloomed—slightly lopsided but charming in its imperfection. “it takes a lot of practice. years, actually.”
your fingers trembled slightly as you set the cupcake aside, reached for another. started humming under your breath without thinking, a soft melody that always accompanied your work. caught yourself, stopped abruptly.
he made a thoughtful sound, those long fingers drumming against ceramic in a rhythm that somehow matched the song you’d been humming. like he’d been listening, filing away even your unconscious habits. “years, huh? that’s...” he paused, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. “dedication.”
something almost wistful colored his tone, like he was trying to imagine that kind of sustained commitment to anything that wasn’t maintaining his ridiculous physical perfection. his thumb traced the rim of his cup, absent gesture that drew your attention to hands that were probably softer than yours despite all his gym time.
“some people think it’s obsessive,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty. smoothed your apron with nervous fingers, flour transferring to already-dusty fabric. you’d heard it before—friends who didn’t understand the 4am starts, the burned fingers, the endless pursuit of perfect crumb structure.
“obsessive?” he repeated, eyebrows rising toward that impossible hairline. familiar smirk tugged at lips that were unfairly well-defined, but gentler somehow. less performative. “coming from someone who’s memorized your operating schedule and has been conducting what could generously be called ‘pastry surveillance’ for months?”
the self-awareness in his voice, paired with that slight flush across sharp cheekbones, made something warm bubble up in your chest. despite yourself, you snorted. actual snorted. like an undignified, very unprofessional sound that would have mortified you with any other customer.
his grin widened into something brilliant, transforming his entire face. less magazine-perfect, more genuinely beautiful. the kind of smile that made you forget he was probably genetically engineered for maximum visual impact.
“touché,” you murmured, ducking your head to hide your answering smile. started humming again, softer this time, the melody weaving between words. “though i’d hardly call buying excessive amounts of baked goods ‘surveillance.’”
“excessive?” he pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, the gesture making his shirt pull across torso that defied reasonable proportions. leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, all long lines and casual power. “i prefer ‘thorough research methodology.’”
“is that what we’re calling it?” the question came out teasing despite your best efforts, fingers moving in familiar patterns as buttercream spiraled into perfect peaks.
“absolutely. very scientific.” he took another sip of matcha, eyes sparkling with mischief that made him look younger, less untouchable. “can’t make proper assessments without comprehensive data collection.”
you paused in your piping, tilted your head in challenge. “and what exactly are you assessing?”
something shifted in his expression then, playful mask slipping slightly. “everything,” he said simply, voice dropping to something more intimate. “the way you move when you think no one’s watching. how you hum when you’re concentrating. the fact that you always check the oven timer twice, even though you could probably bake blindfolded by now.”
the observation sent warmth spiraling through your chest. he had been watching, really watching. not just appreciating the view but memorizing details, cataloging habits you thought were invisible.
“speaking of which,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding the table. closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. “how does one even begin to learn something like this? hypothetically speaking.”
the question caught you off guard, made you pause with piping bag hovering over another cupcake. something in his tone had shifted—less flirtatious banter, more genuine curiosity. like he was actually interested in your answer rather than just enjoying the conversation.
“hypothetically?” you echoed carefully, studying his face for signs of his usual performative charm. found something more sincere instead, vulnerability creeping around the edges of his confidence.
“completely hypothetical,” he assured, but that flush across his cheekbones deepened slightly. fingers stilled against his cup, waiting for your response with the kind of focus he usually reserved for gym routines or camera angles.
you considered this, set down the piping bag to give him your full attention. “well, hypothetically... most people start with basics. measuring, following recipes exactly. learning to fail gracefully.”
“fail gracefully?” curiosity brightened those storm-glass eyes, head tilting like he was genuinely trying to understand a foreign concept.
“burned cookies, collapsed cakes, chocolate that seizes because you got impatient.” you shrugged, began humming again as you arranged finished cupcakes on a tiered stand. the melody helped organize your thoughts, made the explanation flow easier. “it’s part of the process. you mess up, figure out why, try again.”
he was quiet for a moment, processing this with the kind of intense focus that probably made his personal trainer weep with joy. thumb traced patterns against ceramic, unconscious gesture that somehow made him seem more human.
“sounds like it requires patience.” something rueful colored his voice, like he was recognizing his own shortcomings.
“tons of it. and thick skin. and the ability to get up at ungodly hours because bread waits for no one.” you glanced up, caught something almost vulnerable in his expression. like he was actually considering this impossible scenario, measuring himself against requirements he’d never had to meet.
“ungodly hours,” he repeated thoughtfully, hair falling across his forehead as he leaned closer. “like how ungodly are we talking?”
“four am, sometimes earlier during busy seasons.” you watched him wince dramatically, all sharp angles and exaggerated horror. the reaction was so genuine it made you laugh, soft sound that seemed to catch his attention like a hook. “different kind of brutal than your workout schedule.”
“definitely different,” he agreed, then found yourself adding, voice softer, “but worth it. when everything comes together perfectly, when you create something that makes people happy...” you trailed off, humming resuming as you lost yourself in the thought. “there’s nothing quite like it.”
the way you said it, gentle and genuine and completely unguarded, made something shift in his expression. that performative confidence melted away entirely, replaced by raw curiosity and something that looked dangerously like longing.
“you really love it,” he observed quietly. not a question, more like a realization. like he was seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time.
“yeah,” you admitted, suddenly shy under his intense focus. smoothed your apron again, nervous gesture that left more flour streaks across the fabric. “i really do.”
silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. charged instead, humming with possibilities and the weight of his attention. you could feel something shifting in the space between counter and table, subtle but significant. like tectonic plates moving, rearranging the landscape of whatever this was becoming.
and maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him too. past the perfect exterior and calculated charm, to something more genuine underneath. something worth the risk of letting your guard down.
“well,” he said finally, voice softer than usual, that vulnerability still threading through his tone. straightened in his chair but somehow seemed less distant. “hypothetically speaking, that sounds like something worth learning about.”
you met his gaze, heart doing complicated acrobatics against your ribs. started humming again, melody filling the space between words. “hypothetically.”
“of course.” that slow smile returned, different now. less performative, more real. like sunlight breaking through carefully constructed clouds. “purely theoretical interest.”
“naturally,” you agreed, trying to ignore how your pulse had shifted into overtime.
but as you watched him settle back in his chair, something had definitely changed. the air between you felt thicker, more charged with possibility. and for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t entirely sure who was in control of this particular game anymore.
not that you minded being a little lost, especially when the alternative was finding your way back to the safety of professional distance. some risks were worth taking, even if they came wrapped in designer clothing and impossible blue eyes.
two months in, satoru gojo’s meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugar’s operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for “research.”
his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about “dietary consistency” taped to his gym locker. one simply read: “carbs are not your friend, satoru.” satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.
his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.
“dude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?” his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. “ones that don’t require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?”
satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. “the lighting’s better at this one.”
but they didn’t understand. couldn’t understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.
wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual time—10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.
he’d timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.
you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got him—a barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. he’d started cataloging these details without meaning to.
“morning, cupcake,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasn’t sure when that had happened. it just… fit.
“morning, satoru.” your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apron—the same gesture he’d seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. “the usual?”
the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because you’d noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.
“you know me so well,” he said, and the words held more weight than he’d intended.
something flickered across your face—pleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where you’d obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.
these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.
“here we go,” you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. “perfect timing, too—that tart just came out of the case.”
“perfect timing,” he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.
he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. he’d finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.
you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymore—it felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.
“those look almost too pretty to eat,” he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.
you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. “almost,” you agreed. “that’s the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work.”
he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. “a full second? that’s ambitious. for me, it’s more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation.” he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.
the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.
but you didn’t want him to.
your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. “so,” you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. “i was, uh, working on something new this morning.”
his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. “oh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?”
the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. “something like that,” you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.
it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.
you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.
satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, what—or rather, who—he was looking at. “cupcake,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. “what is this?”
“i’m not sure what to call it yet,” you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. “it’s a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor.” your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.
he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. “what feeling?”
you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. “i don’t know… quiet. calm.” you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. “like… the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace.” your lie was thin as spun sugar.
he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them you’d never seen before. “can i…?”
“i was hoping you would,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “i need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher.”
that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “my services are at your disposal.”
he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your space—he was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork you’d provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.
he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.
when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. “cupcake,” he said again, his voice rough with emotion. “that’s… that’s not a pastry. that’s a poem.” he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?
pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. “so… it’s okay?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. “okay? it’s… perfect.” he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. “it tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like… peace.” he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. “like finding something you didn't even know you were looking for.”
“i try,” you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.
he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. “the only problem,” he said, looking at the empty plate, “is that it’s over.”
his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.
he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.
and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty… so were you.
thursday passed like a held breath.
you found yourself checking the clock obsessively—10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, you’d reorganized the display case twice. by noon, you’d deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didn’t even have his number.
the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational part—the part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way he’d said “perfect” like a prayer—whispered crueler possibilities.
maybe he’d finally realized how far he’d drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterday’s cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.
maybe he’d finally gotten tired of your little bakery.
the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual table—table three by the window—every few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.
instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.
masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. “you seem off today,” she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. “waiting for someone?”
“no,” you lied, your voice a little too bright. “just tired.”
she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldn’t quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.
by 6 pm, you’d accepted the truth. he wasn’t coming.
you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.
you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard it—the soft tap of knuckles against glass.
your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastating—the way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.
you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. “satoru,” you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than you’d intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. “i thought—”
“i know,” he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture you’d never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. “i’m sorry. i had… things to take care of.” a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. “i was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly.”
“do what properly?” you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.
instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: you’re adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.
satoru’s cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. “i spent three hours at five different flower shops,” he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. “the florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently i’m hopeless at this.” his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. “but these… these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect.”
you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transfer—a contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. “satoru,” you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. “they’re beautiful.”
relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram posts—it transformed his entire face. “i was hoping you’d say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case.”
you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.
“would you…” he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. you’d never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. “god, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?” he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.
the sound seemed to center him. “satoru,” you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. “just ask.”
he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. “would you like to have dinner with me? tonight? there’s this place…” his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “it’s small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen is…” he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. “i’m selling this terribly. what i’m trying to say is, it’s my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you.”
the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. “i’d love to,” you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.
“yeah?” he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.
“yeah,” you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. “just let me grab my things.”
you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.
“ready?” he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.
“ready,” you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.
the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.
“nervous?” he asked as you walked, and you realized you’d been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.
“a little,” you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “good nervous, though.”
“me too,” he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. “i haven’t done this in a while. the whole… proper date thing.”
“what do you usually do?” you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. “sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“no, it’s okay,” he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. “honestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isn’t exactly romantic dinner material.” his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.
you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. “well, you’re setting the bar pretty low for yourself.”
“exactly,” he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. “smart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying.”
the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: “momiji.” no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.
inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoru’s mouth quirk with amusement.
“gojo-kun!” called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.
“evening, chiyo-san,” satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. “i brought someone special tonight.”
the woman’s eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoru’s hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “ah, i see. the usual table?”
“please,” he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.
as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, you’d had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.
“so,” you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, “how did you find this place?”
his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. “my first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke.” his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit you’d never noticed before. “but i’d just started posting gym content online—mostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things.” his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. “went from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible.”
you nearly choked on your own spit. “you were chubby?” the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from you—all sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.
his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. “hard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chan’s pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too.” his expression grew more serious for a moment. “kids can be brutal about that stuff.”
“i can’t even imagine,” you said, still staring at him like he’d just revealed he used to be a completely different person. “you’re so…” you gestured vaguely at all of him, “you know.”
“devastatingly handsome?” he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “i was going to say fit, but your ego doesn’t need any more help.”
“my ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much,” he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. “six million followers can’t be wrong.”
“six million?” you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. you’d known he was popular—the blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafe—but that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when you’d first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the… scenery.
a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “wait a minute,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “you’re telling me you stalked my entire profile, ‘accidentally’ liked my abs, and you didn’t even clock the follower count?” his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “cupcake, were you that mesmerized?”
heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. “it was an accident!” you insisted, your voice a little too high. “my phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!”
he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. “sure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap.” he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “it’s okay to admit it. my content is very… engaging.”
“it was an accident,” you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. “i barely even noticed.”
“you noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day,” he countered, his grin widening. “don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.
you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.
he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. “anyway… that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-san’s karaage and… followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things.”
“like what?” you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.
“protein powder, apparently,” he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “she’s been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice.” his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. “funny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry.”
something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. “your grandmother?”
“baa-chan,” he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. “she lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastries—mont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers.” his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. “i was… well, let’s just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking.”
the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. “i probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrified—kept talking about discipline and proper nutrition—but baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch.”
“what happened?” you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.
“she died when i was twelve,” he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. “that’s actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone.” his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. “worked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen.” he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like he’d made peace with that disappointment long ago. “funny thing though—turns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was… pretty addictive.”
the parallel wasn’t lost on you—him finding your bakery, the way he’d gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. “she sounds wonderful,” you managed, your voice softer than intended.
“she would have loved you,” he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. “would have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend she’d invented them herself.”
a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “i think i would have liked her too,” you said, your voice a little shaky. “even with the threat of culinary espionage.”
as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. “the usual for you, gojo-kun?”
“the usual sounds perfect,” he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. “i hope you don’t mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what i’m having.”
“i trust you,” you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.
chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness you’d expected on a first date was nowhere to be found—instead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.
“so,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, “tell me something i don’t know about you.”
you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. “i didn’t always want to run a bakery,” you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. “i went to university for literature. thought i’d be a translator, maybe work in publishing.”
“what changed your mind?” his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave you—like you were the only person in the world worth listening to.
“my grandmother,” you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. “she taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary.”
you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of food—golden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didn’t recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.
“this looks incredible,” you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.
“chiyo-san’s love language is overfeeding people,” satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this countless times. “but finish your story. about your grandmother.”
you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “oh my god, this is amazing.”
“right?” his smile was proud, like he’d made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. “best in the city. now keep talking.”
“well,” you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, “when she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible.”
your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. “she died two weeks before i was supposed to start my master’s program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think she’d be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams.”
satoru’s chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. “you didn’t give up,” he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. “you just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcome—that’s narrative too. connection. meaning.”
the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. “you think so?”
“i know so,” he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. “because i’ve been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space.”
you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. “satoru,” you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, “can i ask you something?”
“anything,” he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.
“your routine,” you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, “your content schedule, your training… am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workouts…”
he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.
“yes,” he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “you’ve completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement.”
“satoru—” you started, distress clear in your voice.
“let me finish,” he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. “you’ve ruined all of that. and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.
“for three years, since swimming didn’t work out, i’ve been pretty happy with what i built,” he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. “good content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills.” his smile was easy, confident. “and honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up.”
he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. “but then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasn’t about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just… nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when you’re concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask.”
his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. “masaru thinks i’ve gotten distracted, and he’s probably right. but honestly? i’m not complaining. life’s been pretty good to me, but this…” he gestured vaguely between you both, “this is something different. something better.”
the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.
“so no,” he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’re making everything more interesting.”
you felt warmth bloom in your chest—relief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. “that’s either the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, “or you’re really good at making excuses for carb addiction.”
he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.
“probably both,” he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. “masaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterday’s just said ‘vegetables exist, satoru.’”
“he’s not wrong,” you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. “this is not exactly influencer food.”
“which is why,” he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, “we’re going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow i’ll do an extra workout. balance.”
you spent the next hour working through chiyo-san’s generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.
the conversation flowed like you’d known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaru’s passive-aggressive campaign to restore his “macro discipline.”
“he’s started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag,” satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. “like a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills.”
“maybe you should introduce him to my neighbor,” you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. “she leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyone’s door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects.”
“god, can you imagine?” he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. “they’d have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo.”
by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. you’d somehow made it through most of the food—a feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrived—and you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.
“i should probably get you home,” satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested he’d rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. “it’s getting late, and you have to open tomorrow.”
“unfortunately,” you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.
he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. “this was my idea,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. “besides, you make me breakfast five days a week. it’s the least i can do.”
“that’s different,” you protested, your cheeks warming. “that’s business.”
“is it?” he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. “because it hasn’t felt like business for a while now.”
heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. “no,” you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. “it hasn’t.”
he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza “for tomorrow’s lunch” and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoru’s choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.
“which direction?” satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.
you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.
“thank you,” you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. “for tonight. for the flowers. for… all of it.”
“thank you,” he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, “for saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me.”
you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. “was it that obvious?”
“the white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway,” he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. “but even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. it’s one of the things i…” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
“one of the things you what?” you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.
just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaru’s name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.
the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze again—this time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though he’d chosen a safer honesty.
he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. “
i had a really good time tonight,” he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “like, really good. better than good.”
the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.
“me too,” you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.
he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.
he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. “we should… get you home.”
the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.
“this is me,” you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.
he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. “well… goodnight, cupcake.” there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.
“goodnight, satoru.”
he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didn’t do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldn’t do.
before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.
it wasn’t his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.
“bye,” you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fled—turning and rushing up the steps to your building’s entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.
satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.
inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?
a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.
squatoru: you missed 😉 but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.
you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of “tomorrow”—it was perfect. it was everything.
your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.
after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories weren’t the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.
the weeks following your first date settled into a new, delicious rhythm. satoru’s visits were no longer just a feature of your mornings—they were the anchor around which the day pivoted. his excuses grew bolder, more ridiculous, delivered with a playful glint in his eyes that dared you to call his bluff. “my coffee machine is staging a protest,” he’d declared one monday, looking deeply offended. “it refuses to respect my caffeine requirements.” another time, he’d claimed he was performing a “long-term atmospheric study” of the cafe.
the tentative space between you had warmed, filled with inside jokes murmured over the counter and a steady stream of late-night texts that ranged from his profound thoughts on protein-to-carb ratios to blurry photos of his cat sleeping on his face. yet, for all the new intimacy, an invisible line remained, drawn somewhere between a shared laugh and the memory of a soft, hesitant kiss on a quiet street corner. the air between you hummed with a constant, unspoken question.
which brought you to this thursday.
the afternoon had bled into soft golden-hour evening, the last loyal customers drifting out into cooling air, leaving behind lingering coffee scent and quiet refrigerator hum.
you were twenty minutes from closing, moving through your end-of-day routine with practiced, meditative rhythm. wiping down the gleaming stainless steel counters, the sharp sanitizer scent cutting through the day’s symphony of sugar and butter. humming a soft, unidentifiable tune that filled the empty space like invisible thread weaving through silence.
he was still there. satoru. at his usual table, fortress of one, half-empty matcha latte sweating onto a coaster. he was pretending to work on his sleek, expensive laptop that seemed alien in the cozy analog warmth of your café. but the screen had been dark for ten minutes, its black surface reflecting the warm, buttery pendant light glow.
he was just watching you. watching you move through your closing routine with the kind of quiet, unwavering attention usually reserved for things you never want to forget. his focus was a tangible weight between your shoulder blades.
“you know,” he says suddenly, his voice a low, unexpected rumble that cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you from your rhythmic wiping. those long fingers drummed a restless, silent rhythm against the closed laptop—a nervous tell you’d never seen from satoru gojo before. the man who moved through the world like he owned it was nervous. the realization sent a warm, unfamiliar jolt through you.
you paused, cloth in hand, leaning a hip against the counter. the setting sun slanted through the large front window, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them to spun gold. “what’s that? wondering if i’m ever going to kick you out so i can finally go home?”
he smiled, a slow, easy stretch that didn’t quite reach his storm-glass eyes. there was something different there today, a depth you hadn’t seen before. “something like that,” he admitted, his voice softer. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, the sound definitive, final. “how long does it actually take to learn? to do what you do?”
this wasn’t his casual, playful curiosity from before. not banter about his “research methodology.” this was deeper. vulnerable. it made your breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with flour dust.
“depends what you want to learn,” you said carefully, your voice quiet in the empty café, sensing the delicate shift in the air between you. you placed the cleaning cloth on the counter, giving him your full attention.
“everything.” the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. he stood, unfolding from his chair with fluid grace that was at odds with the tension in his shoulders. all that easy, performative confidence had been stripped away, replaced by something raw and honest. “i want to understand it all. the whole process. from scratch.”
you turned to look at him properly, taking in the way he watched you with those impossible eyes, the slight tension in his jaw like he was bracing for rejection. “from scratch?” you echoed, a faint disbelieving hum in your throat. “satoru, that’s... that would take a while. it’s not just following recipes. it’s feel. touch. intuition you build over years.”
“i know,” he said, his gaze unwavering. he took a step closer, then another, until he was leaning against the counter opposite you, the broad stainless steel expanse the only separation. the space felt charged, intimate. “i’ve been watching you. it’s different. the way you work. there’s patience to it. respect for the ingredients.” his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “i want to understand what it feels like to create something like you do. not just consume it.”
the confession, earnest and stripped of his usual charm, rewired something fundamental in your chest. he wasn’t just talking about baking. he was talking about meaning, purpose—things you never would have associated with the man who posted thirst traps for a living.
“that would take months, maybe longer,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.
“i’ve got time,” he said immediately, the words a quiet, fervent promise. he pushed off the counter, moving around it until he was standing in your workspace, in your world. he was close enough that you could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, the subtle matcha sweetness on his breath. “we could start tonight. if you want. something simple.”
your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in your chest. you realized what he was really asking for. not just lessons. not just a hobby. your time, your space, a piece of your world. he was asking for you.
“it’s almost closing time, satoru,” you managed, the words a weak protest against the overwhelming tide of his sincerity.
“i know.” another step closer. his storm-glass eyes were dark, intense, searching yours. “perfect timing, actually. no interruptions.”
you hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how empty the café felt, how the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the windows made everything feel dreamlike and charged. you could hear the soft refrigerator hum, the quiet clock ticking, the frantic thumping of your own heart. he saw your pause, the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, and something shifted in his expression—doubt maybe, disappointment that made your chest ache.
“unless you’re too tired,” he started, his voice suddenly losing its confident edge, “or you have plans, or this is a stupid idea, or—”
“no!” the word came out too enthusiastic, cutting him off. you felt a mortifying blush creep up your neck. you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “i mean, yes. we could do that. tonight.”
the smile that spread across his face was different from any you’d seen before. not his usual cocky smirk, nor the playful teasing grin. this one was softer, more genuine, tinged with profound relief and something that looked dangerously like joy. it transformed his entire face, made him look younger, more vulnerable. utterly beautiful.
“yeah?” he breathed, the single word full of hopeful, boyish charm that completely undid you.
“yeah,” you confirmed, a real, unguarded smile finally breaking through your professional facade. “but you’re on dish duty.”
he laughed, a bright, relieved sound that echoed in the quiet café, and in that moment something fragile and beautiful and terrifying was born between you.
you settled on chocolate soufflé. it felt appropriate—impressive enough to justify the extended after-hours lesson, but delicate enough to require real technique and timing. a challenge worthy of his newfound sincerity.
you flipped the sign to ‘closed’, the soft lock click echoing in the silence. you dimmed the front lights, leaving just the warm, focused glow of the kitchen workspace, creating an intimate golden bubble just for the two of you.
“soufflé?” he raised an eyebrow as you pulled out ramekins, his voice a low, amused rumble. he was leaning against the prep counter, watching with an intensity that made your skin prickle. he’d shed his expensive long-sleeved shirt, revealing a plain black t-shirt that clung to every powerful line of his torso. no designer labels, no carefully tousled hair. he looked simpler. more real. and almost nervous, a faint tension in his broad shoulders that you found ridiculously endearing. “isn’t that supposed to be impossible? the final boss of desserts?”
“only if you don’t understand the science,” you said, gathering your hair with practiced efficiency, tying it back. you felt his eyes on the nape of your neck, a warm focused heat. you started humming under your breath, a soft melody that always accompanied your more delicate work. “it’s all about incorporating air properly, then not letting it collapse. it’s very... temperamental.”
the word hung suspended in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with obvious double meaning. his storm-glass eyes darkened slightly, a slow knowing smile touching his lips.
“first, we make the base,” you explained, your voice slightly breathy as you turned to face him. you showed him how to melt dark chocolate with butter in a double boiler, the rich intoxicating scent starting to fill the air. “low and slow. you can’t rush it, or everything seizes up. gets bitter.”
he stood beside you, closer than necessary, watching intently as you stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, the chocolate melting into a glossy dark pool. when you handed the spoon over, his fingers brushed yours, a brief electric touch that sent a jolt up your arm.
“like this?” his voice was a low murmur as he mimicked your gentle circular motions. his focus was absolute, his usual playful energy replaced by quiet, earnest concentration that made something warm bloom in your chest.
“perfect. keep that rhythm.” when he started stirring just a little too fast, a little too aggressively, he moved behind you to adjust the motion. his broad chest pressed against your back as he covered your hand with his much larger one, and you went completely still. the solid wall of muscle behind you made thinking suddenly impossible. you could feel every shift of his torso, the way his breathing had gotten slightly unsteady, the heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. “feel how it’s getting smoother? the proteins are relaxing. you have to be gentle,” you managed, voice breathless and unsteady.
“sorry, cupcake,” he murmured against the top of your head, voice soft and slightly shaky. “i’m... not usually this nervous about stirring things.” there was wonder in his tone, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, doing this with you.
his voice was a low, rough growl when he answered. “kind of hard to focus with you pressed against me like this, cupcake.”
but the real intimacy, the real danger, came with the egg whites. you separated them with practiced grace, the yolks and whites parting cleanly. when you handed him the large copper bowl and the whisk, he looked genuinely intimidated, like you’d just handed him a live grenade.
“this is the make-or-break moment,” you told him, your voice soft but firm. you showed him the copper bowl, the clear viscous whites shimmering within. “the whites need to be perfect—not under-whisked, not over-whisked. just right. perfect stiff peaks.”
he started whisking, and it was all wrong. too aggressive, too fast, his powerful shoulders putting way too much force into it. the whites started foaming unevenly, large sloppy bubbles forming instead of the fine consistent foam you needed.
“no, no,” you said, looking up at his technique with barely contained laughter. “gentle at first, then build up. like this. it’s not about strength—it’s about rhythm.”
he stepped behind you with obvious reluctance, like he wasn’t quite sure this was a good idea either. “show me,” he said, voice slightly strained. his much larger hands covered yours on the whisk handle, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned over your shoulder to watch the bowl. the solid wall of muscle behind you made your pulse stutter, and you could tell from his uneven breathing that he was just as affected. “this is... harder than it looks,” he murmured, clearly talking about more than whisking.
“slow circles first,” you managed, acutely aware of how he was bracketing you, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with lingering chocolate. you started the motion, and he followed your rhythm with careful precision, his hands slightly unsteady over yours. you felt him lean down, his breath warm against your ear, and you had to bite back a nervous giggle at how ridiculous this all was. “feel the resistance change? now we can go faster.”
“this is torture,” he said softly, but there was fondness in his voice, like he was amazed by his own predicament. when you sped up the whisking motion, his body moved with yours, and he let out a soft, almost helpless sound that made you want to turn around and kiss the dazed expression you knew was on his face.
“they’re getting stiff,” he said, his voice rough, strained.
“perfect stiff peaks,” you agreed, your own voice shaky, though you were definitely talking about more than egg whites now. the air was thick with unspoken things, with the scent of chocolate and the clean masculine smell of him. “now comes the tricky part.”
“but first,” you said, reaching for the small container of flour from a nearby shelf, “let me just...” you dipped your fingers into the white powder, then without warning, dabbed it across his cheek, leaving a pale streak across his sharp cheekbone.
he went completely still, his storm-glass eyes widening in surprise. “did you just—”
“oops,” you said innocently, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “occupational hazard. flour gets everywhere in real kitchens.”
a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “is that so?” he reached for the flour container, dipped his own fingers. before you could react, he’d brushed powder across your nose, a gentle touch that made your breath catch. “seems like you’re right. very hazardous.”
what followed was gentle chaos. a playful flour fight that had you both laughing breathlessly, white powder dusting your hair and clothes and every surface within reach. he was careful not to be too aggressive, but his competitive streak showed when he managed to get a handful down the back of your apron.
“satoru!” you squeaked, arching away from the cold powder, which only pressed you closer against his chest. he was grinning down at you, flour in his silver hair making him look younger, more carefree than you’d ever seen him.
“what? you started it, cupcake.” his voice was warm with laughter, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. “just evening the playing field.”
“we’re supposed to be baking,” you protested weakly, but you were smiling too hard to sound stern. you hummed a soft laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“we are baking,” he said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “this is... technique development. very important for proper soufflé preparation.”
“technique development,” you repeated skeptically.
“absolutely. building trust between chef and... sous chef.” his fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “can’t make good food without trust, right?”
something in his voice made you look up at him properly. you were both flour-streaked and disheveled, hair messed and clothes dusty, but his expression was soft, genuine. like he was asking about more than just cooking.
“right,” you agreed quietly. “trust is... essential.”
the moment stretched between you, charged with possibility, until the timer on your phone chimed a reminder about the chocolate base.
“folding is an art,” you told him after you’d both brushed off the worst of the flour, your voice a low murmur as you spooned a third of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate base. you started humming again, a soft tune that helped organize your movements. “too rough, and you’ll knock out all the air we just built up. too gentle, and it won’t incorporate properly.”
you demonstrated the motion—a gentle lift up from the bottom, a turn of the spoon, a clean cut down through the mixture. it was graceful, practiced, almost hypnotic. a quiet ballet of the hands.
“your turn,” you said, handing him the spoon, your eyes locking with his over the bowl. his were dark, almost black, pupils blown wide.
his first attempts were clumsy, awkward. he was trying to stir, not fold, and you could see the frustration building in the tense set of his shoulders.
“here,” you murmured, gesturing for him to step behind you again. “it’s easier if you can see the motion properly.” this time when he moved to stand behind you, his positioning was more natural but no less distracting—his height allowing him to look over your shoulder easily, though he seemed to be having trouble concentrating on anything but the way you fit against his chest.
you demonstrated the folding motion with him watching intently, his breath tickling your ear. “lift... turn... cut down,” you guided softly, trying to ignore how his hands trembled slightly when they covered yours. “it’s all about the wrist action. gentle but firm.”
the double entendre hung in the air, and you felt him go completely still behind you, then let out a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. “you’re killing me here, cupcake,” he said, voice strained but fond. “i’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“like that?” he asked when you guided him through the motion, voice breathless and wondering, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here doing this with you.
“exactly like that,” you whispered back, your own voice soft with affection and barely contained laughter at how completely gone you both were. “you’re a natural.”
the confession, so simple and true, settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to take back. you didn’t step away this time. you couldn’t. instead, your hands tightened over his on the spoon, a silent mutual acknowledgment that this had stopped being about baking.
“satoru,” you whispered, his name a soft questioning sound against his skin.
he turned in your arms, the movement slow, deliberate, until you were pressed between his warm solid chest and the cool unyielding edge of the counter. the spoon was forgotten, clattering onto the prep surface as his hands, large and warm and sure, found your waist.
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel cherished and utterly safe.
“we should... put the soufflés in the oven,” you breathed against his mouth, your mind vaguely aware of the prepared ramekins sitting nearby, waiting.
“in a minute,” he murmured back, his hands spanning your waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin under your ribs, sending shivers through you. “i like you messy, cupcake. flour suits you.”
his mouth trailed down your throat, a hot open-mouthed path that made you arch into him, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. he groaned softly at the contact, the sound a deep guttural vibration against your collarbone that made your entire body hum with want.
“they’ll collapse if we wait too long,” you tried again, halfheartedly, your fingers tangling in the soft silver strands of his hair.
“then we’ll make new ones,” he said against your skin, his voice a low possessive growl. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it stole the air from your lungs. “but i’ve been thinking about this for weeks, cupcake. thinking about you. about what it would feel like to have you in my arms, in my kitchen.”
his mouth found yours again, a deep, possessive kiss that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing, restraint finally shattering. it felt like surrender, a point of no return—until your eyes fluttered open and caught on the copper bowl behind him. the glossy egg whites, the soul of the soufflé, were already softening. the baker in you screamed in silent protest.
your palms pressed to his chest, firm but trembling. “satoru, wait,” you breathed, lips brushing his. “the soufflé—the egg whites will collapse.”
he groaned, burying his face in your neck for one tortured beat before pulling back. the panic in your eyes softened his frustration into something fonder, and a wicked smile tugged at his lips.
“can’t have that,” he murmured. “a collapsed soufflé on my first lesson? my record would be ruined.” he stole one last hard kiss. “okay, chef. lead the way.”
the shift back to the task was electric. the air was thick with what almost happened, and what was definitely going to happen later. with trembling legs, you slid off the counter, your body buzzing with unspent energy.
somehow, between shaking hands and the distraction of his solid presence behind you, you managed to get the soufflé mixture into the ramekins and slide them into the preheated oven. your movements were less precise than usual, some ramekins fuller than others, your usual perfectionist tendencies completely derailed by the heat radiating from his body every time he leaned close.
“and now we wait,” you said, stepping back from the oven and immediately missing the warmth of him behind you.
“twelve minutes,” he repeated, voice rough around the edges. he ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual. “what do we do for twelve minutes?”
“try not to think about them,” you managed, wiping your flour-dusted hands on your apron with nervous energy. “soufflés can sense anxiety.”
“well, that explains a lot,” he said, that crooked smile making your pulse skip. “i’m the human embodiment of anxiety right now.”
the twelve minutes crawled by with painful slowness. you cleaned up together, hyperaware of every accidental brush of fingers, every time he had to reach around you for something. the domesticity of it was strange and intoxicating—him washing dishes while you wiped surfaces, both stealing glances at each other and the oven door.
when the timer finally shrieked, you both jumped like guilty teenagers.
you opened the oven door with trembling hands, and a cloud of warm, chocolate-scented air enveloped you. your heart did a little flip. they’d risen, yes, but unevenly—some tall and proud, others slightly lopsided, one that had clearly gotten too much mixture and was threatening to spill over its ramekin in a delicious, molten wave. they were messy. they were imperfect. they were theirs.
“oh,” satoru said softly from beside you, and you could hear the genuine disappointment creeping into his voice as he took in the imperfect results. his broad shoulders slumped just a fraction, a quiet admission of his high expectations meeting a messy reality.
you turned to face him, a gentle, reassuring smile on your lips as you caught the slight downturn of his mouth. it was an expression you’d never seen on him before—not arrogance, not charm, but a boyish, sulky pout that was ridiculously endearing.
“hey,” you said softly, nudging his arm with your shoulder. “it’s your first time making one of the most notoriously difficult pastries in the world. and,” you added, your voice dropping to a warmer, more intimate tone, “they’re made with love. that’s what really matters, right?”
he looked down at you with those storm-glass eyes, something soft and vulnerable flickering there. “but yours are always perfect,” he retorted, his voice a low, almost mournful grumble. “everything you make is always perfect and made with love. it’s not fair.”
heat crept up your neck at the raw sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at you like you’d hung the moon and personally arranged the stars. the compliment, born from his own momentary failure, felt more potent than any of his previous praise. “satoru…”
“what? it’s true.” a hint of his usual confidence returned as he grabbed two spoons from the drawer, his movements decisive. he handed you one, but his expression was still earnest. “you need to taste it. for science. to confirm that my love-infused-but-lopsided soufflé is still edible.”
the first bite was molten chocolate heaven, rich and airy despite the uneven appearance. you made a soft, involuntary sound of appreciation, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. when you opened them, he was watching you, a hopeful, almost anxious look on his face.
“good?” he asked, taking his own first, tentative spoonful.
instead of answering with words, you scooped up another bite from the messy, overflowing ramekin—his ramekin. you held it out to him, surprising yourself with the easy intimacy of the gesture. “you tell me.”
his eyes went wide for a moment before a slow, devastating smile spread across his face. he leaned forward, his lips closing around the spoon you offered in a way that made your pulse stutter. the soft, pleased sound he made, his own eyes fluttering closed in bliss, sent a wave of heat spiraling through your chest.
“incredible,” he breathed, his gaze locking with yours, dark and full of a wonder that had nothing to do with the chocolate. then, a mischievous glint returned. he scooped up some of his own. “your turn.”
you leaned forward to accept the bite he offered, hyperaware of how his gaze tracked the movement of your lips around the spoon. the chocolate was perfect—rich and warm and somehow tasting even better when he was the one feeding it to you.
“this is ridiculous,” you murmured, but you were smiling, caught up in the sweetness of the moment.
“ridiculously perfect,” he agreed, then leaned closer, eyes dark with intent. “you’ve got chocolate...”
instead of telling you where, he kissed you, slow and sweet and tasting of molten chocolate and something like joy. when he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips barely brushing yours, you were both breathing unsteadily.
“found it,” he murmured against your mouth, then kissed you again, deeper this time.
the spoons clattered forgotten to the counter as his hands found your waist, lifting you easily onto the prep surface. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as his mouth moved against yours with increasing hunger.
“satoru,” you gasped between kisses, your hands fisting in his t-shirt.
“been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, his voice rough with want. “been thinking about you. for weeks.”
his mouth trailed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp and laugh at the same time. “been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, voice full of wonder like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. “been thinking about you. driving myself crazy for weeks.”
your fingers tangled in his silver hair, and he practically melted into the touch, letting out a soft, almost reverent sigh. “you’re ridiculous,” you murmured fondly, then squeaked when he found that particularly sensitive spot again. “and apparently very good at distracting people from baking.”
“i’m a man of many talents,” he said against your skin, then pulled back to look at you with that boyish grin that made your heart do stupid things. “though i have to say, this is my new favorite.”
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel small and cherished and utterly safe.
he groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender. his hands, large and sure, span your waist before sliding down, gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes your breath catch. with an effortless display of power, he lifts you, settling you back onto the cool, flour-dusted prep counter without breaking the kiss. you are surrounded by him, pinned between his hard body and the solid surface, the intoxicating scent of him—clean soap, expensive cologne, and a faint, sweet hint of matcha—filling your senses.
he breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it makes you dizzy. his breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily. he rests his forehead against yours for a moment, a quiet beat in the rising storm, as if to center himself.
“been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl, “since the first time i saw you wipe flour on your apron.” his thumbs trace slow, hypnotic circles on your hips. “weeks, cupcake. i’ve been going out of my mind.”
the raw honesty in his voice, stripped of all its usual playful charm, makes your heart hammer against your ribs. you can only nod, your fingers still tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt.
he straightens up slightly, his gaze dropping to the simple, practical dress you wear for work. a slow, wicked smirk begins to curve his lips. “this has got to go,” he decides, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. he reaches for the small zipper at the back of your neck, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “can’t properly appreciate the artistry with all this… fabric in the way.”
a wave of shyness washes over you, and your hands instinctively move to cover his. “satoru, wait…”
he pauses, his large, warm hand gently covering yours. he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his storm-glass eyes holding yours, suddenly tender. “hey,” he whispers. “it’s just me. just us. i want to see you. all of you.” the sincerity in his voice, the quiet plea in his eyes, melts your resistance. you slowly, hesitantly, release his hand.
with a triumphant but gentle smile, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. he peels the fabric from your shoulders with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, not exposed. he lets the dress pool around your waist, revealing the simple cotton bra and bloomers you wear for comfort during long hours on your feet. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure, letting it fall away.
his breath hitches. “fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost worshipful intensity. his eyes, so often a playful, teasing blue, are now dark with a raw, unadulterated awe. he reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, as if memorizing your shape. “so perfect.”
he breaks away for a moment, and you hear the soft hiss of a canister. he returns with the whipped cream you’d left out from the cupcake prep, a playful, predatory glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a frantic flip.
“what are you doing?” you whisper, your voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat.
“you make perfect things all day,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble, as he steps back between your legs. “so sweet. so delicious.” his hand slides up your thigh, his touch warm and sure. “it’s only fair i get to make you my pastry for once.” he shakes the can, the sound a playful rattle. “for research, of course.”
you watch, a mixture of terror and fascination, as he aims the nozzle. “satoru, that’s going to be… cold,” you manage, a faint note of protest in your voice.
“i’ll warm you up,” he promises, his eyes dark with intent.
he doesn't start where you expect. he sprays a small, perfect dollop of whipped cream on your inner thigh, right above your knee. the cold shock makes you gasp, your legs instinctively trying to close. he just chuckles, a low, pleased sound, and holds them gently in place. he leans down, his silver hair brushing against your leg like spun silk, and licks the cream away in one slow, deliberate swipe. his eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste. his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded. “delicious.”
he moves up, a slow, methodical artist at work. he sprays a delicate swirl on your hip, another on the sensitive skin of your stomach, just above your navel, each cold touch followed by the hot, wet warmth of his mouth. he’s decorating you, his movements precise and artful. his final touches are the most deliberate: two perfect, delicate rosettes piped directly onto your nipples. the intense cold makes them pebble instantly, and you cry out, a sharp, surprised sound.
“look at that,” he breathes, admiring his handiwork, his voice thick with a possessive pride. “my perfect little cupcake. so pretty.” he leans in and devours his creation, his tongue tracing the swirl on one nipple before he takes the entire hardened peak into his mouth, licking and sucking the sweet cream away until you’re writhing on the counter, your fingers fisting in his hair. he gives the other nipple the same reverent, all-consuming attention, his praise a constant, filthy murmur against your skin. “so sweet… knew you would be… perfect for me…”
his attention then moves lower, his mouth trailing a hot, wet path down your stomach, licking away every last trace of cream. his hands find the waistband of your bloomers, then the delicate lace of your panties beneath. he doesn't remove them. instead, he hooks his fingers in the elastic, pulling the fabric taut, creating a perfect frame for the sight of you. you’re already dripping for him, the thin lace dark and damp with your arousal. he groans, a low, satisfied sound against your skin. “look at how wet you are, pretty girl. already melting for me.”
he doesn't push the fabric aside. he presses his mouth right against the damp lace, the slightly rough texture an immediate, shocking friction against your sensitive flesh. his tongue darts out, tracing the outline of your folds through the material, mapping you. the friction is maddening, a delicious, textured pleasure that makes you cry out, your hips lifting instinctively from the counter. he laps at you, teases you, soaking the lace until it clings to you like a second skin.
“so sweet,” he pants against you. “i can taste you right through your panties. fuck, that’s so hot.” his praise is relentless, a filthy, hypnotic mantra. “that’s it, let it go for me… soak yourself for me… i’m going to taste every drop…”
then, the teasing stops. he positions his mouth directly over the heart of you, and with a low groan, he pushes the tip of his tongue firmly against the lace, right over your entrance. he doesn't just lick, he fucks. he presses his tongue into you, a firm, insistent pressure that mimics the head of a cock, working his way into your channel through the thin barrier of fabric. the sensation is overwhelming, a dull, deep friction that sends shockwaves straight to your core.
he moves with a steady, relentless rhythm, his entire focus narrowed on this single, filthy act—fucking you through your own panties. you can feel the lace stretching, rubbing, a maddeningly indirect stimulation that is somehow more intense than direct contact. he works you like this for long, torturous moments, his breath hot and ragged, until your mind goes blank with overwhelming pleasure.
with a choked sob, you come, your body convulsing on the counter, your inner muscles clenching with a helpless, shattering release.
he stays there, lapping up the fresh wave of your release through the lace, until the last of your shudders subside. then, and only then, does he pull back, a triumphant, proprietary smirk on his lips. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your soaked panties and bloomers, pulling them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion, tossing them aside.
“oh, pretty girl,” he says, his voice a low, teasing drawl as he looks at the damp, glistening evidence of your pleasure on the counter beneath you. “you made a mess.” he tuts playfully, shaking his head. “we can’t have that. health hazard, you know. very unprofessional.”
before you can respond, a mortified blush heating your cheeks, he’s leaning in, his tongue darting out to clean you up, licking the sticky wetness from the cool stainless steel. his thoroughness is both humiliating and unbelievably arousing.
when he’s finished, he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry. “all clean,” he purrs. “but i think i missed a spot.”
he reaches for the whipped cream canister again. your eyes widen. “satoru, no…” you breathe, a weak, helpless laugh escaping you.
“satoru, yes,” he corrects, his grin wicked.
this time, he sprays a single, perfect, generous dollop right onto your swollen, hyper-sensitive clit. the cold shock makes you gasp, your hips lifting off the counter, a sound that is half protest, half plea.
he watches the cream start to melt against your heat, a slow, decadent drip. “now, for the final, most important detail,” he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation.
this time, there is no barrier, just his mouth and tongue and teeth, a relentless, worshipful assault. he licks away the cream with slow, languid strokes, savoring the taste of it mixed with your own unique sweetness. his tongue is an instrument of pure pleasure, tracing circles, flicking, dipping inside you.
his praise starts again, a low, constant murmur against your most sensitive flesh as he works. “fuck, you taste so good… my favorite flavor… so responsive for me, pretty girl… that’s it, let me hear you… scream for me this time…”
he finds your rhythm, his tongue a merciless, perfect piston against your clit. the pleasure is sharper this time, more intense, building with a speed that terrifies and excites you.
you feel the pressure coiling low in your belly, a tight, frantic knot. he senses it, his ministrations becoming more insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs to hold you still. he is determined to wring another orgasm from you, to leave you completely, utterly wrecked.
you come apart for him again, the climax even more intense than the first, a shattering, vocal scream that echoes in the quiet kitchen as he swallows every last drop with a deep, possessive groan.
he pulled back, mouth slick with your taste, a triumphant smirk curving his lips. you were a beautiful, dazed mess on his counter, boneless beneath his gaze.
then, unexpectedly, tenderness welled in him. he kissed you again—softer this time, slow and languid, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. his hands slid from your thighs to brush your hair back, careful, hesitant. he was trying to be good.
but you were wrecked. your body still trembling from back-to-back orgasms, raw with sensitivity, high on his filthy praise—and now achingly empty. his gentleness only stoked the hunger. you craved the strength he leashed, the overwhelming power you knew he held. you needed more.
“satoru,” you whisper, your voice shaky but threaded with a raw, undeniable determination. your hands, which had been limply resting in your lap, come up to fist in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. his gentle caresses aren’t enough. “don’t… don’t be so gentle.”
his hands still in your hair. he pulls back slightly, his storm-glass eyes searching yours, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily clearing the haze of lust. he sees the pleading in your gaze, the desperate want, and something darker, more primal, begins to stir in their depths. the carefully constructed dam of his control begins to crack.
“you sure, pretty girl?” his voice is a low, dangerous growl, a stark contrast to his previous soft praises. the air crackles with a new, sharper tension. “i’ve been trying really hard to be good for you. but if you ask me not to be…”
you just shake your head, a single. your legs, which had been lying limp, tighten around his waist, hooking your ankles behind him, trapping him. “i don’t want you to be good,” you breathe, the confession a spark in the charged air, an open invitation to the freak you know is lurking just beneath the surface. “i want you.”
that’s it. that’s the only permission he needs. his control shatters into a million pieces. the last vestiges of softness in his expression vanish, replaced by a raw, possessive hunger that makes a shiver of fear and excitement race down your spine. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and the grip on your thighs becomes bruising, possessive.
“then you better hold on tight,” he growls, his voice a guttural promise of what’s to come.
“not here,” he says, his voice rough, a surprising, almost feral nod to the hygiene of your workspace, a last remnant of his respect for your craft. he glances around at the flour-dusted surfaces, at the cooling soufflés, then back at you. “i’m going to ruin you, and i want to see your face when i do it.”
before you can respond, he’s lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing, your legs locked tight around his waist. his stride is long, purposeful, carrying you out of the warm kitchen into the dark back office. the door slams shut behind him, the echo sealing you off from the world. he drops you onto the worn couch, the springs groaning under the impact.
he looms in the dim light, a towering silhouette of unrestrained want—a predator finally given leave to hunt. his fingers fumble at his cargo pants, grace traded for frantic urgency, the rasp of his zipper loud in the silence.
then he’s free. your breath stutters, eyes widening as the faint glow catches on him—thick, heavy, impossibly long. he’s big. so big. a sharp, sweet edge of fear slices through the haze of your arousal.
“so pretty for me,” he pants, his eyes dark and wild as he moves over you. “all wrecked and wanting it.” he pins your wrists to the couch cushions above your head with one large, strong hand, his grip firm but not painful, a gesture of absolute domination. with his other hand, he parts your slick folds, his thumb stroking your clit in a way that makes you gasp.
he guides himself to your entrance. you’re soaked, still leaking from your last orgasms, but even so, the thick, blunt head of his cock just nudges against you, a solid, unyielding pressure. it’s too much. it won’t fit.
“satoru,” you gasp, your eyes wide, a real note of panic in your voice as you feel the impossible pressure. your hips instinctively try to shift away. “i don’t… i don’t think i can.”
“shhh,” he soothes, his voice a low, ragged rumble, though his eyes are blazing with intensity. he doesn't pull back. instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “yes, you can, pretty girl. you were made for this.” a possessive growl underlines his words. “and i’m going to make it fit.”
he demonstrates a restraint that is almost terrifying. he doesn't push. instead, he begins a slow, torturous tease. he rocks his hips, fucking you with just the very tip, the wide, smooth head of his cock stretching you, parting your slick folds, making you impossibly wetter.
he moves in and out of just that first inch, a maddening, relentless rhythm that feels like both heaven and hell. his control is absolute, his powerful body held perfectly in check.
“that’s it…” he groans, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his temples. “feel how much i want you? just the tip, and you’re already so tight… so good… gripping me…” every word is a praise, a promise. he watches your face, watches your eyes screw shut as you bite your lip, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being slowly, deliberately claimed.
you’re whining now, desperate and needy as your hips buck instinctively, trying to take more of him. the initial fear has been replaced by an all-consuming need to be filled by him, completely and utterly.
“eager for me, huh?” he chuckles, a dark, pleased sound. his hips stutter, a sign of his own fracturing control. “good. that’s so good, pretty girl. now, take me. all of me.”
he shifts his angle slightly, and then, with a slow, deliberate, powerful push, he begins to fill you. it’s a gradual invasion, an inch-by-inch claiming of your body. it’s an overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness, a delicious, burning stretch that makes you cry out, your back arching off the couch.
he keeps going, slowly, steadily, until he’s buried to the hilt, and you feel a profound, soul-deep stretch as he bottoms out against your cervix. he fills you completely, impossibly.
he stays there for a long moment, buried to the hilt inside you, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming size of him. he pants above you, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes closed as he just savors the feeling of being completely, perfectly sheathed inside you.
“fuck,” he breathes, the word a reverent sigh. “perfect fit.”
he shifts his hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate grind that draws a whimper from your throat, and a satisfied smirk touches his lips. he opens his eyes, their storm-blue depths dark and intense.
when he finally begins to move, it’s with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. he pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of him retreating making you whine in protest, your hips lifting off the couch to chase him. he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “uh-uh, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his free hand coming down to press your hip firmly into the couch cushions, pinning you in place. “i’m in charge now. you’ll take what i give you.”
he thrusts back in, slowly, every inch a rediscovery, a fresh wave of overwhelming fullness. he establishes a deep, hypnotic rhythm—a slow, complete withdrawal followed by an even slower, deeper return. with every inward stroke, he presses deep, his powerful hips rolling, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in a way that makes you see stars.
“feel that?” he groans, his voice a low, rough rasp by your ear. “that’s all for you. all of it.”
you can only nod, your own breath coming in ragged gasps, your mind starting to short-circuit. the dual stimulation is too much, your senses overloaded. you’re trapped, pinned by his hand on your hip and his other hand holding your wrists, completely at the mercy of his slow, deliberate torture.
“use your words, pretty girl,” he demands, his rhythm faltering for just a second. “i need to hear it. tell me how it feels.”
“it’s… so much,” you gasp, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. “satoru, please…”
“please what?” he presses, his hips resuming that slow, torturous grind. he knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing out the pleasure, pushing you closer and closer to the edge only to pull you back. “tell me what you want.”
“i want… more,” you sob, the admission torn from you. “faster.”
a dark, possessive grin spreads across his face. “not yet,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss you, a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of salt and want. “not until you’re begging for it.”
he continues his slow, deep, punishing rhythm for what feels like an eternity. he talks to you the entire time, a constant stream of filthy praise and possessive commands that unravels you completely. “so good… gripping me so tight… look at you, taking all of me without even a single complaint… you were made for this, made for me…”
he’s right. you were. the initial overwhelming stretch has melted into a deep, profound ache of pleasure. your body, which you thought couldn't possibly take him, has molded around him, welcoming him.
finally, just as you feel like you’re about to shatter from the tension, he changes the rhythm. his thrusts become shorter, faster, focused on that one spot deep inside you that he seems to have memorized. your own hips start to buck against his hand, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm.
“there it is,” he pants, his own control starting to fray. “that’s what i wanted to see.”
his head dips down. as a particularly deep, powerful thrust makes you cry out his name in a sob of pure pleasure, his mouth finds the soft flesh of your shoulder, just above the collarbone. he bites down. it’s not enough to break the skin, but it’s a sharp, possessive pressure that leaves a clear, red mark. a brand. he licks over it immediately, the rough swipe of his tongue soothing the sting.
“gotta leave a little reminder for you,” he rasps, his voice a possessive growl against your skin, his thrusts becoming frantic now, slamming into you. “so you don’t forget who you belong to. so everyone knows.”
the mark, his possessive words, the overwhelming fullness, the shift to a desperate, frantic pace… it all sends you spiraling. your mind goes white with sensation, and you come with a choked scream, your body convulsing around his thick cock, your inner muscles clenching and milking him with a helpless, frantic rhythm.
your orgasm only makes him harder, his own release held back by a thread of sheer, iron will. the feeling of your inner muscles convulsing around him, milking him, sends a shudder through his powerful frame. he groans, a low, guttural sound of a man right on the edge. but he’s not done with you yet. not even close.
he pulls out of you with a wet, obscene slap that makes you whine in protest at the sudden emptiness. but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. before you can even process the lingering tremors of your climax, he’s pulling you up from the couch, onto your feet.
“turn around,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl, thick with unshed lust. you’re pliant in his hands, dazed and completely his to command. you obey without question, letting him guide you the few steps to the small, cluttered wooden desk. he positions you, turning you so you can plant your hands on the edge of it, your ass pushed out for him, a perfect, vulnerable offering.
he presses his hard, sweat-slick body against your back, caging you in, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cool wood beneath your palms. “look at you,” he rasps, his voice a low growl right by your ear as he admires the sight of you, bent over and waiting for him. “so good. so obedient for me.”
one powerful arm snakes around your front, his forearm pressing with deliberate, firm pressure against your throat. it doesn’t hurt, not yet, but it’s a clear, undeniable act of control. your breath hitches, a jolt of pure, primal fear mixing with a sharp spike of arousal.
his hold tilts your head back into the crook of his shoulder, exposing the long, pale line of your neck to him. his mouth is right there, at your ear, at your throat, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. his other hand grips your hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady, claiming you. you are completely, utterly his to manhandle.
he thrusts into you from behind in a single, powerful motion. the angle is impossibly deep, hitting a spot that bypasses thought and sends a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. a scream tears from your throat, but as it does, the pressure on your windpipe increases. not enough to truly choke you, but enough to cut the sound off, turning your scream into a pathetic, breathy whimper.
the world begins to swim at the edges, your head light and floaty from the lack of air. it’s terrifying. it’s perfect. the combination of overwhelming fullness and oxygen deprivation sends you spiraling, your mind going blessedly blank.
his thrusts are deep, powerful, slamming into you with a relentless, animalistic rhythm. with the pressure on your throat, every frantic gasp for air, every choked moan, is a sound of pure, helpless submission that seems to drive him wilder.
his mouth finds the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and as he fucks you, he latches on, sucking hard. you feel the sting, the pull, and you know, with a dizzying thrill, that he’s leaving a dark, undeniable hickey. another mark. a claim for all to see.
he’s not pulling out. this is the final, undeniable act of possession. “i’m going to come inside you, pretty girl,” he groans into your ear, his hips slamming into you, each word a percussive beat against your senses. “i’m going to fill you up… make you mine.”
the combination of his filthy, possessive words, the choking pressure making your head spin, the new, stinging mark on your neck, and the overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness is what sends you over the edge one last time.
your fourth, and most intense, orgasm hits like a lightning strike, a complete system overload. your mind whites out, your body convulsing violently around him, and the helpless, breathy sounds spilling from your lips are his undoing.
with a final, desperate groan that’s more roar than word, he thrusts deep one last time and floods you with his release, the hot, thick seed a shocking, intimate brand deep inside you, coating your womb, claiming you from the inside out.
he collapses against you, his entire weight a comforting, solid presence. his arm immediately loosens from your throat, allowing you to drag in a ragged, desperate lungful of air. your vision clears, the world snapping back into sharp focus. his breathing is harsh, ragged against your ear, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your back. for a long moment, you just stand there, tangled together, held up only by the desk and his strength, the aftermath of the storm washing over you in slow, trembling waves.
he doesn't let you go. after a minute, when his breathing has started to even out, he shifts. his movements are gentle now, a stark, beautiful contrast to the ferocity of moments before. he pulls you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle in a secure, protective embrace. he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the dark, angry-looking mark on your neck. his lips are soft, almost apologetic, yet deeply possessive.
“come on,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. he helps you gather your discarded clothes—the dress, the bra, the panties—not with any sense of shame, but with a quiet, domestic tenderness. he guides you back to the couch, sitting you down gently before finding a clean dish towel from a nearby hook and wetting it with a bottle of water from your desk. he kneels before you and carefully, tenderly, cleans you up. every soft swipe of the cloth is an act of worship, an apology, a promise.
when you’re clean, he helps you dress again, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he zips up your dress, his fingers brushing against your skin. he pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest, his arms a safe haven. you’re exhausted, boneless, and completely content.
and in the beautiful, comfortable wreckage he’d so lovingly made of you, you felt safer and more cherished than ever before. you were, unequivocally, his.
consciousness crept in slowly, warm and hazy and completely disorienting. your bed felt softer than usual, sunlight streaming through curtains that you definitely remembered closing last night. you were wearing your favorite sleep shirt—the oversized one with tiny croissants printed all over it—and had absolutely no memory of changing into it.
blinking up at your ceiling, pieces of the previous evening started filtering back. the baking lesson. satoru’s hands over yours. flour everywhere. the soufflés rising unevenly. kissing him until your lips felt swollen and your heart hammered like it was trying to escape your chest. everything after that was a haze of heat and breathless whispers and the way he’d touched you like you were something precious and breakable and his.
but how did you get home?
you sat up slowly, running hands through thoroughly disheveled hair, trying to piece together the gap in your memory. the last clear thing you remembered was being wrapped around satoru on your office couch, both of you breathless and covered in flour, the cafe dark except for the warm glow from the kitchen.
your phone sat on the nightstand, and when you grabbed it to check the time, your heart nearly stopped.
9:47 am.
wait, that couldn’t be right. you shot up from bed like you’d been electrocuted, panic flooding your system. if it was 9:47 in the morning, that meant— “shit, shit, shit!” the cafe should have opened an hour and forty-seven minutes ago. customers would have been lined up. your regulars, your weekend rush. they’d be confused, probably annoyed. your perfect attendance record, your reputation, everything—
that’s when you smelled it. coffee. real coffee, not the instant stuff you kept in your apartment for emergencies. and was that… bacon?
you stumbled toward your bedroom door, still half-panicked and completely confused. the soft sounds of someone moving around your kitchen, the quiet sizzle of something in a pan, and—was that humming? a low, familiar melody that made your chest flutter with recognition.
padding barefoot down the hallway, you stopped short in your kitchen doorway.
satoru stood at your stove, wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else except one of your aprons tied around his narrow waist. the soft pink fabric with tiny cupcakes printed on it looked absolutely ridiculous stretched across his broad shoulders, the ties barely meeting around his back. his silver hair was still sleep-mussed, sticking up in several directions, and he was humming while orchestrating what looked like a feast designed to feed a small army.
the counter was covered with an impressive spread that belonged in a five-star brunch restaurant. thick, fluffy japanese pancakes stacked impossibly high, their surfaces golden and perfect. fresh strawberries and blueberries arranged in artful clusters, some cut into delicate fan shapes. crispy strips of bacon laid out in precise rows alongside what appeared to be perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes, golden and herb-crusted. scrambled eggs that looked like silk, probably made with cream and patience.
a small bowl of homemade whipped cream sat next to another containing what could only be maple butter. and was that hollandaise sauce? actual hollandaise sauce, made from scratch in your tiny kitchen, keeping warm in a makeshift double boiler.
“morning, beautiful,” he said without turning around, shoulders shifting as he adjusted the heat under a pan. his voice carried that particular roughness that came from a night of use, and the sound sent warmth spiraling through your chest as memories crashed back in vivid detail. “hope you don’t mind me raiding your kitchen. and your spice cabinet. and possibly your entire pantry.”
you stared at the spread, then at him, brain still trying to catch up to this alternate reality where satoru gojo had transformed your modest kitchen into a professional-grade brunch operation. “that’s my apron,” you managed, voice scratchy with sleep and something else entirely. your fingers unconsciously smoothed down your croissant-printed pajama shirt, suddenly very aware of how rumpled you probably looked.
he glanced down at the pink fabric with its cheerful cupcake pattern, then back at you with that boyish grin that made your knees forget their structural integrity. those impossible blue eyes held warmth and mischief and something deeper that made your pulse stutter. “looks better on you, obviously, but i didn’t want to get hollandaise on myself.” he gestured toward the elaborate spread with his spatula, movements confident and practiced, like he’d been cooking in your kitchen for years instead of hours. “thought you might be hungry after… well, after everything.”
the way he said ‘everything’ with that slight pause, that knowing look, sent heat creeping up your neck. memories flickered behind your eyelids—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d whispered your name like a prayer.
heat crept up your neck at the implication, memories flickering like film strips behind your eyelids. “satoru, what time is it? the cafe—i need to open, people are probably waiting outside wondering where—”
“relax, cupcake.” he turned fully now, and you caught sight of the feast he’d created on your small dining table. those long fingers gestured toward your phone on the counter, his expression gentle but firm. “it’s friday morning, yes. but look at yourself.”
you glanced down at your croissant pajamas, then caught sight of yourself in the microwave’s reflection. disheveled didn’t begin to cover it. you looked like you’d been thoroughly—well, exactly like someone who’d spent the night being completely and utterly ruined in the best possible way.
“when’s the last time you took a real day off?” he continued, leaning against the counter with those muscled arms crossed, the ridiculous apron making him look both domestic and absolutely edible. “and i mean a real day off, not just sunday afternoons when you meal prep for the week.”
“i don’t need—”
“you fell asleep mid-sentence last night,” he interrupted, storm-glass eyes serious now. “completely dead to the world. that’s not normal tired, sweetheart. that’s your body shutting down because you’ve been running on fumes for months.”
the endearment made something flutter in your chest, but you fought against the warmth. “people depend on their morning coffee. their pastries. i can’t just—”
“the world will survive one day without your croissants.” he pushed off the counter, moving toward you with that predatory grace that made your pulse skip. “but will you survive if you keep pushing yourself like this?”
you opened your mouth to argue, but he continued, voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. “i carried you home last night. you weighed nothing, and you were so exhausted you didn’t even stir when i changed your clothes or when the car hit every pothole between the cafe and here.” his hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone through the soft cotton. “when’s the last time someone took care of you?”
the question settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to brush away. you stared up at him, taking in the genuine concern in those impossible eyes, the way his hair stuck up in seventeen different directions, the careful way he was touching you like you might break.
“i already put a sign on the door,” he admitted quietly. “professional-looking thing. ‘temporarily closed for equipment maintenance, reopening tomorrow with fresh selections.’ even laminated it.”
“you…” you blinked at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to affection. “you laminated a sign?”
“seemed like something you’d appreciate.” that boyish grin made its appearance, but it was softer now, less performative. “besides, gives us the whole day to figure this out.”
“figure what out?”
“this.” he gestured between you with one hand, the other still resting on your shoulder. “us. whatever this is becoming.”
his own cheeks pinked slightly, and he ran a hand through his already-messy hair, the gesture making those silver strands stick up even more ridiculously. the movement drew attention to the lean muscles of his arm, the way his bicep flexed under unmarked skin. he was beautiful in the morning light, all sharp angles and soft edges, looking nothing like the polished influencer and everything like the man who’d whispered praise against your skin in the dark.
“right, about that. you were completely dead to the world, so i…” he paused, shoulders shifting as he turned to face you fully, and the careful way he moved suggested he was reading your reaction, making sure you were okay with this conversation. “i may have carried you.” the admission came out like he was confessing to a crime, storm-glass eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort.
you were quiet for a long moment, processing this while your fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of your pajama shirt. the image of satoru gojo, internet famous fitness influencer, carrying your unconscious form through the streets while digging through your purse for house keys should have been embarrassing. instead, it felt like being cherished. “called a car, had to dig through your bag for your keys—sorry about that, by the way. total invasion of privacy but you were unconscious and i couldn’t exactly leave you on the couch all night.”
“and the clothes?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper as you gestured to your croissant pajamas. your cheeks felt warm, not from embarrassment but from something softer, more vulnerable.
his flush deepened, spreading down his neck to disappear beneath the ridiculous cupcake apron, and he focused very intently on arranging the berries in perfect little clusters. his long fingers moved with surprising delicacy, the same hands that had mapped every inch of your skin now handling strawberries like they were made of glass. “you were… well, you couldn’t sleep in your work clothes. they were all flour-dusted and…” he cleared his throat, voice dropping to something rough and honest. “i was very respectful about it. found your pajamas in the top drawer, got you changed as quickly as possible.”
the careful way he said it, like he was worried you’d be upset, made something warm unfurl in your chest. after everything that had happened between you—the way he’d touched you, tasted you, made you completely his—the tenderness of him taking care of you when you were completely vulnerable felt more intimate than anything else. your heart did something complicated against your ribs, affection and gratitude tangling together.
“thank you,” you said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should. “for taking care of me.”
his shoulders relaxed slightly, and that devastating smile returned. “anytime, cupcake. literally anytime.” he moved back toward the stove, checking on something in a pan. “now come on, let me feed you properly. all this cooking and no one to appreciate it is making me feel like a very attractive housewife with an absentee spouse.”
despite everything, you snorted. “did you just compare yourself to a housewife?”
“a very attractive housewife,” he corrected solemnly. “the apron really brings out my eyes.”
you perched on one of your barstools, finally allowing yourself to really take in the spread he’d created. it was magnificent—restaurant-quality food that had obviously taken hours to prepare. “satoru, this is… how long have you been awake?”
“since about six.” he shrugged like it was nothing, plating the eggs with practiced precision. “i’m used to early mornings. besides, i wanted everything to be perfect when you woke up.”
something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said it, like making you elaborate breakfasts was just another tuesday for him.
he set a plate in front of you that could have fed three people. the pancakes were impossibly fluffy, stacked four high and dusted with powdered sugar. the eggs looked like silk, probably made with cream and the kind of patience you rarely had time for. the breakfast potatoes were golden and herb-crusted, the bacon perfectly crispy, and everything was arranged with an artistry that rivaled your own pastry displays.
“this is…” you took a bite of the pancakes, and flavor exploded across your tongue. light, airy, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of vanilla that made your eyes flutter closed. “holy shit, satoru. this is incredible.”
he beamed like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery, settling across from you with his own overfilled plate. “really? basic, but edible,” he said with obvious false modesty, but you could see the genuine pride in his eyes.
“basic?” you laughed, taking another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous in a way that had nothing to do with skipping dinner and everything to do with working up quite an appetite. “satoru, this is restaurant-quality. where did you learn to cook like this?”
you ate with the same focused intensity he’d seen you bring to your baking, that complete attention to flavor and texture that made him fall for you in the first place. watching you devour his cooking with such obvious pleasure made something warm and possessive bloom in his chest. he found himself memorizing the way you closed your eyes when you tasted the hollandaise, the soft sound you made when you tried the potatoes, the fact that you cleaned your plate completely before even pausing to breathe.
“years of meal prep,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady while watching you lick hollandaise off your fork with the same precision you used for piping buttercream. “when you’re trying to build muscle without destroying your body, you learn to make healthy food that doesn’t taste like punishment.” he gestured with his own fork, grinning. “though i’ll admit, i may have gotten a little carried away trying to impress you.”
“mission accomplished,” you said around another bite, then paused to really look at the spread. “seriously, satoru, this is restaurant-quality. why aren’t you doing this professionally?”
his cheeks pinked slightly, that boyish flush that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “because watching people enjoy things i make feels…” he paused, searching for words. “it feels like this. like watching you eat my food with the same appreciation i have for your pastries. makes me understand why you do what you do.”
you finished the last bite and sat back with a satisfied sigh, feeling more full and content than you had in months. the plate was completely clean—you’d devoured every single thing he’d made with the same focused intensity you brought to your own work.
“that was incredible. i mean it,” you said, then caught his expression. he was watching you with something like wonder, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“actually,” he said suddenly, setting down his fork and running a hand through his silver hair. “can we… can we talk about something?”
your stomach dropped slightly. here it came—the regret, the awkwardness, the ‘this was fun but we should probably pretend it didn’t happen’ conversation. you set down your coffee cup carefully, trying to keep your expression neutral. “okay.”
he pushed back from the table abruptly, starting to pace behind the kitchen island like a caged animal. his movements were agitated, nervous energy radiating from every line of his body. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, voice strained. “and i realized i did everything completely backwards last night.”
you blinked at him, confusion replacing dread. “backwards?”
“i should have told you how i feel first.” he stopped pacing long enough to gesture vaguely toward your bedroom, cheeks going properly pink now. “before we… god, your neighbors probably hate me. i didn’t even tell you i love you first and i just…” his voice cracked slightly. “i mean, i really went at it, didn’t i?”
the confession crashed over you like warm honey, sweet and overwhelming. your heart stuttered against your ribs. “you love me?”
he stopped pacing entirely, those impossible eyes meeting yours with devastating sincerity. his hands were shaking slightly as he ran them through his hair again, making it stick up in seventeen different directions. “are you kidding? i’ve been completely gone for you since that first chocolate tart. i rearranged my entire life around your operating hours. masaru thinks i’ve lost my mind.”
“you love me,” you repeated, softer this time, like you were testing how the words tasted on your tongue.
“embarrassingly much,” he admitted, voice rough with vulnerability. he resumed his pacing, gesticulating wildly now. “which is why i feel terrible that i didn’t say it before i… before we…” he trailed off, looking genuinely distressed. “i’m not usually the type to put the cart before the horse, you know? but you make me forget how to think straight.”
something about his genuine distress, the way he was beating himself up over the order of operations, struck you as absolutely ridiculous. a giggle escaped before you could stop it. then another. soon you were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of it.
“what’s funny?” he asked, stopping mid-pace to stare at you, looking wounded and confused.
“satoru,” you managed between giggles, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you’ve been courting me for months. bringing me ridiculously large tips. asking me to teach you to bake. memorizing my coffee preferences. learning my schedule by heart.” you stood up, still laughing softly. “if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”
his expression shifted from wounded to hopeful, like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. “so… you’re not upset that i did it backwards?”
“the only thing i’m upset about,” you said, moving around the island toward him, “is that you beat me to saying it first.”
his face transformed into that brilliant smile you’d grown to love, the one that made him look younger and completely unguarded. “so what does this make us then? officially?”
“well,” you said, reaching up to smooth down his ridiculous bedhead, fingers tangling in the soft silver strands. “you’ve basically moved into my cafe. you know my coffee preferences better than i do. and you just made me breakfast while wearing an apron that’s two sizes too small.”
he glanced down at the ridiculous cupcake-printed fabric stretched across his broad chest, then back at you with that boyish grin. “very domesticated of me.”
“extremely domesticated,” you agreed, hands still buried in his hair. “practically husband material.”
the word hung in the air between you, and you both froze slightly. too much, too fast, too honest for a morning after conversation.
“too fast?” you asked quickly, suddenly uncertain.
“definitely too fast,” he agreed, then that devastating smile returned full force. “but i like the sound of it anyway.”
you stretched up on your toes to kiss him, tasting coffee and maple syrup and morning possibilities on his lips. when you pulled back, both of you were breathing a little unsteadily.
“so… boyfriend then? for now?” you whispered against his mouth.
“boyfriend who’s completely obsessed with his girlfriend,” he confirmed, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. “and plans to continue being your most devoted customer.”
“what about your trainer? your social media following? the whole influencer thing?”
“masaru can learn to live with disappointment. some things are more important than macros.” he pulled back just enough to look at you seriously, those storm-glass eyes soft with affection. “like making sure the woman i love gets proper breakfast when she’s too tired to make it herself.”
warmth bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said ‘the woman i love,’ like it was the most natural thing in the world. “satoru gojo, are you offering to be my personal breakfast chef?”
“i’m offering to be whatever you need me to be,” he said simply, honestly, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your waist through the thin cotton of your pajama shirt. “starting with the guy who makes you eggs and tells you he loves you every morning.”
your heart did something complicated and wonderful behind your ribs. “i love you too,” you whispered, the words feeling both new and inevitable. “even if you did steal my apron.”
“our apron,” he corrected with a grin, then lifted you off your feet and spun you around your tiny kitchen, both of you laughing like teenagers who’d discovered something wonderful and secret. your hands fisted in the ridiculous cupcake fabric as he spun you, the world blurring except for his face, his smile, the way he was looking at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.
when he finally set you back down, he kept his arms around you, both of you still giggling and breathless. “we’re domestic now, remember?” he said, pressing his forehead against yours.
and standing there in your sunny kitchen, wearing croissant pajamas while satoru gojo held you close in your stolen apron, you thought maybe the best relationships really did come from a little bit of chaos, a lot of patience, and the perfect amount of sweetness.
seven months of official dating had settled into something sweeter than any confection you’d ever crafted. what started as satoru’s carefully timed visits to flour & sugar had evolved into something that had the internet completely obsessed and your little bakery busier than you’d ever dreamed possible.
it had started innocently enough—his social media transformation had been gradual, so subtle that his followers might have missed it if they weren’t paying attention. but the comments sections told a different story.
“bro where are the gym thirst traps”
“who is she and what did she do with our protein daddy”
“NOT HIM POSTING COUPLE RECIPES”
“the way this man went from ‘rate my deadlift’ to ‘rate our sourdough starter’ is sending me”
his instagram had become a love letter written in pixels and captions, a soft-focus documentary of domestic bliss that had somehow captured the internet’s collective heart. gone were the carefully staged shots of his abs and dramatic gym poses. instead, his feed had filled with your hands—piping delicate rosettes onto cupcakes, kneading dough with flour up to your elbows, writing recipe modifications in your careful script on index cards. blurry morning photos of you both tangled in the sheets above the bakery, sharing a croissant and coffee, your hair catching the golden morning light and his eyes soft with sleep and adoration.
“she said the croissants needed to be tested for quality control. who am i to argue with an expert? #worthit #carbsarelife”
the gym content that remained had evolved too. videos of him teaching you proper deadlift form while you corrected his piping technique, both of you collapsing into giggles when he inevitably got buttercream on the barbell. couple workouts that ended with you both on yoga mats, breathless and laughing, sharing post-workout protein smoothies that you’d somehow made taste like birthday cake.
his captions had gotten impossibly sappier, much to his trainer’s horror and his followers’ secret delight.
“strongest thing about me is how hard i fell for her” under a photo of you both covered in flour after an epic food fight that had started as a serious recipe test and devolved into full-scale warfare.
“she lifts my spirits, i lift heavy things. perfect partnership #relationshipgoals #sheputsupwithme”
“plot twist: the real gains were the pastries we made along the way” posted with a picture of a particularly elaborate croquembouche you’d attempted together, which had collapsed spectacularly but tasted like heaven.
but it was the video that really sent everything viral. he’d filmed you teaching him how to make croissants at 4 am, both of you in matching flour-dusted aprons, your voice gentle and patient as you guided his hands through the delicate lamination process. the video caught the moment when he’d finally gotten the fold right, the way your face had lit up with pride, how he’d spun you around the kitchen in celebration, both of you laughing breathlessly in the pre-dawn quiet.
“month 6 of pastry school with the best teacher in the world. still can’t believe she hasn’t fired me yet #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything”
the video had exploded overnight. suddenly everyone wanted to try the bakery where the internet’s new favorite couple had fallen in love. the hashtag #flourandsugar started trending, with people posting their own attempts at your recipes and sharing photos of their visits to the little bakery that had stolen the internet’s heart.
which was how you’d found yourself six months later, standing in what used to be the cramped storage room behind your original space, now transformed into a sun-drenched new kitchen three times the size of your old one. the success had been overwhelming in the best possible way—the new space was a baker’s dream, with warm butcher block counters instead of cold steel and creamy subway tiles that caught the light. it was professional, yes, but it still felt like your kitchen.
that warmth extended upstairs, where you’d expanded into a proper second floor with big, beautiful windows that flooded the space with light, now filled with mismatched armchairs you’d found at flea markets, their plush velvet cushions in shades of dusty rose and sage green inviting people to linger for hours. you’d added low bookshelves filled with old novels and cookbooks, making it feel more like a cozy, lived-in library than a cafe.
and outside, you’d finally built the outdoor garden patio you’d always dreamed of. it was a hidden city oasis, where climbing jasmine and wisteria wove through rustic wooden trellises, their sweet scent mixing with the aroma of fresh baking. warm, rounded wooden tables were nestled amongst potted lavender and herbs that you used in your recipes, and in the evenings, the entire space was lit by hundreds of soft, twinkling fairy lights, making it feel like a secret garden straight from a storybook. a small, charmingly weathered stage was tucked into a corner, where local musicians played soft acoustic sets on friday nights.
satoru had insisted on being involved in every aspect of the renovation, showing up in a hard hat that was completely unnecessary but made him look adorable, asking the contractors a million questions and somehow charming them into letting him help with the purely decorative elements. he’d painted the entire garden fence himself, claiming it was “functional exercise” when masaru complained about his training schedule.
and somewhere in the midst of expansion plans and permit applications and the beautiful chaos of success, he’d also become your unofficial apprentice.
every morning, he’d show up before opening hours, hair still messy from sleep and eyes still soft with dreams, pressing coffee into your hands and tying on the custom apron you’d made him—black with “sous chef (in training)” embroidered in white thread.
he was surprisingly good at it, once you got past his tendency to treat everything like a chemistry experiment that required his complete focus and undivided attention. his hands, so used to precise movements in the gym, had adapted quickly to the delicate work of pastry. he could pipe perfectly uniform rosettes now, roll pasta thin enough to read through, and his bread kneading technique was flawless—all that upper body strength put to decidedly more domestic use.
the only problem was how clingy he got during work hours, like a cat who’d decided you were the only warm spot in the house.
“focus,” you’d murmur when you caught him staring at you instead of watching his custard, which was definitely about to curdle if he didn’t pay attention, your own concentration wavering under the weight of his gaze.
“i am focused,” he’d protest, those storm-glass eyes never leaving your face, his head tilting in that way that made his hair fall across his forehead just so. “just not on the custard.”
he had a habit of finding excuses to be close to you—reaching over you for ingredients he could easily grab from the other side, his chest brushing against your shoulder as he moved with unnecessary slowness, pressing himself against your back to “check your technique” when you were demonstrating something he’d watched you do a hundred times, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured questions he already knew the answers to. stealing kisses between timer intervals that left you both breathless and your kitchen staff rolling their eyes so hard they risked permanent damage.
“you know,” your assistant manager had said one particularly busy morning, watching satoru follow you around like a lovesick puppy with separation anxiety, “most people don’t let their boyfriends work in their restaurants because it’s unprofessional.”
“good thing he’s not just my boyfriend,” you’d replied, not looking up from the wedding cake sketch you were working on, your cheeks warm with the kind of happiness that made everything else fade to background noise. “he’s my best student too.”
and he was. beneath all the playful clinginess and shameless flirting, he’d thrown himself into learning your craft with the same intensity he brought to everything else. he studied cookbooks like training manuals, practiced piping techniques until his hands cramped, and had somehow memorized the temperature preferences of every regular customer without being asked.
tonight felt different, though. there was an energy humming beneath his skin as he helped you test a new recipe—a delicate honey lavender cake that had been giving you trouble for weeks. the kind of nervous energy that made him move too precisely, like he was afraid his hands might betray him. he’d been unusually quiet, focused with an intensity that went beyond even his usual dedication to perfection. his hands, normally so confident and sure, had trembled slightly as he held the mixing bowl steady while you folded in the final ingredients, his knuckles white with tension.
you’d caught him checking his phone more than usual, running his fingers through his hair in that telltale sign of nerves that made the white strands stick up at odd angles.
the new kitchen was empty except for the two of you, the dinner rush long over and your staff gone home. upstairs, you could hear the soft sounds of the last few customers settling their bills and heading out into the night. soon it would be just the two of you in your expanded little empire, testing recipes and stealing kisses between batches like you had every night for months.
“perfect,” you murmured, running the offset spatula around the bowl’s edge to catch the last bit of batter, satisfaction curling warm in your chest. “finally got the lavender balance right. not too floral, not too—”
“marry me.”
the words fell between you like flour from a torn bag, sudden and everywhere at once. your spatula froze mid-swipe, batter clinging to its edge, and the kitchen went so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the new industrial refrigerators, the distant tick of the timer counting down on the oven, the rapid flutter of your own heartbeat.
you turned slowly, your heart doing something acrobatic and terrifying in your chest, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.
satoru was standing by the three-basin sink, soap bubbles still clinging to his forearms from washing the mixing bowls, his storm-glass eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that made the air catch in your lungs. his usually perfect posture had crumbled slightly, shoulders curved inward like he was bracing for impact. in his damp hands—hands that could deadlift twice his body weight but now shook like autumn leaves—he held a ring.
it was simple. classic. a single diamond set in white gold, understated and elegant and so perfectly you that your throat closed with emotion. it caught the warm led lighting of your new kitchen and threw tiny rainbows across the stainless steel counter between you, each facet a promise you weren’t sure you were brave enough to believe.
“i—” he started, then stopped, running his free hand through his impossible white hair until it stood up in anxious spikes. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck above the collar of his black henley. “i had a whole speech planned. been practicing in the mirror like an idiot for weeks. masaru kept finding me in the gym storage room rehearsing it to the resistance bands. hell, i even practiced on the contractors during the renovation, and they all said it was solid gold. but standing here, watching you perfect something for the hundredth time just because you refuse to settle for anything less than beautiful, i just… i can’t wait anymore.”
you set the spatula down with trembling fingers, your mouth slightly parted in shock, your eyes never leaving his face. there was something raw there, something that made your chest feel too small to contain your heart. the way he was looking at you—like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life without knowing it.
“i know we’ve technically only been together seven months,” he continued, words tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. his free hand gestured wildly, flour still dusting his knuckles. “but i’ve been reorganizing my whole life around you for almost a year now, and it doesn’t feel fast. it feels like… like i’ve been waiting my whole life to find someone who makes me want to be better. who makes me want to learn the difference between brown sugar and turbinado sugar because it matters to them. who makes me want to wake up at 4 am just to watch them create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.”
tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t look away from him. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything but stand there in your flour-dusted apron with your heart trying to climb out of your throat.
“you turned me from a guy whose idea of cooking was protein powder and water into someone who knows seventeen different ways to fold dough,” he said, his voice dropping to that soft, rough register that made your knees feel unsteady. “you made me trade my supplement-covered bathroom counter for skincare products and fancy soaps that smell like vanilla and cardamom. you let me reorganize your spice cabinet by color and didn’t even laugh when i alphabetized the sprinkles. you taught me that there’s a difference between vanilla extract and vanilla paste, and somehow made me care about it enough to argue with the supplier about quality.”
he was rambling now, the speech he’d practiced forgotten in favor of raw honesty, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“you make me want to be the kind of man who deserves a woman who puts that much love into everything she touches,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “and i know i’m not there yet, but i want to spend the rest of my life trying. if you’ll let me. if you’ll have me, with all my terrible habits and my tendency to leave protein powder rings on your pristine counters and my complete inability to remember which spoon is for tasting and which is for mixing even though you’ve told me a thousand times—”
“yes,” you breathed, the word escaping like a prayer, like something that had been building inside you for months and finally found its way out. your hands flew to your mouth, tears spilling over your cheeks. then louder, clearer, with a certainty that surprised you both: “yes. yes, of course, yes. you beautiful, ridiculous man, yes.”
relief crashed over his features like sunrise after the longest night, his shoulders sagging as the tension finally left his body. suddenly he was moving, crossing the spacious new kitchen in three quick strides, his long legs eating up the distance between you. he scooped you up, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you around despite the flour that would definitely transfer to his black henley.
you laughed—bright, joyous, disbelieving—the sound echoing off the stainless steel surfaces as he set you down gently, his hands framing your face like you were something precious and fragile.
he took your left hand with reverent care, his fingers steady now, and the ring slipped onto your finger like it had been waiting there all along, a perfect fit that made your heart stutter. you stared down at it through tears, this small, shining promise that caught the light and threw it back in brilliant fragments.
“it was my grandmother’s,” he said softly, his thumb tracing over your knuckles, his voice thick with emotion. “she would have loved you. probably would have spent hours teaching you her secret recipes and conspiring against my diet with homemade cookies and guilt trips about being too skinny.”
you looked up at him, this beautiful, impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world, and felt something click into place deep in your chest, like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t known you were solving. “she raised someone pretty wonderful,” you whispered, your voice watery with happiness.
he cupped your face in his flour-dusted hands and kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like promises and the lingering sweetness of cake batter. when you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the moment.
“so,” he said, that familiar playful edge creeping back into his voice, though it was rougher now, weighted with emotion. “think we should celebrate with cake?”
you laughed, the sound bubbling up from some deep, happy place inside you, your hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. “the honey lavender isn’t ready yet.”
“then i guess,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there, “we’ll just have to make do with each other.”
and in the warm, sweet-scented sanctuary of your expanded kitchen, with an engagement ring catching the light and his arms around you, you thought you’d never tasted anything sweeter.
the next few weeks passed in a blur of congratulations and wedding planning that somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world, like every decision was just another recipe to perfect together. your expanded bakery had become an even bigger destination after satoru posted a photo of your engagement ring next to a perfectly plated slice of the honey lavender cake, captioned simply: “she said yes. tastes even sweeter than it looks. #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything #futurewife”
the internet had collectively lost its mind with joy, his comments section turning into a virtual celebration that lasted for days.
but the real magic happened in the quiet moments between the public celebrations. like the evening you’d spent sprawled on the living room floor of the apartment above the bakery—your apartment, officially both of yours now, his name on the lease and his terrible reality tv preferences integrated into your netflix algorithm—surrounded by wedding magazines and cake flavor combinations scribbled on index cards.
“okay,” you said, shuffling through your notes with the same methodical precision you brought to everything, your engagement ring catching the lamplight as you moved. “we’ve narrowed it down to seven flavors. one for each month we’ve been together.”
“our love story in cake form,” he agreed, lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands, looking at you like you’d personally hung every star in the sky. his eyes were soft and dreamy, the way they got when he was completely, utterly content. “very us.”
“so the bottom layer,” you continued, consulting your carefully organized list, your brow furrowed in that adorable way it did when you were concentrating, “vanilla bean with salted caramel. for that first day you came in and i thought you were just another pretty face with a sweet tooth.”
“just another pretty face?” he gasped in mock offense, rolling onto his back and pressing his hand to his chest like you’d wounded him mortally. his hair fanned out against the hardwood floor like a halo, and you had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it. “i’ll have you know this pretty face was already planning our future together after that first smile.”
“mmm,” you hummed, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly as warmth bloomed in your chest, “the second layer is dark chocolate with raspberry. rich and a little tart, like how i felt when i realized you were actually going to be a problem for my carefully ordered life.”
“a problem?” he sat up, scooting closer until he could nuzzle into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “i prefer ‘best thing that ever happened to you.’”
“that’s layer seven,” you said softly, your voice going tender in a way that made his heart do somersaults. “honey lavender. sweet and unexpected and perfect.”
he went quiet then, understanding the weight of what you were saying, his arms tightening around you. “and the layers in between?”
“lemon with strawberry buttercream for the first time you made me laugh until my sides hurt—that morning you tried to help me make croissants and somehow got butter in your hair.” you were smiling now, lost in the memory, your fingers absently playing with the hem of his shirt. “coffee cake with brown butter frosting for all those early mornings you started showing up before we opened, just to spend time with me. vanilla rose for the day you told me you loved me. and…” you blushed, consulting your notes, “brown butter cake with cinnamon cream cheese frosting for the first time you stayed the night and i woke up to you making breakfast. the most chaotic breakfast, but the gesture was perfect.”
“hey,” he protested, pulling back to look at you with wounded dignity, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout, “that french toast was a masterpiece.”
“baby,” you said, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone, “you used hamburger buns because i was out of regular bread.”
“innovation,” he said solemnly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “that’s what separates the great chefs from the merely good ones.”
you’d spent that night planning every detail, from the sugar flowers you’d craft by hand to the way you’d display each layer so guests could see the beautiful cross-section of your love story. he’d been unusually quiet as you worked, and you’d found him later at your kitchen table at two in the morning, surrounded by crumpled papers and wearing the ridiculous “kiss the cook” apron you’d gotten him as a joke, his shoulders curved in defeat.
“baby?” you’d whispered, padding over in your pajamas and his oversized gym shirt, your heart clenching at the sight of him looking so lost. “what are you doing?”
“trying to write my vows,” he’d said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, his hands buried in his hair. “but i can’t get it right. how do you put into words the moment someone becomes your whole world? how do you explain that you didn’t even know you were incomplete until they showed up and made everything make sense? how do you tell someone that they turned you from a man who thought love was a distraction into someone who can’t imagine existing without them?”
you’d climbed into his lap then, right there in the kitchen chair, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed soft kisses to his temple. together, you’d found the words. together, the way you did everything now.
the cake tasting had turned into an event in itself. you’d closed the bakery early on a tuesday afternoon, transforming the main floor into a private testing kitchen with the kind of nervous excitement you usually reserved for new recipe launches. your wedding cake, all seven layers of your love story, sat on the counter in individual slices, each layer labeled with a small card explaining its significance in your careful script.
“okay,” you’d said, suddenly nervous as you watched him approach the display, your hands smoothing down your flour-dusted apron for the hundredth time. “remember, these are just samples. the actual wedding cake will be much prettier, and the proportions will be better, and—”
“cupcake,” he’d interrupted gently, taking your flour-dusted hands in his, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles in that soothing way that never failed to calm your racing thoughts. “breathe. it’s perfect because you made it.”
the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like perfection was just a natural byproduct of your touch, made your chest tight with emotion.
he’d insisted on tasting each layer separately, giving you detailed feedback like the world’s most devoted food critic, his expressions shifting from anticipation to bliss with each bite. the vanilla bean and salted caramel had made him close his eyes and hum appreciatively, a sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. the chocolate raspberry had earned a low whistle of approval that made your cheeks flush.
but you were just as gone for him, watching the way his face lit up with each taste, the way he’d pause and consider flavors with the same intensity he brought to everything else, the way his eyes would find yours after each bite like he needed to share the experience with you. when he reached for your hand during the coffee layer, threading your fingers together like he couldn’t bear not to be touching you, your heart did something ridiculous and fluttery in your chest.
“this one,” he’d said after trying the vanilla rose, his voice slightly rough, “tastes like that morning when you told me you loved me back. all sunshine and possibility.”
“you remember what i was wearing?” you’d asked, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn in by the softness in his expression.
“that yellow sundress with the little buttons,” he’d said immediately, his free hand coming up to trace the air where the buttons would have been. “you had flour in your hair and you kept fidgeting with the ties on your apron.”
the fact that he remembered those details, that he’d cataloged them like they mattered, made your breath catch.
but it was the honey lavender that had undone him completely. his whole body had gone still after the first bite, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment you’d worried something was wrong. then his shoulders had started shaking slightly, and you’d realized with a start that he was crying.
“that’s it,” he’d said finally, his voice thick with emotion, eyes still closed like he was afraid to break the spell. “that’s the one.”
“which one?” you’d whispered, though part of you already knew.
“the feeling. the one you were trying to capture when you made it for me that first time.” he’d opened his eyes then, and they were bright with unshed tears that made your own eyes prickle in response. “it tastes like the moment i realized i was completely, hopelessly, forever in love with you.”
“satoru,” you’d breathed, and then you were kissing him, tasting honey and lavender and promises on his lips, both of you crying a little as you held each other in your expanded bakery surrounded by the evidence of how far you’d come.
“marry me tomorrow,” he’d mumbled against your lips, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress like he was afraid you might disappear.
“we already have a date picked,” you’d laughed, but your voice was shaky with emotion.
“marry me right now then,” he’d said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and bright. “i don’t care about the dress or the flowers or any of it. i just want to be yours officially.”
the months leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of planning and preparation, but also of quiet domestic moments that felt like the real celebration
. mornings spent teaching him increasingly complex techniques, watching his confidence grow as he mastered croissant lamination and sugar work and the precise art of tempering chocolate, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration in a way that made your heart flutter.
afternoons working side by side, his playlist mixing with yours over the bakery’s sound system, creating the soundtrack to your shared life. evenings curled up on the couch, him reading nutrition labels to you while you sketched cake designs on his chest, both of you laughing at how perfectly your weird little habits complemented each other.
his social media had documented the whole journey, turning your followers into invested participants in your love story. posts about cake testing sessions and venue scouting, videos of him practicing his piping technique with the focused intensity he usually reserved for deadlifts, photos of you both covered in flour and grinning like idiots after successful experiments.
“wedding cake testing day 3: she’s perfect, the cakes are perfect, life is perfect #blessed #luckiestman #cakefortifiedgroom”
“month 12 of pastry school and she still hasn’t kicked me out. pretty sure that means i’m stuck with her forever #keeper #futurewife #sheputsupwitheverything”
the night before the wedding, he’d found you in the bakery’s kitchen at midnight, putting the finishing touches on the seven-layer masterpiece that would serve as the centerpiece of your reception. you’d been working for hours, crafting delicate sugar flowers by hand, each petal formed with the kind of patience and precision that had first caught his attention all those months ago.
“shouldn’t you be at your bachelor party?” you’d asked without looking up, your brow furrowed in concentration as you focused on attaching a particularly delicate rose to the top tier.
“nah,” he’d said, settling onto a stool at the work counter, his chin propped on his hands as he watched you work. “masaru and the guys went to some sports bar. figured they could celebrate my last night of freedom without me. i’d rather spend it watching you create magic.”
“it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” you’d protested halfheartedly, but you were smiling as you worked, warmth spreading through your chest at his presence.
“pretty sure that’s just about the dress,” he’d said, his voice soft with adoration as he watched your steady hands. “besides, i’ve been watching you create beautiful things every day for over a year. why would i want to stop now?”
you’d worked in comfortable silence, him occasionally handing you tools or holding delicate pieces steady while you attached them, his presence calming in the way it always was. when you’d finally stepped back to admire the finished cake—seven layers of love story rising in perfect, elegant tiers—he’d let out a low whistle of appreciation that made your cheeks warm.
“damn, cupcake. that’s not a wedding cake. that’s art.”
“it’s us,” you’d said simply, wiping your hands on your apron, and somehow that had said everything.
standing at the altar the next day in his perfectly tailored tux, satoru felt like his heart might actually burst from his chest. the ceremony was perfect—intimate and personal, held in the garden behind flour & sugar with your closest friends and family gathered under fairy lights and white flowers, the lingering scent of the bakery’s ovens mixing with the evening air.
the space had been transformed, but it still felt like home. like you. white flowers and trailing greenery wound around the fence he’d painted himself, and small tables scattered throughout the garden held miniature versions of pastries from your menu, little bites of your love story for guests to enjoy.
his hands were shaking again, the same way they had the night he’d proposed, and he had to flex his fingers to keep them steady. his best man kept shooting him concerned looks, and masaru had actually brought smelling salts, tucked discretely in his jacket pocket, after satoru had nearly fainted during the rehearsal.
but none of his nerves mattered when the music started—an acoustic version of the song he’d learned to play for you, performed by a local musician you’d hired for the garden’s friday night performances. none of his anxiety mattered when the small crowd rose to their feet, turning toward the bakery’s back door with expectant smiles.
and then you appeared, and the whole world stopped.
you emerged from the bakery like something from a fairy tale, like every perfect thing he’d ever dreamed of and several he’d never been brave enough to imagine. your dress was ivory silk and lace, simple and elegant and perfectly you, flowing around you like spun sugar as you walked down the short aisle between chairs draped with white fabric and scattered with rose petals—roses that matched the sugar flowers crowning your wedding cake.
but it was your smile that completely undid him—radiant and bright and aimed directly at him like he was the only person in the world worth looking at. your eyes were sparkling with tears and joy and so much love that he had to blink rapidly to keep from sobbing right there in front of everyone. the way you looked at him, like he was worth waiting for, like he was worth choosing, every single day.
his knees went weak, and his best man steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
when your father placed your hand in his, satoru had to take a shuddering breath because the moment felt too precious, too perfect to be real. your skin was soft and familiar, and he could feel the slight tremor in your fingers that matched his own nervous energy.
“hi,” you whispered, just for him, your voice slightly breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief and adoration.
“hi, beautiful,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your knuckles where his grandmother’s ring caught the golden hour light. “you ready to be stuck with me forever?”
“i’ve been ready since you demolished that first chocolate tart,” you said, your smile widening as you spoke, and he had to bite back a laugh because of course you’d make him smile even now, when his heart was trying to escape through his throat.
the ceremony passed in a blur of tears and laughter and promises that felt too big for words but somehow perfectly right. when the officiant finally said “you may kiss the bride,” satoru cupped your face like you were made of spun glass and kissed you like it was the first time and the last time and every time in between, pouring seven months of morning coffees and shared recipes and quiet domestic happiness into the moment.
the reception flowed seamlessly from ceremony to celebration, guests moving from the ceremony space to tables scattered throughout the garden and up onto the second floor of the bakery, which had been opened up and decorated with more fairy lights and flowing white fabric. the seven-layer cake stood in the center of it all, a tower of love story and sugar art that had guests stopping to take photos and marvel at the delicate details.
“ladies and gentlemen,” the musician announced as the sun set over your little empire, “the couple would like to cut their cake and share the story behind this incredible creation.”
you and satoru stood before the masterpiece, his hand warm and steady over yours on the knife handle, his chest pressed against your back as he murmured sweet nonsense in your ear that made you giggle. “ready?” you asked, looking up at him with eyes bright with happiness, your cheeks flushed with joy and champagne.
“been ready my whole life,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and meant it.
together, you cut into the bottom layer, the vanilla bean and salted caramel that represented that first day, that first moment when his world had tilted on its axis. the cake was perfect—moist and flavorful and beautiful in cross-section, each layer visible and distinct, a rainbow of your love story made edible.
he lifted the first piece to your lips with hands that finally weren’t shaking, watching as you bit into it with a soft hum of approval, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. a tiny dot of frosting stuck to the corner of your mouth, and without thinking, he leaned in and kissed it away, slow and sweet, tasting sugar and promises and forever on your lips.
“best cheat day of my life,” he whispered against your temple, his lips curving into a smile against your skin, making you laugh—that bright, joyous sound that had become the soundtrack to his happiness.
you looked up at him, your husband, this beautiful impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world and filled them with light and laughter and more joy than you’d ever thought possible, and felt your heart swell with so much love you thought it might actually burst.
“we’re just getting started,” you said, and kissed him again, sweet enough to rot his teeth, perfect enough to last forever.
as the night wound down and the last guests filtered out into the summer evening, you found yourselves back in the kitchen where it had all started, still in your wedding clothes but with bare feet and sleeves rolled up, sharing leftover cake and feeding each other bites while recounting the best moments of the day.
“i think,” satoru said, sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, you curled up between his legs with your head on his shoulder, his bow tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, “this might actually be better than my first chocolate tart.”
you gasped in mock offense, turning to look at him with wide eyes, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest. “better than the pastry that started it all? that’s basically blasphemy.”
“nah,” he said, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your ring finger, right over the simple gold band that now sat beside his grandmother’s engagement ring. “the chocolate tart was just the beginning. this is the happily ever after.”
you looked at him, this man who’d stumbled into your carefully ordered world and turned it into something sweeter, richer, more alive than you’d ever imagined possible, and knew with absolute certainty that this was what love looked like. not the dramatic, movie-perfect romance you’d once imagined, but this: wedding cake and bare feet and quiet promises made in kitchen light, surrounded by the beautiful life you’d built together from flour and sugar and impossible patience.
tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me @ilovebeansyay @ethereal-moonlit @anathemaspeaks @fancypeacepersona @scryarchives @chieeeeeee @snowsilver2000 @k-kkiana
Synopsis . Accidentally sending an explicit image/video of yourself to your roommate. / Pairings . (Seporate) Sukuna x f!reader, Gojo x f!reader, Nanami x f!reader, Toji x f!reader, & Geto x f!reader / Content . afab!reader, feral men, nudes (obviously), phone sex, praise, degrading, oral sex (f!receiving & m!receiving), face fucking, tw: spitting, premature ejec, choking, mutual masturbation, non-curse au, dirty talk, slight exhibitionism, teasing, filth, overstim, etc. / wc . 6.4k
A/N: plot twist, none of it was an accident. [MDNI]
★ Sukuna Ryomen
“Don’t run from it now, you asked for this,” Comes tumbling past his kiss-bitten lips all heavy and searing against your ear as he now has you clawing at the bedsheets below both of your sweat-slicked bodies, trying to escape the mean thrusts of his cock for just a second to breathe.
His hand comes down on yours and his whole body is almost weighing over you now. Fingers intertwining with yours and the sound of his hips clashing against the fat of your ass echo all throughout your bedroom. Sukuna’s other hand is on your hip, fingertips clawing into your skin as he messily pulls you back against him.
The bed is thumping against your wall and you’re sure there’ll be a hole in it any moment now.
Perhaps you really should’ve double checked what video you were sending him when he asked you for the videos from a party you both attended the other day.
Moans spilling into the sheets as your cheek jerks against the soft fabric below you, “S’kuna,” sloshes out of your saliva-glossed lips.
Sukuna didn’t waste a second when he played that little video of yours, he came knocking on your bedroom door within the next minute—walking in and grabbing at your waist, tugging you closer just to whisper against your lips and tell you to 'stop him if you don’t want this’.
Then his lips had met yours and while you were confused (having not realized what you sent him), you let your mouth melt against his and before you knew it you were arched stupidly under him, taking every needy inch of his cock he gifted your pussy with.
You and your roommate never had this kind of relationship before now. Hell, the only thing you two had in common was the fact that you enjoyed partying. Which is why you were supposed to send him a video you took of him the other night but...
"This can't be the same woman who was talking so fuckin' filthily in that little video I received," He's teasing now, referring to the incorrect video you'd sent him. It was technically a video meant for a friend with benefits of yours, taken that same night—late after the party and saved for another time.
Within it, you were messily rubbing those pretty fingers of yours over your twitching clit, working yourself to quite the messy orgasm as you spoke all softly, yet confidently, into the camera.
Sukuna's cock is all but splitting you open by this point, stretching the walls of your cunt out so deliciously wide with the way he drives himself deeper and deeper—leaving you cockdrunk beneath him. "Surely you can moan more than just my name," His voice is dropping to a low whisper now.
Then, without waiting for a proper response to that, Sukuna's shifting the hand on your hip to snake beneath you and then down to meet that sloppy clit of yours. Rubbing fast, messy circles around it, he hears the way you gasp in response.
He's in your ear before you realize it, swollen cockhead leaving wet french kisses to the hilt of your cunt. "What was it you said—oh yeah, 'look how wet I am for you, how needy'," He mocks harmlessly, lips curling against the crown of your ear. "Where's all that now, hm? Can't even think straight enough to say anything when you're stuffed this full, can you?"
That last rhetorical question ends off with a mean pinch to your clit and your body tugs forward to escape once again, to which he leans up and removes his hands from you completely. Cocking his head to the side, Sukuna doesn’t take more than a second to return his hands to the purchase of your hips, tugging them right back up and smiling at the arch in your back before he smacks your ass.
You think your lashes flutter at the sharp and sudden contact alone, “F-Fuck, Sukuna I—“
“Uh-uh, don’t try to talk now.” He cuts off rudely, tugging his hips back for a moment and nearly letting out an all too pathetic sound at the way his cock bobs out of your cunt and glistens under the dim lighting of your room. He’s coated in you and the sight makes his body throb all over. “Shiit,” He curses hot under his breath, “Look at this pussy, what a mess.”
You feel him move to thumb one of your folds to the side, watching how nastily your cunt drools in arousal afterward. Your legs twitch a little and you angle your head so that you can look back at him over your shoulder. Managing a somewhat stern, “Sukuna.” out your mouth.
His other hand gestures at you, as if to wave you off while his tongue goes running over his lips. After which he redirects the head of his cock to press right against where you’re leaking and a groan simpers deep against the center of his throat, “Put her back on me, c’mon.”
You swallow thickly, “What?”
Sukuna lifts his eyes lazily to your face for half a second before his hands find your hips and he urges you back on him, “Your pussy, c’mere.. I wanna watch how she spreads ‘round me again.” He clarifies huskily, feeling the way you oh-so-slowly ease yourself back and watching the way his cock gets swallowed up by your greedy cavern. “Mhmm, just like that,” He grunts.
His brows furrow and his expression flickers into something almost needy when you slam your hips back and you watch his jaw fall open, hands tightening on your hips to still your body whilst you pull away from him.
“So you can take me properly,” Sukuna whispers moreso to himself than you, smiling wickedly. Then his hand smacks across your ass and he leans back to watch you, “Hah, alright then, fuck yourself dumb on my cock. Let me see how you do it now.”
You end up turning your face into the sheets, too embarrassed to keep looking at him while you do exactly as he’s told you to and rock your hips back into his. Sukuna’s left grunting each time you slam against him but his palms still meet both your cheeks just to spread you open and watch his dick get swallowed up by you.
The bedsheet below ends up clenched between your teeth after only a few minutes as you pick up your pace and literally fuck yourself stupid on him—his groans become sweeter and you even feel his hands trying to keep you at bay every now and then, as if to stop himself from cumming too quick.
That sinful squelch that enters the air every time you become flush with him is enough to make those red eyes roll straight to the back of his skull as his hips press forward just a little. And by the time you’re making a mess around his cock and your mind is going blank, Sukuna’s wondering why the two of you didn’t do this sooner.
His head tips to the side and he lazily ruts his hips forward to fuck you through your orgasm. “Guess’ you’ll be looking twice at the shit you send me after this, huh?” He hums, a knowing smirk spreading across his face afterwards, “Unless, this is exactly what you wanted.”
★ Gojo Satoru
You end up giving him an up close and personal “picture” of just how wet you can get.
Eyes lulling to the back of his skull, jawline decorated with a messy lather of your slick that trickles all the way down to the center of his throat, and with the prettiest groans sung out right in between your drooling cunt—of course your roommate's found himself so painfully hard when you sent that debauched image of yourself to him.
“Stop, mmgh, pulling away from me,” He’d groan in between the folds of your dripping pussy, drooling extensively off of your tastes as his fingers press deeper into the skin of your hips. “Please,” Gojo would moan up against you just before he pulls you back down again.
After the last five orgasms he brought you to recently, of course you’re pulling away from him and gasping out his name as if that would keep him from eating you out like a man so utterly starved. You wish you could say you hated this whole thing, especially how you ended up were. One little slip of your finger and now you were here with shaky legs and getting dragged all up and down the expanse of your roommate’s mouth.
But the truth was that nothing feels better than your pussy-drunk roomie forcing you to glide that pretty cunt all over the length of his face, lips suckling at your taste with nothing more than pure greed. With his nose leaving sloppy kisses against your clit, his tongue slithers deeper and deeper every time.
He’d already had you laid out in every position imaginable just before this and now he practically uses you for his own pleasure—despite being the one giving instead of receiving.
“Satoru, p-please,” You tried to plead back with him, aching for a moment to breathe because the desperate suck you receive in the next second has you tugging away from him all over again.
Not that he lets you go that time either. Instead, he only drags you right back down and damn near glares up at you with those pretty glossed over blue eyes of his. “Ride,” He huffs out, “I told you to ride my face, please?” He whines this time.
You only drip into his mouth even more the second that whine of his hits your ears and you watch the way he smiles as if you just praised him for begging. Then his mouth is slobbering all over you again and you’re reaching a hand down to at least hold onto him while you attempt to do as he’s asked you so nicely to.
The first grind of your hips forward makes his eyes roll back and you feel a whorish moan vibrate off of his tongue and right against your pussy. Then he’s fucking his tongue up into you, mumbling, “Mhm, mmhm, don’t stop.”
It’s then that you grow addicted to it, the feeling of him growing more and more encouraged by your movements. Your hips rock faster against him and he lets his hands guide you through it. “Satoru-, hahh,” You gasp just barely as he shakes his head up into you.
Bright white locks of hair stick to his forehead and although his eyes are directly up on yours, you could tell he was beyond fucked out. He only pulls away to press sloppy kisses onto your pussy as if he worshiped every inch of you—that slick mwah sound echoing into the air as he does so.
“S’sweet,” He whispers against you before his eyes soften up on you. Then he’s looking at your cunt and swiping his tongue over his lips before biting back a groan, “And pretty,” Oh, he’s so far gone.
The next thing you know, he’s diving right back into you and you feel his tongue sliding deeper inside you than before.
“Inside and out,” He inherently chokes out as he finally forces you up a little. You thought he was finally giving you a break for a second, pant after pant leaving you while you stare at him.
Instead, to your surprise, Gojo lets his tongue hang out and bats his lashes up at you almost innocently before uttering, “Play with her.”
You feel your body tense and almost scoff in response, “W-What?”
His thumb moves to meet your clit and he starts spelling out his name, “Like this,” He instructs, “I wanna watch you do it all over my fuckin’ tongue, c’mon.”
You nearly shudder at the gentle touch of his thumb but you move to match his movements anyway—thumbing your clit and keeping your cunt sloppily dripping down onto his expecting tongue.
Biting back a smile, Gojo fights the urge to lean up and latch himself back onto you. Instead, he patiently listens to the soft moans you let out and stares at the gorgeous spread of your pussy as your arousal leaks and so perfectly meets his tongue.
“Thaat’s my girl,” He coos, “So fuckin’... mgh, perfect.” In the midst of his groaned praises, he doesn’t even realize the embarrassing mess he’s making of himself as he cums right then and there. Practically untouched and entirely off of eating you out.
Maybe Gojo would’ve found time to be embarrassed if he wasn’t too busy eyeing the way your fingers slide easily into your pussy, sweet juices trickling out against your skin.
You figured your roommate was nasty but having you finger yourself right above his mouth was something else entirely. Yeah, you sent him a video of you doing the same thing earlier but this?
This was enough to have your body feverishly hot, longing to keep your eyes anywhere but on his drunken blue ones but failing to look away each time. The way he gaped up at your cunt as if it were a work of pure art made your stomach churn and your fingers dive into you fast.
“Fuuck,” Gojo would drawl out, moving his hands back to your hips and inching you closer to his face—as if you weren’t close enough already. “You-, hah, you gotta’ send me more videos of this,” He pauses just to lean up and kiss your fingers, “Sweet lil’ thing. Wanna see how you play with her in every position.”
Something in you feels another wave of embarrassment at the mere thought of casually sending Gojo videos of you playing with yourself after this. Hell, you almost think he’s joking.
But when you feel him licking at the fingers you have inside you, you quickly realize he’s dead serious—and needy for it too. His tongue on your hand takes you by surprise and you slide your two digits out of your pulsing hole just for Gojo to lean up and take them into his mouth.
Like some desperate slut, Gojo’s eyes go rolling back and you feel him suck your fingers into his mouth hard. He groans against them and on instinct, you start to move your hand—letting your fingertips splay out and play against his tastebuds.
And you swear you imagine the sound that follows but Gojo whimpers the moment you do that. Followed by which is him tugging his mouth away with a loud and wet pop ringing into the air before he angles back down.
“I miss you on my tongue already, sweetheart,” He whispers tentatively, eyes peeking up to catch your dazed expression. Gojo smiles as his mouth nears your folds again, “M’gonna be here allll night so go ahead ‘n get comfortable.”
At that, your juicy cunt meets his lips with a honeyed kiss and you end up making his face your seat for just about the rest of the night.
A result in which you’re not too upset with seeing as you’d sent him that video earlier on purpose, just to rile him up.
★ Nanami Kento
You’re on the phone with him when it happens, not looking twice at the video you’ve sent him before you put your cell back down and went to tend to something else.
The only reason your little mistake is brought to your attention within the next few minutes is because Nanami all but gulps on his end and says, “Have I been blind all this time or have you always looked this cockhungry?”
To which your brain merely shuts off at the sound of that, head whirling around to swipe your phone back up as you choke out a shocked, “What?” The line is quiet for a few seconds so you follow that up with, “Kento? Hello?”
You could hear the deep breath he takes on the other end of the call followed by a whisper, as if he were talking moreso to himself then he was to you, “I mean, look at that gorgeous face. Fuck.”
For some reason, the idea that you might have even sent him the wrong thing doesn’t cross your mind at all. Instead, you’re still sitting on your bed and holding your phone while looking all confused.
“Kento, what are you talking about?” You ask further, only just now opening up your messages again.
You’ve known Nanami for a long time now but this is by far the breathiest you’ve ever heard his voice and the filthiest he’s ever spoken. “The video you just sent me. The one of you rubbing that pretty clit of yours….” He trails off a little, jaw tensing as he keeps said video on repeat and palms his hardening cock.
Your body heated up almost immediately as you took a look at the most recent thing you sent him and found that you did, in fact, send him the wrong thing. Sputtering, “I-I didn’t–”
Nanami’s blonde brows are pushed together and his voice his heavy something new, something raw. “You look so frustrated here too, all eager to cum…” He continues.
You’re sitting on your end of the line with flimsy wet panties now, unable to find the words to respond to him with as you listen to his breathing grow heavier and his words get nastier.
“How long ago was this, hm? Looks like just the other day,” Nanami continues, his hips lifting up into his palm a bit to soothe the aching of his cock—the heat of it straining up against his work pants.
He'd been on his way home and asked you to send him a picture of something in the apartment so he could go out and make a purchase but, you tapped the wrong thing and sent it all too quickly without even looking twice (clearly).
Embarrassment coats your features as you listen to him question you and you trip over your words trying to explain your mistake, “K-Kento, I-“
“Didn’t mean to send this to me? Oh, I know.” He cuts off. Nanami was never one to be rude like that but fuck was he turning you on with his every word. “If you’re shy about it, delete it and tell me to stop talking.” He says almost formally.
You knew he'd do exactly that, especially if the way he was talking was making you uncomfortable. But, it was doing the exact opposite and you both knew it.
So, you don’t say anything.
To which he scoffs, “Mhm, just as I thought. Did you perhaps send that to me on purpose then?” Nanami asks further, hips shifting against the seat of his car.
He shouldn't have even got that worked up, he's still in the parking lot just outside his workplace. Luckily for him, he considers this the one time he'll ever be thankful for working overtime because there isn't a single soul around. That, and it's not like anyone would see him if he decided to rub one out, right?
Nanami suppresses a groan as he thinks, still waiting the next chirp of flimsy explanation from you. Even if there were people around, Nanami doesn't think he'd care—not with his beautiful roommate sitting on the phone with him all embarrassed over a delightful mistake.
“N-No, I really didn’t!” You eventually get out, cursing yourself mentally for each time you stutter.
“Mmh..” He hums unintentionally, palm rolling over his sapping cockhead through the fabric. “Can you send me another one then?” Leaves his lips before he thinks about what he's asking for.
You freeze again.
Sure, you knew Nanami to be bold and never quite beat around the bush but this was becoming too much all too fast. He was your stoic and respectful roommate after all! Hell, even on his end of the line he's surprising himself the more he talks. It was almost as if your video had changed his brain chemistry entirely in a matter of seconds.
Now it was your mouth moving before you think your response through, “I can show you something better instead.”
...
And then two minutes later and you’ve got your phone propped up as you fuck your fingers all desperately into your sopping cunt—Nanami’s eyes not breaking away from his screen for even a second whilst he sits on his end jerking at his flushed cock.
“Tell me how it feels, talk to me,” He grunts huskily into the phone, voice thick with arousal.
You're too busy moaning at the tension behind all of this. Masturbating with Nanami right there on the phone with you while he got himself off as well, giving him the most whorish display of you spreading your pussy out on your fingers as you imagined it was him instead.
Whining, "K-Kento," out with embarrassment burning your cheeks as if you weren't literally getting off to this.
His hand tries really hard to keep up with the pace at which your fingers were diving in and out of your weeping cunt but Nanami just couldn't help himself.
You were so fucking wet an his hips were jerking up into his hand without thought as he stroked himself faster and faster—only ever stopping to spit into his hand and wet up his cock more.
His thumb would glide right against his most sensitive vein whenever he saw you rubbing your clit, still trying to match with you.
"Fuck, she's gorgeous," He's whispering out to you, cock sliding hot and fast into his hand before his head thumps back against the headrest of his carseat. "Got that wet because of me, didn't you, sweet girl?"
Your fingers nearly clamp up with every heavy syllable that rumbled from deep within his throat, his voice a honeyed baritone you'd never heard from him before now. "Yes, Kento.. fuck, yes." You're whispering, too shy to bring your tone any louder.
Nanami nods and looks down at himself, the head of his cock blushing with slick arousal while he tugs at himself. Huffing, "Shit," just under his breath—reminding you once more that this is the most you've ever heard him curse—and then pressing his thumb in between the pretty slit of his head, "You're gonna show me again when I get home, yeah?"
Almost expectantly, you nod whilst your head falls back and you feel your orgasm approaching.
Now your roommate was growing even needier, if even possible by this point, and he lets out a moan that drives you right over the edge. Nanami found himself drooling as he watched you cum, knowing damn well that if he was home with you, he'd lap up every drop like he was starving for it.
A groan stings past his slavering lips and he's cumming all over his hand without realizing it. Then he's huffing into the phone, "I'm on my way home, keep her nice 'n wet for me."
★ Toji Fushiguro
He goes nonverbal as soon as he opens the text thread with you and hits play on that video. Mouth going dry, cock swelling almost immediately, and throat suddenly in desperate need of clearing—Toji doesn’t think he’s ever seen you in this light before now.
Your roommate is sitting on the other end of the couch you’re currently occupying, both of you having been enjoying one another’s company as you talked about some show on TV.
The conversation had carried rather quickly and at some point you had a relating video you wanted to send him. Too lazy to just show it to him on your phone (due to the absolute filth that was your camera roll), you ended up trying to send it to him instead.
Somewhat lucky for you, you actually notice the fact that you sent him the wrong thing just as he reads it and your fingers scramble across your screen trying to unsend the message. “S-Shit, Toji, please ignore that.” You’re stammering out, “Oh my god—“
“Does your mouth really open this wide?” He asks bluntly, making your whole body go all rigid.
Because instead of your desired choice of media, you actually sent him a lovely two and a half minute video of you sucking on a lengthy dildo. The video was something you’d used in the past when money got a little scarce for you—your whole face was barely visible, just the toy, your pretty manicured fingers, and your slobbering mouth.
You wish you could’ve played it off as a video of someone else but, Toji had been living with you long enough to know based on the first few seconds that it was you.
You swallow the lump of nerves sitting in your throat and glance over at the man, catching his eyes glued to the phone. “…Toji,” You end up humming, unsure of where exactly you’re gonna take this conversation from here.
He rubs a calloused hand over his jaw and tries to bite back a lopsided grin, scarred lips quirking the longer he keeps the video playing. Toji only spares you a moment’s glance before shrugging, “What? I’m just askin’.” He says all too casually.
Which reels you back to his question. Does your mouth really open this wide—what kinda’ roommate asks that after receiving such a video?
Squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, you sigh and then look back down at your phone. “Yes…” You utter slowly, too busy unsending the video to notice the way Toji’s eyes snap over to you again.
You could feel it though, his piercing verdant eyes burning through the side of your head as you avoided the entirety of it. He scoffs softly at your timidness before returning to his screen.
Unfortunately for you, he’d saved that video faster than you even sent it in the first place. Replaying it now, “Mh.” Toji hums deeply, letting a taunting smile spread across his lips as he tilts his head, “S’kinda small though--that toy of yours.”
Mind you, that was the biggest dildo you owned.
Your body was heating up now and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him for a while, just letting his words mingle in the air for a while.
And the fact that he just kept rewatching it and rewatching it and rewatching it—all while sitting just a few feet away from you—was making you nervous as hell. You could hear the sound of yourself gagging and spitting on that toy as if it were the real thing playing from his cell quietly.
Then you feel the couch shift a bit, Toji’s hips moving against it as he makes a very lazy attempt at calming himself down.
Eventually, his phone clicks off and he tosses it onto the other couch. Then he looks over at you and sprawls his legs out wider, erection twitching desperately against his thigh.
You’re slow to look at him and open your mouth to say something but, he’s already beating you to the whole speaking thing.
“C’mere,” Toji hums, patting his thighs as his gaze zeros in on your mouth. Then his tongue darts out to wet his lips and you feel yourself shiver when his voice comes out even lower. “Lemme show you what real dick feels like again.”
…..
Okay, yeah, that’s how you end up on your knees in front of him, fingernails scraping at his thighs while he keeps two big hands on the side of your head to hold you still as he fucks his fat cock into your throat.
You and Toji always had a very heavy yet unspoken sexual tension lingering between you so, it didn’t take much convincing to get you like this.
Staring oh-so-prettily up at him as drool spilled past the same lips he had bulging around his thick shaft—you were letting your roommate use you as he saw fit.
And from the moment he pressed play on that video, he wanted nothing more than exactly this.
“Mhmm, feel that weight against your tongue?” Toji grunts in between his thrusts, earning a messy nod of your head in response before he smirks. “Fuck, you feel me back there? Rubbin’ all against that pretty throat, huh?”
His voice is rough with you, filthy words flying out of him like second nature. You’re just left with bruising knees, an aching jaw, and drenched panties while he buries himself deep into your throat.
The fat, mushroom head of his cock thumps against the back of your throat and you gag on him each time—the feeling only spurring him on. That is, up until your hands tighten their grasp on his thighs and you start tugging your mouth back. You mumble something around him but it only makes him ache against your tongue.
“Where’re you goin’? You need a break?” Toji fills in for you, tugging his hips back just to take his dick into his hand and tap the thick of it all messily against your slippery lips. “It’s a lot better than that lil’ toy of yours, ain’t it?”
You’re nodding before you’re thinking, babbling below him with a cockdrunk hum of, “Uhuh..” as a dewy cobweb of spit and precum hangs sexily between him and your mouth.
His cock smacks against the skin of your lip rudely before he scoffs, “Talk to me, baby. Use your words.”
Pouting for just a moment, you let yourself catch your breath and your eyes dote up on his. “Y-Yes, Toji. It’s so much better,” You breathe out right against his saliva coated length.
Your roommate smiles way too proudly at that, “Yeahh? Y’ready for more or do you need t’go practice again?” He teases. Part of him wonders if you’d actually do that—show him in person how you take some pathetic little toy into your mouth just so he can teach you how to do it properly.
You shake your head in response to him and merely open your mouth again slowly, keeping your glossed eyes up on his and watching the way he groans at the sight of you.
“Look at’cha,” He sighs, finally angling himself back against your tongue and just barely rutting against it. “Hungry for that dick, huh?”
Your tongue laps around the crown of his oozing cock and you move your lips to messily press against it before sucking lightly.
Answering his own question, “Hah, yeahh ya’ are. Go on then,” His hand meets your jaw and he guides your mouth onto him fully, “Take what you need, doll. Get your fill.”
★ Geto Suguru
You’re met with a pretty picture of his weeping cock almost immediately in response. Even though the initial picture you sent him was an accident, he doesn’t care—almost as if he’d been looking for an excuse to send something like that to you.
He’s just down the hall too, tucked in his room doing God knows what while you sit there with your jaw slack in surprise as you stare at the pornographic image he’d sent to you. Part of you wondered if he genuinely had the picture on standby.
Geto’s dick is gorgeous, unfairly so. You end up sitting there, chewing on your fingernail as you literally admire the sight of his dick thoughtlessly.
He’s got all these staggering inches to him, lengthy fingers wrapped oh-so-tightly around his base, dark raven-shaded happy trail just barely visible from the angle at which the photo was taken, and a profuse blush decorating his handsome face as his head is seen tipped back ever so slightly.
Luckily for you, not only does Geto send you a picture but this image in particular happens to be a live image. You don't even realize until your finger accidentally presses against your screen a bit longer than intended and suddenly a sound hits your ears.
Your roommate who you've been living with for ages now, groans out your name in a raspy baritone that makes your thighs clamp together. You find yourself swallowing profusely, mouth on the verge of drooling as Geto’s thick hand slides upward along his cock and then back down—pearly white cum dribbling past his fat tip just as your name tiptoes past his lips.
You're unsure if you let out a gasp or moan in surprise but a noise of some sort escapes you.
And before you got the chance to come to your senses and realize this was your roommate you were looking at, there was a knock on your door and your heart was jumping out of your chest—phone nearly slipping out of your hand.
"Y-Yes?" You squeak out unintentionally sharply, as if you'd been caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing.
Taking your response as a nod to enter, your room door swings open and in walks that roommate of yours. Shutting the door behind him with a soft click and wearing the smuggest grin ever, Geto’s violet eyes fall onto you instantly and he already looks feral.
You gulp, "Suguru-"
"Strip." He breathes out heavily, hands already working his shirt up and over his head before he flings it elsewhere. Your eyes only get the chance to rake down his body for a second before you spot his fully hard cock straining against his sweats.
As for his little command, that was roughly what led you to the position you’re in now. Nails scraping at his back as if a silent plea for mercy, legs flailing around his waist, body folded and stretched to his desired position, and the puffy lips of your cunt spread so skillfully around the heavy thickness of his cock.
You don’t really remember how you went from accidentally sending him an explicit picture to this but even if you wanted to complain, you were too busy breathing out sweet moans of his name into his ear for you to care.
“Suguruu,” Pours out your lips in a syrupy sweet tone that he groans at, all as he stretches you so wide and messy on his dick.
Grunting, “Fuuuck, y’know how long I, hah, wanted to do this?” Geto admits heavily, hips snapping, “Thought about it so many times—you takin’ every inch of me like this. Mgh.. feels even better than I imagined.”
Your brows are pushed together all cutely and you think your breath hitches at his little admission, peering up at him all softly with a stammer of, “You t-thought about this, Sugu?”
Nodding almost drunkenly, “Uhuh, every fuckin’ night. Dreamt of havin’ you spread open f’me like this.” Geto purrs out honestly. Then he leans up a little and glances down, watching your pussy swallow his bulging inches with such greed he can hardly even comprehend. “Oh fuck, look at her. She’s so sloppy f’me, crying all over that cock like she’s been waiting for this too.”
Your lashes flutter at the implication alone, “Hnngh-, I-I haven’t-“
“Oh don’t lie, princess. It’s okay if you thought about it a few times." Geto's cooing out to you all of a sudden, as if he wanted there to be truth in the statement. Voice breath and thrusts growing heavier, "Especially if you were thinkin’ about this while you took that... mgh, sluttly lil’ picture—all arched over ‘n soaked..”
“Sugu," You whine bashfully at him, catching the way his lust-struck eyes flock back up to your face before he flashes a painfully sinful smile at you.
“Gorgeous girl,” He heaves, moving a hand to your lower abdomen just to apply a heat of pressure and make sure you feel his curved cock pepper your sweet spot with nasty jabs, “Wanna have you arched over jus’ like in that picture after this. Hah, yeahhh, wanna’ watch you spread that needy pussy open just for me.”
“Ohmygod-, S-Suguru,” You're eyes are rolling back and although he's not sure if that's because of his words or the way he was letting you get a stuffing feel of his cock—he bites his lip at the sound.
Talking a bit softer to you now, “Ohh, you like this, huh?” Geto asks as he keeps that one hand in place and moves the other to the underside of your thigh and stretches you wider for him.
“Mhmm,” You hum between your moaning in response. It should be a crime for your roommate to be fucking you this good. Perhaps you should have gone to him for this sooner.
You always had an inkling he was a freak in bed but actually experiencing it was making you cream around his cock over and over again—it was almost like he knew your body better than you did.
“‘Course you do,” Geto adds on as he leans up again. Then he's shooting a fat and heavy wad of spit down to your clit, swiping his thumb down to swat at the needy bud, “I knew my pretty lil’ roommate had a slutty side to her.”
Your back arches up just a bit and your words come out almost all in one breath, “Y-You’re just as bad."
Cocking his head to the side now, Geto smiles again, “Think so?”
Now he was determined to fuck you to tears just because you said that. His thumbing picks up and he was spelling his first name out against your dripping clit, his weight starting to press down against you before he hooks an arm under your leg and starts pulling you to meet his thrusts.
“Uhuh,” Is all you could babble out in response to him, nodding so stupidly that you'd be embarrassed right now if you weren't too busy cumming again.
Geto feels it but instead of bringing attention to the nth orgasm he's brought you to, he groans, “I can be worse."
To which you whine prettily enough for him to nearly blow his load into you right then and there, “Mmgh, f-fuck, you want that don’t you? Want me to talk you to filth?” He breathes out softly.
You're nodding again, hands coming up to grab and scratch at any part of his skin you could reach. Each time your nails graze him, he lets out a low hiss as if he wanted more.
Then Geto leans down one last time, rolling his hips down into yours and rubbing the blushing head of his cock all sloppily against your walls before whispering, “Well, s’long as you promise to let me take your next slutty picture, sure.”
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
izzy806
baratheonpilled
andulkaphoto
2087
pixelskylines
amandla
